DERMOT O'BRIEN:
OR
THE TAKING OF TREDAGH.
A Tale of 1649.
BY
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT,
AUTHOR OF “THE ROMAN TRAITOR,” “MARMADUKE WYVIL,”
“CROMWELL,” “THE BROTHERS,” ETC.
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The bright, warm sunshine of a July morning was pouring
its full stream of vivifying lustre over a wide expanse of wild,
open country, in one of the south-eastern counties of Ireland.
For miles and miles over which the eye extended, not a sign
of a human habitation, or of man's handiwork, was visible;
unless these were to be found in the existence of a long range
of young oak woodland, which lay to the north-east, stretching
for several miles continuously along the low horizon in that
quarter, with something that might have been either a mist-wreath,
or a column of blue smoke floating lazily in the pure
atmosphere above it. The foreground of this desolate, but
lovely landscape, was formed by a wide, brawling stream,
which almost merited the name of a river, and which here
issuing from an abrupt, rocky cleft or chasm, in the round-headed
moorland hills, spread itself out over a broader bed,
flowing rapidly in bright whirls and eddies upon a bottom of
glittering pebbles, with here and there a great boulder heaving
its dark, mossy head above the surface, and hundreds of silver-sided,
yellow-finned trouts, flashing up like meteors from
the depths, and breaking the smooth ripples in pursuit of
their insect prey.
The banks of this beautiful stream were fringed on the farther
side by a feathery coppice of aspen, birch and alders,
with here and there a doddered oak overgrown with the
broad-leaved Irish ivy; or a dark holly brake, relieving by
their evergreen foliage the lighter verdure of the deciduous
trees around them. Above this screen of brushwood, the
moorlands rose in a long expanse of gently-swelling, heath-clad
ridges, now glowing with the purple bloom of the sweet
heather and the mountain thyme, knoll above knoll, with deep
hollows intervening, like the seas and troughs of a storm-tossed
ocean, until afar off in the dim distance they were bounded to
the westward by the blue towering heights of the great mountain
of Slieyh-Bay.
It was perhaps ten of the clock, though there was little
chance that the hour of God's day should be proclaimed in
that delicious solitude by the iron tongue of man's machinery;
where not a sound had been heard since the peep of dawn, except
the rippling music of the stream, the low sigh of the soft
west wind among the aspen leaves, the busy hum of the bees
from the heather blossoms, and the occasional crow of the gallant
goreock from his station on the crest of you sunny hillock.
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