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But the Irish waiter is, notwithstanding, a capital fellow, good-tempered, prompt, colloquial, large-hearted. I say “large-hearted” because he will undertake to serve any conceivable number of persons, and “colloquial,” remembering that, when a neighbour, at a table d'hôte, mildly expressed his conviction, that one waiter was insufficient to satisfy the emergencies of seventeen persons, the individual referred to immediately exclaimed from the other end of the apartment, but with all good humour and civility, “Shure, thin, and every gintleman will be having his fair turn.”
Well, I prefer this scant attendance, with all its good humour and elasticity, to the solemn dreariness of our English waiter, who has nothing to say but “Yezzur,” and knows not how to smile. If the Irishman cannot come to you, he will at all events recognise your summons, and favour you with a grin on account, whereas the Englishman hath an unpleasant habit of affecting not to hear you, and of rushing off in a contrary direction.
We remained a Sunday at Glengarriff (there is an air of rest and peace about the place, as of a perpetual Sabbath), and went up to the little edifice upon the hill, half cottage and half church. Indeed, the inhabited part has the more ecclesiastical aspect, and I was surprised on entering it, uncovered, and with obeisance, to confront an old woman washing potatoes!
The clergyman, having duties elsewhere, was somewhat late for matins, and it sounded strangely to be speaking of “the beginning of this day,” an hour and a half after the meridian. But that sacred service is ever seasonable, and we were glad, after an earnest sermon, to drop our thankful alms into the Offertory basin, though it was but a cheese plate of the willow pattern.
In the afternoon, we climbed the high hills which overlook Glengarriff and, after losing our way, and meeting with an apparition, which alarmed us fearfully, we reached the highest point, and surveyed, with wonder and gladness, the glorious view beneath us.