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.



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.

Away, away, yon crimson cloud, Which, mounting the blue vault of Heaven, Soars calmly o'er the murky shroud That palls the close of boisterous even, Is scarcely fairer than the form, The light, the grace, from stem to stern—a Fairy riding on the storm— Of the fleet, trusty, dight Juverna, Away, away, one last look more: One blessing on the naked land— Though the too glorious dream be o'er— One blessing for her truthful hand, Her proud old faith, though darkly grown, Still lingering by each cold hearth-stone.

Away, away; poor fool of fate, Couldst thou but dream this mournful end, This midnight of a hope so great, Where shame and sorrow darkly blend— Couldst thou divine that thus bedecked, With rags and dirt, thine eyes downturned: Thou'dst flee, thy whole life's labour wrecked. Thy very heart within thee burned. —Away, away, in all the past, There's not an act I would recall, I bow me to the o'erwhelming blast, But 'tis the heart alone can fall, And mine may once again defy. The fate that mocks it scoffingly.

Away, away, if o'er the sea, My voice could reach the prison grate. Where daylight creeping gloomily, Comes to deride the captives' fate; Could I but prove by word or act, How firm my heart and purpose still, Their life's worst pang to counteract, Before their proud young hearts were still— To live but that the land they loved Should yet assert its native right, That the immortal faith they proved, Should yet be robed in victory's light, And, oh, to feel such promise high, Were last to light their dying eye.

If apology were to be offered for the change of measure of the above, and its somewhat conflicting sentiments, it would be found in the tumult of passions, excitement, fear, hope, rage, disappointment and regret with which, standing among cattle on the deck, and disguised in meanest rags, I looked upon my country's shores for, it may be the last time, and thought of her hopes, her misery and fall. Both faults may be amended here, but I cannot help regarding it as irreligious toward thoughts suggested by the circumstances then around me to remodel even the structure into which they spontaneously shaped themselves.



Night soon fell drearily upon the water. I engaged a berth from one of the sailors, and before half an hour, lost all consciousness of country and friends, of wind and tide, and hope, and shame, and peril, in tranquil repose. On ascending next morning, the shores of England were in view, and we sailed up the channel to the mouth of the Avon under a calm and mellow sky. I had some breakfast with one of the cowherds. We were delayed several hours waiting for the tide, which were spent for the most part in making difficult evolutions; and exhibiting to the cabin passengers the peculiar qualities of the Juverna. Night had fallen before we reached Bristol, and I slipped away from the boat, amid the confusion and bustle which checked the progress of the gay and rich, around whose footsteps avarice had gathered an eager and jostling crowd. Rude contact with, and unsavoury odours from, the unclean multitude shocked their nervous sensibility, as they made their way to their hotels amidst obtrusive obsequiousness, while the lone outlaw's pathway lay free through the open street and uncontaminated air. But a wretched exterior has its disadvantages also. I dared not present myself at a hotel, and many of the humbler hostelries refused me admittance, believing, no doubt, either that the seeds of pestilence were in my rags, or not a copper in my pocket. Indeed, to no brain but that of a very imaginative genius would the possibility of such a superfluity as a pocket suggest itself. All the beds were "full." At last I thought me of an expedient. I called for a glass of ale, for which payment in advance was duly demanded. I handed a sovereign, which at once emptied a bed, provided I slept in a room with another person which I refused, feeling that I had acquired a footing. I had something to eat, and finally found that there was a vacant room.

The next day was Sunday. No trains travelled to London except third class. This was rather unlucky, for I was aware that certain straitened gentlemen were often obliged, by stress of circumstances—the pressure of business which brooked not a moment's delay—reluctantly to avail themselves of this mode of conveyance. I felt, too, that the loyalty of these slender aristocrats, was on a par with the unhappy incidents which compelled them to consort with vulgar people, that is to say, so constrained, that however much against the impulses of their generous natures, they could not omit any opportunity of manifesting the sentiment in its full intensity, I selected my company on this occasion, being only anxious to exclude the "arbiters elegantiarum," Of my "compagnons de voyage," some were in gin, some in fumes and some in glee, and the journey passed off without an incident.

On arriving at the Paddington terminus, an unlooked-for difficulty presented itself. My costume attracted universal attention. It was, in fact, outre even in comparison with the most outlandish; for every article had been carefully selected for its singularity. My "caubeen" especially excited the risibility of the merry boys who thronged the streets. I was soon followed by an uproarious crowd of most incorrigible young rascals, who made lunges at my unfortunate head-gear. They peered at me round lamp-posts, and occasionally, "Teigue," and "Phelim," pronounced in a broad English accent, grated on my ear. Although not indisposed to be merry, I grasped one of my tormentors and handed him over to a policeman. The sentinel of city morals dismissed him with a harsh rebuke, and threatened to "haul up" whoever gave me further annoyance. We were then near Oxford street. I told him I wanted to go to Tottenham Court road; but after making several fruitless attempts to pronounce the name, his own fertile genius had to supply my deficiency. He walked with me until the last unruly boy had disappeared, and then he sent me on my way rejoicing, after having spent some minutes in teaching me to articulate distinctly "Tottenham Court Road." It was already nightfall. I felt as if all danger were passed. I could not anticipate the check I was about to receive.

I knew a man named Parker, who resided in Museum Street. I thought his house that to which I could easiest find access without exciting notice. I made my way to it unobserved, rapped, and to my great relief the door was opened by the man himself. He did not recognise me for some time, but as soon as he did, he fell into a paroxysm half hysterical, half frantic. I had completed his ruin, he exclaimed, and his unhappy family would have to curse me as the cause of his destruction. He was ready to sink on the floor in sheer terror, and with difficulty could he utter a request that I should instantly leave his house. This was a command, however harsh and heartless, which I dared not resist, for I was forced to admit to myself that under his terrified exterior might lurk a sentiment baser than fear.

