CHAPTER IX

CONTINUATION OF PERSONAL WANDERINGS.--DUNGARVAN.--THE COMERAGHS.--MOUNT

MELLARY.--KILWORTH.--CROSS. DUNMANWAY.--GOUGANE BARRA.--BANTRY

BAY.--THE PRIEST'S LEAP.--KENMARE.--THE REEKS.--KILLARNEY.--TEMPLENOE.--

DEPARTURE.--CORK.--BRISTOL.--LONDON.--PARIS.

After leaving Quinlan's, as detailed in a former chapter, O'Mahony and

myself agreed to separate for a few days. No reward had then been

offered for him, and my presence only impeded his movements. We crossed

the river Suir, and remained most of the day in Coolnamuck wood. Toward

evening I was conducted far into the county Waterford, where I was to

remain until I heard what progress he was able to make. My host was the

chief of one of the fierce factions of county Waterford, and bore many a

mark of desperate fray. I do not remember having met any man, before or

since, who felt so acutely the fate of the country. He procured the best

fare he could, and prepared my bed with his own hands. After I retired

to rest, he continued pacing the room for several hours, sometimes

sighing deeply, sometimes muttering curses between his clenched teeth,

and sometimes suggesting plans which he thought might be even then

available and efficient to redeem the past. These plans were all of a

character more or less desperate; but some were exceedingly ingenious. A

truer type of a Celt could not easily be found; his very caution was

stamped with vehemence.

Next day but one I proceeded to meet O'Mahony, to learn his success in

his nocturnal interviews. I was unable to meet him; but encountered a

faithful follower of Thomas Francis Meagher, who was the bearer of a

message to the effect that if he could be prevailed upon to attempt

escaping, means could be procured for him. I expressed at once my entire

concurrence, and desired the messenger should return to say that on

condition the same means would be made available for those who were not

yet arrested, we would all gladly accept of them. I ventured into a

house, where, in early life, I spent many a happy day. Those of the

family whom I had known and loved, had passed out of the world. They

were a brother and sister, the former educated for the Church, and the

latter highly gifted and educated far above her condition. I never knew

a woman, in any rank of life, of nobler character or a more heroic

nature. She had the richest store of womanly tenderness and kindly

affections. She took the veil at the Dungarvan Convent in very early

youth, where she died two years afterwards. I asked for some food, and

while it was being prepared I wrote the following lines on a blank leaf

of a book belonging to my dead friend:--

Bliss to thy spirit, gentlest maid,

Fond, faithful and beloved; how oft,

Within the circle of this glowing glade,

Our mingling souls had soared aloft;

And wooed the knowledge of our destiny--

What is it? I a fugitive, and thou on high.

Yet hopeless of the land I'd save,

Nay, spurned by those for whom I'd die,

Unknown where your fond welcome gave,

There's still a throb of ecstasy.

Even though the latest I may feel on earth.

In lingering o'er the scene where thou hadst birth.

Where wrapt by evening's crimson flush,

We hoped, and felt, and breathed together,

Beside the broad Suir's silent gush,

Or resting on yon mountain heather;

And dared to look beyond the narrow span,

That circumscribed the hope of man.

How sweet, if from the blessed spheres,

Thou didst bestow one look of love,

To cheer the hearts and dry the tears

Of those whose only hope's above;

And win, beloved one, from the throne of light,

One saving ray for our long slavery's night.

Or if this may not be, and yet

Her old doom clings unto the land;

If on her brow the brand be set,

And she must bear the chastening hand

For longer years, O grant, sweet saint, to me,

To die as if my arm had made her free.

GLENN, _August 3, 1848._

I left Glenn next morning, with still some hope remaining, and sought

out my friend to learn his success and prospects. He came, according to

appointment, to a farmer's house in the direction of Rathgormack,

bringing with him James Stephens, who was destined to be thenceforth the

companion of my wanderings, privations and dangers. He detailed to us,

nearly as I have repeated it, the affair at Ballingarry. When he

reached the village of Urlingford, he found some difficulty in escaping

from the very men he hoped to lead back to the conflict. After vainly

making every effort first to urge them on, and secondly to satisfy them

of his own identity, he travelled a distance of thirty miles, and took

shelter in the house of a private friend, where he hoped he could remain

until something definite would be known of his comrades' fate. That his

stay was not of long duration, his appearance with us on Thursday, forty

miles from the place of his concealment, amply testifies. That distance

he travelled on foot on the preceding day, after having slept a night

with a drunken man in a brake. He was even more averse than we were to

giving up the struggle, and it was agreed on finally that he should be

allowed to rest in a place of safety; that the messenger who had come

from Mr. Meagher's friend should be despatched with my proposal, and

meantime, that I should betake me to the Comeragh mountains in search of

Mr. Meagher, while our other comrade should make a final effort to rally

the remaining strength of the people. We would then be in a position to

determine finally what we should do. Stephens and myself proceeded

together as far as my former host's in the mountains, where I left him,

and continued my route as far as the Comeraghs, I rested that evening at

a place called Sradavalla, and early next day recommenced my search

around and over the mountains. After crossing several minor hills, I

ascended the summit of the Comeragh, called Cuimshinane, which commands

a prospect of nearly the whole counties of Waterford and Kilkenny, with

a great part of Tipperary. That prospect was at once grand, beautiful

and mournful. The corn crop began to be tinged with coming ripeness; but

the potato was blighted, and presented a spectacle as black and dismal

as the country's hopes. This widespread ruin was the dread work of an

hour. On the morning, when Mr. O'Brien appeared in Carrick, that crop

was the most abundant, promising and healthy that had been seen for

years. Then it appeared from sea to sea one mass of unvaried rottenness

and decay. Notwithstanding this, I spent hours looking down on the

landscape, and mourning more over the mental and moral blight, which

shed its influence on the public heart, than the plague spot whose dark

circumference embraced the circle of the island. From heat, fatigue and

the effects of weak food, I discharged my stomach more than once, while

descending the ranges of the Comeraghs. I again took up my station for

the night at the village of Sradavalla. It was deemed prudent I should

not sleep in the same house as on the previous night, and about eleven

o'clock, accompanied by five or six men of the village, I proceeded to a

house farther up the mountain. Here the accommodation was not such as we

expected, and we were forced to return. On our arrival, I found my

sister-in-law who was escorted by two boatmen from Carrick-on-Suir, and

who reached this wild sequestered and almost inaccessible mountain

village, after a journey of fifty miles. A sad change had come over our

circumstances since last we parted. My hopes were then nearly a

conviction, and I went on my way not alone without remonstrance or

regret on her part, but with intense encouragement. She had heard of

Mr. O'Brien's disaster, and a rumour of his arrest, had witnessed the

prostration of the people, had heard I had means of escape proposed for

me, and came with what money could be provided. We spent that night

together at the house of a woman who had been lately confined. She

endeavoured to provide tea and eggs, and we enjoyed our supper with as

keen a relish and as high a zest as possible. I learned that Meagher was

in the other extremity of the county Tipperary, and she undertook to

convey my message to his friend a second time, while his faithful scout

would endeavour to discover his retreat, and induce him to join us. She

departed on her mission, having to walk ten miles over the mountain

roads. I returned to the place where I parted from Stephens, whom I

found greatly recovered. We remained that night at the house of his

entertainer, where we were joined the following morning by O'Mahony. We

spent the three succeeding days in and about the woods at Coolnamuck.

Three more anxious days and nights never darkened the destiny of baffled

rebels. Every morning arose upon a new hope which was blasted ere night

came on by some sad intelligence. The news that reached us was partly

true and partly false: of the former character was the account of our

beloved chief's arrest, which took place on the evening of Sunday, the

6th of August. In proportion as it nerved our purpose and urged us to

desperation, did that fatal information scatter the agencies on which we

were to depend. The most desperate hazards would be readily undertaken

in that hour of gloom. One more effort we decided on, and the experiment

was to be tried the next night. We heard Mr. Meagher also was arrested,

and we resolved, in order to satisfy ourselves of the correctness of

this and other reports, to put ourselves in direct communication with

some person in the town of Clonmel. We accordingly proceeded to the

neighbourhood of that town, within a mile of which, at the Waterford

side, we established ourselves, and remained two days. Each day we sent

in a messenger who brought us correct intelligence of what occurred; and

satisfied us not alone that Mr. O'Brien was then in gaol, but that he

was allowed to be torn from the midst of a people for whom he had

perilled his life, without a hand being raised in his defence. We then

returned to the scene of our former meetings, and met, for the last

time, beside a little brook near the Waterford slate-quarries. My

ambassadress had also returned, and there were present three or four

others. The reunion was gloomy. But one question remained for

discussion: Was there any hope left? The message I received as to the

means of escape was dark and discouraging. Nothing remained but the

hazards of some desperate enterprise. What had chiefly animated our

hopes for the few days was the knowledge that disaffection and

conspiracy existed in the ranks of the British army. But among other

intelligence of evil omen that reached us was this, that the conspiracy

had been discovered. Whether this were true or not, our means of

communication were suspended; and, unable to learn what had occurred, we

naturally concluded it was the worst. It is not quite correct to say,

_we_, as far as the proceedings of these days in that neighbourhood were

concerned. Neither Stephens nor myself was in communication with more

than the one friend, to whose honour and heroism we would commit the

liberty of the world. Never yet lived a man of more sanguine hope or

intense patriotism. All the vigour of a gigantic intellect, aided by the

endurance of great physical strength was tasked to the uttermost in

attempting to rouse the broken energies of the country. He generally

spent his nights in interviews with the chief men of the surrounding

districts, while his duty by day was to communicate the result to us,

and secure a place of safety for the ensuing night. Our last conference

was of course the longest and most anxious. There was no chance within

the range of possibility we did not discuss. Of the intensity of our

feelings, some idea may be formed by the fact, that the one woman who

was of the party, whose sole stay on this earth I was, as well as the

sole stay of her sister and a most helpless little family, never uttered

one word of remonstrance against any project, however desperate, which

was proposed. We concluded an interview of several hours, by referring

the entire question to the sole decision of our friend. After a short

silence, during which the agony of his mind was extreme, he solemnly

advised and adjured us to provide as best we could for our own safety,

while he, who was not so deeply compromised, would maintain his

position, and still struggle against our common destiny. If he

succeeded, and that we had not left the country, we could return. But to

advise us to continue in our then position where an iron circle was

closing around us, relying on the slender chances that then presented

themselves, involved a responsibility which would be no longer

endurable. We then partook of a comfortable dinner which he had

provided, and parted with sad hearts.

