In a pelting rain we steamed into Killarney,
passed through the army of cabmen and their allies and were whirled away
to Lakeview House on the banks of the lower Killarney lake, a pretty
place standing in its own grounds. Killarney is a nice little town with
some astonishing buildings. I have heard it styled as a dirty town; it
struck me as both clean and rather stylish in its general appearance. It
seems to depend almost entirely on tourists. Unlike Limerick, unlike
Galway, but very like other western towns the number of people standing
idly at the corners, or leaning against a tree to shelter from the rain,
strikes a stranger painfully. The lounging gait and alert eyes mark
people who have no settled industry, but are watching their chance.
We were allured to Lakeview Hotel by a printed card of terms and found
it delightfully situated. Did not intend to linger here any time, did
not seem to care much for the lakes now when I had got to see them. It
was a damp evening, the mountains, that loom up on every hand, were
wrapped in their gray cloaks, the lake whipped up by the squally winds
had risen in swells and everything looked dismal. I shall see some one
convenient sight and look round me and leave in the morning, I said.
The only available sight to be seen that night was Torc Cascade - well, I
will be content with that. I must take a car; bargained for that, and
drove through the walled-up country. Every place here is walled up,
enclosed, fenced in. I noticed some cottages that were pictures of
rustic beauty, others that were dirty hovels. The pretty cottages were
occupied by laborers on the estates that border on the lake. Passed a
handsome, little Episcopalian church in a sheltered place; near it were
two monumental crosses of the ancient Irish pattern, erected by the
tenants to the memory of Mr. Herbert, who was their landlord and who is
spoken of by the people as one who deserved that they should devote some
of their scant earnings to raise a cross to his memory.
In due time we arrived at a little door in the wall, where a man stood
in Mr. Herbert's interest, who gave a small ticket for sixpence,
unlocked the little arched door and admitted the stranger into this
temple of nature and art. A board hung on a tree was the first object,
warning visitors not to pluck ferns or flowers, the man at the gate
having notice to deprive marauding visitors of anything so gathered.
There is a winding gravel walk leading up the height almost alongside of
the brawling stream that leaps from rock to rock. I did not see any
flowers at all, but the common heather bell in two varieties and the
large coarse fern so common in our Canadian woods.