I left the place in utter dismay. I could not venture into a house such as I had lodged in at Bristol, the night before, because my person was well known in London, and because those places are frequented by characters of all sorts. I could not venture, in my then guise, to the house of my young friend to whom I had addressed the parcel, because my appearance there would inevitably attract the notice of the policeman. I dare not, of course, venture to a respectable hotel. Thus perplexed, I bethought of a woman with whom I used formerly to lodge, and I repaired to her rooms (she had herself become a lodger). I met her on the stairs, where she nearly fainted. She hurried me into the street, and there told me that a person who lived in the house was actually watching to betray me. She suggested the house of an Irishwoman who lived in a court hard by. I had no alternative. The poor woman received me with tears. Such was her emotion that I could not hesitate to trust her with my life: Her son and daughter-in-law, who spent the day with her, were about returning home. They lived in the suburbs, at the Surrey side. They proposed to take me to their cottage, and I readily consented. We got a coach and drove home. The kindliest attentions were lavished on me by these people. As soon as I arrived, I shaved and cleansed myself; no small task, considering that I had on a fortnight's beard, and had rubbed my face over with soot and grease.

I had a shirt and clothes from my host, with whom, in my new trim, I sat down to a comfortable supper. Early next morning he informed my friend of my arrival, and I was at once surrounded by several who would risk their lives for my safety. I had by this time begun to regard many singular escapes of mine as preordained by Providence, and I ceased to feel much concern in my fate. I cherished a presentiment of safety until it grew into a conviction, and acting on its assurance, I gave way to an unconcern that was quite inexplicable to those around me. But one feeling of fear lingered with me: it was lest Parker should add treason to cowardice, which certain ominous expressions that were said to fall from him, confirmed. I otherwise felt so secure, and so thankful to my entertainers, that I would gratify their wishes to remain a day or two longer with them; but the tide answered so well—the whole journey to Boulogne being by night, that I determined to avail myself of the opportunity. I donned my clerical costume, got me a sleek wig, folded a stole round my breviary, and with Christian patience awaited the hour of departure. I was to be accompanied to Paris by my young friend, who spoke the French language perfectly, and was well acquainted with the etiquette of the journey. We entered the express train at London Bridge at half-past eight. When it was just starting, my host, who had accompanied us, clung to the panel of the door, and warned me, with provoking warmth, to "write, write, as soon as I was safe." As the train drove off and his boisterous adieus died on my ear, I lost the last feeling of anxiety on my own account. The carriage was full—a German with a toothache—two gossiping old bachelors—a jolly English resident of the sunny south—my friend and myself occupied the six seats. However fluttered may be the hearts of the passengers, whatever may be the pressure of guilt, or fear, or remorse upon their souls, the heart of the mighty engine, on its fiery course, throbs only with one passion, namely how to outspeed the flight of time. Our fellow-travellers conversed upon all subjects, and wished for my opinion upon each; but I was so reserved and pious, and my friend so ready and witty, and exuberant in his gaiety, that my obstinate silence was pardoned or forgotten. We were able to make our way on board Her Majesty's mail packet by the light of a clouded moon, then fast waning. I did not trouble myself to learn the name of the boat, but she appeared endued with more than the speed of fire. She flew over her allotted trip in one hour and three-quarters, and about two o'clock I set my foot on the free soil of the young Republic.

I had longed for such an event with an intensity of feeling not to be described; nay, I had often enjoyed anticipated exultation from indulging in a vague dream of its bare possibility, which absorbed all the gloom and horror of my situation. Yet when I stepped securely on what, to me, was hallowed ground, an adequate appreciation of the circumstance was far from realised in my feelings. New sights and sounds began to share my thoughts and engross my comprehension. In a moment the past vanished, with all its disquietude and alarm; and I entered on the new scene with a taste akin to the appetite of a convalescent. If I felt any deep emotion, it was only when my mind recurred to the fate of my comrades, or the feelings of joy with which my family would learn the tidings of my safety. We left our baggage at the Custom house—mine consisted of a pair of boots stowed away in a rather capacious valise—handed the keys, in due form, to the commissionaire of police, and directed them to be sent after us to our hotel. A commissionaire, so they call themselves, appeared in the morning with the keys, which he handed us bowing, adding that all was right.

There was a fete at Boulogne. Nothing was to be seen but glittering bayonets, and nothing to be heard but the harsh monotonous sound of the drum. Flags floated in the breeze, and cheers echoed from the distant hills, and everything proclaimed the festivity of liberty. It was a grand sight, and yet a sad one for me. I could not help contrasting with the scene before me the fate of my own unfortunate country. At ten o'clock we were on our way to Paris.

Such was the anxiety with which I gazed on the glad face of that sunny land during the entire of the journey that I could at this moment recognise every object that attracted my attention. But the scope of this narrative, now drawing rapidly to a close, does not embrace a description of France or Paris. Many pens have plied the task, and were mine more adequate than any, it were unfit to interweave so bright a theme with the gloomy details of this mournful history.