[Illustration: The Knockmeldown Mountains from Ardfinan]

The place which, as far as we could form an opinion, presented the

greatest facilities for escape, was the town and neighbourhood of

Dungarvan. Thither we resolved to repair; and about three o'clock, on

the 13th day of August, we set off across the nearest range of the

Comeraghs--Stephens and myself, accompanied by my sister-in-law, whom we

hoped to employ in negotiating for a passage to France. A farmer and two

women of the place undertook to conduct us the shortest way across the

mountains, and provide us an asylum for the night, which we reached

after a forced journey of six hours. We there parted from our guides;

and the people to whom they recommended us were exceedingly kind, and

much more hospitable than their means would permit. On the following day

our host became our guide for several miles across the declining

Comeraghs, until we came in view of Dungarvan. We purchased some bread,

eggs and tea at a village called Tubbernaheena; but while in the village

we learned that the military and police were scouring the country far

and wide, in search of arms, which compelled us to change our route and

take an easterly direction. We crossed several miles of bog, and had to

pass many a ravine; but the worst trial was before us. We applied in

several houses for the means of preparing our dinner, having travelled

at least twenty miles over moor and mountain. We applied in twenty

places in vain. At last, half by force and half by entreaty, we

prevailed on a woman, whose circumstances seemed comfortable. We were,

of course, unknown; and though we met many a rebuff, we determined to

endure them, rather than reveal our names and character. During the

progress of our meal we established ourselves in the good graces of the

housewife, but she obstinately refused to allow us to remain for the

night. She directed us to a publichouse, where, on our arrival, we found

a proclamation menacing any one who entertained, harboured or assisted

us, with the direst punishment. In answer to our inquiry the owner, who

was a woman, pointed to the proclamation, as an argument against which

all remonstrance was vain. We made three or four other attempts equally

fruitless; and when the night had closed around us, on a bleak, desolate

road, I determined to call on the Roman Catholic priest, and state who

we were; for while, if alone, we would infinitely prefer taking such

rest as we could in the nearest brake, or under shelter of a wall, we

could not think of submitting our delicate companion to the trials of a

night in the open air, during an exceedingly inclement season. With some

hesitation and great alarm, he procured a lodging for us at a farmer's

house in the neighbourhood. We saw him next morning, and his most

earnest injunction was that we should leave the locality, which,

according to him, was altogether unsafe. To escape arrest there for

twelve hours was, he said, impossible. Similar advice was pressed on us

afterwards in many a safer asylum; but we learned to mock at others'

fears, whereas, on this occasion, we yielded to an impression we felt to

be sincere.

Before venturing nearer to Dungarvan, we determined to bespeak the

services of another clergyman, who lived a distance of six or seven

miles in the direction of Waterford. A ridge of the Comeraghs lay

between us and his lonely dwelling. Along this ridge lay a winding

bridle-road, skirted by patches of green sward, and occasionally crossed

by a sparkling mountain rill. Above us, on the hill-side, was a

considerable bog, where crowds of country people were collecting to

their daily toil. A merry laugh or boisterous joke occasionally rang

clear in the morning air. The mirth went heavily to our hearts. The

snatch of song, the unrestrained laugh, the merry glee, broke upon the

ear of the wayfarers like the mocking of demons. The consciousness that

they then sped, without a beacon or a guide, over the flinty path of

flight, to end perhaps at the gibbet, imparted to the voice of mirth the

sound of ingratitude. However, the day was brilliant; above us the

clear, blue, unfathomable sky; around us the bracing mountain air, laden

with the breath of hare-bell and heather, and far below the calm sea,

sleeping in the morning light; and weariness, hunger and apprehension

yielded to the influence of the scene. Many a time, ere passed the sunny

noon, did we sit down to enjoy the glad prospect, unconscious, for a

moment, of the fate that tracked our footsteps. At length we descended

the eastern slope of the hill; and after proceeding some distance,

through cornfields and meadows, we reached the mansion of the clergyman,

wayworn and half-famished. He, whom we sought, had won a character for

truth, manliness and courage, and we calculated upon his unrestrained

sympathies, if not generous hospitality. He was absent from his house,

which is situate in a lonely gorge of the Comeraghs.

We waited his arrival for more than an hour, and, through delicacy for

his position, we remained concealed in a grove some distance from the

door. He at length appeared, and I proceeded alone to meet him and make

known my name. He started involuntarily and retreated a few paces from

me. After repeating my name for a few seconds, he said, "Surely you are

not so unmanly as to compromise me?" I replied, that so sensible was I

of the danger of committing him, that I refused to enter his house,

though we all, and particularly my female companion, sadly needed rest

and shelter. After some time, he began to pace up and down in front of

his door, repeating at every turn that it was indiscreet and

dishonourable to compromise him. Among the many trials to which fate had

doomed me, through hours of gloom, of peril and disaster, and even

during reveries of still darker chances, which fear or fancy often

evoked, I never felt a pang so keen as that which those unfeeling words

sent through my heart. For a while I was unable to articulate, but at

length I said: "You are one of those who urged us to this fate. You gave

us every assurance that, in any crisis, you would be at our side. We

made the desperate trial which you recommended. We have failed, because

we were abandoned by those who were foremost in urging us on; and even

now--here, where God alone sees us--you meet with reproaches one who has

sacrificed his all on earth in a cause you pretended to bless. Is not

that fate worse than defeat--than flight--than death?" "Tis a sad fate,

no doubt," said he. My object, I said, was to escape to France, and I

called on him, believing he could assist me, as he must be acquainted

with the boatmen around that part of the coast. He answered it was

possible he could, but not then; asked how he could communicate with me;

pointed to a shorter route across the mountains than that by which we

had descended, and turned in to his dinner, which was just announced.

* * * * *

We faced towards the mountain, hungry and exhausted, without being asked

to taste food or drink. It need not be detailed how sore at heart we

felt as we recommenced our dreary journey. It was already evening.

Censer masses of fog had gathered on the hill, and lurid streaks

spreading far out on the sea, portended a night of storm and gloom.

However, we had no resource but to regain the house where we had slept

two nights before, which we supposed might be distant about seven miles;

and by gaining the summit of the hill before dark, we hoped to make our

way easily down the other side. To obtain some food, of whatever kind,

was an indispensable preliminary. The house nearest to the mountain

appeared to be that of a comfortable farmer. We entered it trembling,

and found our expectations not disappointed. But the housewife

peremptorily refused our first request, evidently suspecting there was

something wrong, and unable to reconcile our appearance with the idea of

hunger or distress. She bestowed a peculiarly sinister scrutiny on my

poor sister. After some parley, we said we should have something to eat,

either for love or money, and while saying so, we began to examine the

locks of our pistols. Either admonished by these stern intercessors, or

by a look of compassion from her beautiful daughter, who stood at some

distance, she replied we should have what we asked for, but only for

love. Her daughters, of whom there were two, busied themselves in

producing new barley bread and skimmed milk, of which we partook

immoderately. We parted on better terms, and my friend Stephens was

greeted with a smile from each of the lovely girls, which so influenced

him that he insisted upon revealing our character and asking their

hospitality for the night. After a good deal of discussion it was agreed

he should make the experiment alone. He returned and produced the

military cap which he always wore inside his shirt. This at once

produced the desired effect, and one of the young girls came bounding up

the hill to invite us to return. It was arranged, however, that we

should remain on a hay-loft until quite dusk, which we gladly agreed to.

The host entered with us, and stayed until we were admitted to the

dwelling-house. To me, at least, that hay-loft imparted a sense of

unutterable enjoyment. I was there enabled to support the drooping head

of my sister, as overcharged with weariness and pain of mind, she sank

into unconscious sleep.

As night fell, we were introduced into a comfortable parlour. There we

had tea and eggs, with some punch. The family felt the warmest interest

in us; but at the same time they occasionally manifested evident alarm.

The utmost precaution was observed so as to prevent our being noticed,

and we only retired to bed when the hour of midnight had struck, and the

house was sunk in silence and solitude. During all that night the storm

roared pitilessly and the rain fell heavily. Had it surprised us on the

bleak hill, our wandering had that night ended, and the ravens of

Cumshinane had feasted on our flesh. Next day the storm did not cease to

howl nor the rain to sweep on the angry winds. About five o'clock,

during a brief pause of the rain, preparations were made which

significantly intimated that we were expected to leave. Our host was

well acquainted with the fishermen of Dungarvan and he solemnly warned

us against treating with any of them. Betrayal, he said, would be

certain. But he promised to accompany my sister next day to the town,

where he would make every inquiry; and if he failed, as he anticipated,

would see her away on the car; in which case we were to try another and

a far remote sea-board. A certain newspaper of high Liberal character,

affected to bestow upon us intense consideration and deep compassion. It

had a guard of mobile reporters, some of whom contrived to be everywhere

and hear everything--especially what did not occur. One of them, with a

keener scent than his fellows, discovered my sister's track--made

himself familiar with her person and apparel--and announced her

movements with a mournful accuracy. He conjectured, not unjustly, that

my haunts must be near the scene of her wanderings. Completely absorbed

by the one idea of gratifying the curiosity of his readers, he seemed

indifferent to the conclusion, which, to a mind less engaged, would

appear palpable, and inevitable--namely, that what was information to

our anxious friends would equally serve the purpose of our watchful

pursuers.

It became, therefore, dangerous to have her continue any longer with or

near us. A hasty dinner was prepared, and we arranged to meet our host

next day within a mile of Dungarvan. Never did parting look more like a

last one than mine with my sister, on that occasion. For some time I

thought she would be the first victim of our hard destiny. She seemed

incapable of withstanding the agony that shook her frame. While sharing

in the hardships and the hazards of my struggle for life, her heart,

sustained by its own deep enthusiasm, triumphed over every obstacle. But

she was returning to a house of mourning and of woe, where life would be

one blank of desolation and stupor, to be wakened to bitter

consciousness by intelligence of our doom. The sense of my

responsibility, the full appreciation of the living death which, through

my agency, had fallen upon a home as hallowed as ever love and joy

consecrated to happiness, had burned up my eyeballs and my brain. I went

forth into the recommencing storm, utterly unconscious of its rage and

equally indifferent to fate. My comrade, who had no life to lose but his

own, and who of that was recklessly prodigal, provided he could dispose

of it to good account, stepped blithely along and uttered no complaint,

although he left behind him traces marked with blood. His terrible

indifference soon restored my self-possession, and we found shelter for

the night in a house near the spot designated for the next day's

interview. Just as we arrived there, the chief magistrate and police had

completed a search of the house. We entered as they retired, told who we

were, and claimed hospitality, which we readily obtained. The night

passed as many a similar one did afterwards. Let our hardships be what

they might during the day, we invariably enjoyed ourselves at night, and

went to bed without a fear. On the following morning we sent our hostess

into the town for shoes and other matters which were indispensable to

our further progress. She returned, evidently alarmed to death, having

read on the walls the viceregal threats against all who harboured the

"traitors." She scarcely allowed us to remain until the time appointed

for the interview, which was of short duration. We were informed that

there was no hope from that quarter, and that our safety for one hour

was extremely precarious. This intelligence and a copy of the _World_

newspaper, completed the information communicated by our former host.

Having laughed heartily over the _World_, and no less heartily at the

alarm of our host and hostess, we set out on our long journey, about

four o'clock in the evening, under very heavy rain. Our first effort was

at the publichouse, already mentioned, where we again failed. We had

some bread and punch, while drying our clothes at the fire. My comrade

became very ill; but even this did not overcome the obstinate repugnance

of the hostess to receive us. We were compelled to leave at about nine

o'clock; and having travelled some miles, 'midst cold and rain, my

comrade shivering from fever and suffering, we determined to sleep in

freshly-saved hay. While making ourselves a resting-place in the hay, we

were surprised by some countrymen, who recognised us as the persons who

dined on a former evening, but were coldly received and rudely expelled.

