“Wicklow Head! Ireland!” cried I, with a thrill of ecstasy my heart had never felt for many a day before. “Yes, yes; land me there,—now, at once!” said I, as a thousand thoughts came rushing to my mind, and hopes too vague for utterance, but palpable enough to cherish.
With the speed their calling teaches, the crew lowered the boat, and as I took my place in the stern, pulled vigorously towards the shore. As the swift bark glided along the shallow sea, I could scarce restrain my impatience from springing out and rushing on land. Without family or friend, without one to welcome or meet me, still it was home,—the only home I ever had.
The sharp keel grated on the beach; its sound vibrated within my heart. I jumped on shore; a few words of parting, and the men backed their oars; the boat slipped fast through the water. The cutter, too, got speedily under weigh again, and I was alone. Then the full torrent of my feelings found their channel, and I burst into tears. Oh! they were not tears of sorrow; neither were they the outpourings of excessive joy. They were the utterance of a heart loaded with its own unrelieved griefs, who now found sympathy on touching the very soil of home. I felt I was no longer friendless. Ireland, my own dear native country, would be to me a place of kindred and family, and I fell upon my knees, and blessed it.
Following a little path, which led slantingly up the cliff, I reached the top as day was beginning to break, and gained a view of the country. The range of swelling hills, dotted with cottages and waving with wood; the fields of that emerald green one sees not in other lands; the hedge-rows bounding the little farms,—all so unlike the spreading plains of France,—struck me with delight, and it was with a rapture of happiness I called the land my country.
Directing my steps towards Dublin, I set out at a good pace, but following a path which led near the cliffs, in preference to the highroad; for I was well aware that my appearance and dress would expose me to curiosity, and perhaps subject me to more serious annoyance. My first object was to learn some news of my brother; for although the ties of affection had been long since severed between us, those of blood still remained, and I wished to hear of, and it might be to see him, once more. For some miles I had kept my eyes directed towards a little cabin which crowned a cliff that hung over the sea; and this I reached at last, somewhat wearied and hungry.
As I followed a little footpath which conducted to the door, a fierce terrier rushed out as if to attack me, but was immediately restrained by the voice of a man within, calling, “Down, Vicksey! down, you baste!” and the same moment a stout, middle-aged man appeared at the door.
“Don't be afeard, sir; she's not wicked, but we're unused to strangers down here.”
“I should think so, friend, from my path,” said I, throwing a glance at the narrow footway I had followed for some miles, over hill and precipice; “but I am unacquainted with the country, and was looking out for some house where I might obtain a breakfast.”
“There's a town about three miles down yonder, and a fine inn, I 'm tould, sir,” replied he, as he scrutinized my appearance with a shrewd eye; “but if I might make so bould, maybe you 'd as lief not go there, and perhaps you 'd take share of what we have here?”
“Willingly,” said I, accepting the hospitable offer as freely as it was made, and entered the cabin at once.