Far back as I can remember anything I can remember our cottage in Glencar. It was a small thatched house, with plenty of June roses and white jessamine trailing over two sides of it, through wooden trellis-work. The ground rose steeply behind the house, until the trees that covered it gave place to scattered1 clumps2 of holly3 bushes, which finally merged4 into open mountain, heather-covered, and sprinkled here and there with dwarf5 furze bushes. In front of the cottage the little lawn sloped downwards6 to a stream, the bed of which was strewn with great boulders7 of rock, which[2] were bare and dry in summer, but in winter scarcely showed over the surface. Between the big rocks there were pools and shallows, in which trout8 rose briskly at the midges in the early summer evenings. Whenever I think of that cottage home now, it seems to me to be always sunshine there. There must have been dark days, and wet ones, too, but I can’t call them to mind. There was a large flat rock in the middle of the lawn half way down to the stream; one end of this rock was imbedded in the earth, the other leant out from the ground, giving shelter underneath9. The only dark thing I can remember about the whole place was that hollow under the big stone. I used to sit in there on the very hot days, looking out across the stream upon the one road that led from the outer world into Glencar. When the weather was not too warm I lay on the top of the rock, looking at the same view. The road came into the glen over a hill that was four miles distant from our cottage; you could see the white streak10 crossing the crest11 of ridge12, flanked on each side by the dark heather mountain. You caught sight of the road again as it came down the hillside, and here and there at turns, as it wound along the valley to the old five-arched bridge over the Carragh river, and then disappeared around the hill on which our cottage stood. When in the summer days I used to lie on the rock, or beneath its shadows, I was always thinking of the country that lay beyond the boundary ridge, the land to which the[3] white road led when it dipped down behind the hill: that was the outside world to me, the glen was the inside one. As I grew older I came to know more of the outside world; I was able to climb higher up the steep hill behind the house, to get beyond the holly bushes out into the heather, and at last one day I reached the mountain-top itself. That was a great event in my life. It took me a long while to get up; the last bit was very steep; I had to sit down often amid the rocks and heather for want of breath. At last I gained the summit, and sank down quite exhausted13 on an old weather-beaten flat rock; I was just ten years old that day. Thirty years have gone by since then. I have climbed many a lofty mountain, lain down for weeks alone in forests and on prairies, but never have I felt so proudly conscious of success as I did that day. It was my first view of the outside world. How vast it seemed to me. The glen, my world, lay below, winding14 away amid the hills. All the streams, all the lakes, were unfolded to my sight, and out beyond the boundary ridge was the great open country. That was on one side—the glen side; but as I turned round to look beyond the mountain I had come up, I saw a sight that filled me with utter astonishment15. Below me on that side there lay another glen, smaller than ours; then the hill rose again, but not to the height of the ridge on which I stood; and then, beyond the hill, there spread a great, vast waste of blue water—out—out, until I could see no more,[4] where the sky came down upon it—the end of the world. It was the sea!
It was getting dark when I reached home that day. I went straight to my mother. “Mother,” I said, “I have been to the top of Coolrue, and have seen the end of the world.” I was fearfully tired; I had fallen over rocks coming down, and was bruised17 and torn; but what did it matter?
From that day forth18 the glen seemed a small place to me, and my mind was ever at work shaping plans for the future. About this time I began to read well. There were many old books in our cottage—books of travel and adventure, books of history, and one large old atlas19 that had maps of every country in the world in it, and in the corner of each map there was a picture of the people of the land, or of some wonderful mountain, or waterfall in it.
I read all these books in the long winter evenings; and many a time I sat poring over the maps, moving my finger up a long waving line of river, and travelling in fancy from island to island in the ocean.