Upon consulting with the women, who had seen us, they conjectured we

were some of the fugitives, and followed for the purpose of inviting us

to the hospitalities of their home. We accepted the offer gladly, and

were received by our friends of the former evening with the warmest

welcome. The principal apartment contained two beds, one of which was

usually occupied by the man and his wife, and the other by their grown

daughters. They gave both up to us, treated us most kindly, and the

whole family, men, women and children, watched over our sleep until

morning. The eldest son displayed considerable information and still

greater energy of character. He evinced the deepest interest in our

fate, and accompanied us for several miles next morning. It was Sunday;

the cold and wet of the previous evening had given way to calm and

sunshine; and we made rapid way along the slopes of the

Comeraghs--thence to the Knockmeldown mountains, having one main object

in view--to place the greatest distance possible between where we were

to rest that night and where we had last slept. The greatest difficulty

we experienced was in passing deep ravines. The steep ascent and descent

were usually wooded and covered with furze and briars. Far below gurgled

a rapid and swollen mountain stream, which we crossed without

undressing, and always experienced the greatest relief from the cold

running water. But toiling our upward way, through trees and thorny

shrubs, was excessively fatiguing. About three o'clock in the evening we

reached the picturesque grounds of Mountmellary Abbey. We had then

travelled thirty miles of mountain without any refreshments. The

well-known hospitality of the good brothers was a great temptation to

men in our situation, pressed by toil and hunger. But we felt that we

possibly might compromise the Abbot and the brethren, and determined on

not making ourselves known. We entered the beautiful chapel of the

Abbey, and ascended the gallery while vespers were sung. We were alone

on the gallery, and had an opportunity of changing our stockings and

wiping the blood from our feet. We remained upwards of an hour, and then

set out, but little refreshed. We hoped to find refreshments in a small

publichouse, on the road leading from Clogheen to Lismore. I entered the

house rather hurriedly, and the first object that met my view was a

policeman. I turned quickly round and disappeared. The rapidity of my

movement attracted his attention, and, calling to his comrades and some

countrymen who were in the house, they commenced a pursuit. At first

they appeared little concerned, but walked quickly. We accordingly

quickened our pace, and they, in turn, began to run, when it became a

regular chase, which continued four miles, until we disappeared in the

blue mists of the Mitchelstown mountains, as night was falling around

us. When we saw our pursuers retiring, we ventured to descend, and

entered a cabin where we found a few cold half-formed new potatoes and

some sour milk which we ravenously devoured. I do not remember ever

enjoying a dinner as I did this. My comrade, who had suffered much from

illness, was unable to eat with the same relish. It was night when we

finished our repast, and we set off in search of some place to lay our

heads. We met several refusals, and succeeded, with great difficulty at

last, in a very poor cabin. We saw a lone hen on a cross-beam, which we

proposed to purchase, and bought at last for two shillings. In less

than an hour she was disposed of; and, as was invariably the case, we

got the only bed in the house, where we slept a long and dreamless

sleep. It rained incessantly the next day, and we were forced repeatedly

to take shelter in cabins by the wayside. But, being excessively anxious

to get as far as possible beyond the circle enclosed by our foes, we

descended several miles along the Kilworth mountains. Towards the close

of evening we crossed the River Funcheon, near Kilworth, by means of a

fir-tree, the roots of which had been undermined by the rapid flood. We

had spent the whole day in wet clothes. We mounted this tree,

Indian-like, in the midst of rain, and dropped in the shallow part of

the river from the branches. We were unable to procure lodgings

afterwards until nearly eleven o'clock, and then not without difficulty.

We succeeded, at length, within about a quarter of a mile of Kilworth,

whence we were able to procure bread, tea and beefsteaks. We were very

kindly treated, and next day accompanied to the Blackwater, at Castle

Hyde, by the eldest brother of the family.

I shall not easily forget the delicacy with which this young man

requested, if we thought it compatible with our safety, to tell him our

names. There are few requests which either of us would feel greater

reluctance in refusing. He saw our evident struggle, and said he would

be satisfied with a promise that when our fate would be decided one way

or the other, we would write to him; a promise which I redeemed the day

after I reached Paris.

This day I think, August the 20th, we travelled over forty miles, along

bog and mountain, passed within a few miles of the city of Cork, and

then, taking a north-western direction, proceeded to the village of

Blarney; where we slept on a loft with a number of carmen who were on

their way to Cork with corn.

It is known to most people, at all familiar with the traditions of

Ireland, that this village is one of her most classic spots. There is

deposited the celebrated Blarney stone, a touch of which imparts to the

tongue of the pilgrim the gift of persuasion. So famous has this stone

become, not only in Ireland but in England, that the most plausible

fluency is characterised by its name, which at once confers on such

oratory the stamp of unapproachable eloquence. It must be confessed,

however, that in many instances "Blarney" conveys doubts of the

speaker's sincerity, as well as admiration for his capacity. To see this

talisman would be with me, on another occasion, an object of deep

anxiety and most eager curiosity. But I was compelled to forego the

pleasure, by the fact that a police-barrack loomed in its immediate

vicinity, and at the other side was posted a proclamation offering a

reward for my person. We could scarcely sleep, owing to the noise and

bustle of the carmen, as they came and went, and loudly snored in

various parts of our dormitory. But we were allowed to rest until seven

in the morning, when we took a hasty breakfast and departed. It was a

point with us never to walk along a road, and never to ask our way. We

were now travelling through an open corn country, and our progress was

accordingly slow. We felt, too, the necessity of not departing far from

our intended route, and accordingly we called in occasionally to

national schools to make the necessary observations on the maps.

Sometimes we examined the children, and sometimes the master; generally

one of us was so employed while the other was noting down carelessly on

the map the points of observation to direct our path. We crossed the Lee

undressed, near the village of "Cross," and slept soundly in a

churchyard on a neighbouring hill the name of which has passed from my

memory. We then directed our footsteps to a small village called

Crookstown, situated in a romantic spot on a branch of the Lee. We

experienced much difficulty, and narrowly escaped detection, in entering

this village, which is surrounded by beautiful country seats, through

the grounds of some of which we were obliged to grope our way. We

obtained lodgings, after one or two fruitless trials, in a very

comfortable house kept by a farmer. The young family seemed to be rather

tastefully educated, and we soon became fast friends. We passed as

whimsical tourists, and delighted our entertainers with glowing accounts

of the scenery of Connemara, Wicklow and Kerry. We remained with them

two nights, on pretence of being engaged in sketching the enchanting

views in the neighbourhood; and left, promising, that if we returned by

the same road, we would delay a week. Our destination was Dunmanway,

near which a friend of mine lived, in whose house I hoped we might

remain concealed, while means of escape would be procured somewhere

among the western headlands. A short journey brought us to this house.

My friend was absent, but daughters of his, whom I had not seen since

childhood, recognised and welcomed us. We had then travelled 150 miles,

and fancied that, as no one could think of our making such a journey

without walking one half-mile of road, we would be safe there for many

days. In this we were disappointed. It was communicated to us next

morning early that our persons were recognised, and that half the

inhabitants of Dunmanway were by that time aware of our whereabouts. It

was added, that the people were venal and treacherous; a character which

the inhabitants of that region of Cork invariably attribute to each

other. We remained a second and most of a third day, notwithstanding,

and enjoyed ourselves heartily, although our little festivities had all

the air of a wake. We set out at length on the evening of the third day,

having made one glorious friend, whose exertions afterwards tended

mainly to secure my escape. We had expected letters from home before we

reached Dunmanway, and received them there on the day after. They

contained the concentrated and compressed agony of weeks, but no word of

complaint or regret. They also confirmed the intelligence which we had

heard ere we set out, namely, that all our comrades were arrested,

except Dillon, O'Gorman, and a few others, of whose fate we remained

uncertain. Certain friends of the family undertook to communicate with

clergymen, near the seashore, who were supposed to be in a position to

facilitate our escape, while we proposed to visit Gougane Barra and

Ceimeneagh, and, if practicable, Killarney, before we returned to learn

the success of their applications. We followed the stream that passes

Dunmanway for several miles through an almost inaccessible valley,

until we reached the southwestern base of Shehigh, the highest mountain

in the range which stretches between Mallow and Cape Clear.

Here we purchased some good new potatoes, butter, eggs and milk, on

which we dined satisfactorily. We then faced the mountain which we

crossed near the summit, being desirous to gain Gougane Barra by the

shortest possible route. A steep ascent gives the traveller fresh

impulses and an irrepressible desire to bound down at the other side. It

seems to spring from that principle of action and reaction pervading all

nature. At the northern base of Shehigh, after traversing some miles of

bog, we found ourselves entering the pass of Ceimenagh. Though that Pass

had been recently immortalised in the unequalled verses of Denis

Florence M'Carthy,[12] and I had learned to love a spot where echoes of

minstrelsy so soft and passionate had found a "local habitation," I was

ignorant of its locality and entirely unprepared for the surpassing

grandeur of the scene, which, in the full blaze of a harvest moon burst

upon my view. My comrade was even more startled than I, and we paused at

every turn of that enchanting passage to gaze upon the masses of rock

projecting over our heads hundreds of feet in the air, and casting their

dark rude outlines upon the clear autumn sky. The pass is a mile long,

while in no one spot can many yards' distance be seen on either side.

The road seems to lose itself every moment in the bowels of the

mountain, but as you proceed, you find a new avenue of escape, and a

more fantastic group of impending rocks of a yet more entrancing

beauty than that you had left behind. In such a scene one could have no

feeling of weariness and no sense of fear. Neither could he doubt man's

truth any more than God's omnipotence. We lingered in the solitude and

drank the moonbeams as they strayed through disjointed rocks and fell

silvery and glowing on our path. Our reverie ended in a mistake, for we

unconsciously passed the point where we should turn to Gougane Barra,

then the scene of a ceremony, half religious, half superstitious, as it

has been during the autumn season from time immemorial. People come

great distances to perform "stations" on the ruins of a very ancient

church on poor Callanan's "green little island." We were advised against

returning, but told to seek shelter in a publichouse at a place called

Ballingeary, on the banks of Lough Lua through which the infant Lee

runs. We found the house quite full, in consequence of a fair which was

to be held the Monday following at Bantry. We were accordingly refused;

but we insisted on remaining in the house. We had some milk and whisky,

in which we asked the host to join us, and after one or two potations,

he and his wife offered to give us their own bed and remain up. We

thankfully and gladly accepted the offer. I know not whether they

recognised us, and if not, it is not easy to account for the generous

kindness that prompted such a sacrifice. The next day being Sunday, we

proposed to spend it wandering about the lovely lake in the bosom of the

hill, and to return in the evening to dinner. The day was an anxious

one; but we left no spot on the island or near the lake which we did not

explore.

[Illustration: Dunmanway from the Bridge on the Cork Road, 1848]

The "Green Little Island," is surpassingly romantic. The old ruin of a

monastery, God knows how old, gigantic forest trees, bowing their aged

limbs into the clear water, the shadows of the frowning mountain thrown

fantastically on the bosom of the lake, form a _tout ensemble_ of lonely

loveliness rarely equalled. Then the play of

"The thousand wild fountains

Rushing down to that lake from their home in the mountains,"

the scream of the eagle on the crags of Mailoc, far, far on high, all

justify Callanan's preference for the spot which was meetest for the

bard. We endeavoured to recall his tender strains, and thought

mournfully of his sad prophecy--alas! when shall it be fulfilled?

I too shall be gone, but my name shall be spoken,

When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken

Some minstrel shall come in the summer's eve gleaming,

When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,

And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,

Where calm Avonbui seeks the kisses of ocean,

Or plant a wild wreath from the banks of that river,

O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for ever.

We saw at a short distance, the pass which so enraptured us the night

before, but we resisted the temptation to revisit it, lest the glare of

light might disenchant us of those sublime impressions of beauty it had

made on our minds.