There remains to be told but one incident. On our arrival at the Paris terminus, we got into an English omnibus which brought us to an English hotel—the Hotel de Louvre in the Rue St. Thomas. There we dined together, some dozen or so of the passengers. After dinner my friend and I had champagne. While discussing its merits the conversation turned on Ireland. Opinions, of course, varied. Mine, it need scarcely be added, to an Englishman's ear sounded bloodily, and I urged them with the vehemence of baffled hope. An old English gentleman of that quiet school which affects liberality and moderation, but entertains deepest animosity, deprecated the violence of my language and sentiments, and expressed his painful astonishment at hearing such opinions from the mouth of a clergyman; "They would not be unbecoming," added he, with great bitterness of tone, "in that sanguinary brigand, Doheny." Involuntarily and simultaneously my friend and myself burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, The gentleman could not at all comprehend our mirth. He had, he thought, delivered himself of very sound and very gentlemanly philosophy, and he was really shocked to find it had made an impression so different from what he had expected. He had travelled much, he said, and met men of many lands, of whom Irishmen were ever the most polite and best bred gentlemen; a fact which rendered our laughing in his face rather inexplicable. The conversation was again resumed and again waxed warm. I expressed my opinion of English paupers in Ireland, and said they ought to be transported in a convict ship back to Liverpool, in the same fashion as Irish paupers of a different class are transmitted to Dublin by the Liverpool guardians. To this he replied by saying that there would be no peace in Ireland until the Mitchels and Dohenys were hanged, a fate which the latter was hastening to with irresistible impetus. At this self-satisfied prophecy we laughed louder than before, whereupon he waxed wrathful, and repeating his experience of the world in general, and of Irishmen in particular, demanded an explanation of the laugh. I said, "That is a straightforward question, and demands a direct answer. It shall be given, although you have refused to answer, as all Englishmen of your class invariably do, to several direct questions which I have put to you. I laughed because I am that same sanguinary Doheny": and pulling off my wig, I added, "Me voila at your service." The sudden appearance of him who answered the incantations of the weird sisters could not produce a greater panic. Chairs tumbled in every direction, and their occupiers fled the room, leaving myself and my friend ample space to enjoy the joke and the champagne in undisturbed quiet.

I have nothing further to relate in connection with myself. Paris appeared to me clothed with a grandeur, a glory, and a beauty, infinitely surpassing every description of them I had ever read or heard. Standing in any commanding spot surrounded by the monuments of her splendour and magnificence, upon each of which the genius of the land shed its immortal lustre, one feels coerced to the conviction that the high command and abiding destiny of France must be equally imperishable. But these considerations belong not to my story, and I renounce the idea of commemorating the sensations of gratified pride which that gorgeous capital awakened in my bosom. Her architecture and her art, her memorials of glory, and the triumphs of her progress, require to be scanned by the eye and portrayed by the ability of artistic genius. I must content myself with preserving a delighted recollection of the French metropolis which no scene or circumstance, possible in life can ever efface. The companion of all my hazards in Ireland, whom I again joined in Paris, more than shared my enthusiasm. He spent all his days wandering among the galleries of the Louvre or the statues of Versailles, forgetting in the sublime presence of their unmatched chefs d'ouvres all the shame and perils of the past. I hope he may be induced to give the result of his long examinations and fond reveries to the public.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: "Alice and Uua."]

[Footnote 13: This may be a harsh and unjust opinion; if so, no one could regret it more than myself. In any case I wish to disclaim the idea of making a charge against the body of the Roman Catholic clergy, to some of whose members it applies. I yet fully believe that the great majority of the priesthood would willingly die with the rest of their countrymen in struggling for the liberty of their common home. Even of those who acted against us with such deadly success, I am sure some were influenced by pure and honourable motives: there were others, however, whose conduct the noblest motives would fail to justify, or even extenuate.]

[Footnote 14: I hope my friend "Desmond" (a true poet and genuine Irishman, whom God long preserve) will allow me to borrow his "graceful spirit people" to elevate to poetical dignity the otherwise unattractive and straggling waters of Lough Lua. It is near the lone and lovely passes of Ceimeneagh, which his genius has invested with graceful immortality, and his

"Children of the earth and sea."

may be sometimes tempted to lave therein.

Lough Lua loses in the comparison suggested by the sublime scenery around it, of which the "green little island," and the pass are immeasurably the greatest. I saw it in no happy frame of mind, as I dragged my weary limbs along the rugged slopes of Shehigh. The only real feature of interest I could discover, was the solitary swan above alluded to, to which an intellect less fanciful than that of my friend could not refuse a claim to be recognised as the genius loci, or spirit of the spot.]

[Footnote 15: Mr. Daniel MacCarthy]



CONCLUSION

A word remains to be said in reference to the fate of those who were the special objects of the Government's attention. Of the six for whom a reward was offered, four escaped, namely, Mr. Dillon, Mr. O'Gorman, Mr. O'Mahony and myself. Mr. Dillon was the first who left Ireland. Late in August he sailed from Galway, and landed at New York after a voyage of seven weeks. In the same vessel sailed P.J. Smyth, who was despatched from Cashel to Dublin with directions from Mr. O'Brien. Richard O'Gorman, accompanied by John O'Donnell and Daniel Doyle, sailed from the mouth of the Shannon on board a vessel bound for Constantinople. After landing in the Turkish capital, they were obliged to lie concealed until able to procure passports for Algiers. Many foolish stories have been circulated in reference to Mr. O'Gorman's adventures and disguises in Ireland. Not one of them has the least truth in it. He or his companions never assumed any disguise, and though their adventures were more perilous, they were not so romantic as those that have been related. A more detailed account of their wanderings would no doubt be as interesting to my readers as it would be agreeable to myself. But both the time and the limits I have proposed to myself for this publication exclude it here. I could not, without too long a delay, acquire that minute and accurate knowledge of facts and dates, which would be indispensable to such a history.