And now I must say something about the inmates20 of our home. They were few. There was my mother, one old servant woman, and an old man who kept the garden tilled, drove in the cow at nightfall, and took care of everything. In truth there wasn’t much to be taken care of. We were very poor, and we were all the poorer because we had once[5] been rich—at least my mother had been. My father had died before I could remember him. His picture hung over the fireplace in our little parlour; and I can almost say that I do remember him, because the picture is confused in my mind with the reality, and I have a dim recollection of a man, tall, pale, and dark haired; but I can’t add to it voice or action; it is only a vague kind of shadow. I was four years old when he died.
When I was seven years old my mother began to tell me about him. She used to sit often in the winter evenings looking at his picture; and as I sat at her feet, and she spoke21 of the old times, and how brave and honourable22 he was, I remember her voice used to tremble, and sometimes she would stop altogether.
As I grew older I learned more about him. I heard how we had first come to Glencar. It had been a favourite spot with my father in his early days, and whenever he could get leave of absence he used to come to it, for the lakes held plenty of trout, and the mountains had snipe, woodcock, and grouse23 upon them. After my father’s marriage he had built the cottage. My mother was as fond of the glen as he was, and they used to come here for two or three months every year. When they had been three years married my father’s regiment24 was ordered to India. My mother went too. I was only two years old at the time. When we reached India the regiment was ordered up country, for war had broken[6] out. At the battle of Moodkee my father was severely25 wounded. After a while he was able to be moved down to the coast, where my mother had remained when the regiment went on service. From the coast he was invalided26 to England. The voyage home was a long one. We arrived in England in the end of summer.
The autumn and winter came. The cold told severely upon my father’s weakened state, and when spring arrived it was evident he had but a short time to live. He wished to see Glencar again. With much difficulty he was brought to the cottage, to die.
In the upper end of the glen there was a wild secluded27 lake called Lough Cluen. A solitary28 island stood under the shadow of a tall mountain wall which overhangs the lake on one side. The island is little more than a rock, with yew-trees and ivy29 growing over it. A ruined church, half hidden in the trees, stood on this rock. It was my father’s grave. He had wished to be buried in this lonely island, and his wish was carried out.
The little cottage, a few acres of land, the rugged30 mountain and the stream—now formed, with my mother’s scanty31 pension, all our worldly possessions. Here, then, we took up our residence, and here I grew up, as I have already described—the glen my world; the mountain, lake, and stream my daily playground.
About a mile from our cottage there lived an old pensioner32, who, forty years earlier, had followed Wellington from the Tagus to Toulouse. He had served his full term of twenty-one years, and being at the time of his discharge a staff-sergeant33, his pension was sufficient to secure him a comfortable home for the rest of his days. He had a few acres of land around his cottage. He was the best angler in the glen. He was my earliest friend and guide with rod and gun on river, lake, and mountain side.
Sergeant MacMahon, formerly34 of her Majesty’s 40th Regiment, was, when I knew him, a man who had passed his sixtieth year. Yet time, despite a score years of fighting and exposure, had dealt lightly with the old soldier, who still stood as straight as the ramrod he had so often driven home upon the bullet of his firelock. From him I got my first lessons in other things besides fishing and shooting. He taught me the “extension motions,” the “balance step without gaining ground,” the manual and platoon exercises, and the sword exercise. He also showed me the method of attack and defence with the bayonet.
Sergeant MacMahon.
He had the battles of the Peninsula by heart, and day after day did he pour forth his descriptions of how Busaco was won, and how Fuentes d’Onore had been decided35, and how Lord Wellington had outmarched “Sowlt,” as he used to call him, at Pampeluna, or had out-man?uvred Marmont at Torres Vedras. His personal adventures were told in another style. He had stories of bivouac—“bivoocing” he[8] used to call it—of nights on outlying picquet, of escapes when patrolling, and of incidents in action, that he loved to recount to me as we sat by the river side waiting for a cloud to cross the sun before we tried a cast of flies over some favourite stream.