We found a most comfortable dinner on our arrival, for which we could

not account. In the course of the evening we learned casually from our

host that he had spent several years of his life where it was impossible

he should not have seen and known me. This was a disturbing conviction

wherewith to retire to rest, but we trusted to our propitious stars, in

which we had begun to feel a superstitious confidence. We were not

disappointed then or afterwards, and next morning we slept in

unquestioning security. We rose late and reluctantly, and left a scene

where we enjoyed more undisturbed rest and real comfort than had fallen

to our lot for weeks before. The day became dark and showery. Crossing

the bogs in the recesses of Shehigh, we were overtaken by a storm, from

which we took shelter in some hay gathered on the bleak moor, where I

wrote the following:--

Hurrah for the outlaw's life!

Hurrah for the felon's doom!

Hurrah for the last death-strife!

Hurrah for an exile's tomb!

Come life or death, 'tis still the same,

So we preserve our stainless name

From losel of the coward's shame.

Hurrah for the mountain side!

Hurrah for the bivouac!

Hurrah for the heaving tide!

If rocking the felon's track.

Hurrah for the scanty meal!

If served by th' ungrudging hand,

Hurrah for the hearts of steel,

Still true to this fallen land!

Still true, though every hazard brings

Some new disaster on its wings,

Which o'er her last faint hope it flings.

Hurrah, etc.

Hurrah; though the gibbet loom!

Hurrah; though the brave be low!

Hurrah; though a villain doom!

The true to the headsman's blow.

As long as one life-throb remain,

We'll spurn the tyrant's gyve and chain

On gallows-tree or bloody plain.

Hurrah, etc.

Hurrah for that smile of light,

Which like a prophetic star,

Illumined the long, lone night

Of the wanderers from afar.

Give us for resting-place the rath,

Give us to brave the foeman's wrath,

So that dear smile be o'er our path.

Hurrah for the mountain side!

Hurrah for the bivouac!

Hurrah for the heaving tide!

If rocking the felon's track.

Being apprehensive that our former retreat near Dunmanway was

discovered, and that we would be looked for there, we determined to try

another district, from which we might be able to communicate with her

who had evinced such sympathy for us. We sought the house of a friend of

hers, but found him so terrified that we could not think of forcing

ourselves on his hospitality. He promised, however, to call on her and

learn if she had any letters or other information for us. On our return,

next day, he was somewhat reassured. He brought us a note from her, and

letters from home. My comrade's was a sad, sad blow. Where he had most

trusted on earth, his application had been coldly received, and his most

unlimited confidence utterly disappointed. Money was forwarded to him

from other sources; but the spirit that braved every disaster up to

that, broke under disappointed affection and blighted love. For some

time he refused to take another step, but yielding himself up to the

agony of shattered feelings, he ardently desired to abandon a struggle

involving nothing but the life he no longer desired to save. From my

knowledge of the country, and other resources, he regarded my chances of

escape as favourable, and his own presence as an impediment and a check.

He was therefore anxious to relieve me of a burden, at the same time

that he would free himself from a weight still more intolerable. In that

he was mistaken. His imperturbable equanimity, and ever daring hope, had

sustained me in moments of perplexity and alarm when no other resource

could have availed. During the whole time which we spent, as it were, in

the shadow of the gibbet, his courage never faltered, and his temper

never once ruffled. The arrival of our enthusiastic friend, who had

stolen to see us, revived his spirits, and her persuasions reassured his

resolution. We drove for some time in her car, and after nightfall

returned to the house where we had slept on the previous night. A

practice which prevailed in that part of the county Cork greatly

facilitated our efforts. It was this: in the vicinity of the great

routes of travel, the farmers are in the habit of giving lodgings for

payment, the amount of which generally depends on the traveller's

ability to pay. As our means, for purposes of at least this kind were

not stinted, we were sure of welcome a second time. But this fact had a

tendency to frustrate our aim in another point of view; for it always

excited curiosity, so that it was doubtful whether we would not be

safer with persons who would provide for us at the cost of their last

morsel, by confiding to them who and what we were. But in this district

of Cork, the centre of which is the notorious town of Bandon, were

scattered several families of Orangemen, who were intensely inimical to

the cause and people of Ireland. In this very instance we lodged with

one of those families. A letter that I tore near the house was picked

up, put together, and read, so as to lead to suspicion, which was

immediately communicated to the magistrate. This caused the most

vigilant surveillance to be exercised over the homes and persons of our

friends. But before the discovery was made we were far beyond the reach

of our pursuers. We had learned that the efforts made for our escape

were unsuccessful, and that time would be required to effect anything,

so as not to arouse the suspicion of those who guarded the coast; and we

agreed to conceal ourselves as best we could in some distant part of the

country, for three weeks, and then return or communicate with our

friend, who promised, meantime, to leave no effort untried on our

behalf. A second time, we set out by the same route. When we found

ourselves on a hill-top, far from human haunts, we sat down as was our

wont, to consider our future course. We determined to visit some obscure

watering-place in the vicinity of Cape Clear. With that view we skirted

the picturesque mountains that surround Dunmanway. These mountains

present features to which the eye of one living in the inland country is

little accustomed. The mountains of the midland and eastern counties are

generally enormous clumps with little inequality of surface, and

covered over with heath and weeds. Here, on the contrary, the mountains

seemed to be carved out into the most fantastic shapes, covered with

white granite stones, whose reflections in the watery surface gave the

scene an appearance of singular beauty. However strange it may appear,

we lingered over these picturesque scenes in intense delight; the more

so because there seemed no limit to our journey, and no definite aim to

which our efforts led. And a mountain-top has always an assurance of

safety stamped upon it. There we could indulge our admiration for the

beautiful; there we could snatch an hour of fearless and unbroken sleep.

But elements of danger began to lower over our loved haunts. The grouse

season had just set in, and occasionally the report of a musket broke

our reverie, or startled our deepest sleep. Yet, even from this cup of

bitterness did we derive some sparkles of happiness. We could easily

avoid the sportsman's eye; and when we wanted anything from the lower

regions, the vicinity of the mountains, and the business of the fowler,

accounted for our presence and our wants, and readily gained us a

supply. But the potato crop had failed, and the disease had already

destroyed all the tubers which had approached maturity. This rendered it

necessary to look to other resources, and we contrived to procure bread

and sometimes meat, which we were able to get prepared easily under

pretence of being catering for shooting parties.

On the first day we made this experiment, we found ourselves descending

into that dreary plain that stretches out to the doomed district of

Skibbereen. Under cover of night we sought to penetrate this desolate

region in the remotest direction of the sea, where we hoped we might

remain unnoticed as country bathers. We obtained shelter at a small

farmers, and made a great many inquiries concerning the neighbouring

watering-places, whither we said we were going for the benefit of our

health. There were two young girls, the confidence of one of whom my

comrade contrived to win during the evening. She told him that her

sister had a courtship with the sergeant of police, who usually visited

there every day. This hastened our departure next morning. We set out in

the grey dawn, and once again reascended the mountain, to rest and take

thought. The communication of the young girl; the sister's long delay,

when she went to procure refreshments at the village, where the

police-sergeant was stationed; the father's pursuits, and other

circumstances, induced us to believe that to follow the plan which, to a

certain extent, we had unfolded, would be dangerous. We therefore

determined to change our course. We were then about fifteen miles

south-southwest of Dunmanway. Adhering to our resolution of settling for

a few weeks in some village on the seaside, we purposed to substitute

the Kerry side of Bantry Bay for the district we had at first fixed on.

The distance was about fifty miles, and we had to cross a plain several

miles wide. We swept over this plain with a rapidity that taxed severely

our exhausted energies, and lay down to sleep on the first patch of

heath we gained on the Bantry mountains.

We bathed our feet in a mountain stream, and having partaken of a slight

meal, resumed our weary journey. Night fell on us in the midst of a

desolate bog on a mountain top. We travelled several miles in search of

shelter, first in cabins and next in haycocks. It was a dark, gloomy and

threatening night. After lying for some time on the roadside, where

alone a dry spot was to be found, I forced Stephens to consent to make a

trial of the town of Bantry, then a mile distant. The darkness and gloom

were favourable to the experiment. We entered the town, and traversed

one or two streets, we knew not in what direction. On inquiring for a

lodging-house, we were directed to the house of Mrs. Barry, who kept a

large grocery establishment. We found accommodation and comfort. Next

day, having made some small purchases through the agency of the servant,

and posted some letters, we deliberately walked out of Bantry, by the

road which seemed to lead the most directly to the country. The day was

miserable, and we found our journey through the mountains, which

overhang the beautiful bay, very unpleasant. We determined to reach a

place called the Priest's Leap, which is consecrated by a holy tradition

in the estimation of the people. They tell that in the times of

persecution a priest was set and sold in these fastnesses. Having

discovered that he was betrayed, he effected his escape through a circle

of enclosing pursuers, which it was deemed impossible to break through;

the country people believed that he floated invisibly through the air,

and alighted on the deck of a Spanish frigate then coasting these

shores.

An impenetrable fog descended the mountain, and the rain deepened into a

torrent. Moored in the bay were two war-steamers, with screw propellers;

but they had all their sails unfurled, and swung uneasily to and fro.

We, who were ignorant of their character, frequently paused to regard

them, utterly unable to account for their extraordinary movements.

Believing them American packets, which had put in through stress of

weather, we would have given worlds even for an opportunity of swimming

to them through the waters of the bay. But the coast was strictly

guarded by police and revenue officers. Notwithstanding this the vessels

had for us an irresistible attraction, and we entered a mountain cabin,

where we learned their real character. A second attempt to reach the

Priest's Leap, of whose exact bearing we were ignorant, involved us in

deeper mist and a heavier shower, from which we took shelter in a

wretched hut, directly over the bay, and within about one mile of an

hotel of great fame, frequented by travellers who are attracted to these

districts to view the magnificent bay and the singular beauty of

Glengarriff. Here we spent the remainder of the day. Eggs and potatoes

were provided for us; and when, as evening approached, we prepared to

depart to the hotel, the woman pressed us to remain, and produced clean

sheets, telling us they would give up their bed, and adding that she

would be satisfied with the fifth of what we should pay in the hotel,

where, she slyly hinted, our reception would be very doubtful in our

then trim. We readily consented to her arrangement; and it was further

agreed that her husband should go to the hotel and provide some bacon,

bread, tea, and whisky.

We had not, during our wanderings, met two such characters as this man

and woman, nor had we taken shelter in so extraordinary an abode. They

had a single child, a girl about four years of age, whose dark eyes and

compressed lip Akkad evidenced the presence of those terrible passions

which had burned deep channels along the brow and cheek of her mother.

The cabin was ten feet square, with no window and no chimney. The floor,

except where the bed was propped in a corner, was composed of a sloping

mountain rock, somewhat polished by human feet and the constant tread of

sheep, which were always shut up with the inmates at night. The fire,

which could be said to burn and smoke, but not to light, consisted of

heath sods, dug fresh from the mountain. A splinter of bog-wood, lurid

through the smoke, supplied us with light for our nightly meal. The tea

was drawn in a broken pot, and drunk from wooden vessels, while the

sheep chewed the cud in calm and happy indifference. They were about

twelve in number, and occupied the whole space of the cabin between the

bed and the fire-place.

In that singular picture, the figure of the woman stood out bold,

prominent and alone, absorbing, in its originality, every character of

the entire. Neither she nor her husband could be said to wear any dress.

