ithout 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."

So we did, and we afterward thought that this would be a good motto for
Mrs. Mullarkey to carve over the door of Knockarney House. (My name for
it is adopted more or less by the family, though Francesca persists in
dating her letters to Ronald from 'The Rale Thing,' which it undoubtedly
is.) We take almost all the rooms in the house, but there are a
few other guests. Mrs. Waterford, an old lady of ninety-three, from
Mullinavat, is here primarily for her health, and secondarily to dispose
of threepenny shares in an antique necklace, which is to be raffled for
the benefit of a Roman Catholic chapel. Then we have a fishing gentleman
and his bride from Glasgow, and occasional bicyclers who come in for
a dinner, a tea, or a lodging. These three comforts of a home are
sometimes quite indistinguishable wit