Once every quarter he set off in his mule-cart for Killarney to draw his pension. On these occasions I used to notice that his voice on his return sounded a little thick, and his face generally appeared flushed. But the next day all would be the same as usual. At the time I fancied that the exertion36 of the journey had been too much for him, or that the excitement of meeting some old comrades (there were three other Peninsula heroes in the town) had overcome him. He had been a great ally of my poor father’s in earlier days, and to my mother he was equally attached. With all his stories of wars and fighting his heart was true and gentle. He was fond of all animals, knew the notes of every bird, and could tell the names of the trees in the wood, or the wild flowers by the river side. He was my outdoor schoolmaster. I learned from him many a pleasant lesson, and many a useful one too.
But I had another schoolmaster at this time. A mile down the glen from our cottage stood the priest’s house, next to our own cabin-cottage the most comfortable residence in Glencar. In summer the old man was usually to be found in his garden, in winter in his little parlour,[9] always buried in some old volume from his well-stored shelves.
His had been a curious career. His early student days had been passed in an old French city. In middle age he had been a missionary37 in the East, and at last he had taken charge of the wild district of Glencar, and settled down to the simple life of parish priest. Here he lived in the memory of his past life. Nearly half a century had gone since last his eyes had rested on the vine-clad slopes of the Loire, but it was ever an easy task to him to fling back his thoughts across that gulf38 of time, and to recall the great names that had risen in the sunrise of the century, and flashed such a glory over Europe that the lustre39 of succeeding time has shone faint and dim in contrast. He had seen the great emperor review his guards in the courtyard of the Tuileries, and had looked upon a group of horsemen that had in it Murat, Ney, Soult, Lannes, and Massena. How he used to revel40 in such memories! and what point such experience lent to the theme! He never tired talking of the great campaigns of the Consulate41 and Empire. I followed him in these reminiscences with rapt eagerness; the intensity42 of my interest gave increased ardour to his narrative43, and many a winter’s night sped rapidly while the old man, seated before his turf fire, rambled44 on from battle-field to battle-field, now describing to me the wonderful strategy of some early campaign in Italy, now carrying my[10] mind into the snows of Russia, and again taking me back into the plains of France, to that last and most brilliant effort of warlike genius, the campaign of 1814.
At such times, the storm among the mountains would sometimes lend its roar in fitting accompaniment to the old man’s story, and then the scene would change to my mind’s eye as I listened. The little parlour would fade away, the firelight became a bivouac, and I saw in the grim outside darkness of the glen figures dimly moving; the squadrons charged; the cannon46 rumbled47 by; and the pine-tops swaying in the storm, were the bearskin caps of the old Guard, looming48 above smoke and fire!
Such were my schoolmasters; such the lessons they taught me.
The years passed quickly away. Notwithstanding my strong love of outdoor life, I devoted50 a good many hours every day to reading and study, and by the time I was fifteen years of age I had contrived51 to master a curious amount of general knowledge, particularly of history and geography, such as does not usually fall to the lot of boys of that age. I had a slight knowledge of Latin, was tolerably well acquainted with French, knew the habits, customs, and limits on every nation and tribe under the sun, and could travel the globe in fancy with few errors of time, distance, and position.
One companion I had in all these years who has not yet been mentioned—poor Donogh Driscoll, a wild and ragged53 boy, two years my junior.
In every adventure, in every expedition among the hills, Donogh was my attendant. He it was who used to wade54 into the reeds of Meelagh river to catch gudgeon for the baits for my night-lines in the Carragh; he carried my bag, later on, when my shooting time came; he marked with clear eye the long flight of the grouse pack down the steep slope of Coolrue; he brought me tidings of wild duck feeding on the pools and ponds amid the hills; he knew the coming of the wild geese to the lonely waste that lay beyond Lough Acoose; he would watch the pools in the Carragh river, and knew to a foot where the salmon55 lay. Faithful companion through all my boyish sports and pastimes, he shared too with me my dreams of enterprise, my hopes of adventure in the big outside world. Often as we sat on some rock high up on the heather-covered side of Seefin, looking out over the vast waste of ocean, he would wonder what it was like over there “beyant the beyant.”