Neither wore shoes or stockings, or any covering whatever on the head;

shreds of flannel, which might once have borne the shape of drawers, a

tattered shirt of unbleached linen, with an old blanket drawn uncouthly

around his waist and shoulders, completed the costume of the man. His

wife's was equally scant and rude, but so arranged as to present the

idea that even in her breast the sense of fitness, the last feeling of

froward womanhood, was not quite extinguished. The squalid rags and

matted hair, by a single touch of the hand, a gesture, or a shake of the

head, assumed such shape as she fancied would display to greatest

advantage what remained of a coarse and masculine beauty. The

consciousness that she once possessed such beauty fired at once her

heart and eye. Her foot and ankle, which had been rudely tested by

flinty rocks and many a winter's frost, were faultless; her step was

firm; her form erect and tall; her hair black as ebony; her features

coarse, but regular; her brow lofty, but furrowed and wrinkled; and her

terrible eyes dilated with pride, passion and disdain. Her lip's slight

curl, or a shade of crimson suddenly suffusing her dark complexion,

bespoke her feelings towards her husband. He was her drudge, her slave,

her horror and her convenience. Her ruling idea was a wish to have it

understood that the match was ill-assorted and compelled by necessity;

though the last idea bespoke a youth of shame. The child alone was

dressed, and with some care, as if she wished to assert its claim to a

superior paternity or better destiny. Among the predominant passions

which swayed her, avarice seemed uppermost; and she scowled ominously on

her stupid husband, whose rigid impassable stolidity seemed impervious

to all prospects and chances of pleasure and of gain.

The rain continued to pour without abatement during the whole night and

until sunset the succeeding day. The next night passed nearly in the

same way as the first, save that I could not rest from a vague sense of

apprehension with which this woman inspired me. Both the people of the

house slept on the hearth-stone, without any bed, or, as far as I know,

any covering, save their rags. I had an opportunity of overhearing their

connubial colloquy, which was in Irish, and had reference solely to

conjectures respecting us, our character, our object and our money. It

convinced me that our safety would be compromised by any longer delay.

During the pauses of their conversation, I endeavoured to string

together a rough draft of the stanzas that follow, or a considerable

part of them. I give them here, with the accompanying notes, as they

were published in the _People_ newspaper. In the notes or in the text,

there is nothing I wish to alter.

Air: "_Gradh mo Chroidhe_."

The long, long-wished for hour had come,

Yet came, mo stór, in vain,

And left thee but the wailing hum

Of sorrow and of pain.

My light of life, my lonely love,

Thy portion sure must be,

Man's scorn below, God's wrath above

A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

'Twas told of thee, the world around,

'Twas hoped from thee by all,

That, with one gallant sunward bound,

Thou'dst burst long ages thrall.

Thy faith was tried, alas! and those

Who perilled all for thee,

Were cursed, and branded as thy foes;

A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

What fate is thine, unhappy isle,

That even the trusted few[13]

Should pay thee back with hate and guile,

When most they should be true?

'Twas not _thy_ strength or spirit failed;

And those that bleed for thee,

And love thee truly, have not quailed;

A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

I've given thee manhood's early prime,

And manhood's waning years;

I've blest thee in thy sunniest time,

And shed with thee my tears;

And mother, though thou'st cast away

The child who'd die for thee,

My latest accents still shall pray

For Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

I've tracked for thee the mountain sides,

And slept within the brake,

More lonely than the swan that glides

O'er Lua's fairy lake.[14]

The rich have spurned me from their door,

Because I'd set thee free;

Yet do I love thee more and more,

A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

I've run the outlaw's brief career,

And borne his load of ill,

His troubled rest, his ceaseless fear,

With fixed sustaining will;

And should his last dark chance befall,

E'en that shall welcome be,

In death, I'll love thee, most of all,

A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.

I was awakened next morning by a strange voice, with an accent, as I

thought, different from that which we had been accustomed to. Our

immediate conclusion was that we were betrayed. But a short time

convinced us that our visitor had come to warn us that if we remained

many hours where we were, our fate would be sealed. He represented

"Finey" (as our hostess was familiarly called, in derision of her

affected pride) in colours not very flattering to her virtue. He said he

could positively furnish us with the means of escape; described his

resources as unlimited, and his interest in us as paramount to every

consideration he had on earth. He was an ecclesiastical student, and had

left college to take part in the struggle of his country. He bitterly

lamented that Dillon and O'Gorman were not in the way, that he might

have the happiness of assisting in saving them also. Agreeably to his

advice, we left our den and proceeded up the mountain. It was Sunday

morning, and there was not a cloud darkening the azure sky. Below us

slept the waters of the bay, reflecting, in their crystal depths, the

superincumbent mountains and overarching sky. The sun rose majestically,

broad, unclouded, full of effulgence, and shed his yellow beams, on a

scene as lovely as ever met his burning eye. The mountains around the

bay form very nearly a complete circle; the numerous peaks, from south

to north, range at an average height of about 500 feet above the water's

level, while a few ascend as high as 1,000. We stood on the loftiest of

all. Immediately below us, a little to the right, embosomed in the

mountains, lay the unmatched beauties of Glengarriff. There are few

spots on earth of wilder attractions. The hills around form a complete

amphitheatre. On an island in the centre of the valley is the cottage of

the noble proprietor, accessible only by one narrow pathway which winds

through hillocks and passes various rivulets on rustic bridges. The

grounds about the cottages are tastefully laid out in shrubberies,

flower-knots, green pastures, and artificial lakes. That which

constitutes the chief feature of beauty in other landscapes, namely, an

extensive prospect, is wanting here. From the cottage, or any part of

the grounds, you can only command a view of the limited demesne, and the

craggy and bleak mountain rising almost perpendicularly from its

outskirts. But the view is unique, and the contrast exquisite between

the rich green of the arbutus, amidst clumps of which sparkle the

impeded mountain waters, and the barren hill-sides whose blue summits

seem blended with the skies giving to the scene such an air of calm

serenity and soft repose as to leave the beholder almost without a wish

to look beyond.

[Illustration: Market Day in Thurles, August, 1848]

By this time we had learned to lose all consciousness of our own fate in

contemplating lines of beauty such as then marked the outline and

radiated through every minor detail of mountain, ocean, and cosy lawn.

We dwelt on the scene with enraptured eye and heart, and scarcely felt

the time glide by, which was to bring us our promised deliverer. He was

with us at the appointed moment, and only preceded his sisters by about

half an hour. They came, three in number, and toiled up to the summit

under a hot sun, bringing each a basket with abundant and delicate

provisions for a picnic. They were joined soon after by two other

brothers, who kept watch while we enjoyed the delicacies of our meal,

which we finished with some bottles of excellent claret. While we were

thus engaged, Lord Bantry was at the cabin we had left, gnashing his

teeth at the misfortune of missing such a prey. My comrade sang the

newly-composed verses and others of more exquisite melody and far higher

sentiment, within less than half a mile of the frowning and fuming lord.

At four o'clock we took leave of our kind entertainers, the student

promising to use the coming night in efforts to secure our flight, and a

younger brother undertaking to act as our guide across the mountain and

round the base of the Glengarriff ridge of hills to a dark gorge, at the

County Kerry side. This was a most trying journey, at least twenty

miles long, over precipitous mountains, and performed, for the most

part, during night. It was necessary that we should not rest until we

travelled far out of range of the locality where our persons had been

known and our retreat discovered. Our young guide left us with friends

or dependents of his family, and returned to be in readiness to

communicate any tidings from his brother. Those tidings came fast on our

footsteps; but the message was to warn us that we were not even there

safe; for that Lord Bantry had all his tenantry engaged in searching for

us. The despatch added that, if able, we were to be at the "Priest's

Leap" at a certain hour in the evening, where we would hear the result

of the efforts made for us. The tone of the letter left us nothing to

hope; still we determined to test the doubtful promise to the last.

Accordingly we set out for the new rendezvous. The distance was very

long unless we crossed through Glengarriff. This we determined to do,

feeling satisfied that the last place we would be looked for would be

his lordship's pleasure-grounds. We paused to examine more minutely the

exquisite serenity of that scene, and learned from a game-keeper several

matters illustrative of our pursuer's character, while his adherents

were tracking our supposed footsteps, over moor and mountain, far away.

Arrived at our destination, we had to wait several hours, during which

we were amused by our guide claiming fraternity with us, on the ground

of being banned by the law, in consequence of a suspicion (a false one,

he averred) of having mistaken another man's sheep for his own. He had

an idea that we, too, must have infringed the law, but in what

particular he did not concern himself to inquire. The fact sufficed for

the establishment of a good understanding between us.

We at last saw our female friends approach. They brought us another

excellent dinner, for which we had a still more excellent appetite.

During the time we dined, they informed us that everything was

proceeding as favourably as we could expect, and that they had no doubt

of success. When taking leave of us, however, one of them pressed a

little note into my hand, and they disappeared in the darkness. I burned

to learn what the note contained. With the assistance of our new friend

we found lodgings in the neighbourhood, where I read that the student

failing in his enterprise, and being afraid to compromise himself

further, left that very night for college. He had to consult a

clergyman, a very near friend of his, and we made no doubt the present

step resulted from his considerate advice.

This is written here, not for the purpose of disparaging the clergyman's

counsel or the student's resolution. On the contrary, no doubt was then

entertained of the sincerity of either, nor has there ever since been.

There could be no one more disposed to make allowance for the difficult

position in which both were placed, as well as all others who ventured

to serve us: nor could we blame men for shrinking from peril, which at

the best, presented no rational chance for us, while the effort involved

those who made it in almost certain ruin. I had other opportunities of

satisfying myself afterward that this clergyman, who visited us in the

mountains, never relaxed in his exertions to save us.

We found ourselves next morning in an exceedingly romantic valley to

the north of the "Priest's Leap," the property of Lord Lansdowne, where

there are many comfortable farmers' houses, and many others, whose showy

exterior is sadly belied by the filth and discomfort of the inside. We

spent the day with the man of the sheep, who promised to obtain lodgings

for us at a publichouse, where he was refused. But during our stay there

we met a farmer's son, who took us home and travelled with us the whole

of the next day. We proposed to him and his sister to accompany us to

the United States, having for some time entertained seriously a project

of trying our chances to escape as emigrants. He consented to be of the

party, although we fully explained to him the risk of being taken in our

company. He guessed from this that we were engaged in the attempted

outbreak, and being sent in to the town of Kenmare to make some

purchases, he could not conceal so important a secret, but sought out a

friend, a true man, to whom he unburdened himself. We had appointed to

meet him at a place called Cross, about two miles from Kenmare. We were

repairing thither at the appointed hour, and were met, not by our trusty

messenger, but the friend to whom he had revealed his important secret.

