Punch (71.1876)

174 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [October 21, 1876.

UNREPORTED "ATROCITY" IN THE CITY.

City Miscreant. "Where did you go this Autumn, Brown? Scarboro'?
Well, did you enjoy your Holiday, or did you take your Missis ! ! "

begorr—no, I don't know any Irish, except " Grammacliree ma Cruiskeen
Lawn" and " Savoumeen Dlieelish, and neither will suit the present occa-
sion.'

Ha! Blucher is coming' to the rescue—I mean the Bugler. Like the French
at Waterloo, at the sight of the Prussians, the Colleen turns and Hies. I shut
up my telescope. Up, Guards, and at 'em! The Bugler and his Fantassin send
flying a score of urchin beggars, and for a while we are left in peace and quiet.

"Tell them next time, I say to Blucher. "Tell them that there is a
large party of Tourists coming up a long way behind us."

Is this an Alba una f A white one? 'Tis not a black one certainly. For
behind us, i.e., to-morrow, or next week, or this day twelve months, will
assuredly come a large body of Tourists. And is not all fair in war ? Am I not
in a mountain pass with beggars lying in ambush on every side ? Shall I be
robbed and bothered ?

My Carman quits me. His vehicle is of no further use. I have to mount
the bag-o'-bones which the Second Brigand hath till now bestrode.

Will he not tumble P I ask. He will not, is the positive answer.
_ I mount. In my long grey Ulster, and my much-enduring, pliant wideawake,
with the Guides following afoot, and the mounted Bugler by my side, and
the wild scenery round about us, I remind myself of some picture I have seen
(Delaroche's perhaps) of " Napoleon Crossing the Alps."

Now come the Echoes. The Bugler is off his horse and performing a solo.
Such a solo! 0 Mister Levy ! 0 shade of Kcenig ! 0 my ears ! There
is the Bugler giving himself a blow out—such a blow out! He is becoming
as purple as the heather; he is swelling visibly. He has awoke the Echoes !

Awoke 'em ! Heavens ! the Echoes must be a fearfully heavy-sleeping family,
if they 're not aroused by this infernal row.

And how they get up, one after another, these Echoes!

Nymph Echo Number One jumps up a little confused. She seems to be
shaking her head and crying out, " HuLloa! What's that ?—Is anybody ill ?
Is Kate Kearney's. Kottage on fire? What is it?"

Echoes Number Two and Three sound as if a German Band had all jumped
out of bed suddenly, had rushed at their instruments, and played a discord
madly.

Then the Echo gets clearer, and the last of all is the best, sounding like
sweet church-bells far away down in the distant valley. That, my Bugler, was
worth hearing.

So onward. But they won't let the Echoes alone. A
man comes forward, with a small cannon, and takes a
cool deliberate shot at an Echo. Bang! There's an
Echo flying away! There's another ! A third gets off
safely ! A fourth is winged, and a fifth is hit very hard,
I should say, judging from its faint cry ; while a sixth,
which was just within ear-shot, dies away down in the
valley! What a day's sport we are having ! What a
bag of Echoes ! And—hit or miss—I have to pay six-
pence apiece for them.

Will I not take a drop of the crater at the Col-
leen Bawn's Cottage ?

Well, my good Lady, give me a glass of your goat's
milk, and put in it just the laste taste in life of potheen.

Be it what it may, the drink is excellent and re-
freshing. Bless ye, Colleen Bawn—I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Hardress Cregan I should say—bless you, and the
little Cregans, and all the other little kids I see browsing
on the hill-side. By the way, there never was such a
place for goats and kids as hereabouts. They swarm.

Towards the Black Valley (a magnificent sight, and
worth the whole day's excursion) we come upon a School-
house in the mountains. Evidently for the kids.

So we descend. How beautiful! how lovely! We
are, I think, a good three miles or more from where we
first entered by Kate Keahney's Cottage. My Bugler
and the Second Brigand are stopping behind to effect
some financial arrangements on a satisfactory basis with
the last Cannon-firer.

I am, thank heaven, alone! sitting calmly and pen-
sively on my horse, looking at the Black Valley—the
Valley Umbrce Mortis. Ah! let me enjoy such a scene
undisturbed ! 0 Solitude where are thy charms ? Here,
where there seems to be a sourdine accompaniment of
the most pianissimo music played by insect musicians.
Nature's silence is the one universal Harmony around
me ... 0 Ireland, fair, beautiful, grand bewitching-

'' You '11 buy my fottygruff, Sorr, won't ye, Sorr, for
your poor Colleen's sake, Sorr," says a foggy potheenish
voice, just below me, at my saddle-bow.

I look. down. Heavens ! it's that disreputable old
Colleen Bawn again ! She must have taken short cuts
and tracked us all along the valley for three miles ! For
here she is. She clings to my coat! In despair she
implores me, " Sorr, Sorr, ye'11 buy the poor Colleen's
fottvgruph—your poor Colleen's."

No, I'm ■—- if I do.

Au secours! Hi! d moil And I raise the very
deuce of a clameur de Haro.

Once more Blucher the Bugler appears. With a yell
of despair and an expiring Blessing in Irish she gives up
the game, and disappears behind a rock—and for aught
I know down through a trap-door into the Gnomes'
Kitchen.

Happy Thought.—What a stage this would be for the
Incantation Scene in Der Freischiitz.

But really, if there must be a Colleen Bawn (who has
no connection whatever with Killarney, except by a
legendary link) and a Kate Kearney, and a blind fiddler
(who is the only honest old soul among them—poor
man! he's been "dark" for years), and cannons, and
buglers, and pipers, and boats, and beggars, et hoc genus
omne—why not put the whole affair into the hands of—
say, for the sake of employing local talent—Mr.
Michael Gunn, of the Dublin Theatre, and, as he has
been accustomed to getting up Grand Operas and Panto-
mimes, let us have the thing done really well, with a good
out-of-door Ballet troupe, a charming Kate Kearney
(with a song), and at the Colleen Bawn's Cottage let us
have a set of wax-work figures, with Father Tom and
the Colleen, and Hardress, and Myles-na-Coppaleen,
while a barrel-organ, hidden away somewhere behind
the "arras" (which is also Irish, I believe, for wain-
scot), should discourse the " Cruiskeen Lawn."

At the entrance of the Glen there should be a wicket,
as at Black Gang Chine, and a staff of civil check and
money-takers. One payment should include everything
from one end of the Glen to the other, and no fresh
ticket be required until the Tourist reaches the Lake
and meets the boatmen.

Now that's my idea for the Gap of Dunloe. Of course
the prices should be " done low " as possible, for the sake
of the name. .

As for the Lakes, divided like a "Fifth Form" into
Upper, Lower, and Middle, what can I add to all that
has been already written about them? Nothing,—