LITMIR.BIZ

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enamoured of the gallant deer-chaser. One evening, as he was wending his way to see his lady fair, the moon grew dark, a great storm arose, and the lovelorn Maurice lost himself in the wood. All this was of course due to the jealous fairy in true legendary fashion. At length he falls in with a noble jet-black steed, which he mounts. This grim shape proves to be a certain dreaded Phooka (the same symbol is renowned throughout Ireland, and has been traced even to the legends of the Northmen), a genii of Una’s, who immediately rushes off with the youth through glen and valley, stream and forest, up and down the mountain sides:

      “Now he rises o’er Bearhaven, where he hangeth like a raven —

      Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee!

      To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading,

      And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea!

      Now he feels the earth beneath him – he is loosened – he is free,

      And asleep in Keim-an-eigh.”

      In his trance-dream he hears the rumble of crashing thunder. The rock opens and displays within a scene of revelry and joy, to which a page bids him welcome, and ushers him through a brilliant assemblage to the very throne of the Queen-fairy Una. She smiles graciously upon him; urges him to leave the world and all its woes to become one of her happy subjects; and promises him that, if he will but take the oath of allegiance, she herself will deign to be his bride. Spellbound by such an appeal, his lips are all but ready to utter the irrevocable vow.

      “While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing,

      And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn;

      It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him,

      When it down in triumph led him to Glengarriff’s grassy lawn,

      When from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn,

      As through Keim-an-eigh he hunted from the dawn.”

      “The magic chain is broken – no fairy vow is spoken —

      From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free;

      And gone is Una’s palace, and vain the wild steed’s malice,

      And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Keim-an-eigh.

      The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree,

      And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea.

…

      “The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing,

      And bells are gaily ringing along Glengarriff’s sea;

      And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally

      Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Keim-an-eigh;

      Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask, on bended knee,

      A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee.”

      CHAPTER III

      KILLARNEY AND ABOUT THERE

      KILLARNEY is a considerable town, rather prim and staid and too offensively well kept to be wholly appealing. It is by no means handsome of itself, nor are its public buildings.

      The chief industry is catering, in one form or another, to the largely increasing number of tourists who are constantly flocking thither.

      The value of Killarney, as a name of sentimental and romantic interest, lies in its association with its lakes and the abounding wealth of natural beauties around about it.

      Torc Mountain and waterfall, Muckross, Cloghereen, the Gap of Dunloe and its castle, the upper, middle, and lower lakes, Purple Mountain, Black Valley, Eagle’s Nest, and Innisfallen are all names with which to call up ever living memories of the fairies of legend and folk-lore, and of the more real personages of history and romance.

      To recount them all, or even to categorically enumerate them, would be impossible here.

      There is but one way to encompass them in a manner at all satisfactory, and that is to make Killarney a centre, and radiate one’s journeys therefrom for as extended a period as circumstances will allow. The guide-books set forth the attractions and the ways and means in the usual conventional manner, but it is useless to expect any real help from them.

      The true gem of Killarney’s many charms is without question Lough Leane and Innisfallen (Monk’s Robe Island), which lies embosomed in the lower lake.

      Yeats, the Irish poet, spent the full force of his lyric genius in the verses which he wrote with this entrancing isle for their motive.

      Robert Louis Stevenson is reported to have said that, of all modern poets, none has struck the responsive chord of imagination as did this sweet singer with the following lines:

      “And I shall have some peace there,

      For peace comes dropping slow,

      Dropping from the veils of the morning

      To where the cricket sings;

      There midnight’s all a glimmer

      And noon a purple glow,

      And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

      “I will arise and go now,

      For always, night or day,

      I hear lake water lapping,

      With low sounds by the shore;

      While I stand on the roadway,

      Or on the pavements gray,

      I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”

      Moore’s description is perhaps as appropriate, but it is no more beautiful:

      “Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,

      May calm and sunshine long be thine!

      How fair thou art let others tell, —

      To feel how fair shall long be mine.”

      From Glengarriff to Killarney via Kenmare is a long-drawn sweetness of prospect, which it is perhaps impossible to duplicate for its sentimental charm, – an ability to appreciate which belongs to us all, even if only to a limited extent.

      The road from County Cork to County Kerry – and one journeys only by road from Bantry Bay to Dingle Bay, via Kenmare and Killarney, the age of steam not yet having arrived at these parts – winds fascinatingly up and down hill and dale, diving suddenly through a tunnelled rock, when a transformation takes place, and one leaves the ruggedness and freshness of Bantry Bay for the more or less humid fairy-land of the region about Killarney. The view ahead is peculiarly grand in its contrast with that left behind. Down the beetling precipices along which the road is clinging to its sterile sides, one traces the valley beneath until it blends with the silvery surface of Kenmare River. From Kenmare, the way to Killarney is by the “Windy Gap.” Beneath lies an extensive valley, and beyond is the Black Valley. Farther on are the skylines of the mountains which encompass the wild and dark Gap of Dunloe; and, farther still, will be observed the more jagged outlines of “MacGillicuddy’s Reeks.” Soon one beholds the first view of the beauties of far-famed Killarney, the immense valley in which repose the three lakes, – the upper, lower, and middle, with their numerous islets. En route from Kenmare to Killarney, one first comes to Muckross Abbey and Demesne, of which

      Sir Walter Scott has said: “Art could make another Versailles; it could not make another Muckross.” This is characteristic of Sir Walter and his fine sentiment; but, as Muckross is suggestive of nothing ever heard or thought of at Versailles, the comparison is truly odious.

      Muckross is charming. It is thoroughly Irish; and reeks of the native soil and its people, wherein is its value to the traveller.

      The scenery around about Muckross is very beautiful, but its ruined abbey is the great architectural relic of all Ireland.

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