This friend, alarmed at our temerity in approaching so near the town,

had come to forewarn us. His advances were met by distrust and menace,

which pained him deeply. He remonstrated and referred to the fact of

coming to meet us alone, when if he meant us injury he could easily

secure us. Satisfied, at length, that his friendship was sincere, we

consented to accompany him to meet another friend who had taken a

different road in the direction of the mountain. He was known to us by

character, but that knowledge, with me at least, tended to increase

rather than to allay distrust. I had formed an idea of the man from

reading speeches of his which appeared of an unscrupulously partisan

character. I was very soon disabused, but not however until I

communicated to him my feelings in his regard. The best proof of my

mistake is furnished by the fact that my unnecessary frankness did not

in the least check the enthusiasm with which he was prepared to risk

fortune, liberty and life in our service. Our interview was short. We

dismissed the ambassador who had acquired for us these new allies. They,

or rather he, of whom I have last spoken offered us money which we

declined. In opposition to his remonstrance, we insisted on remaining

for the night at a publichouse in the village of Cross. He, to whom

peril was new, could not understand our "audacity." But we who had

experienced the disadvantages of asking for entertainment in quarters

where such things were unusual, preferred the chance of escaping

unobserved among crowds of persons similar in appearance and, applying

only for ordinary accommodation. In this and many such instances we

determined aright. We obtained a comfortable bed and passed unnoticed.

Next morning we set out for the southern slope of the Killarney

mountains. As soon as we attained a safe elevation, we took a western

direction, skirting those mountains and crossing the road which leads

from Killarney to Kenmare, about five miles from the latter town. We

then kept a westerly direction, and turned round the vast bog situated

at the western side of the road. This bog contains several thousand

acres, and seems quite susceptible of reclamation and improvement. We

ascended the steep hill at the north-western boundary where we slept for

an hour or so, and then resumed our journey in the direction of the

Reeks. We purposed ascending the loftiest of these mountains, and not

wishing to take the route by the Gap of Dunloe, we crossed the

intermediate valley and began to ascend the mountain to the north,

believing it to be that which we had determined to climb. After having

toiled to the summit, we discovered in the distance the peak we were in

search of, its wonderful elevation leaving no manner of doubt as to its

identity. Between us and its base lay another broad valley. Before

attempting the ascent, we secured a lodging at the foot, and leaving our

coats behind, we began our task about four o'clock in the evening,

having then travelled upwards of twenty miles and crossed two large

mountains. The southern acclivity is more steep than the northern, and

we lost much by our ignorance of the best routes; but we reached

Carn-Tuathail, far the highest spot in Ireland, about sunset. The view

that presents itself from that peak is of the most extraordinary

character. Stretching out into the sea a distance of thirty miles, is a

jumble of mountains tossed together in the wildest confusion, and

exhibiting no definite outline. At the east, far inland, lay the long

ridge of which Mangerton is the loftiest point. At the north alone could

we discern an extensive view, where a rich and well cultivated valley

extended along Dingle Bay as far as Ballyheige. But the grandeur of the

scene Jay at our feet. Beneath us yawned at every side chasms of

seemingly unfathomable depth, whose darkness it was impossible to

penetrate, as the sun was sinking in the Atlantic. It was really a

spectacle full of grandeur and of awe, and we remained enjoying it till

the last ray of the sun ceased to glimmer on the distant waters.

At that hour, we were well assured, many a brain was busy, and many an

eye set to discover our retreat. By the side of the public

thoroughfares, on great bridges, and frequented cross-roads, detective

vigilance kept sleepless watch, and fancied in every approaching form,

the doomed victims, who were at once to satisfy the angry gallows and

its own excited avarice. Equally well assured were we that the most

inventive and hazardous scrutiny would never track our footsteps to the

dizzy height of Carn-Tuathail. One motive with us was to baffle all

calculation on the part of our pursuers. When we found we were tracked

and discovered, our first care was to consider how our enemies would be

likely to judge respecting our future movements. If we had reason to

suspect that we were recognised on a mountain, we sought shelter in or

near a town, and after we appeared in public places for a day or an

hour, we kept the mountain-side for a week following.

We had, too, another, and it must needs be confessed, a more powerful

motive. In either alternative which our fate presented, there was no

hope of ever beholding these scenes again, and we could not omit this

last opportunity of minutely examining and enjoying what was grandest

and loveliest in our native land. We resolved, therefore, to leave no

glorious spot unvisited, whatever toil it cost, or risk it exposed us

to. Mountains, indeed, never did involve a risk, but the Lakes of

Killarney, which were much frequented at the time, could not be seen

without imminent danger, unless by overcoming great physical

difficulties. After we descended from Carn-Tuathail, we were so utterly

exhausted as to be obliged to lie down in hay, within one field of the

cabin where we were to sleep, from which nothing could tempt us to stir

for the night; but we were assailed by swarms of small flies of the

mosquito species, that stung us to further exertion. Although the owners

of the cabin gave us their only bed, and provided the best supper for

us, we were so persecuted by these flies, that we were forced to quit

our bed before day dawned, and endeavour to shake off our tormentors by

rolling in the dew and shaking our shirts in the wind. We set out early,

finding the place utterly intolerable, owing to these terrible

tormentors, although we had resolved the evening before, to remain a few

days fishing in the lovely lakes collected in the gorges of the reeks.

The day was misty and wet. This, we hoped, would afford us a good

opportunity of seeing the lakes unobserved; for such weather would

necessarily confine the tourists to their hotels. We accordingly

directed our way to the Upper Lake, along ledges of rocks covered with

tall wet grass, wading or swimming through outlets of the lake. We

obtained a tolerable view of the Upper Lake, and minutely examined the

several accesses to it through the wood on the southern side. After

spending most of the fore-noon in this wood, we attempted to cross the

upper neck of the lake for the purpose of skirting the base of

Mangerton and gaining the summit of Turc Mountain, from which are to be

seen the Middle and Lower Lake in their most varied and seductive

loveliness. Few travellers ever see the lakes from this point, because

it is difficult to attain; but I had been there, and knowing its

superiority over every other, I wished to give my comrade a taste of the

exquisite pleasure derivable from a scene of beauty unsurpassed in the

world. There is no spot, in or near Killarney, from which its wonderful

scenery can be seen to such advantage. On the water, at Ross Island, at

Mucross or Glena, the view is confined to the scenery immediately

around, with an occasional glimpse of the nearer mountains, which indeed

may well satisfy the most exacting curiosity and fastidious taste, while

from the summit of Mangerton (the great mountain attraction of

travellers) but miniature forms of beauty present themselves, the great

distance and height contracting the circle of beauty, and depriving

every object of its fulness and natural proportions. From Turc mountain,

on the other hand, you see the lake at your feet--all its islets, curls,

cascades are within ken, entrancing your senses. Standing on that green

hill, it is impossible to divest the mind of the idea, that the scene is

one of pure enchantment.

But we were destined not to realise it. There was a police-station

immediately on our way. In our first effort to avoid it, we found

ourselves, after much trouble, within one field of the door. We then

made a still wider circuit, keeping, as we thought, far clear of it; but

following a valley which led round a clump of hill, we once more very

nearly stepped into its back yard. To avoid similar mistakes we

ventured along the public road direct towards Kenmare; but when we were

clear of the police-barrack, we had to travel several miles of mountain

to gain the intended spot. Our feet were all cut and bleeding, and we

lay down on a rock in our wet clothes, where we slept soundly, and I

suppose sweetly, until near sunset. When we awoke we were obliged, from

the lateness of the hour, to abandon our project.

During our stay near Killarney, we fondly indulged the last dream for

our country. In the remote regions of the counties of Cork and Kerry,

the people seemed possessed of no political information. They had a

vague notion that an effort was made to free the country from foreign

thrall, and that the patriots and their cause were lost through the

Catholic priests. It was easy to perceive, by the bitterness with which

they cursed, that they--although never reached by a speech of Mr.

O'Connell's, or an article or song of the _Nation's_--had cherished in

their hearts the same imperishable purpose and hope of overturning the

dominion of the stranger. We calculated on collecting between fifty and

one hundred of the hardiest and most desperate mountaineers, whom we

could easily place in ambush near the lakes, to seize on Lord John

Russell, who was at the time announced as a visitor to Killarney. Once

in our possession, we could have him conveyed to some inaccessible

fastness where we could dictate terms to him concerning our imprisoned

comrades. We had scarcely a doubt of putting our plan into execution,

and our sojourn near Killarney was prolonged for the purpose of becoming

more familiar with the pathways whereby to escape to the mountains with

our prisoner. How success in that enterprise might have suggested or

shaped a further course of aggression, it is now bootless to conjecture.

The project was marred by the Premier's abandonment of his intention.

Having appointed to meet a person this evening, near Kenmare, who was to

bring us the latest papers and otherwise inform us of his lordship's

movements, we proceeded in that direction, determined to return to

Killarney next day to prosecute our examination of the locality. But the

current news informed us that Lord John Russell had left for Scotland.

We remained several days in the neighbourhood of Kenmare, where we had

daily interviews with the friend to whom I have already alluded. He

spent all his time in endeavouring to devise some means of escape, and

intermediately provided resting-places for us at various distances. We

had the guidance of a young country lad of fine intelligence and true

fidelity, who was acquainted with every foot of bog and mountain for

miles around. We spent several days rather agreeably, perambulating the

ranges of hills between Kilfademore and Templenoe, embracing a district

about fifteen miles square. One night we slept in an empty cabin within

a field of Kilfademore House, a fine old mansion, belonging to the

father of Christabel,[15] the mountain poetess, which is now only

inhabited by the tenant of the farm, while the whole available military

and police force of the district were drawing their lines of

circumvallation around this old house, which, as soon as they made the

proper dispositions to prevent our escape, they burst into with the

stealth and precipitancy of a robber band.

We were most kindly received and cared for wherever our friend or his

guide bespoke a night's hospitality. But although we unquestioningly

reposed on the truth of all to whom our safety was committed, we felt

the circle of our armed foes was closing and contracting around us, and

it became indispensable to break through it. It was clear that our steps

were tracked, for every night a search was made for us in one or other

of the houses over which the influence of our friend extended. But our

information respecting their arrangements was always earlier and surer

than theirs concerning our movements. During this interval when,

although we travelled an average of fifteen miles a day, we considered

ourselves resting, we received the kindest attentions everywhere;

frequently finding a rude mountain cabin furnished with excellent beds

and every delicacy. But we pined to be more at large. We had interviews

with clergymen and others, who discussed various projects of escape.

Among the rest, it was proposed to my comrade to accompany a lady--who

was about leaving for London--in the dress and character of a

servant-maid. He was well fitted for such disguise, being extremely

young and having very delicate features. Besides this, he was supposed

to be dead, having received a slight wound in the skirmish at

Ballingarry. He obstinately refused to adopt the disguise, but consented

to that of a servant boy. When the matter was finally arranged, it was

proposed to us to sleep at Templenoe, on the north side of Kenmare Bay,

where he was to be furnished with suitable clothes. Since the

commencement, I did not feel the same sense of desolation as when these

arrangements were completed, and an hour was appointed for his departure

next morning. It was on the evening of the 23rd of September. We spent

the day with one of the noblest of fellows. He had beds brought far into

the neighbouring mountains, where he remained with us for the night. A

cloud of sadness, and I believe chagrin, enveloped all my senses. I

could not help feeling myself utterly abandoned. It seemed fated that

even from the most kindly efforts my unfortunate position utterly

excluded me. Stephens sang as usual, and endeavoured to rally me; but my

mind had set in impenetrable gloom. One idea was uppermost with me,

namely, that within the circle that was then drawn around me, there was

no further possible safety. We parted before daylight, and I immediately

determined on my own course. It was this: to assume the disguise of a

clergyman and attempt to cross to France. The trials at Clonmel were

approaching, and I concluded that they would engross the entire

attention of Government, and would even require the presence of the

whole corps of detectives who were acquainted with my person and were

then on my track. I communicated my intention to the friend to whose

hospitality I was then indebted. He combatted it with great earnestness,

and could not be persuaded of its practicability. I, however,

persevered, and he offered to place a horse, upon which he set great

value, at my disposal. Just as we made our final arrangements and had

despatched a messenger to Kenmare to provide the disguise, Stephens

returned, wet, weary and hungry. He was in the worst spirits: but the

case admitted of no delay. The lady with whom he was to travel had to

stay one day in Cork, and to overtake her there was the only chance

left. There was only one possible way to effect this--to give him the

horse and let him ride on to Cork. I at once agreed, and he immediately

set off. The loss of the horse imposed on me the difficulty of a journey

on foot to Cork, and this rendered the assistance of a man to carry my

disguise--who would take a different route from myself--indispensable.

