As I was very tired with the jolting motion of the car—a species of locomotion with which I had been previously unfamiliar—I soon afterwards retired to rest; but even after I had got to bed in the room above, I could hear my friends below in the full flight of conversation, not only on the past of Ireland, but in somewhat hazy prophecies as to the future of their beloved country. To the music of this harmonious but disturbing concert, relieved at times by the more measured and careful utterances of Mister Doolan, I listened for a time, until the voices became a monotonous drone in my sleepy ear; and then I sank into the elysium of sleep, a paradise doubly grateful to me after the fatiguing incidents of the day, and the consciousness that though I was in a strange land I was neither alone nor unbefriended.
As some of my readers will be aware, Ireland was at this time suffering in the throes of the Fenian agitation. Not only was a deep patriotic feeling prevalent among honest Irishmen, but the national spirit was also being moved strongly and passionately by the Irish Americans, who were quietly invading the country, and making large and extravagant promises of American support to another rising against English rule. The extraordinary enthusiasm manifested by Irish men and women at that time settled in the United States; and the heartiness with which money was subscribed by all classes of the community, from the middle classes down to the humblest labourers of both sexes, still arrests the attention of the historian, and excites his surprise that enthusiasm so general in its character should have so powerfully impressed the children of Erin who peacefully sojourned in a distant land. The fact remains that for some time Ireland was seething like a restricted volcano, the under-current of patriotism being deep, earnest, and general. Government at length awoke to the seriousness of the crisis, and after a long period of inaction, the English officials came to the conclusion that not only was sedition rife in that unhappy country of Ireland, but that a great proportion of the mischief was directly traceable to Irish-American agents, who with military titles and the nucleus of military organisations, were constantly landing on her shores. It was not, however, until the English government found that chests and packages of arms and munitions of war were being systematically despatched to and distributed through a large range of the country, that they fairly took the alarm, and began to exercise a stricter supervision over the arrival of American Hibernians in Ireland, and took measures for obtaining careful information of the movements of such disaffected persons as had already procured a footing in the country. Not only were the soldiery placed on the alert, but that semi-military organisation, the Irish constabulary, had also instructions to scrutinise carefully the persons and movements of strangers and travellers in the interior of the country. These regulations, of a repressive as well as detective character, were in full force in certain wild and disturbed districts at the time that Morrissy and I were taking our peaceful excursion; and they were the means of bringing about the curious imbroglio I am now about to describe.
When I descended to the coffee-room next morning, I did not find either of my companions of the previous night. As they had not evidently yet slept off the fumes of the whisky-punch, I strolled down to the beach of Clew Bay, and was soon drinking in not only the fine mountain and sea breeze, but also the wild but charming scenery of that fine district. Leaving behind me the desolate ruined warehouses which told the mournful story of the past, when Westport was indeed the western harbour of Ireland, I saw in the near distance the placid waters of the bay, studded with its numerous and picturesque islets; whilst to the left—rearing itself in savage majesty over the waters—frowned the Reek of Croagh Patrick, the sacred mountain of the district, and up the craggy sides of which, pilgrimages to the stone hut of St Patrick are still regularly made. The light haze resting upon the sea and the cloudy vapour that encircled the summit of Croagh Patrick, appeared destined soon to give way before the western breeze, that already curled the surface of the bay into miniature waves and lent a refreshing fragrance to the morning air. But though thus inspirited by the ramble, I could not help thinking with some uneasiness of the dangerously outspoken language both Morrissy and Hanlon had been using when in their cups; though I had heard so much of the proverbial good-fellowship of the Irish character, that I was reluctant to bring myself to the conviction that any such loose talk would be unfavourably brought up against them. At the same time, considering the state of the country and the many warnings on the subject of political discussion which I had received in Dublin, I could not avoid regretting that the conversation had taken such a dangerous direction, feeling assured that if any of the police or military authorities had been in the Commercial Room at the time, they would have been bound to notice what Morrissy and Hanlon might call ‘patriotic talk,’ but which other keen protectors of law and order might designate as seditious and treasonable utterances. It was while thus engaged in chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy that I again found myself at the door of the hotel, in front of which was already standing the long-car on which we purposed journeying that day to Clifden.