But of succeeding events in Ireland, and the men who controlled them, it is imperative to speak more in detail. John O'Mahony was their chief, and John Savage his principal counsellor and comrade. The former, although not compromised by any act previous to the arrest of Mr. O'Brien, evaded the vigilance of the detectives, and continued moving about from place to place, being generally guarded while he slept by a large number of faithful followers. No man was ever followed with truer devotion or served with more unwavering fidelity. He might have continued in the same district with perfect safety up to the present hour. But every moment of his time was engrossed by the endeavour to rouse the country to some becoming effort. John Savage, who had come to Carrick on a visit to a relation, partook of his enthusiasm and shared his toil. They spent many anxious nights in counsel together when it was supposed all spirit had left the country. The first ostensible object that brought the people together under their immediate guidance and control was the reaping of a field of wheat belonging to O'Mahony. A vast crowd amounting to several hundred stalwart men assembled. They had scarcely entered on their labour when the approach of a troop of horse was announced. O'Mahony and Savage were compelled to retire. The military cavalcade entered the field, and rode rudely among the men and ripe corn. Still the reapers desisted not. They proceeded with their labours sedulously and silently. But there was no pretext for arresting any of the men, and no pretext afforded for further outrage, and the business of the day went on without further outrage from the soldiers. This occurred on the 22nd of August. Some days later, sullen crowds were seen ascending Aheny Hill, about five miles to the north of Carrick-on-Suir. By what mysterious agency they were directed none could tell. About a similar distance from the town, in the opposite direction, near the village of Portlaw, another camp was formed with equal rapidity and mystery. With these men John Savage took his station. He was entirely unknown to the people; and owed his influence over them to his singular resolution. The understanding was that these two bodies, and a third consisting of an equal number of men which was promised from Kilkenny, should march simultaneously on the town of Carrick and the fort at Besborough where five hundred men were encamped. He who undertook to lead the Kilkenny men went on the execution of his mission, leaving O'Mahony at one side, and Savage on the other, to contend with the impetuosity of their respective followers who demanded with violence to be led on. As much perhaps from the precariousness of their situation as from a reckless daring, they could not brook the least delay. Their leaders, on the other hand, urged the necessity of steadiness and prudence. It was too late for such policy. The time between the first step in revolution and action is the most trying to the courage and faith of undisciplined men. In this instance it produced fatal results. The weakness of the timid increased, and the courage of the boldest was quelled. Suspicion was aroused, and desertion was the inevitable consequence. O'Mahony found it impossible to withstand the clamorous urgency of the men, and all his preparations were necessarily of a hasty and imperfect character. The arrival of the party from Kilkenny was the utmost limit of inaction that would be endured; and the leaders saw with regret that they had yielded too soon to the demands of those who precipitated the rising. The true guarantee of success would consist in perfect preparation under cover of secrecy, so as that the assembling could be followed by an immediate blow.

Scouring parties from each rendezvous, proceeded through the country in search of arms. Provisions were liberally supplied by the neighbouring farmers, and numbers were hourly arriving from distant parts of the country. But those who were engaged in the search for arms attacked police barracks and private houses. In general, these enterprises were rash, ill-advised and ill-arranged. In some instances they were successful, and in some they were repulsed with loss of life, while the police were able to effect a safe retreat. At the Tipperary side, two men were killed in the attack on the Glenbour barracks; and at the Waterford side, one man was shot at Portlaw in the assault on the police-barrack, and two in the attack on the Reverend Mr. Hill's house. These repulses checked the ardour of the boldest, and gave rise to disunion and distrust. Meantime, the promised reinforcements from Kilkenny failed to redeem the pledge that was given in their name. A whole day and night passed, and no tidings of them arrived. Several of those who were loudest and most urgent left the camp. A very large force, however, remained; but after delaying two days without hearing of the Kilkenny men, they determined to disperse. The party at Portlaw adopted the same resolution, and O'Mahony and Savage had to shift for themselves. A reward was offered for O'Mahony, but he eluded his pursuers, and in a few days was beyond their reach. He embarked at Bonmahon in the county of Waterford and crossed to Wales, where he was concealed for some time until he found an opportunity of escaping to France. Savage, whose person was not much known, made his way to Dublin, whence he sailed for America direct.

The Kilkenny men arrived at Aheny on the morning after those under O'Mahony had dispersed and finding the place deserted, they immediately returned. This accident once more baffled all hope of a struggle. From beginning to end, some mischance marred every propitious circumstance that presented itself. It seemed as if the failure had been predestined. But to yield to such a fate, to abjure the great and true faith which the attempt of the last unhappy year quickened in the hearts of all men, would be distrust of God's mercy and justice. In the struggle that preceded the outbreak a great victory was won. The most formidable power that ever fettered the consciences of men was struck to the earth. Truth, long lost sight of, was again restored as one of the great agencies of national deliverance and national elevation. The question between England and Ireland assumed its real character; and although huxtering politicians have since endeavoured to set up the honour of the island for sale, they have only been able to dispose of their own characters. The people have not debased themselves. In the lying homage to the Queen of England they took no part. They have preserved through the severest trials the old immortal yearning of their race, and the arms they had provided themselves with in '48 they have guarded religiously, in the hope of using them on some day of brighter auspices and loftier destiny.



APPENDICES

I

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE'S NARRATIVE OF 1848

Early on Saturday the 22nd of July I left my pleasant home in Cullenswood, near Dublin, to which I was never to return. On reaching the city I found a telegraphic despatch from London had been just published, announcing the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, and that the "extraordinary powers" to be conferred on the Lord Lieutenant would be forwarded to Dublin on the following Monday. It was contended on all hands that the hour for action or submission or flight for the Confederates was now come. Of "The Council of Five,"[16] there were then in Dublin but three members. One is now in Van Diemen's Land; the others were Mr. Dillon and myself. We had a hasty meeting in the old Council Rooms of the Irish Confederation. They decided to proceed that evening to Enniscorthy to advise with Smith O'Brien, and, as I understood, to proceed with him to the district between the Suir and the Shannon, and to operate from that basis according to circumstances and their own best judgment.

A gentleman had arrived in Dublin that morning with a proposition which decided my movements and led me into some singular situations.

He was a professional man, by birth an Irishman who had resided a long time in Scotland. He had one only son, two rifles, and L120 in money, which he brought as his offering to the country. He informed us that several hundred Irishmen in Scotland had been all the year preparing for this event, that they had a good share of arms and ammunition, and that if any plan could be devised to bring them into Ireland, they could be relied on for courage and endurance. I do not mention this gentleman's name, because I do not know but he is still under the laws of England.