Our friend who, in giving his favourite horse to Stephens, told him to

try and sell him in Cork and put the money in his pocket, provided me

with another horse and car, by which my baggage was to be brought about

forty miles. Having settled all preliminaries, he conveyed me to a cabin

on the hills, where he provided an excellent dinner, and left me to my

musings.

They were, it may be well conceived, not of the gayest character. The

responsibility and hazards of the attempt before me, narrowed the

chances of my destiny to the one alternative, and I could not shake off

gloomy phantoms which represented every phase of the last bloody drama

which was to close the career of those who loved, too dearly, our

ill-fated land. But, come what might, my purpose was definitely fixed. I

spent the evening in the deepest gloom, which I endeavoured to dissipate

by composing the following stanzas, suggested at the time by involuntary

visions of my wife and children at the foot of the gallows:--

THE OUTLAW'S WIFE

Sadly silent she sits, with her head on her hand,

While she prays, in her heart, to the Ruler above,

To protect, and to guide to some happier land,

The joy of her soul and the spouse of her love:

And she marks by her pulses, so wild in their play,

The slow progress of time, as it straggles along;

And she lists to the wind, as 'tis moaning away,

And she deems it the chaunt of some funeral song.

Then anon does she start in her struggles with fear,

And she strains at the whispers of every one round,

While she brushes away, half indignant, the tear,

That will gush, tho' unbidden, at every fresh sound;

And she strives to conceal--oh! how idle the task--

The deep lines in her cheek, and the rent in her heart;

But her neighbours grow pale as they gaze on the mask,

And more lowly and slowly they talk, as they part.

When her babes are at rest will she breathe to their breath,

And keep vigil, how wistfully, over their sleep,

As it mirrors, poor mourner, the stillness of death,

And she stirs them, and calls, for she deems it too deep;

But again does she hush them, first telling them pray,

Till at length overcharged by the tears yet unshed,

Will she sink, and as consciousness passes away,

O'er her pale furrowed cheek, see the hectic o'erspread.

Slowly thus, day by day, does the fever-fire trace

Its incessant course down her fast-withering cheek,

Till the smile that made light in the glow of her face,

But the faint, fading glimpses of vigour bespeak,

And her reason will fitfully pass into night--

Into night even deeper than that of the blind,

As the shade of the gibbet-tree looms in her sight.

And she fancies a death-scream in th' echoing wind.

In the house where I slept--as indeed in every house of the same

character in the county--the whole stock of the family, consisting

chiefly of cows and sheep, were locked in at night. Such was the extreme

poverty of the people that they would not be otherwise safe. The weather

was excessively wet, and, for the season, cold. There was a slight

partition between the room where my bed was and the kitchen, where there

were three cows, a man, his wife and four children. It is impossible to

convey any idea of the sensations which crowd upon one in such a scene.

I fell asleep at last, lulled by the heavy breathing and monotonous

ruminating of the cows. Never was deeper sleep. On being awakened next

morning by my watchful friend, it required some time before I could

satisfy myself of my position. An excellent breakfast was provided for

me, and I parted from my stout-hearted and magnanimous ally. He had sent

my baggage, and also provided me with a guide who would lead me across

the mountains. He taught me the password of his clan, which I was to use

on certain contingencies. The morning was fearfully wet, and we did not

travel many miles before we were wet to the skin. The circumstance was

the most auspicious that could occur, as it enabled us to pass

unobserved.

[Illustration: James Stephens (Circa 1867)]

[Illustration: John O'Mahony (Circa 1868)]

Besides this, it facilitated the task of crossing streams, which we

always did precisely as if they were dry land. One river only opposed a

serious barrier to us--that, which enters Kenmare Bay. It was greatly

swollen, and rushed fiercely over precipitous rocks. At the same time,

even in the rain and tempest, to cross the bridge was not to be thought

of. The guide pointed out a house belonging to one of our friend's

clan who immediately provided a horse and accompanied us to a ford. When

we reached the ford he hesitated to cross, so deep and rapid was the

flood. No persuasion could induce him to make the experiment. I had no

choice left but to trust myself to chance. I faced the animal against

the current, and forcing him to make his best efforts to mount the

stream, we were carried directly across. The owner of the horse said he

would come back of his own accord. I turned him into the stream, and

when half way across, he was borne headlong over a precipice, where I

concluded he was dashed to pieces. Another horse was immediately

procured, by a man who had no fears, to bring the guide across; but the

latter was so terrified that he made himself drunk ere he attempted the

dangerous passage. As he was essential to me in consequence of the

arrangements made about my luggage, I endeavoured to rouse him. He

staggered on for several miles, but seemed utterly unconscious where he

was going. When I found him incapable of directing me, I endeavoured to

procure some food for him, and with that view proceeded to a mountain

hut, but before I reached it, he sank down utterly exhausted and

powerless. He was unable even to articulate the name of the man to whose

house he was directed to take me, or the locality where he lived. It was

only from circumstances and a dim recollection of the name that I was

able to apprise the owner of the cabin whither I was bound; and after

all, much remained for the exercise of his sagacity, which was not long

at fault. We brought my old guide to the cabin, thrown across a pony,

and I set out anew, guided by the dweller on the hills. He forced me to

mount the pony, and led the way over the crags. He bounded from rock to

rock with the agility of a deer, though the stones were sharp as flint,

and he barefooted. He was a man of powerful proportions and extreme

activity. My pony, on the other hand, crept his way through narrow

pathways, worn by the rain. In this way we crossed two considerable

mountains, and, leaving the pony at the summit of the last, I pursued my

companion's flight down the slope with the best speed my stiffened limbs

could be forced to. Arriving over a valley which is called, I think,

Branlieu, situated in a western direction from Gougane Barra, he pointed

to a lone house at the extremity of the valley, as my destination. It

was about four o'clock, but the rays of the sun had ceased to irradiate

this gloomy valley, over which hung the shades of night. At the western

side the mountain was steep as a wall, and down from the summit dashed

headlong torrents, swelled by the morning's rain. The waters gleamed

like sheeted ice through the haze, and their roar fell upon the ear with

a dull sense of loneliness and pain. On the eastern slope wound a new

road, one of those heartless experiments which the inventive genius of

the Board of Works in Ireland substituted for the exploded trial of

prolonging beggars' lives by Soyer soup and chained spoons. On these

roads the people were to perform the greatest possible amount of work,

and live on the least possible quantity of food. But, although these

operations cost much waste of blood, the roads opened no new and

fruitful sources of industry in these mountain valleys, only frequented

by the footsteps of the sportsman, or scanned by the eye of the

votaries of pleasure. The house where I called was intended for my

guide. However, I found my claim for hospitality at once recognised on

pronouncing the password of my host by the sea. The cabin--it was

literally such--was in the most filthy state. The dung of the cattle had

not been removed for days, and half-naked children squatted in it as

joyously as if they rolled on richest carpets. The housewife merely

replied to my question in the affirmative. But she immediately

proceeded, with the help of two little girls, to remove the filth. I was

so fatigued and hungry that I could willingly postpone the process of

cleaning for the sake of providing any sort of food. I was doomed to

disappointment. No appearance of supper interrupted the busy operation,

until the dung was removed, and the floor drained. I retired, and

endeavoured to ascend the eastern hill, to a point where I could catch a

glimpse of the setting sun.

On my return I found the owner of the house, a man of giant frame and

noble features. His dress bespoke a taste or pursuit incompatible with

the wild mountain destiny stamped upon the external aspect of his home

and family. His wife spoke a few words in Irish, explaining my presence,

to which he answered that I was welcome. Supper was at length prepared,

when he drew from a basket a few of the finest trout I ever saw. He

cleaned and fried them with his own hands, as if the operation were

above the capacity of his wife, who performed the other culinary duties

with silent assiduity. It might be owing to hunger, it might be owing to

the actual superiority of the fish, or it might be owing to the mode of

cooking, but it seemed to me as if I never tasted anything of equal

flavour to those trout. The entertainment was ended with some boiled new

milk, slightly curdled, a delicacy little known in the circle of

fashion, but never surpassed either in that or any other. Some fresh hay

was procured and strewn on an article of furniture common in the houses

of the Kerry peasantry, called a "settle." It is a sort of a rude sofa,

made of common deal timber. On this "settle" my host prepared my bed of

new-mown hay, barricaded with old chairs and a table against the

assaults of the hungry animals. I had not long lain down when a man

entered (the door consisted of a pair of tongs, so placed as to prevent

the egress of the cattle), lay at full length on the table, and fell

fast asleep. In an hour or so afterwards, there came another, who groped

his way over the cattle, and, sweeping the fire from the hearth, lay

down to sleep in peace. This man slept uneasily, and groaned heavily, as

if some terrible sense of guilt or fear pressed against his heart.

I had a vague feeling of uneasiness, not free from alarm, but the hearty

snoring of the one, and the fitful complaints of the other of my

bedfellows died away on my ear, and I, too, shared their unconsciousness

in deep sleep. The man who brought my baggage arrived early next

morning. My host soon provided a good substantial breakfast--excellent

new potatoes, which had escaped the blight, butter, new milk, and a

slice of the flesh of fried badger. He then proposed to accompany us

with his son, aged about thirteen, who by some inexplicable privilege

seemed exempt from any portion of the drudgery which was the lot of the

family. The other man who brought the baggage was persuaded to leave his

horse and car, and accompany us with my bundle, as far as the summit of

the hill. To climb the steepest mountain side had become an amusement to

me, and we ascended the one then before us, merrily, our host relating

many anecdotes of sportsmanship, and detailing the startling incidents

and wild rapture of badger-hunting. From the summit we commanded a view

of the country for miles around. "Here we are," said our host, "higher

than the proudest of your enemies." He then traced the route of the man

with the bundle, through the open plain, and by the nearest way; and

turning to me, he said: "You must not go in the same direction, for

every yard of it is set. Follow my son," he said, and turning to the

boy, he named several points in the path whereby he should conduct me.

"Lead Mr. Doheny safely," he concluded, "and remember you are the son of

----." In utter astonishment I inquired how he knew me, and he answered

by waving his hand in the direction of the boy, who had bounded off and

was scarcely perceptible above the tall heath. I soon overtook him, and

as we went along, I learned that my two companions during the night were

also evading the law's pursuit. One of them he described as having

killed a man by accident, and ever after leading, the life of a "poor

wild goose." I made no doubt but this was he whose spirit seemed so

heavily laden. We had a couple of terriers of the truest breed, whose

sudden discovery of a badger interrupted our conversation and impeded

our journey. The young hunter became delirious with joy. His

encouraging cries to the dogs were broken outbursts of wildest rapture;

and when the game took shelter in his inaccessible den, he would dash

himself against the rocks with the same reckless vehemence as his dogs,

who, in their rage, attempted to bite away the hard mountain stones.

