grown up without a knowledge of doughnuts, baked beans, and
blueberry-pie must be lacking in moral foundations. There is
nothing extraordinary in all this; for the Irish, like the Celtic
tribes everywhere, have always had a sort of fascinating power over
people of other races settling among them, so that they become
completely fused with the native population, and grow to be more
Irish than the Irish themselves.

We stayed for a few days in the best hotel; it really was quite
good, and not a bit Irish. There was a Swiss manager, an English
housekeeper, a French head waiter, and a German office clerk. Even
Salemina, who loves comforts, saw that we should not be getting what
is known as the real thing, under these circumstances, and we came
here to this--what shall I call Knockarney House? It was built
originally for a fishing lodge by a sporting gentleman, who brought
parties of friends to stop for a week. On his death is passed
somehow into Mrs. Mullarkey's fair hands, and in a fatal moment she
determined to open it occasionally to 'paying guests,' who might
wish a quiet home far from the madding crowd of the summer tourist.
This was exactly what we did want, and here we encamped, on the
half-hearted advice of some Irish friends in the town, who knew
nothing else more comfortable to recommend.

"With us, small, quiet, or out-of-the-way places are never clean; or
if they are, then they are not Irish," they said. "You had better
see Ireland from the tourist's point of view for a few years yet,
until we have learned the art of living; but if you are determined
to know the humours of the people, cast all thought of comfort
behind you."