“You wont56 lave me here alone by myself, when you go away, sir?” he used to say to me. “It’s lonely I’d be thin entirely57.”
“You’d have the fishing and shooting, Donogh,” I would reply. “You’d have the hares and the salmon all to yourself when I was gone.”
“What good would they be to me, ave you wasn’t here with them?” he’d answer. “Sure the duck in November above in Cluen, and the salmon in ’Coose in April, and the grouse here on Seefin in August, would only remimber me of the ould days when we hunted thim together.”
I used at such times to promise him that whenever I did set out on my travels I would take him with me; and indeed, in all my plans for the future his companionship was always reckoned upon.
At the upper end of the glen, a narrow pass, or gap between two mountains, led out upon a wild and lonely lake, around the sides of which the mountains rose in a gloomy precipice58 of rock for many hundreds of feet.
Cooma-sa-harn, the name of the tarn59 that lay thus encompassed60 by cliffs, was a place that in my earliest wanderings filled me with feelings of awe61 and wonder. Strange echoes haunted it. Stones loosened from the impending62 cliffs rolled down into the lake with reverberating63 thunder, and their sullen64 splash into the dark water was heard repeated for many seconds around the encircling walls. On one side only was the margin65 of the lake approachable on level ground. Here loose stones and shingle66, strewn together, formed a little beach, upon which the sullen waters broke in mimic67 waves; and here, too, the outflow of the lake escaped to descend68 the mountain side, and finally add its tribute to the many feeders of the Carragh river.
I was about twelve years of age when I first extended my wanderings to this lonely spot. Later on, Donogh and I made frequent expeditions to it. Its waters held no fish, and its shores rose too steep and high for game. But for all these deficiencies, Cooma-sa-harn held one wonder that sufficed to atone69 for every other shortcoming, and to make it a place of unceasing interest to us. It had an eagle’s nest. There, 600 feet over the lake, in a smooth piece of solid rock, was a shelf or crevice70, and in that hollow a golden eagle had built his nest year after year. From the little beach already mentioned we could see the birds at their work. From the top of the encircling cliffs we could look down and across at them too; but the distance in either case was great, and do what we would to obtain a closer view, we were always baffled by the precipitous nature of the mountain. We tried the mountain immediately above the nest, but could see nothing whatever of the smooth rock. We worked our way along the edge of the water, by the foot of the precipice, but were again baffled in the attempt. Projecting rocks hid the whole side of the cliff. We were fairly puzzled.
Many an hour we spent looking up from the shore at the coveted71 shelf, which it seemed we were never likely to learn more about. The eagles seemed to know our thoughts, for they frequently soared and screamed high above our heads, as though they rejoiced in our discomfiture72. It was not alone in the spring and summer that we were reminded of[14] our enemies thus perched on their inaccessible73 fortress74. In the last hour of daylight of winter evenings a solitary speck75 over the valley would often be seen sailing downwards through space. It was the golden eagle going home to his ledge52 at Cooma-sa-harn.
It would be idle to deny that we both felt keenly our inability to get to this eagle’s nest. During four years we had looked across the dark waters, had watched the old birds flying in and out, had seen the young ones sitting on the ledge, and had listened to their screams as their mother came down to them with a prey76 from the surrounding hills. There was in our cottage an old telescope that had belonged to my father in his early days. This I brought out one day, and looking through it, with elbows resting upon knees, and glass directed upon the shelf of rock, I could discern plainly enough the inmates of the rough nest; but all this only made more tantalizing77 our helplessness to scale the rock, or to descend from above to the projecting ledge. The day on which I brought out the telescope to make a closer survey of the spot, was bright with sunshine. As the hours grew later the sun moving towards the west, cast its light full upon the face of the nest, which had before been in shadow. The inequalities of the surface, and the formation of the cliffs around the large flat rock, became much more apparent than they had ever been before to me. Among other things, I observed that[15] the ledge in which the nest was made was continued in a shallowed state along the face of the cliff until it touched the end at one side. I noticed also that on the top of the smooth-faced rock there was a ridge, or kind of natural parapet, and that this ridge was connected with a deep perpendicular78 cleft79, or chimney, which opened at top upon the accessible part of the mountain. Scanning with the utmost attentiveness80 all these places, I began to see what I thought might prove a practicable line of approach to the much-desired nest. That it was possible to reach the top of the smooth-faced rock by means of the chimney shaft81 appeared tolerably clear, but this top ridge or parapet already mentioned, was fully16 forty feet above the ledge on which the nest stood.