He left the spot with the utmost reluctance, after venting an oath of

vengeance against the head of the poor badger, to which he promised sure

destruction on the occasion of their next meeting. We quickly descended

in the direction of Gougane Barra, where he parted from me, indignantly

refusing a half-crown which I offered him.

Once more I found myself on the slopes of Shehigh, in sight of Lough

Lua. My immediate object was to place myself in communication with my

lady friend at Dunmanway. I was extremely anxious to see her. I wanted

to procure through her some things to complete my costume as a disguised

priest, and finally I expected to learn through her some news of my

family. With the view of seeing her in the safest retreat, I determined

to conceal myself in a wood belonging to a Mr. O'Leary, at a place

called Coolmountain. I endeavoured to gain the friendship of a man in

the neighbourhood, of whom I had learned the highest character for

probity. It was necessary to confide in him fully; for his fidelity to

his employer might induce him to betray me, if he suspected that my

flight was occasioned by moral guilt. He did not disappoint me. At once

he entered into all my plans, and immediately sent his wife with a

message to Dunmanway. The distance was about six miles; and the utmost

caution was necessary, for the police authorities, baffled in all their

calculations, concerning my retreat, and deceived in every word of the

information they were able to purchase, had determined on making

simultaneous searches in all quarters of the country, so that scarcely a

house remained in this vicinity that had not the honour of a domicilary

visit. My friend, too, who during the past three weeks had made various

attempts to see me, and had gone on to Kenmare for that purpose, was

continually dogged, and arrested three or four times. On one occasion

they stripped her nearly naked, searching for papers. She at once saw

that to see me would be attended with danger; but she wrote a hurried

note, and despatched it by another messenger, as well as a large packet

of letters from home. In these letters I was adjured to continue the

disguise of a peasant in whatever attempts I made. She, too, strongly

objected to my proposed plan, and communicated to me a project of

escaping which was suggested by a friend of hers at Cork, whither she

had gone in her anxiety. His plan was that I should proceed to Cork,

that very night, and take up my residence at some obscure lodging-house,

until he could find means of stowing me in a coal vessel, which would

take me as far as Wales. If I agreed to this proposal, I was to be at

Crookstown (already mentioned in this narrative) at six o'clock that

evening, where I would meet three men who were to conduct me by a safe

route to Cork.

When I received this information, it was four o'clock, and the distance

to Crookstown was at least seventeen miles. The plan was one of which I

could not approve; but it would be invaluable to me to have a safe

asylum in Cork, for any project I might finally decide on. I accordingly

communicated to my man of confidence the difficulty I found myself in,

and requested he would procure a horse and car which I could drive along

the high road, hoping to reach Crookstown before the promised guide

would have left. He suggested the man at whose house I stopped on a

former evening. Thither both of us repaired, after having completed my

costume, such as is generally worn by the lowest Cork

peasants--literally rags. We got the horse and car, but before the

arrangements for our departure were made it was past the hour when I

should be at Crookstown. A servant boy who led the horse was my

companion. When we arrived at Crookstown it was eleven o'clock, and we

found no trace of the messengers. Nothing remained but to try and get on

to Cork. I proposed the journey to the boy; but he resolutely refused. I

affected to acquiesce, and asked him to drink something in a

publichouse, which was kept open for the accommodation of carriers, of

whom there are large numbers at that season of the year. He soon yielded

to the influence of milk punch, and allowed me to do as I pleased. We

proceeded along the great thoroughfare, having an empty butter cask in

the car. We passed several patrolling parties in the road, and at grey

dawn we were entering the city of Cork; the boy sleeping in the car, and

the horse led by me. I paid at the custom-gate for my butter, and passed

on through the city unnoticed. A few gentle taps brought the gentleman,

who undertook to have me conveyed out of the country, to the door. I

introduced myself; was admitted, and conducted to a bedroom, where

everything was prepared for my reception. Thus I found myself in the

very heart of the city of Cork, while the strictest search was made for

me in every cabin on the mountains of Kerry and the western shore.

I felt quite secure in my then retreat. During the day I learned that

the men who were to conduct me safely to Cork were arrested three

several[C] times on their way back.

In my sojourn for two days and nights in the woods of Coolmountain, I

received attentions for which it would be shameful not to express my

gratitude. Although the crisis of my fate was so near at hand, I felt

some hours of unalloyed pleasure in its shade. I had leisure to peruse

my letters from home, so full of courage, hope and love; and to consider

well the different proposals and means of escape, suggested by others

and contemplated by myself. The weather had cleared up and there was a

succession of brilliant harvest days. I employed my evenings in

composing the following two pieces; and after nightfall I was visited by

some friends, with whom I sipped delicious champagne, till a late hour,

'neath the calm watchfulness of a brilliant harvest moon.

EIBLIN A RUIN

I sang thee other lays,

Eiblin a ruin,

But these were happy days,

Eiblin a ruin,

When mount and vale and grove,

Where we were wont to rove,

Were beautified by love,

Eiblin a ruin.

I said I loved thee well,

Eiblin a ruin.

Too fondly far to tell,

Eiblin a ruin.

I loved thee as the day,

Serener for the ray,

Thy smile shed o'er my way,

Eiblin a ruin.

But day has turned to night,

Eiblin a ruin.

With clouds and gloom and blight,

Eiblin a ruin,

Yet here an outlaw lone,

My heart else, like a stone,

Is more and more thy own,

Eiblin a ruin.

When in some rocky glen,

Eiblin a ruin.

I share the wild dog's den,

Eiblin a ruin,

Oppressed with woe and care,

As sleep comes o'er me there,

Methinks I hear thy prayer,

Eiblin a ruin.

Throughout that troubled rest,

Eiblin a ruin

Thy image fills my breast,

Eiblin a ruin,

And ere the vision's fled,

My cold and flinty bed

Seems down unto my head,

Eiblin a ruin.

As night's dark shadow flies,

Eiblin a ruin,

Along the opening skies,

Eiblin a ruin,

In the soft purpling ray,

That heralds early day,

I see thy fond smile play,

Eiblin a ruin.

When, dangers thick'ning fast,

Eiblin a ruin,

My fate seemed sealed at last,

Eiblin a ruin.

A low voice ever near,

Still whispers in mine ear--

"For her sake do not fear"--

Eiblin a ruin,

And oh, 'tis that lone hope,

Eiblin a ruin,

That nerves this heart to cope,

Eiblin a ruin.

With peril and with pain,

And surging of the brain,

More boisterous than the main,

Eiblin a ruin.

TO MY WIFE

And what was the world to me, love,

Or why should its honours divide

The feelings that centred in thee, love,

As fondly you clung to my side;

Or why should ambition or glory,

E'er tempt me to wander so far,

For sake of distinction in story,

From thee, my heart's faithfulest star.

Or why should I call thee mine own, love,

To sport with the life that was thine,

Or risk for a land overthrown, love,

A stake that no longer was mine;

Or why should I pledge for the fallen

What only belonged to the free;

For had I not gauged life and all on

The faith that was plighted to thee?

And here, while I wander alone, love,

Beneath the cold shadows of night,

Or lie with my head on a stone, love,

Awaiting the dawning of light,

My spirit unthralled is returning,

Where far from the coward and slave,

Her beacon of love is still burning,

To light, to direct me and save.

And she, too, who watches beside thee,

And loves as none other could love,

To counsel, to cherish and guide thee.

To weep with, but never reprove--

Yes, she too, is lone and unguarded,

The reed she had leant on in twain,

And though her trust thus be rewarded,

She'd love that love over again.

COOLMOUNTAIN WOOD.

At Cork two families were compromised by my prolonged stay, one of them

irretrievably, if I were arrested. However, they placed themselves

entirely and unconditionally at my disposal. I stated my objections to

the proposed conveyance of a coal boat to Wales, where I would be

equally exposed as in Ireland, and have infinitely less sympathy or

assistance. I suggested one of the London steamers instead, which they

agreed to. After some preliminary negotiations, a person connected with

one of those vessels promised to secrete me and have me landed at

Southampton, where I could easily procure a passage to France. Just as

this arrangement was concluded, news arrived that Tipperary was again in

arms, under the command of my friend, O'Mahony. The report added that I

was associated with him in command. Hour after hour brought some story

stranger than that which preceded it; but in each and all I found myself

figuring in some character or other, all, of course, contrary to the

truth. This fact led at once to a suspicion of the accuracy of the

whole. But I was aware that caution was a leading characteristic of

O'Mahony's genius, and I felt assured he would not attempt any open

movement without strong probabilities of success. The fabrications about

myself I reconciled to the belief that he wished it to appear he had my

sanction and support. The vessel was to sail next day, and I should

determine at once, or risk the safety of the family who protected me. I

endeavoured to find a middle course, and suggested the impossibility of

leaving the country while even a vague report confirmed the belief that

some at least of its people were prepared to vindicate her liberty, or

die nobly in its assertion. They acquiesced, and the vessel was allowed

to sail. I insisted, however, that after nightfall I should leave the

house and take up my quarters in some obscure lodging house. Meantime it

was arranged that if the next mail confirmed the accounts from

Tipperary, I should be provided with a horse and car, and be able to

leave Cork as I entered it. When night came, the lady of the house

sternly and resolutely opposed my leaving it. She would not consent to

free herself from a risk she took so much honest pleasure in

encountering. Another day and night left us in the same uncertainty. The

reports were still more unsatisfactory and contradictory. But that there

should be reports at all, satisfied my mind, and I finally prepared to

start for Tipperary on the morning of the 29th of September.

Information at length reached me that the party under O'Mahony were

dispersed and himself fled. The difficulty of my position, with respect

to my protectors, left me no alternative. Any chance that presented

itself should be embraced. The Bristol boat was in the river, panting to

escape her anchorage; and following the horse, which was to bear me to

Tipperary, to the quay, I walked on board the _Juverna_, just as she was

loosing her cables. My baggage, made up in a small box, was put on board

as a parcel addressed to a young friend of mine in London. The few

moments that intervened were fraught with most intense suspense. I stood

on the fore deck among cattle, covered with rags and dirt, my eyes fixed

on two detectives who stood at the cabin entrance, scrutinising narrowly

the figure and features of every cabin passenger. The bell rang, the

detectives stepped on shore, one of my friends who watched my movements

from a distance, waved a kind adieu, the _Juverna_ slipped her cables,

and by one bound was out in the river. The first motion of her paddles

sounded to me like the assurance of fate, and I looked on the curling

foam with measureless exultation. The _Juverna_ made a momentary halt at

Passage, and then glanced gaily through Cove harbour out into the sea.

As she cleared the road I turned back to look for the last time upon my

fatherland. Her prospects, her promise, her strength, her hopes, her

failure and her fall rushed in burning memory through my brain. I

endeavoured to embody in the following verses the feelings that agitated

and almost paralysed my every faculty of body and mind. I wrote them on

a piece of paper that had been wrapped round some cheese:--

Away, away, the good ship swings;

One heave, one bound, and off she's dashing,

Expanding wide her snowy wings,

The white foam round her paddles flashing.

Away, away, the land recedes,

Far into dim and dreary distance,

As gallantly our packet speeds.

Unconscious of the gale's resistance.

Away, away, how oft before,

With paling cheek and aching stomach,

I've trembled at the billow's roar.

And crouched me in my narrow hammock.

But now, I bless the wildest waves

That bear me from a land of slaves.