King Richard II. Act 2 Scene 3.
- These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome:
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
The fashionable attractions of Paris, the beauty of the Swiss lakes, and the classic richness of Italy, are inducements of so strong a nature for an excursion of amusement, that patriotism alone can venture to recommend the Sister Isle to the tourist's notice.
It must be acknowledged, when compared with other countries, that Ireland does not afford the same means of gratification; yet the singular character of the people, the romantic tales of their former greatness, contrasted with their present abject state, and the spirit of chivalry, which still survives amongst them, seldom fail, when aided by novelty of situation and incident, to create enthusiasm in a stranger; but the known difficulties of travelling, and want of accommodation, are of themselves sufficient to prevent its selection for the performance of a mere tour of pleasure.
The South of Ireland, to which the remarks in this volume are confined, contains many scenes that may with justice be termed
The character of the coast is bold and steep, containing numerous bays and harbours formed by arms of land breasted by rocky cliffs, that proudly rebuff the angry waves which Boil and gnash their white teeth on the shore.’’
Dean Swift, in a Latin poem entitled Carberiae Rupes, has left us at once a correct and poetical picture of the south-west coast of Ireland.The neighbourhood of the rivers Lee and Blackwater are highly cultivated, and afford the most favourable combinations of objects and forms. Opposed to their delicious and woody banks, the western districts of the county Cork, and the entire of Kerry, are wild and mountainous; and the Galtees, an extensive range of many miles, stretch along the borders of the counties Limerick, Cork, Tipperary, and Waterford, conferring a dignity on the landscape, which level or unbroken ground cannot possess. The general outline of these mountains is happily varied; though heavy and inelegant shapes are by no means uncommon, yet they are seldom found alone, and rather improve than injure the effect of the sharp and irregular forms with which they are combined.
Dame Nature drew, these mountaynes in such sort, As though the one, should yeeld the other grace.’’
Churchyard's Worthies of Wales. , p. 109.
Many of their glens and passes possess a sublime sterility that inspires feelings of awe and reverence. Masses of rock are heaped together in unprofitable barrenness, clothed only with the humble
- Where woody glens in sweetness smile
As Echo answers from their breast,
And lakes with many a fairy isle,
That on a mirror seem to rest.
The beauties of this celebrated spot have been so often and so fully described as to render any thing I could say on the subject superfluous. Although the noble expanse of water and the vast hills that tower in giant strength and pride excite general admiration, to me the great magic of Killarney has ever been its seclusion and retirement. The quietude of sequestered dells — still, glassy lakes — and overhanging woods dipping into the water, is unbroken; and the silent spirit of the place diffuses a profound tranquillity over the senses.
The shore of Mucruss Lake is perhaps the most romantic. Worn by the action of the water into numerous grotesque caves, that repose beneath the leafy gloom of luxuriant trees, every irregularity out of which fancy has imaged forth a form is referred with a marvellous tale to O'Donoghue, and each object receives a local importance from antiquated legend. Nor should the less trodden shore of Glengarriff, about ten miles from Bantry, and seated at the head of that bay, remain unexplored by admirers of the ‘magnificently
It has been remarked by more than one artist of eminence, as a comment on the Irish landscape, that the forms of the trees are more graceful and capricious than in England. ‘Your trees,’ said a gentleman to me, ‘partake of your national character, wild and irregular they both assume extraordinary ramifications, that treated with justice by a master hand appear noble features, but of which an unskilful delineator produces only clumsy caricature.’
The oak of Ireland in particular has long been famous. — Popular tradition not only derives the cudgel of every Pat, or as it is figuratively termed, his ‘sprig of Shillela,’ from woods of that name in the county Wicklow, but also the roof of Westminster Hall, and other buildings of the same age; — the timbers which support the leads of the Chapel of King's College, Cambridge, built in 1444, as well as the roof of Henry the VIIth's Chapel, in Westminster Abbey, are said to be of Irish oak; and to these may be added the Wainscotted Chambers of the Royal Library at Paris, founded, in 1365, by Charles V. An extensive purchase of the timber of Shillela was made in Charles the II's time by the Dutch, to pile the ground on which the stadt-house is built; and pipe staves were largely exported about that period from Dublin to London.
So late as the close of the seventeenth century, Commissioners were sent over to Waterford and Wexford by the English government, ‘nigh which places, and in the county of Wickloe,’ Dean Story tells us, ‘there is good store of suitable timber and other advantages for building ships at easier rates than in England.’