By the time I had fully investigated all these details, so far as they could be examined by means of the telescope, the face of the cliff had become again involved in shadow, and it was time to turn our faces homewards for the evening; but enough had been discovered to give us food for conversation that night, and to raise high hopes that our efforts to reach the nest might yet prove successful.
We started early next morning for the top of the mountain ridge which looked down upon Cooma-sa-harn. On the previous evening I had taken the precaution of fixing the position of the top of the chimney, by getting it in line with two large boulders—one on the beach by the lake, the[16] other some distance back from the shore. Arrived at the upper edge of the encircling basin I had no difficulty in bringing the two boulders, now at the further side from us, in line with each other, and then at the edge of the rocky rim45 we found a break in the rock, as though water in time of heavy rain had flowed down through it to the lake.
We entered this break, and descending82 cautiously soon found ourselves on the top of the flat rock. Below us lay the black pool of Cooma-sa-harn; on each side the flat parapet ended in steep mountain side; above us was the mountain top, accessible only by the hollow shaft through which we had descended83. So far all had gone as the survey through the telescope had led us to hope—we had reached the top of the smoothed-faced rock; but the nest lay thirty or forty feet below us, still, apparently84 beyond our reach. We sat down on the top of the rock, reluctant to quit a spot so near to the long-coveted prize. The rock on which we rested was flanked on one side by a broken slant85 of mountain, down which a descent seemed possible if there was anything at hand to hold fast by; it was, however, bare of vegetation. It occurred to me now that a descent could be made down this slant by means of a rope, held by a second person standing49 on the ridge where we stood. The ledge which held the nest was situated87 so perpendicularly88 underneath as to be hidden altogether from our standpoint; but if my survey through the telescope had been correct, a person[17] descending the slant should be able to reach that end of the ledge which I had seen in the sunlight extending on one side to the extremity89 of the rock. All that was required to put this theory to the test of practice was a strong rope some fifty feet long, which, held by one at the top, would act as a support to one of us while going down the slanting90 rock, and would afterwards afford help for a side movement along the narrow ledge to the nest itself. As I sat thinking out this plan one of the birds came soaring on moveless pinion91 from the mountain downwards towards the nest. He saw us long before he reached the ledge, and his loud and angry screams rang around the steep rock-walls, making strange echoes over the gloomy water.