I found both Morrissy and Hanlon in the coffee-room awaiting my appearance. The breakfast table was profusely laden with substantial delicacies; but though I was ready enough for that meal, I could see at a glance that my companions were not equally prepared. Both looked sheepish enough in all conscience, and on the principle that if you feel ill you must take ‘a hair of the dog that bit you,’ each of them had a suspicious-looking glass of ‘mountain-dew’ at his elbow. Neither seemed inclined for eating, and I therefore had the breakfast-table much to myself. I tried to interest them by describing the delightful walk I had enjoyed to the bay, but was unable to galvanise either life or spirit into them. My only hope was that the fresh keen sea-air and the rushing excitement of the car-ride might by-and-by restore them to their wonted physical and mental equilibrium.
As the weather had by this time cleared up, and there was every prospect of a fine pleasant journey of forty miles to Clifden, through the heart of the Connemara mountains, the car filled rapidly that morning, partly with visitors like ourselves and partly with residents in the district. Within the latter category evidently came two fine-looking undoubted Irishmen, who took their seats on my side of the conveyance, and who interested me by their conversation and evident familiarity with the sights of the neighbourhood. They were well though plainly dressed, and evidently devoted themselves to the task of engaging me in talk of a nature innocent enough in itself, but which later on grew somewhat irksome and suspicious. Morrissy and Hanlon were on the other side of the car; and just as it was about to start, our friend Doolan came up in a bit of a hurry, and took the vacant seat which had been left unoccupied by their side. Doolan, who was spruce and collected enough, and who looked as fresh as a daisy, gave me a half-familiar nod, and then exchanged the compliments of the day with my friends. It struck me that Hanlon received his approaches in a half-sullen, half-distant manner, but that I set down to my latent suspicions respecting the man; and as the car rattled gaily over the road to Leenane, and I heard little bursts of laughter and apparently racy jests exchanged by that party, I felt ashamed of the apprehension by which I was still haunted.
The route, at first direct south, curved a little westward as we approached Killery Bay, through the mountainous, land-locked, tortuous courses of which the Atlantic was now rolling in magnificent grandeur. I was entranced with the first view of this fine picture, embracing high rugged rocks overhanging the bay, with a stern range of mountains in the north-west, and a splendid natural harbour in which the navy of England might safely ride, protected from all winds except the west. My enthusiasm increased as we neared Leenane, which pretty little village nestled snugly and picturesquely at the head of Killery, and where we stopped to change horses. Here Mr Doolan alighted, somewhat to my surprise; though I fancied a look of intelligence passed between him and the two Irishmen with whom I had been in conversation. In answer to my question as to whether he was not going farther with us, he quietly remarked that he had a little business in the neighbourhood, but that he would be seeing us again in the course of the day. I noticed that Doolan turned up an avenue leading to a gentleman’s house; and on asking the driver who resided in that fine mansion, was somewhat dryly told that ‘it was the country residence of Mr Sarsfield, a magistrate.’
AN ASCENT OF ARARAT.
The first recorded ascent of the great mountain which is an object of veneration to all the races who inhabit Asia Minor, however various they may be in blood, in customs, and in creeds; the mountain to which tradition assigns the resting of the Ark from its floating above the ruins of a drowned world, and at whose foot at this present time three empires meet, took place in 1829. Ararat was then ascended by Dr Frederick Parrot, a Russo-German Professor in the university of Dorpat, after whom is named one of the pinnacles of Monte Rosa. After two unsuccessful attempts, the Professor reached the top of the mountain with a party of three Armenians and two Russian soldiers. The second ascent was made in 1834 by Spassky-Altonomof, who went up in order to ascertain whether it was really true that the stars are visible at noon from the tops of the highest mountains. The third was made by Herr Abich in 1845. General Chodzko, while conducting the survey of Transcaucasia, reached the top with a large party in 1850, and remained there for a week in a tent pitched on the snow. And a party of Englishmen—who, however, believed that they were the first who had accomplished the feat—ascended from the Turkish side in 1856.
Yet, though these several exploits are perfectly proven to the European world, Mr James Bryce tells us in his Transcaucasia and Ararat (London: Macmillan & Co.), that ‘there is not a person living within sight of Ararat, unless possibly some exceptionally educated Russian official in Erivan, who believes that any human foot since Father Noah’s has trodden that sacred summit.’