streets which is not storied.

CHAPTER III

THE IRISH COUNTRY

DUBLIN possesses great natural advantages. The sea, the mountains, the green country, are at her gates. You take one of her many trams, and at the terminus you step into solitudes, into “dear secret greenness” of country; on to expanses of sea-sand, with the waves breaking in little crisped curls of foam at your feet. She is ringed about with mountains. She has a most beautiful coast-line. Turn which way you will on leaving her, you are safe to turn to beauty. Round about her are clustered various beauties. Beyond the Dublin mountains, the Wicklow Mountains, into which they gently pass, invite you. The mountains have the most beautiful colouring. It is an effect of the mists and clouds. I have seen a mountain red as a rose, and I have seen one black as a black pansy and as velvety. Sometimes they are veiled in silver, with the soft feet of the flying rain upon them; and sometimes, because the sun is shining somewhere, that same rain will be a garment of silver or of the rainbow.

She is the greenest country ever was seen. England may think she wears the green; but as compared with Ireland her green is rust-coloured and dust-coloured. I have gone over from London in May and have found a green in Ireland that absolutely made me wink.

says Herbert; but the green, which is the eye’s comforter of all the colours, is, in an Irish May, of so intense a greenness as to have something of the same effect as Herbert’s rose. I think of the fat pasture-lands at the gates of Dublin, as well I know them. In May they are drifts of greenness, with the cattle sunken to their knees, while the meadows white with daisies, gold with buttercups, presently to be brown and green with seeding-grasses, have an exceeding cleanness and brightness of aspect. Grass-green, milk-white, pure gold—these are fields of delight. There used to be luxuriant hedges, too, ten or twelve feet high. What hedges they were in May! with the hawthorn in full bloom—no one calls it may in Ireland—and, later, the woodbine—honeysuckle in Ireland is the white and purple clover—and with the woodbine the sheets of wild roses flung lavishly over every hedge. Since my young days an improving county surveyor has cut down the hedges, though not so ruthlessly as here in Hertfordshire, where they are noted hedgers and ditchers, and so strip the poor things to the earth almost, just as they are coming into leaf, leaving the roads pitiless indeed for the summer days.

I think of the lavish Irish hedges and of the strip of grass white with daisies which ran either side of the footpath. There was always a clear stream singing along the ditch. It had come down from the mountains, and was amber-brown in colour, and clear as glass; it ran over pebbles that were pure gold and silver and precious stones, now and again getting dammed around a boulder, making a leap to escape, and coming around the boulder with a swirl and a few specks of foam floating upon it. Ireland of the Streams is one of the old names for Ireland, and it is justified; for not only are there lordly rivers like the Shannon and the Blackwater, to mention but two of them, but there are innumerable little streams everywhere, undefiled—at least, as I know them—by factories. You can always kneel down of a summer’s day by one, fill your two hands full and drink your fill; and that mountain water is better than any wine. You may track it, if you will, up to the mountains, where you will find it welling out, perhaps, through the fronds of a hartstongue fern, the first tiny gush of it; and you will find it widening out and almost hidden by a million flowers and plants that like to stand with their feet in water. Or you will see it, cool and deep, with golden shadows sleeping in it, slipping round little boulders and clattering over stones, in a tremendous hurry to escape from these sweet places to the noisome city, where it will lose itself in the sewer water before it finds its way to the sea.

There is no such order in an Irish as in an English landscape: none of the rich, ordered garden air which in England so delights Americans and colonials. The Irish landscape is always somewhat forlorn, wild and soft, with an impalpable melancholy upon it—this even in the fat pasture-lands of Dublin County. How much more so when the bogs spread their beautiful brown desolation over miles of country, or in the wild places where man asks for bread and Nature gives him a stone! At its most prosperous the country is always a little wild, a little mournful, a barefooted colleen with cloudy hair and shy eyes sometimes tearful, and no conventional beauty—only something that takes the heart by storm and holds it fast.

Irish skies weep a deal. That accounts, of course, for the great vegetation, the intense greenness. If I did not know the Irish green I should be unable to realize the mantle of grass-green silk which so often the old ballad-makers gave their knights and ladies. Knowing the Irish grass, I see an intenser green than if I did not know it. Where there are not rocks and stones and mountains, where there is cultivation in Ireland, there is leafage and grass of great luxuriousness. Of a wet summer in Ireland you could scarcely walk through the grass; it might meet above a child’s head. Contrariwise, the flora of Ireland, as I know it, is much less various and luxuriant than that of England. In a childhood and youth spent in the Irish country—it was round about Dublin—I recall only the simpler and commoner wild-flowers. On a chalk cliff at Dover, when May spread a carpet of flowers, I have seen a greater variety of wild-flowers than I knew in a lifetime in Ireland—most of them unknown to me by name.