We perceived, on consultation, that if it were possible to land 400 or 500 staunch men in the north-west—say, at Sligo or Killala—where the Government were completely off their guard (all their anxieties being centred on the south), an important movement might follow in Sligo, Leitrim, Roscommon and Mayo. It would be like hitting the enemy in the back of the head. It would necessarily draw off some of the forces from Munster, through the valley of the Upper Shannon, which, with its continuous chain of lake, bog and mountain frontier, would be difficult ground for the movements of a regular army.

It was necessary, as our informant said, that "someone with a name" should go over and concert with the Irishmen in Scotland the mode and time of action, and I was the only person at hand willing for that service. For my encouragement, Meagher assured me I would be "as famous as Paul Jones" if I got the men out of the Clyde, and Mr. Dillon suggested as a landing-place "the old ground, Killala."

That afternoon I left Dublin, and on Tuesday morning I was in Scotland.

I cannot give the exact particulars of my movements while there. All who were in my confidence are still in Scotland, with the exception of Mr. Peter M'Cabe of Glasgow, now in the United States. I will only say that I visited and consulted our friends in four of the principal towns—Edinburgh included. I attended meetings of the clubs and in each instance instituted committees. I obtained in a few days a list of nearly 400 men, pretty well equipped, ready for the risk. A sub-committee surveyed the Broomielaw and the Clyde, and although their report was unfavourable to the attempt of getting out in one body, a gentleman, now in America, gained over the crew and officers of an Irish steamer to take us as passengers from Greenock where the tides in a few days would answer for departure about ten o'clock at night. The arms were to be previously shipped as merchandise or luggage, and the destination was to be Sligo.

These arrangements occupied from Tuesday till Friday of the last week of July. In the meanwhile, the London Journals arrived with news that O'Brien and his friends had been received with open arms in the south, and great excitement and suspicion of strangers arose in Scotland. In the Reading Room at Paisley I read myself in The Hue and Cry. One paper stated I was in Waterford, another said I was "revelling among the clubs in the Co. Dublin." The Times did me the honour to couple me with Meagher, calling us "the two most dangerous men now abroad." No one suspected my real locality.

On Friday I was in Edinburgh intending to return to Glasgow, when Mr. ——, accompanied by a friend suddenly joined me. I saw they were a good deal agitated. They told me a Scotch mechanic who had been formerly in Dublin had seen me in the streets of Glasgow opposite Wellington statue, and that the news was "all round town." They added that the magistrates were in secret sitting, and as the writ of Habeas Corpus is unknown to the law of Scotland, I would be certainly arrested and summarily imprisoned if I returned. They were instructed to advise me to go to Ireland through the north of England, to prepare our friends in and about Sligo, and that they would complete the project which they had begun, and which was now in promising forwardness. I complied and Mr. —— handed me a purse, as a personal gift from the Committee. This purse contained twelve or thirteen sovereigns, the only public money I received in this enterprise. After purposely driving to the West of Scotland depot [railway terminus] we returned to the North British, and my friends saw me off a station or two on the way to Newcastle-on-Tyne. I slept that night in Newcastle.

Between Newcastle and Carlisle the next day (Saturday) I had for a fellow passenger the Rev. Thresham Gregg[17] who was on a lecturing excursion against the Pope in the north of England. I had been introduced to him a year or two before and supposed he knew me. He certainly looked very hard at me from under his travelling-cap, with his half-shut cunning eyes. I had in my hand "Bradshaw's Railway Guide," which he asked to see. At the way stations he kept constantly inquiring the distance to Carlisle, and I sorely suspected he meant to "peach." He did not, however, though I still think he must have known me.

In Carlisle I met at dinner two Dublin priests (one from Westland Row chapel). They were bound on a pleasure-trip for Loch Katrine and the Trossachs. They informed me that I was "proclaimed," and seemed surprised at my returning. We parted very cordially and that night I went to Whitehaven where I had to wait over Sunday for the Belfast steamer.

In Whitehaven (by accident) I met with Mr. James Leach, the well-known Chartist, with whom I had some conversation unnecessary here to be repeated.

On Tuesday morning I arrived in Belfast. Two policemen entered the cabin as I was leaving it, and having been at the meeting which occasioned the Hercules Street riot,[18] I thought they would recognise me. They did not, however, and at 8 o'clock (after leaving a note for a dear and trusted friend of Mr. Duffy's, to mark my whereabouts) I was safely embarked on the Ulster railway for Armagh. At Aughnacloy a detective gave me a light, and before I went to bed (in Enniskillen) had read the proclamations against the leaders of the Southern movement, on the gates of the Barrack. The next morning I reached Sligo by the Leitrim road.

This was Wednesday morning, August 2nd.

At the Hibernia Hotel, where I stopped as Mr. Kelly (my travelling baptism), I saw for the first time in ten days the Irish papers. The Dublin Freeman and Saunder's News Letter were on the table. I read the list of the places where, and the clergymen by whom, the Southern movement had been "denounced," on Sunday, July 23rd and Sunday, July 30th. The same papers contained Lord Clarendon's wily letter to Archbishop Murray, offering to alter the statutes of the new colleges and to remodel the Bequests Bill so as to content the Catholic clergy, and artfully complimenting Pius IX. The game of the Government was clear—it was to separate the clergy from the people in the coming struggle.

The evening of my arrival in Sligo, I conferred with a few friends. The place chosen was "a shell house" in the demesne of Hazelwood on the shores of Lough Gill. Of those[D] who formed that conference one at least, Mr. William M'Garahan, is now in America. We ascertained the garrison of Sligo to be but ninety men—the barrack to be surrounded by a common eight-foot wall, and the local authorities to be completely lulled to sleep. The circumstances were as favourable as could be expected.

But there never had been in Sligo or Leitrim any local Confederate or even "Repeal" organisation. The only local societies were secret—Molly Maguires and Ribbonmen. It was necessary to get into communication with them and late the next night Dr. ——, a Confederate, introduced me to one of their leaders, on a road which crosses a hill to the south of the town. This gentleman I found wary, resolute, and intelligent. He said: "I have no doubt of what you say, but I must have certain facts to lay before our district chiefs. At present we don't know what to believe. One day we hear one thing—another, another. Bring us by this day week assurances that the South is going to rise or has risen, and we will raise two thousand before the week is out." I agreed to do so and he in the meantime went to prepare his friends.