Mr. Hayes, of Avondale, who has written a delightful little volume on Planting, containing much information on the growth and value of Irish timber, observes, that the superior density and closeness of grain, the character of the Irish oak, especially in high situations and a dry soil, (apparent from comparison of its specific
To whom shall I dedicate my prints? once asked a publisher, about to produce some Irish views: the reply was, If your dedication is prompted by gratitude, I know of no one more deserving it than Oliver Cromwell, whose cannon has made so many dilapidated buildings for you.
Although without the limits of the present work, some notice of the county Wicklow may be expected, its scenery having been so much extolled. Glendalough, Luggielau, and the more southern and remote parts, equal or exceed the descriptions that have been given of their charms. — Aided by many tender associations which crowd upon the memory, my friend C — thus elegantly unfolds them, whilst, with rapid but faithful outline, he delineates the prospect from the eminence of Broomfield overlooking Rossana, the seat of the Tighe family.
‘In the extreme distance ocean and sky mingle together, the gloom of the far promontory that breaks upon the sea-horizon, contrasted with the gay town that smiles upon its side, and the fleet of
‘Below the rock of Cronroe is the sweet cottage of Mont Alta, where the unfortunate Trotter composed the life of his friend and patron Charles James Fox.’
‘And then to conclude this panoramic enthusiasm, the sun sets behind the most beautiful and most terrific of ravines — the Devil's Glen — a torrent breaks into it in cataract from the further extremity, continues its furious course under the walls of Glenmore Castle, and recovers its tranquillity in the silent shades of Rossana, where the fair minstrel of Psyche sung.’
Powerscourt and the Dargle have certainly been overpraised, and a stranger conjures up in his own imagination very superior features to those of which they are composed. An excursion into the county Wicklow is generally made from Bray, a village on the sea-coast, ten miles distant from Dublin, where there is an excellent hotel, much frequented by lovers of suburban rustication. The Dargle is to Dublin what Richmond is to London — the resort of
- Who on jaunting cars travel to visit the Dargle,
Oh! no 'tis their throats with good liquor to gargle.
The Waterfall of Powerscourt has been enumerated amongst the wonders of Ireland, but the extravagant admiration lavished in Bushe's Hibernia Curiosa and other works, on ‘One of the most beautiful Waterfalls in Great Britain or Ireland, and, perhaps, the World,’ for so is Powerscourt styled, can only call forth a smile. On beholding it for the first time, I was forcibly reminded of some lines in which it is more correctly pourtrayed.
- Then thro' Powerscourt we went, to the high waterfall,
And we saw it and thought nothing of it at all,
Down the black rock it tumbles like skeins of white thread,
All fuzzy with spray from the foot to the head.
This cascade is situated in a fine park belonging to Lord Powerscourt, and may be described rather as a steep water-slide than a fall. Miss Nicholson's drawing will convey the most favourable
Another subject of unceasing inquiry with the peasantry is the hour. It is generally allowed that those who make the least use of their time are most curious in time-keepers, and you never meet an idle peasant but his first question is — Would your honour be after telling me what's o'clock? No reciprocal information can be gained until satisfaction on this point is given. — And one of my companions used frequently to amuse us by taking out his watch on
In the wild parts of Ireland the pictorial traveller will receive little assistance in his researches from the peasantry, and must rely on his own exertions and enterprize for the attainment of his object. Should he happen to have a slight knowledge of the Irish language, or can get the names of places translated to him, they will often convey a clearer and more correct idea of the spot than can be extorted by dint of cross-examination — ‘Conveniunt rebus Nomina saepe suis.’
Sometimes our united efforts to extort information met with no better success than the following dialogue: —
‘Pray is this the nearest road to — ?’
‘Is it to — you are going? fait and that's not the nearest road — being 'tis no road at all.’
‘Then had I better go yon way?’
‘Och! indeed and I would'nt advise your going that way at all. 'Tis few people goes that way, for there's a big black dog there, and he'll ate you up entirely.’
‘Which way then can I go?’
‘Fait! and the best way you'd go is just to be staying where you are.’
The lower classes are generally unwilling to serve as guides in the wild parts of the country, declining the offers made them for such service with all that indifference and quiet humour which Miss Edgeworth so admirably delineates; and the difficulty of obtaining assistance appears to increase in proportion with the necessity of the demand.
‘Och! I'd have no objection in life to go wid your honour if
‘Do you then fear any danger?’
‘Och! indeed, no particular danger, your honours — only 'tis an ugly way that way, any way I'm thinking — but your honours knows best to be sure if ye've bisness there — I'm just contint to stay in a whole skin — and there's ould Judy, your honours, and the childer all looking up to me, and small blame to them — sure its much pace I should get wid them in regard of risking their bread, not to mention my own, and maybe I'd be laving my bones to whiten out yonder. Och! its out of the way entirely.’
