Leaving this sweet seclusion, and rowing under the picturesque bridge which connects the islands of Dinisk and Brickeen, we come once more into the bay of Glena, and the “cottage near a wood.” Here, climbing the hill, and choosing a position which commanded a most delightful view, we enjoyed the sandwich and scene. Descending, we were horrified to hear that “whetstone of the teeth,” the bagpipes, droning away close to our boat, and abominable to both of us as a dialogue between connubial cats, or a class of schoolboys pointing slate pencils. But “Ars longa,” art is long-headed; and so we tossed up which of us, preceding the other, should go down, pay the piper, and keep him in conversation until his friend had reached the boat. This service of conspicuous gallantry fell to me, and if ever man deserved the Victoria Cross, I won it there and then.
They say, but I don't believe it, that the red-deer, who inhabit these mountains, admire this infernal machine; and, in proof thereof, the Rev. Mr. Wright, in his Guide to Killarney, quotes the following anecdote from Playford's History of Music:—
“As I travelled some years ago near Royston, I met a herd of stags, about twenty, on the road, following a bagpipe and violin, which when the music played they went forward, when it ceased they all stood still, and in this manner they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton Court.” Next we rowed to O'Sullivans Cascade, foaming down its triple falls; and here finding some shamrock, and feeling very Irish, we liberally adorned our coats and hats with it. To our surprise and disappointment, upon our return, the boatmen appeared to be perfectly indifferent to this enthusiastic display of their national emblem; and it subsequently transpired, to our very severe discomfort, that we had ornamented our persons with some vulgar trefoil, which did not resemble the shamrock at all, at all. 1 It vexed one's vanity to have performed unconsciously both a Guy and a Jack-in-the-Green; and the effect produced reminded me of the answer of a Nottinghamshire labourer, in reply to my inquiries concerning his friend, “To tell you the truth, Sir, Bill's been and married his mestur, and it's gloppened him a good-ish bit!”
1 “We believe it to be an ascertained fact, that the
shamrock of the old Irish was not a trefoil at all, but the
wood-sorrel, Oxalis acetosella”—Gardener? Chronicle, 7th
August, 1858.
Leaving to our right the numerous islets of the Lower Lake (there are thirty-three of them in all), and the ruins of Ross Castle, once the home of the O'Donoghues, we pass by fair Innisfallen, and, reaching our landing-place, separate awhile; Frank starting afresh to fish, and I returning to the inn.
In a cozy corner of the coffee-room, I began now to transcribe a little poem of a sentimental kind, which had suggested itself to my thoughts during our excursion. Looking up from time to time, as Poets (like poultry) will, when drinking at the Pierian stream, I was much offended to see several persons in different parts of the room, evidently amusing themselves at my expense. A joke loses its festive character, when it falls upon one's own head, especially when that head is profusely crowned, as I soon discovered mine to be, with fronds of the Hart's-tongue Fern,—collected at Mucross, but entirely forgotten, until, bending lower than usual, I saw—
“frondes volitare caducas.”
I am afraid that I did not wear my chaplet so gracefully as Dante his, in that beautiful picture by Scheffer: on the contrary, I felt quite as ill at ease and uncomfortable as an Oxford friend, who, having won a steeple-chase last winter in France, was sent for by the Préfêt of the place, and crowned with a laurel wreath! What a pleasing harmony there must have been between his Bays and his dirty Boots!
Completing my manuscript, and leaving it in our joint-stock writing-case, I took a walk to the Post-Office at Killarney; and I do not think that it was at all gentlemanly in Francis to tamper with my poetry, on his return from fishing; erasing the alternate lines, and substituting rubbish of his own, as follows:—
KILLARNEY.
When the pale moon streaks
My Macgillicuddy's 1 cheeks,And the day-god shoots
Through the shutters, oped by Boots;
1 He persisted in addressing me by this extraordinary
appellative throughout our sojourn at Killarney.
And from sweet lnnisfallen,—
Jolly place to walk with gal in!Which so lovely, and so lone, is,—
Why, it ain't, its full of conies, 1
Hark! a voice comes o'er the wave,
Now, old Buffer, up and shave!As I watch the Heron's wing,—
More fool you, you'll cut your chin!
Sailing stately, slowly flapping,—
Better work away with Mappin!Ah, sweet morning's face is fair,—
Not so yours, soap'd like that ere!
And she dons her summer garment,—
Get on yours, you lazy varmint!Jubilant in all her graces,
As if going to Hampton races,
Smiling, proud in all her riches,—
Where's that fellow put my-?This good news to man narrating—
“Plaze, your 'onour, breakfast's waiting,&c. &c. &c.
1 Or if it isn't, “Rabbit Island,” which is close to, ought
to be. See remarks by the Aurora Borealis in the Christmas
number of the Edinburgh Review; Mrs. Hemans, Racing
Calendar, vol. 408; and Bendigo, passim.—Frank C.