I returned to my confidants of the first conference and "reported progress." It was rather difficult to find a trusty messenger. I volunteered to go myself, but they would not hear of it. At last a man who could be depended on was obtained, and, armed with certain passwords (unintelligible except to those for whom they were intended) he left to go through Roscommon and Westmeath into Tipperary by Borrisokane and Nenagh.

Simultaneously with this, agents went abroad in the country, and I, by the advice of the local leaders, went to lodge under Benbulben in the character of a Dublin student in search of health and exercise during the summer vacation. Within a week we expected to be openly arrayed against the authorities, and no man that I saw shrank from the prospect.

From my lodgings under Benbulben I made a visit to Bundoran to meet some friends from Donegal who were anxious to consult me as to the state of the county. By an odd chance I lodged in the same house with the stipendiary magistrate, Sir Thomas Blake, and had to go through his bedroom to my own. We met frequently but he was quite unsuspicious. He has, I find since, been dismissed from his office, after an ineffectual search for me through the county, a month from the time we had lived under the same roof.

While our messenger had gone south there arrived one from our friends in Scotland. Him I sent back the same night to expedite affairs there. In the meanwhile, on such maps as we had, my friends and I studied the roads and the formation of the country. There is in this part of Ireland a plateau of about twenty-five miles square of broken or mountainous ground. Of this district Ballinamore in Leitrim might be considered the centre; there are but three main roads leading through it—the Boyle road, the Red Lion road, and the Ballysodare road—which could all be easily rendered impassable, passing as they do over rapid streams, through narrow defiles or across extensive marshes. There is no great military depot within the district—Enniskillen, Athlone, and even Castlebar being within the spurs of the mountains. Sligo, its chief town was, as we saw, poorly garrisoned, and yet as a seaport of the second class it contained many things of the greatest use in a military movement—as lead, arms, canvas, tools, money, ships' stores, breadstuffs, types for proclamations and even some small cannon. From three to five thousand men it was calculated, could be well-equipped and could maintain themselves for three months within this district, with tolerable prudence and exertion. Before the time expired we hoped to receive help and officers from abroad, and afterwards to be able to undertake greater things.

We could not but remember that this was the district chosen by Owen O'Neill after his arrival from Spain in 1645 and that it was here he "nursed up" by slow degrees the army which fought at Benburb, and which in Napoleon's opinion, but for the premature death of Owen, would have checkmated Cromwell. The ground once chosen by a great general for its natural capabilities may safely be chosen again, and usually is, as in Hungary for instance. The very posts and battlefields held and fought by Bem and Dembinski were the same whereon Huniad and Corvinus, four and five hundred years ago, fought against the Turks and Bosmens. Thus we had the sanction of a great example and the stimulus of an inspiriting tradition to point to for the choice of the ground.

We had not long to wait for news from the South—it came of itself. On Saturday the 5th of August Mr. O'Brien was arrested in Thurles. His companions, it was said, were fled hither and thither; but, at all events, his arrest had proved that, at that time, the South would not rise in arms against the Government.

This was the interpretation universally put upon it in the north-west. It was in vain I said, "There are other men as brave and as good who are still free and from whom we will hear better news." Those to whom I spoke were incredulous. Still I must do the people of the county the justice to say that in a meeting of their district-leaders at —— it was discussed for two successive nights with great animation whether or not the district should rise even then. The parties for and against a rising were nearly balanced, but the latter prevailed on the argument that unless it was general it would be fruitless.

For ten dismal days I remained in this neighbourhood, hoping against hope and endeavouring to make others do the same. The proposals I then made, the result of desperation, I will not repeat, for now, even to myself, I confess they look wild and extravagant. But I felt the whole futurity of shame that awaited us for abandoning the country without a blow. It was well advanced in August before I could persuade myself that no hope remained. The Treasurer of our Scotch Committee came to Ireland expressly to urge me to consult my own safety in flight, in which he was joined by the whole of my local associates. Successively arrived the news of Meagher, Leyne and MacManus being taken. Then indeed I knew "all was up." Then, indeed, I felt the force of what I had long before prophesied—"What if we fail?" I resolved not to be taken if I could help it, and acted accordingly. After some personal adventures in Donegal and Derry (with which I will not trouble the reader) I saw the last of the Irish shore early in September, and on the 10th of October reached Philadelphia.

I close here with this reflection: Had I been transported or hanged, I have no doubt full justice would be done me, because it would be nobody's interest to do me injustice. Had I kept silent, I might have lived an easy, prudent, reputable sort of life enough. But I established a journal on reaching America, and whereas my spine is not made of whalebone nor my conscience of indiarubber, I spoke the truth as I knew it in all things freely—thereby offending divers parties. This, I believe, could not be helped. After nearly a year of silence[19] I have at last (in self-defence) written this narrative, of which I assure the readers they never would have heard a word from me, but that misrepresentations not to be borne demanded its publicity. Those who from want of information misrepresented me hitherto can do so no more; and those who, knowing these facts, yet wilfully maligned me, I have now deprived of the power to do me further injury. Truth is powerful, and this is truth.

II

THE PROCLAMATION OF DOHENY AND HIS COLLEAGUES

By the Lord Lieutenant General and General-Governor of Ireland

A PROCLAMATION

CLARENDON—

Whereas we have received information that THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, JOHN B. DILLON and MICHAEL DOHENY have been guilty of treasonable practices, now we the Lord Lieutenant being determined to bring the said THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, JOHN B. DILLON and MICHAEL DOHENY to justice, do hereby offer a reward of

THREE HUNDRED POUNDS

to any person or persons who shall secure and deliver up to safe custody the person of any one of them, the said THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, JOHN B. DILLON and MICHAEL DOHENY.