It is not easy to detect the real degree of fear here expressed from the evident exaggeration; yet it would appear there must be some strong motive to deter these very poor people from earning a sum so easily, something more powerful than the want of taste for exploring — though it is certain they are, to use their own expression, ‘contint,’ without much exertion. Nothing can be more difficult than to obtain information in point of road, distance, or situation of any object. You seldom arrive within five miles of the truth. When crossing the mountains from Gougaun Lake to Inchegeela, I was told that village was ‘worse’ (more) than three miles from me. After walking about an hour and a half I again inquired — ‘it was worse than four miles.’ The actual distance was about ten. The contradictory answers you get as you proceed are not a little annoying, and at times made us almost hopeless. One of my party, more from curiosity than the prospect of gaining a satisfactory reply, accosted a man respecting the length of a glen from a road on which
‘How far is it up yonder glen before you come to the waterfalls?’
‘The waterfalls is it? indeed, and its a cross way, and your ladyship would never be getting there.’
‘We heard they were within half-a-mile.’
‘Och! they are not — and no road.’
‘Is there a great fall of water?’
‘I never was there myself, but I know 'tis a great way.’
‘Is it three miles?’
‘Fait! and three miles would see you but a small part of the way.’
‘Is it six miles, do you think?’
‘Och! 'tis up entirely!’
This up entirely, or out of the way entirely, is the conclusion at which you arrive; it seems to imply beyond reach or knowledge, and is frequently used instead of ‘I don't know’ to which the Irish cottager has a peculiar aversion, perhaps from the phrase being applied as a term of reproach to any stupid or simple person, coupling it with the Christian name, as Shane Neather, literally John I don't know, implies John the Fool.
The higher classes in Ireland are ever willing to entertain the traveller and assist in the advancement of his journey, when he has clearly proved it absolutely necessary to proceed, for it is not a matter of question how to get admittance to the first houses in the country, the dilemma is, how to leave them. To a tourist, with sufficient time at his disposal, this may be agreeable enough; if otherwise circumstanced, he will find it requisite to avoid the delivery of letters of recommendation; for however gratifying a warm and hospitable reception may be, the sacrifice of time to be made in return is beyond all calculation. The over-abundant kindness of the host (for an immediate invitation always follows an introduction) seldom permits his guest the free use of his own senses, and to expostulate is vain. If,
Letters, however, are needless in obtaining all the attention and assistance requisite; a respectable appearance is a sufficient recommendation to the nobility and gentry, but towards the cottagers a certain courteousness of approach must be observed, ere you can win them to usefulness. If you seek information, the tone of interrogation must be conciliatory, not dictatorial; if shelter or protection, throw yourself at once on their hospitality and you secure a warm and welcome reception.
The most romantic parts of Ireland are little frequented and travellers unlocked for, hence it becomes necessary to study the art of pleasing, which is in this case more valuable than ‘house and land.’ The poorest peasant will freely offer to share his cabin and divide his potatoes with you, though at the same time eying you very suspiciously, inasmuch as, being unable to account for your appearance, he usually supposes you belong either to the army or to the excise — two bodies equally disliked by them. Yet their greatest fears never destroy the national spirit of hospitality.
Having hired a car at Lismore to take us to Fermoy, and wishing to walk part of the way along the banks of the Blackwater, we desired the driver to meet us at a given point. On arriving there, the man pretended not to have understood we were three in party, and demanded, in consequence, an exorbitant addition to the sum agreed on. Although we were without any other means of conveyance for eight Irish miles, it was resolved not to submit to this imposition, and we accordingly withdrew our luggage and dismissed the car, intending to seek another amongst a few cabins that appeared at a little distance from the road side. A high dispute ensued with the driver, who, of course, was incensed at this proceeding, and endeavoured to enlist in his cause the few straggling peasants that had collected around us, but having taken refuge and placed our trunks in the nearest cabin, ourselves and property became sacred, and the disposition to hostility which had been at first partially expressed, gradually died away. — When we began to make inquiries for a horse and car of any kind to take us into Fermoy, our endeavours were for some time fruitless. One person had a car, but no horse. Another a car building, which, if Dermot Leary were as good as his word, would be finished next week some time, ‘God willing.’ At length we gained intelligence of a horse that was ‘only two miles off, drawing turf. Sure he could be fetched in less than no time.’ But then again, ‘that big car of Thady Connor's was too great a load for him entirely. Sure the baste would never draw the car into Fermoy, let alone their honours and the trunks.’ After some further consultation, a car was discovered more adapted to the capabilities of the miserable animal thus called upon to ‘leave work and carry wood,’ and though of the commonest kind we were glad to secure it. By means of our trunks and some straw we formed a kind of lodgment on the car, which being without springs and on the worst possible of roads, was not exactly a bed of down. The severe contusions we received on precipitating into the numerous cavities, though no joke,
Many Irish villages boast a post-chaise, the horses for which are not unfrequently taken from the plough, and the chaise itself submitted to a temporary repair before starting, to render it, if the parody of a nautical phrase may be allowed, road-worthy; but the defects are never thought of one moment before the chaise is required;
‘Did you give the horses a feed of oats at the village where we stopped to sketch?’ inquired one of my fellow-travellers of the driver, who for the last three or four miles had with much exertion urged on the jaded hacks.
