Killarney | 16th June.
My dear Mrs Pollock.
I thought of calling to see you before quitting London2 but couldn’t. I wanted to beg your pardon for not joining you at the cricket ground—but I was so entangled, and so worn down even if I were not entangled that I found myself wholly unfit to go. I reached this place yesterday evening—throughout the day heavy showers fell, some on the train, but others on the flanking mountains, dense and black while we sped on in sunshine. You would love this place—Despite the rain it is delightful. Last evening I took a boat to the Island of Innisfallen. I was quite alone. The island is cumbered with ruins: covered with clustering foliage with patches of the richest verdure between. The lake waters lapped audibly on the rocks all round, giving tone to the stillness of the spot. It was quite a fairy land. As I returned the western heaven was walled with black clouds. I reached some eminences which commanded a view of the lake. Round about me were crumbling ruins, all old, very old. The sun once managed to look through a tunnel in the clouds, and hit Innisfallen and a series of other islands with his last beams; all right & left being black with gloom. The foliage glittered splendidly in the beam which at its end struck the breast of a cloud on which it painted as far as it reached a vivid rainbow. This hotel overlooks ‘the lower lake’. There are three in all & today I walked through the gap of Dunloe, reached the head of the 1st lake, where a boat had been sent to meet me, and rowed through all three of them. I have never seen anything in England, Scotland, Wales or Switzerland so truly lovely, lovely is the word. I have seen grander & larger lakes; but lovelier, never. I wish you were here in fine weather. It would enter into your very soul.
The mountains however are horrible condensers, and the rain fell down upon me today as if some fury were pouring it out of a watering pot. I am getting strong; more and more springy every hour; and if I can get only a few hours fair weather I shall clamber up Carrantual3 and drink your health there. I have already done on the highest spot in England4—and the highest in Europe,5 and I don’t see why I should not do it on the highest in Ireland.
Now excuse all this rambling—I wanted to fill an hour before dinner which would otherwise be a vacuum and lo! here is the result
Ever most truly yours | John Tyndall.
RI MS JT/1/T/1167
RI MS JT/1/TYP/6/2039
[1860]: Tyndall visited Ireland, including Killarney, from 14–26 June 1860 (Hirst Journal, RI MS JT/2/32c/1540 and 1542). It was this visit that inspired him to revisit the Alps, after he had thought in 1859 that he would not return.
before quitting London: Tyndall left on 14 June.
Carrantual: Carrauntoohil, the highest mountain in Ireland (1038m or 3404ft).
the highest spot in England: Scafell Pike, in the Lake District. In April 1859, according to Edward Frankland, he and Tyndall climbed Scafell (by which he probably meant Scafell Pike, 978m or 3,209ft, which is slightly higher than Scafell, 964m or 3,164ft). See Sketch of the Ascent of Scafell, Papers of Sir Edward Frankland, ex Joan Bucknell, Box 2, John Rylands Library, University of Manchester. Tyndall did not mention this ascent in his journal.
the highest in Europe: Tyndall meant Mont Blanc (4810m or 15,780ft), which he climbed three times. Today, Mount Elbrus (5642m or 18,510ft) in the Caucasus is considered the highest mountain in Europe.
Please cite as “Tyndall1714,” in Ɛpsilon: The John Tyndall Collection accessed on