DEAF AND DUMB—A MOUNTAIN SKETCH.
BY MRS S. C. HALL.
It has been a general and certainly a well-founded complaint against Ireland, that the arts, whose influence has extended so much over England and Scotland during the last half century, have made but little progress in “the Emerald Isle.” It “has sent forth painters, but encouraged none.” This I fear is true, though lately I have been delighted to observe some very happy exceptions to the rule.
There are many reasons why art and artists have not flourished in Ireland. The greater number of those who have the means to patronise talent are absentees, spending in foreign lands the produce of the riches bestowed by the Almighty on their own—while the minds of the residents are usually so pre-occupied by religious or political controversies, that they have no time to bestow, or attention to give to anything else. Another reason I would urge, even at the hazard of being charged with national pride, is, the country so overflows with natural beauty, that in the matter of landscape painting the Irish gentry are hard to please. To those who doubt this, I would simply say, come and see; and if any English artist does not discover good cause why they should be fastidious, all I can observe is, that I shall be very much astonished. Even the highways are crowded with antiquarian and picturesque beauty; but road-makers do not seek these so much as convenience; nor are the most-talked-of places those where a “landskipper,” as I heard an artist called in Kerry, will reap the richest harvest.
There are hills and lakes, rivers and glades, of most exquisite beauty, profusely scattered over the country—far away from the highroads, in the fastnesses of the mountains—and even within hearing of the roar of the wild ocean are dells and little valleys, cascades, lawns of greenest hue and softest grass, where Druids’ altars hang upon their mysterious points of rest, and the breeze whispers amid mouldering towers—memorials of the troubled past. Still, eyes accustomed from their opening to really fine scenery are not likely to be satisfied with aught that falls short of perfection; and, as I have said, I find such of my countrymen as really love art very hard to please in landscape, particularly in Irish landscape: they have become familiar with the same scenes from many points of view—the artist can only record one, and it is at least likely that the one he has chosen is not the favourite.
Still, I fear, the chief cause why art has not flourished hitherto, must be attributed to the continued excitement of religion and politics; to judge from collateral evidence, the influence of this excitement is happily on the decrease, for I have seen framed prints in several cottages, and observed in many dwellings, where paintings would be an extravagance, volumes of beautiful engravings displayed as the chief treasures of their country homes.
On our late pilgrimage through the beautiful and romantic “Kingdom of Kerry” we encountered a native artist, who beguiled us of an hour, and interested us deeply. We had lingered long in the beautiful vale of Glengariff, and still longer on the mountain road which commands a view of the magic bay and its golden islands, that seem lifted by earth towards heaven as a peace-offering; and when we passed through the tunnel, which is still regarded by the mountaineers with evident astonishment, the sun was sinking behind the huge range of Kerry mountains, which looked the more bleak when contrasted with the memory of the exceeding fertility of Glengariff. We were then literally amid both clouds and mountains, and the only sound that disturbed the awful stillness of the scene was the scream of an eagle, which issued from behind a tower-like assemblage of barren rocks, where most probably the eyrie of the royal bird was placed; the sound added greatly to the effect of the scenery, and we drew up that we might listen to it more attentively; it was several times repeated, and almost at the same instant a fresh breeze dispersed the mists which had in some degree obscured the glory of the departing sun; and the valley beneath the pass became literally illuminated wherever the breaks or fissures in the opposite mountains permitted the brightness of the sun, as it were, to pass through. I had never seen such an effect of light and shade before, for the mountain shadows were heavy as night itself; I feel I cannot describe either the brightness of the one or the intenseness of the other. I am sure the scene could not be painted so as to convey any idea of its reality. Any attempt to depict the extravagance of nature is always deemed unnatural.
We are weak enough to bound the Almighty’s works by what has come within the sphere of our own finite observations. How paltry this must seem to those who dwell amongst the mountains, and read the book of ever varying nature amid the silent places of the earth!
I had been gazing so earnestly upon the scene below and around us, that I had not noted the sudden appearance of a lad upon a bank, a little to the left of the place on which we stood; but my attention was attracted by his clasping his hands together, and laughing, or rather shouting loudly, in evident delight at the scene. There was nothing in his appearance different from that of many young goatherds we had passed, and who hardly raised their heads from the purple heath to gaze at our progress. His sun-burnt limbs were bare below the knee; but his long brown hair had been cared for, and flowed beneath a wide-leafed hat, which was garnished, not untastefully, with a couple of wreaths of spreading fern. His garments were in sufficient disorder to satisfy the most enthusiastic admirer of “the picturesque;” and although we called to him repeatedly, it was not until a sudden diffusion of cloud had interfered between him and the sunset, so as to diminish the light, and of course lessen the effect of the shadows, that he noticed us in the least; indeed, I do not think he would have done so at all, but for the unexpected appearance of another “child of the mist,” in the person of a little tangled-looking, bright-eyed girl—literally one mass of tatters—who sprang to where the boy stood, and seizing his hand, pointed silently to us. He descended immediately, followed by the little girl, and after removing his hat, stood by the side of our carriage, into which he peered with genuine Irish curiosity.
To our question of “Where do you live?” the mountain maid replied, “Neen English,” which experience had previously taught us signified that she did not understand our language. We then addressed ourselves to the boy, when the girl placed her hands on her lips, then to her ears, and finally shook her head. “Deaf and dumb?” I said. Upon which she replied, “Ay, ay, deaf, dumb—deaf, dumb.” The little creature having so said, regarded him with one of those quick looks so eloquent of infant love; and seizing his hand, lifted up her rosy face to be kissed. He patted her head impatiently, but was too occupied examining the contents of our carriage to heed her affectionate request. His eye glanced over our packages without much interest, until they rested upon a small black portfolio, and then he leaped, and clapped his hands, making us understand he wanted to inspect that. His little companion had evidently some idea that this was an intrusion, and intimated so to the boy; but he pushed her from him, determined, with true masculine spirit, to have his own way. Nothing could exceed his delight while turning over a few sketches and some engravings. He gave us clearly to understand that he comprehended their intent—looking from our puny outlines to the magnificent mountains by which we were surrounded, and smiling thereat in a way that even our self-love could not construe into a compliment; he evinced more satisfaction at a sketch of Glengariff, pointed towards the district, and intimated that he knew it well; but his decided preference was given to sundry most exquisite drawings, from the pencil of Mr Nicoll, of the ruins of Aghadoe, Mucross Abbey, and a passage in the gap of Dunloe. I never understood before the power of “mute eloquence.” I am sure the boy would have knelt before the objects of his idolatry until every gleam of light had faded from the sky, if he had been permitted so to do.