‘I did not, your honour,’ was his reply, ‘but sure and they know I promised them a good one at Limerick.’.
Nor is this instance of pretended understanding between man and horse singular. Riding once in company with a poor fanner from Cork to Mallow, I advised him to quicken the pace of his steed as the evening was closing in, and the lurid appearance of the sky foreboded a storm.
‘Sure then that I would with the greatest pleasure in life for the honour I have out of your company, sir; but I promised the baste to let him walk, and I never would belie myself to any one, much less to a poor creature that carries me — for, says the baste to me, I'm tired, as good right I have, and I'll not go a step faster — and you won't make me — I scorn it, says I, so take your own way.’
A verbatim dialogue on an Irish break-down happily characterises that accident: the scene, a bleak mountain, and the time, the return
‘Is the carriage you have brought us safe?’
(One of the travellers attempts to get in.)
‘Oh never fear, sir; wait till I just bail out the water and put a little sop of hay in the bottom — and sure now and 'tis a queer thing that the ould black chaise should play such a trick, and it has gone this road eleven years and never broke down afore. But no wonder, poor cratur, the turnpike people get money enough for mending the roads, and bad luck to the bit of it they mend, but put it all in their pockets.’
‘What, the road?’
‘Noe, your honour, the money.’
To such as can bear with composure and indifference lesser and temporary misfortunes, those attendant on an Irish tour become objects of merriment; the very essence of the innate ingenuity and wit of the people is called out by such evils; and the customary benediction muttered by the peasant on meeting a traveller, is changed into the whimsical remark or shrewd reply that mock anticipation.
Of late, jingles, as they are termed, have been established between the principal towns. These are carriages on easy springs, calculated to contain six or eight persons. The roof is supported by a slight iron frame capable of being unfixed in fine weather, and the curtains, which may be opened and closed at will, afford complete protection from sun and rain; their rate of travelling is nearly the same as that of the stage-coach, and they are both a cheaper and more agreeable conveyance.
On our way from Cork to Youghall in one of these machines, we were followed by a poor wretch ejaculating the most dreadful oaths and imprecations in Irish. His head was of an uncommonly large and stupid shape, and his idiotic countenance was rendered fierce and wild
The charges at inferior towns and villages are extravagant in an inverse proportion to the indifference of their accommodation, and generally exceed those of the first hotels in the metropolis. Our bill at Kilmallock was any thing but moderate, and yet the house, though the best the town afforded, appeared to be one where carmen were oftener lodged than gentry. The landlady stood at the door, and with a low curtsey and a good-humoured smile welcomed us to ‘the ancient city of Kilmallock;’ in the same breath informed us that she was a gentlewoman born and bred, and that she had a son, ‘as fine an officer as ever you could set eyes on in a day's walk, who was a patriarch (a patriot) in South America;’ then leading us
‘Have you any thing in the house?’
‘Indeed and we have not, but it's likely I might be able to get an egg for ye.’
An examination of the bedrooms will not prove more satisfactory; a glass or soap are luxuries seldom found. Sometimes one coarse and very small towel is provided; at Kilmallock the measurement of mine was half-a-yard in length and a quarter in breadth; its complexion, too, evinced that it had assisted in the partial ablutions of many unfastidious persons. Mr. Arthur Young's constant ejaculation when he lighted on such quarters in Ireland usually occurred to my mind, ‘Preserve me, Fate, from such another!’ and I have no doubt he would agree with me that two very essential requisites in an Irish tour are, a stock of linen, and a tolerable partiality for bacon. But travellers, any more than beggars, cannot always be chusers, and those who will not submit with patience to the accidents and inconveniences of a journey must sit at home and read the road that others travel.
- Who alwaies walkes, on carpet soft and gay,
Knowes not hard hills, nor likes the mountaine way.