We went home that evening full of the thought that we had at last discovered a means of getting to the eagle’s nest. It would take a few days to obtain a rope of the length and strength necessary for the undertaking92, and then a final effort would be made to solve the long-considered problem. It took me some days to procure93 the rope. I had consulted Sergeant MacMahon vaguely94 on the subject, but finding that he was opposed to it as being too dangerous, I had fallen back upon my own resources and those of Donogh. At length all preparations were completed; we had tested the rope by fastening one end of it to the fork of a tree and swinging out on the other end; we had also got an iron stake to fix in a crevice of the rock by which to attach the rope; with[18] these and a few other necessary articles we set out early one morning for Cooma-sa-harn. We struck across the shoulders of Meelagh mountain, dipped into Glentahassig, and breasting up the steep side of Seefin came out on the edge of the cliff which looked down upon the dark lake. Descending the chimney, we were soon in our old position on the parapet rim of the large flat rock. We now set to work to fix the iron stake firmly between two detached rocks; we fastened the rope securely to the stake, letting the loose end fall down the mountain by the edge of the perpendicular cliff. Now came the anxious moment; holding on by the rope, I began to descend the steep slanting face of the mountain. During the first twelve feet of the descent the work was easy enough. I was in sight of Donogh, whom I had directed to remain at the stake to see that all was right there. After a bit the hill side became steeper, a piece of smooth rock occurred, and then there was a drop of about six feet, that hid Donogh from my view. When I had passed this drop the slant became again easier, and without much difficulty I gained the end of the ledge or groove95 upon which, but still distant from me, stood the nest. The real difficulty of the undertaking was now before me. I had to move along the ledge, a narrow shelf on the face of a perpendicular rock many hundred feet above the lake. It was now Donogh’s work to unfasten the rope from the iron stake, and to move along the top, keeping[19] pace with my progress on the ledge beneath. Everything depended upon his steadiness; but I had full faith in his strength and skill. Up to this time all had been perfectly96 quiet at the nest; there was no sign of the old bird, nor could we hear the young ones screaming. I began very cautiously to move along the narrow ledge; step by step I went along. As I proceeded forward the ledge became wider, and I found sufficient room for both my feet to stand together upon it. I could not yet see the nest, as the rock curved out towards its centre cutting off the view beyond. Arrived at the bend of the rock, I leant round the projection97 and peered anxiously forward. There, on the bare shelf of the ledge, lay the eagle’s nest; two young eaglets sat dozing98 on the rock; around lay fragments of bones, tufts of fur torn from rabbits, feathers, and the dry stems of heather.
Another step and I was round the bend and at the nest. At this spot the shelf deepened considerably99 into the rock, leaving space sufficient to give standing-room without need of assistance. Intent only upon securing the young birds, I let go my hold of the rope, and seized the nearest eaglet before he was fully awake; the second one, hearing his companion scream, retreated further into the hole. Then it was that, looking outward, I saw the rope hanging, dangling100 loosely in mid-air. It was beyond my reach. For a moment the fearful position in which I so suddenly found myself[20] caused me to sink upon the shelf. All the reality of my situation rushed full upon my mind. The rope hung fully five or six feet out over the abyss, for the rock above the ledge was formed like the roof of a cavern101, projecting outward between me and Donogh’s standpoint, and when I had let go my hold of the line it had swung out to its level fall. That I could get back over the space I had come, and ascend102 again to the parapet where Donogh stood, I knew to be impossible. To reach the line from the nest seemed quite hopeless. In Donogh lay my sole chance of relief. If by any means he could convey the rope to me, all would be well. If not, there seemed nothing save the awful alternative of death by starvation or the precipice before me. I shouted to Donogh what had happened. I told him that I could not reach the rope by fully three feet—that my sole chance of escape lay in his being able to follow my line of descent and bring the rope to me, leaving it fixed103 at the other end, in some part of the parapet above which would allow the line to pass from the nest to the end of the ledge.
The minutes now passed in terrible suspense104. Donogh shouted to me that he was looking for a secure place to fasten the upper end of the rope to. I remained seated in the hollow, scarcely daring to think what the next few minutes might bring forth. Suddenly Donogh shouted to me, “The eagle is coming back to the nest.” The news roused me from my stupor—the eagle was coming back! I[21] crouched105 into the inmost recesses106 of the hollow. I still held one of the young birds in the bag round my waist, the other bird kept on the ledge at the further side from that by which I had approached. I had not much fear as to what the bird could do; I had a knife in my belt, and while an arm was free I knew I was more than a match for any bird. From the spot where I sat I could see out over the lake into the blue and golden sunshine.
