i86 



THE BRITISH NATURALIST. 



[August 



where, under certain conditions (of payment), you may enter in at the 

 gate and get a glimpse of Eden. You are on an eminence, and from 

 your feet sweeps down to a lake a smooth-shaven lawn in stately slope 

 and without abrupt descent. An ample expanse of water, three or 

 four miles in width, extends to the base of the mountains, whose 

 summit ridges rise in peaks or conical projection to a height of 2,500 

 feet or more. The surface of the water nearest to you is dotted over 

 with small wooded islands, whilst in the middle distance the land 

 curves round in a crescent form on which a ruined castle is promi- 

 nently distinct. If the day be clear you may see on the western 

 horizon a range of hills that rises above Dingle Bay. On the south 

 the continuity of the mountain wall is changed into the mouth of a 

 wide glen, looking up which you see clusters of mountain forms of 

 varied shape. Now, I would so far trust the instincts of ordinary 

 humanity that I would take a jury from the first fifty wayfarers who 

 came up and were strangers to the locality and put the question 

 point blank — Did you ever see a more beautiful landscape than this ? 

 and be confident that the answer would be, Never. It is not easy to 

 define the precise impressions on the senses that lead to the inevitable 

 verdict. Perhaps it may be that the constituent features of the scene 

 are so nicely proportioned or harmonized, that they blend, as do the 

 notes of a musical chord. The gazer stands on an eminence of appropriate 

 height, as may easily be tested by descending half-way down to the 

 water's edge and finding a considerable diminution of the charm. The 

 relative extent of water and the altitude of the mountains, with their 

 regular irregularities of outline, and the sylvan beauty of the foreground, 

 must not be left out of the analysis. Atmosphere, at Killarney, has always 

 been recognized as a potent factor of fascination, and is well described, 

 in a few words, by Lord Macaulay, in the beginning of one of the 

 chapters of his History. Occasionally, though rarely, an aerial effect 

 may be witnessed of transcendent charm. The day may be one of 

 summer haze, or of bright and cloudless sky, and nothing extraordinary 

 may be noted, when quickly a change comes over the scene, and the 

 difference is almost magical. If you thought the view beautiful before, 

 you will be certain that it is superlatively more so now. The hills with 

 their massive folds and undulations, and the woods with ever-varying 

 tints and shapes, are for the time transfigured. The colouring of 

 vegetation and rocks has become more vivid, and you note different 

 shades of green, where before was no predominant hue. Your vision 

 has become more powerful and penetrating. The middle distance has 

 come closer to you, and the hills on the horizon fifteen miles away have 

 taken its place in apparent contiguity. Wordsworth must have had some 

 such transformation in his mind when he wrote (" Laodamia ") : — 



