The Felon's Track Part 14

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 a.s.sisting 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 superinc.u.mbent 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 n.o.ble proprietor, accessible only by one narrow pathway which winds through hillocks and pa.s.ses 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 const.i.tutes 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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, gnas.h.i.+ng 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 lords.h.i.+p's pleasure-grounds. We paused to examine more minutely the exquisite serenity of that scene, and learned from a game-keeper several matters ill.u.s.trative 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 appet.i.te.

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 a.s.sistance 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 amba.s.sador 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 un.o.bserved 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 pa.s.sed 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 ident.i.ty. 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 a.s.sured, 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sailed 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 un.o.bserved; 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 gra.s.s, 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 unsurpa.s.sed 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 lords.h.i.+p'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 circ.u.mvallation 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 n.o.blest 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sistance 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.s 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 part.i.tion 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 pa.s.sword 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 circ.u.mstance was the most auspicious that could occur, as it enabled us to pa.s.s un.o.bserved.

[Ill.u.s.tration: James Stephens (Circa 1867)]

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sage. 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 circ.u.mstances 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 subst.i.tuted 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 quant.i.ty 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 p.r.o.nouncing the pa.s.sword 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.siduity. 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 fas.h.i.+on, but never surpa.s.sed 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 a.s.saults 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, b.u.t.ter, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt to me, and we ascended the one then before us, merrily, our host relating many anecdotes of sportsmans.h.i.+p, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 b.u.t.ter cask in the car. We pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ter, and pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 grat.i.tude. 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.