All at once a large dark object crossed the line of light—soon recrossing it again as another wheel brought the huge bird nearer to its nest. Loud screams were now audible as the eagle became aware of something being wrong in the nest. Then there was the fierce beating of wings close outside the aperture107, and the bird was perched on the edge of the rock, fiercely defiant108, and making the echoes wild with her tumult109. But amid all these surroundings I was only conscious of one fact. The eagle had struck the rope as it hung down in front of the opening; it had caught in the large outstretched pinion, and it was again within my reach, passing under the flapping wing of the bird as she stood clasping the rock ledge in her talons110. There was not a moment to be lost; I thrust the young eagle at full arm’s length towards the mother; she fluttered forward as I did so—the rope was again within my grasp. In an instant the eagle had relaxed her hold upon the rock, and clutching her young in her talons she went soaring downward to a lower ledge amid the cliffs. I thought I could never get away fast enough now. A complete change had come over my mind. I had learnt a lesson never to be forgotten; and my life, forfeited111 in a vain and foolhardy attempt to gain the eagle’s nest at Cooma-sa-harn, was given back to me by the wild bird whose young I had come to rob from her. I now called out to Donogh that all was again right, and that he was to reverse his former practice to enable me to rejoin him. I passed safely back along the ledge, reascended the slant, and gained once more the parapet.
The rope was again within my grasp.
“Come, Donogh,” I said when I was again with my companion, “let us leave this spot. Whatever happens, we will never again rob the nest or kill the young of birds or beasts. There is sport enough in the world for us without that.”
On the edge of the mountain side we paused for a moment to look down upon Cooma-sa-harn, and the scene that lay beyond it. One eagle was screaming loudly from the nest, the other was sweeping112 down on outspread pinion from the purple wastes of Seefin.
I have dwelt long upon this episode in my early career, not so much from its importance, but because it did more to bring home to my mind certain truths that are often realized later on in life than anything that had happened to me up to my sixteenth year. I had soon to learn another,[23] and a more bitter lesson.
The summer passed away; autumn came; the smell of dying leaves was in the woods of Carragh, the wind sighed amid the sedgy grass of Lough Cluen, the pine-trees by the priest’s house moaned in the breeze. Things looked sad in the glen, but they wore even a sadder aspect in our little cottage. My mother was leaving me for ever.
One evening in October I was sitting with her in our little parlour; the flush was bright upon her cheek, her wasted hand was resting upon mine; she spoke to me in a low voice.
“You will soon be alone in the world,” she said. “My life has only a little while to run. It is better that I should go. I could have been of little use to you in life, and I might have held you back in the world. In any case we must have parted soon, for your days could not have been spent here in this distant glen. The mountains and the lakes have been good friends to you, but it is time for you to leave them, and go forth to take your place in the work of the world. I should have wished you in your father’s profession, but that could not be; we are too poor for that. Of one thing I am satisfied, no matter what the future may have in store for you, I feel you will be true to your father’s name and to my memory. When I am gone you will have the world all before you to choose from. Bear well your part in life whatever it may be. Never be ashamed of your God, or of your[24] country. And when the day is over and you kneel down in prayer, do not forget the two graves that lie far away in the little island of Lough Cluen.”
About a week after this she passed quietly away, her hand clasped in mine, pressure still speaking her affection long after the power of utterance113 had ceased.
When all was over I left the chamber114 of death, and moved out mechanically into the open air. Night had fallen; the moon was high over the glen. I walked onward115, scarcely knowing whither I was going. I saw all things around as though in a dream. I passed through the wood behind the cottage; the moonlight shone bright upon the silver stems of the birch-trees; streaks116 of vapour lay in the hollows where the trees ended. I saw all these things, and yet my brain seemed unable to move.
I turned back from the end of the wood, passed the garden gate, and entered the little plot of ground in which my mother had been wont to tend flowers. It was now wild and desolate117; grass grew on the walks; weeds and dead leaves lay around; only a few chrysanthemums118 were still in blossom—she had planted them in the past summer, and now their short life had lasted longer than her own—their pale flowers in the moonlight gave forth a sweet fragrance119 on the night air.
Death had chilled my heart; my eyes had been dry; my brain seemed to have stopped its working; but here the scent86 of the flowers she had planted seemed all at once to touch some secret sympathy, and bursting into a flood of grief I bowed my head to the cold damp earth, and prayed long and earnestly to God.