And we do hereby strictly charge and command all justices of the peace, mayors, sheriffs, bailiffs, constables and all other of her Majesty's loyal subjects to use their utmost-diligence in apprehending the said THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, JOHN B. DILLON and MICHAEL DOHENY.

Given at her Majesty's Castle of Dublin, this 28th day of July, 1848.

By his Excellency's Command,

T.N. REDINGTON.

III

"THE HUE AND CRY"

The official description of himself read by Thomas Darcy M'Gee was more accurate and less intentionally insulting than the official descriptions of most of his colleagues compiled in Dublin Castle and published in the Hue and Cry of July 27th, 1848. Probably no other official document issued to the public in the last hundred years by Dublin Castle has equalled this stupid malignity. "Sketches of Doheny and some of the Confederate leaders, modelled upon the descriptions of burglars and murderers, that ordinarily adorn the Hue and Cry were," wrote Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, a generation later, "issued for the enjoyment of loyal persons." The Freeman's Journal of the day wrote that the public who were acquainted with the appearance of the gentlemen described will read with feelings of contempt the malignant effort to insult and wound the relatives of the men proscribed by the issue of a written caricature of their persons. This remarkable production of the genius and spirit of Dublin Castle, read as follows:—

DESCRIPTION OF PERSONS CHARGED WITH TREASONABLE PRACTICES

WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.—No occupation; forty-six years of age; six feet in height; sandy hair; dark eyes; sallow, long face; has a sneering smile constantly on his face; full whiskers; sandy; a little grey; well-set man; walks erect; dresses well.

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.—No occupation; twenty-five years of age; five feet nine inches; dark, nearly black hair; light blue eyes; pale face; high cheekbones; peculiar expression about the eyes; cocked nose; no whiskers; well-dressed.

JOHN B. DILLON.—Barrister; thirty-two years of age; five feet eleven inches in height; dark hair; dark eyes; thin sallow face; rather thin black whiskers; dressed respectable; has bilious look.

MICHAEL DOHENY.—Barrister; forty years of age; five feet eight inches in height; fair or sandy hair; grey eyes; coarse red face like a man given to drink; high cheekbones; wants several of his teeth; very vulgar appearance; peculiar coarse unpleasant voice; dress respectable; small short red whiskers.

MICHAEL CREAN.—Shopman at a shoe-shop; thirty-five years of age; five feet eight inches; fair or sandy hair; grey eyes; full face; light whiskers; high fore-head; well-set person; dress, dark shooting frock or grey tweed, and grey tweed trousers.

FRANCIS MORGAN.[20]—Solicitor; forty-three years of age; five feet eight inches in height; very dark hair; dark eyes; sallow broad face; nose a little cocked; the upper lip turns out when speaking; rather stout; smart gait; black whiskers.

PATRICK JAMES SMITH.[21]—Studying for the bar; twenty-nine years of age; five feet nine inches in height; fair hair; dark eyes; fair delicate face and of weak appearance; long back; weak in his walk; small whiskers; clothing indifferent.

JOHN HETHERINGTON DRUMM.[22]—Medical student; twenty years of age; five feet three inches in height; very black and curly hair; black eyes; pale delicate face; rather thin person; delicate appearance; no whiskers; small face and nose; dressed respectably; Methodist.

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE.—Connected with the Nation newspaper; twenty-three years of age; five feet three inches in height; black hair; dark face; delicate, pale, thin man; dresses generally black shooting coat, plaid trousers, light vest.

JOSEPH BRENNAN.—Sub-Editor of the Felon newspaper; five feet six inches in height; dark hair; dark eyes; pale, sallow face; very stout; round shoulders; Cork accent; no whiskers; hair on the upper lip; soft, sickly face; rather respectably dressed, a little reduced.

THOMAS DEVIN REILLY.—Sub-editor of the Felon newspaper; twenty-four years of age; five feet seven inches in height; sandy coarse hair; grey eyes; round freckled face; head remarkably broad at the top; broad shoulders; well-set; dresses well.

JOHN CANTWELL.—Shopman at a grocer's; thirty-five years of age; five feet ten inches in height; sandy hair; grey eyes; fair face; good looking; short whisker, light; rather slight person, dresses ... Supposed a native of Dublin.

STEPHEN J. MEANY.—Sub-editor of Irish Tribune; twenty-six years of age; five feet eleven inches in height; dark hair; full blue eyes; dark face; small whiskers growing under the chin; smart appearance; was a constable of the C Division of Police, discharged for dirty habits; stout person; generally dressed in black.

RICHARD O'GORMAN, Junior.—Barrister; thirty years of age; five feet eleven inches in height; very dark hair; dark eyes; thin long face; large dark whiskers; well-made and active; walks upright; dresses black frock coat, tweed trousers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: After the merging of the Irish Confederation in the abortive Irish League, and the consequent dissolution of the Executive of the Confederation, a Council of Five was elected to direct the Confederate Clubs until the new organisation was perfected. The five elected were John Blake Dillon, Thomas Francis Meagher, Richard O'Gorman, Junior, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, and Thomas Devin Reilly. The five never met. O'Gorman was out of Dublin when the Habeas Corpus Act was suspended.]

[Footnote 17: The Rev. Thresham Gregg was a notorious and blatant "anti-Popery" preacher of the period whom the wits of Young Ireland frequently made the butt of their jests. Apart from his bigoted sectarian obsession, he was, however, in several respects decidedly nationalistic, and steadily preached support of home trade and manufactures to his audiences. There can be no reasonable doubt that he recognised M'Gee. In this connection it may be stated that the Orangemen expelled from membership of their body Stephenson Dobbyn, an Orangeman who acted as a spy for Dublin Castle upon the Young Irelanders—drawing a clear and proper line between forcibly opposing their fellow countrymen and acting as spies for England upon them.]

