Penelope's Irish ExperiencesWiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
General
Penelope's Irish Experiences
Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith
Ireland -- Fiction
sang Francesca. “You will be telling me in a moment that Thomas Carlyle
was born in Skereenarinka, and that Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet
in Coolagarranoe,” for she had drawn the guidebook toward her and made
good use of it. “Let us do the literary pilgrimage, certainly, before
we leave Ireland, but suppose we begin with something less intellectual.
This is the most pugnacious map I ever gazed upon. All the names seem
to begin or end with kill, bally, whack, shock, or knock; no wonder the
Irish make good soldiers! Suppose we start with a sanguinary trip to the
Kill places, so that I can tell any timid Americans I meet in travelling
that I have been to Kilmacow and to Kilmacthomas, and am going to-morrow
to Kilmore, and the next day to Kilumaule.”
“I think that must have been said before,” I objected.
“It is so obvious that it's not unlikely,” she rejoined; “then let
us simply agree to go afterwards to see all the Bally places from
Ballydehob on the south to Ballycastle or Ballymoney on the north,
and from Ballynahinch or Ballywilliam on the east to Ballyvaughan or
Ballybunnion on the west, and passing through, in transit,
Ballyragget,
Ballysadare,
Ballybrophy,
Ballinasloe,
Ballyhooley,
Ballycumber,
Ballyduff,
Ballynashee,
Ballywhack.
Don't they all sound jolly and grotesque?”
“They do indeed,” we agreed, “and the plan is quite worthy of you; we
can say no more.”
We had now developed so many more ideas than we could possibly use that
the labour of deciding among them was the next thing to be done. Each of
us stood out boldly for her own project,--even Francesca clinging, from
sheer wilfulness, to her worthless and absurd itineraries,--until, in
order to bring the matter to any sort of decision, somebody suggested
that we consult Benella; which reminds me that you have not yet the
pleasure of Benella's acquaintance.
Chapter III. We sight a derelict.
'O Bay of Dublin, my heart you're troublin',
Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream.'
Lady Dufferin.
To perform the introduction properly I must go back a day or two. We
had elected to cross to Dublin directly from Scotland, an easy night
journey. Accordingly we embarked in a steamer called the Prince or the
King of something or other, the name being many degrees more princely or
kingly than the craft itself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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