A footstep on the walk roused me. The old priest had sought me out. “Weep not, my poor boy,” he said, as he took my arm in his own and led me to the cottage. “You pray for your mother on earth. She is praying for you in heaven.”
My boyhood was over. I was alone in the world. The winter deepened and passed, the spring dawned, and with its returning freshness and sense of life my old dreams of distant travel came again upon me. I determined120 to seek my fortune abroad, to go forth into the waste wilds of the earth. Glencar had but trained my mind and body to further flights. I must go forth to the struggle. It did not take long to arrange matters for this great change. My worldly possessions were easily realized; the cottage and little farm soon found a purchaser; the few mementoes of my father’s life, the keepsakes which my mother had left me, were put carefully away in charge of the old priest; and I found myself the possessor of a few hundred pounds in money, a gun, my father’s sword, a small case containing miniature portraits of my parents—with which to face the[26] new life that lay before me. What was that life?
It was to be a life of wandering in the great wilderness121 of Western America. I had formed from books a pretty accurate idea of the great divisions of the Northern Continent of America which yet remained in the domain122 of untamed nature. I knew that far beyond the last settler’s hut there lay a vast region of meadow, which finally gave place to a still vaster realm of forest, which in time yielded dominion123 to a wild waste of rock and water, until the verge124 of the Polar Sea. I knew too that these great divisions held roving and scattered tribes of Indians, sometimes at war with each other, always engaged in the pursuit of the wild beasts and birds whose homes were in those untamed wastes. More I did not need to know. I had trust, firm trust, in this great Nature, her lonely hill-tops, her wild lakes. The sigh of winds across November moors125 had had for me no sense of dreariness126, no kinship with sorrow. Why should I dread127 to meet this world, whose aspects I loved so well, in the still wilder and grander scenes of an empire where civilized128 man was a total stranger?
Nor was I to be altogether alone in my travels. Donogh was to continue in his old sphere of companion and attendant. Together we had roamed the hill sides of Glencar; together we would tread the vast prairies, pine forests, and mountains of the American wilderness.
The day of our departure came.
It was a bright morning in early summer. We put our small baggage on Sergeant MacMahon’s mule-cart, said good-bye to all our friends, and set out upon our road. The old sergeant insisted upon accompanying me as far as Killarney, from which place the train would take us to Cork129, where the steamer for New York called. As we approached the priest’s house, the old man stood at his gate waiting for us. His voice trembled as he said good-bye, and gave us his blessing130. “God is everywhere, my boy,” he said, as he wrung131 my hand. “Remember Him, and He will not forget you.”
At the crest of the hill where the road left the valley, we stopped a moment to take a last look at the old glen. It lay deep in sunshine, every peak clear and cloudless in the summer heaven.
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收听单词发音
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1
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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2
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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3
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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4
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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5
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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6
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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10
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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11
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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12
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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13
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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14
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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15
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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16
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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17
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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18
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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19
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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20
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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23
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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24
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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25
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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26
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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27
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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28
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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29
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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30
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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31
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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32
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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33
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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34
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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35
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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36
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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37
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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38
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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39
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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40
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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41
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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42
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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43
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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44
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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45
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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46
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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47
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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48
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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51
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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52
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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53
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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54
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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55
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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56
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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57
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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58
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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59
tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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60
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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61
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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62
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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63
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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64
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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65
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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66
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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67
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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68
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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69
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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70
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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71
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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72
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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73
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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74
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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75
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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76
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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77
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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78
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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79
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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80
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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81
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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82
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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83
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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84
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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85
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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86
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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87
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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88
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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89
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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90
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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91
pinion
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| v.束缚；n.小齿轮 | |
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92
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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93
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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94
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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95
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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96
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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97
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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98
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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99
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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100
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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101
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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102
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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103
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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104
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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105
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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107
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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108
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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109
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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110
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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111
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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113
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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114
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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115
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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116
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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117
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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118
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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119
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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120
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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121
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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122
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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123
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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124
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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125
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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127
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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128
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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129
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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130
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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131
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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