[Footnote 18: Hercules Street in Belfast, now swept away, was chiefly inhabited by butchers who were almost all Catholics and fervent O'Connellites. When the Young Irelanders attempted to hold a meeting in Belfast shortly after O'Connell's death, the butchers made a fierce attack upon them.]

[Footnote 19: This narrative was written at the beginning of 1850]

[Footnote 20: Law Agent to the Dublin Corporation.]

[Footnote 21: Patrick Joseph Smyth]

[Footnote 22: Sub-editor of the Nation; afterwards a clergyman.]



CONTEMPORARIES MENTIONED IN "THE FELON'S TRACK"

ANGLESEY, LORD (1768-1854).—Henry William Paget, who lost a leg at Waterloo and erected a monument to its memory. Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, 1828-9, 1830-3.

ANTISELL, DR. THOMAS.—A Dublin surgeon and chemist of distinction, author of various pamphlets and addresses to the Royal Dublin Society on the geology of Ireland, reafforestation, and the sanitary conditions of Irish town-life. He supplied a large part of the capital to found the Irish Tribune. After the failure of the insurrection he went to the United States where he had a distinguished scientific career.

BANTRY, LORD.—(1801-1884) William Hare White, third earl, Lieut-Col, of the West Cork Artillery. The title became extinct in 1891.

BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH (1817-1889).—A Cork barrister, editor of "The Songs of Ireland" in the Library of Ireland, and author of several martial pieces, including "The Flag of Green." After the failure of the insurrection he renounced Nationalism and subsequently became a Dublin Police Magistrate.

BARRETT, RICHARD (17— -1855).—Brother of Eaton Stannard Barrett of Cork, the once famous author of "All the Talents." A journalist of fortune who changed sides with agility and enlisted under O'Connell in his latter years, having formerly vilified him.

BRENAN, JOSEPH (1828-1857).—The youngest of the Young Ireland leaders. Edited Fullam's Irishman in 1849 and unsuccessfully attempted to revive the insurrection in Waterford and Tipperary. On his failure he emigrated to the United States and died in New Orleans.

BRODERICK, CAPTAIN.—Inspector-General of Repeal Reading Rooms. He quitted Conciliation Hall after the death of O'Connell and died mentally afflicted.

BRYAN, MAJOR.—Of Raheny Lodge, Co. Dublin. Major Bryan acquired a moderate fortune in Tasmania and returned to Ireland where he joined the Repeal movement. He left Conciliation Hall with the Young Irelanders.

CAMPBELL, SIR JOHN (1779-1861).—Author of the "Lives of the Lord Chancellors." A Scots Tory politician, raised to the peerage subsequent to his connection with Ireland, and finally Lord Chancellor of England.

CANGLEY, DAVID (18— -1847).—A barrister and one of the hopes of Young Ireland. Ill-health pursued him through life and ended it prematurely.

CANTWELL, JAMES.—A Dublin mercantile assistant and, later, a restaurant-proprietor. One of the Council of the Confederation who supported Mitchel's policy.

CARLETON, WILLIAM (1794-1869).—Author of "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry."

CAVAIGNAC, LOUIS EUGENE (1802-1857).—One of the most distinguished of the French Generals in the second quarter of the nineteenth century. On the establishment of the second Republic he was appointed Minister for War, and when the "Reds" threatened its stability he was invested with the dictatorship and speedily crushed the insurrection. In the contest for the Presidency the glamour of Louis Napoleon's name defeated Cavaignac. After Napoleon's coup-d'etat Cavaignac retired into private life. He had sympathies with Ireland, and in 1848 gave private assurances that in the event of an Irish insurrection winning initial successes, he would bring the influence of France to bear on England to force her to concede terms to Ireland.

CAVANAGH, JOHN.—President of the Fitzgerald Confederate Club, Harold's Cross, Dublin. Wounded at Ballingarry, he was brought to Kilkenny, where he was concealed and cured by Dr. Cane, and later smuggled to France, whence he proceeded to the United States, became an officer in the army and was slain in the Civil War.

"CHRISTABEL" (1815-1881).—Miss M'Carthy, of Kilfademore House, Kenmare, afterwards Mrs. Downing. A Popular poetess of the period, usually using the nom-de-guerre of "Christabel." Her best-known poem is "The Grave of MacCaura." She assisted Doheny and Stephens to escape.

CLARENDON, EARL OF (1804-1870).—George Villiers, the fourth earl, according to his English biographers, represented the highest type of English politician and English gentleman. Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, 1846-1852. He hired the editor of an obscene journal in Dublin to publish libels upon the moral character of the Young Irelanders, and conducted the affairs of the country from March to June, 1848, under this man's advice. He paid L3,400 for the services rendered and a demand for further payments led to a public disclosure of the facts. At the time Clarendon hired James Birch, Birch had completed a sentence of imprisonment for criminal libel.

CLEMENTS, EDWARD.—A barrister. One of O'Connell's "tail" in Conciliation Hall. The attempt of O'Connell to provide "poor Ned Clements" with a Government situation precipitated the rupture with Young Ireland.

CONWAY, M.G.—A journalist of ability and no principle who followed the path of fortune. He professed ultra-Catholic views while O'Connell was in the ascendant. After O'Connell's death he abjured Catholicism to ingratiate himself with the Ascendancy element.

CRAMPTON, JUDGE (17— -1858).—Philip Crampton, called to the Bar 1810, Solicitor-General 1832, and raised to the Bench 1834. One of the judges at O'Connell's trial, a strong Tory but a clever lawyer.

CREAN, MICHAEL.—Like M.G. Conway, a Clare man, but of the opposite type. Crean worked in Dublin as a shopman and with Hollywood was one of the two trades-union leaders on the Council of the Confederation, where he opposed Mitchel's policy. After the failure of the insurrection he went to the United States.

CROLLY, DR. (1780-1849).—Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland from 1835 until his death.