The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1874-02-13
MISCELLANY.
AUNT LORA'S LONG AGO.

Glenbawn, nestled at the base of OF
of the Wicklow mountains-Sugarloa
1t was the winter of 1s67-S, and all ou
neighbors of note had moved into Dul
lin, driven from the lonely hills BY tn
terrors of the Fenian movement, whic
was the engrossing topic in every mout
and with every class.
/ l had come over TO Christmas wit
auntie, as my father had been oblige
to leave Unexpectedly for the West In
dies-a hurried journey, on which it wa
inexpedient for me TO accompany him
SO our London home was shut up and
was consigned to the care of his Irisl
aunt, of whom l had often heard, bu
| whom | had never seen. She had vel
coined me lovingly; we had held con
sultation on my fist arrival at Glenbawn
and had decided on biding at auntie',
own cosey nest amid her home duties
rather than spend an idle winter in un
homelike lodgings in town; so / settled
down as eontentcdly as might be tc
wear away the months " which lay be
tween me and my fathers home-com.
ing.
We had pleasant talks in the long
evenings when the curtains were drawn
the turf fire heaped.up with an oaken log
in its ruby heart, its ruddy glare striving
with the soft steady light of the wax
candles which burned in old silver
branched candlesticks on every table and
bracket ir the pretty quaint drawing
room. Aunt Lraa's tiny but stately
figure, with its rich black silk and deli
cate laces, the soft silver hair rolled back
and almost covered by cloud of lace
fastened by large diamond pins and
floating far below her waist. She was
simply lovely, and 1 used to look up at
her from my pet lounge on the soft
white rug with the passionate admira-
tion of a girl for the first realization of
her ideal woman. To me-insignifcant
brown mouse that | was-with all her
seventy years she seemed perfectly beau
tiful.
One night we had talked long while
of the foolish Fenians-of the sad, sad
story of the of poor, lovely Ireland,
with her desolate cabin-homes and ex-
lied children; then it was that she told
some bits of her long ago.
81 was born" auntie said, in the ter
rible '9S, when the rage and hatred
which had smouldered for years among
the Irish peasantry burst into a fame
which envelOped and scathed. the whole
country side. Centuries of misrule had
laid the train; measures of repression
necessary, it may be, but certainly Sc
we're, nay, cruel-applied the spark
The hdbcds corpus was suspended; gov
ernment spies lurked on every side; the
horses of the poor farmers were impress
sed for baggage transport; the concur
ence of seven magistrates was sufficient
warrant to cOnsign to the Fleet, almost
without the form of trial, any num-
Der of persons found at unlawful assem-
blies; soldiers were billeted without the
least pretence or regard had to right or
justice, and the conduct of the yeoman-
ry was in too many instances aggrava-
ting beyond measure. I have heard the
story of those days from my mother
your great-grandmother, darling. My
father lodged a whole regiment of yeo-
manry here in this old house, with its
outbuildings. Looking back in quiet
after-years it seemed to me like dream
too werid and dreary to have been more
than adream-the quiet homestead filled
with armed men, the kindly country
sounds silenced; in their stead the clash
of arms, the angry voices of men ready
and eager to meet death, SO that with it
they found revenge; the lurid glare of
the rebel beacons lighting up the soft
summer night landscape; the ceaseless
tramp and tumult of camp; the terri
BILE rumors which floated, it seemed, on
the very airs of heaven; the news brought
in by disguised scouts of the burning,
by the rebels, of Scullabogue Barn,
crowded with three hundred prisoners,
whom they flung back in the flames
when they did manage to escape through
the door or window; the capture of the
mails in different parts of Ireland, the
burning of the coaches when the bags
were secured, the murder of the passen-
gers and guards; the wild excess of Fa-
ther Murphy in the south, whose house
and Chapel the soldiers had burned
down; he had vowed fearful vengance,
which he had began on the dreadful
23d of May by setting fire to the house
of every Protestant in the little town of
Kilcormick and numbering the owners.
May had its catalogue of horrors; they
were to be surpassed by the massacres
which took place in June in the rebel
camp of Vinegar Hill, but the horror
reached its climax with the murders on
Wexford Bridge. I will not dwell on
this, but will tell you that late one oven
ing towards the end of June a weary,
blood stained, wounded fugitive crept in
here with the news. The tale he told
maddened the soldiers, even the tender
heart of my father hardened against the
tortures of some of the best and nobleat
men in ireland, many of them his own
loved friends. There was a hurried
call to arms, midnight march, from
which there was to be no homecoming
for him and for many beside. He was
colonel of the regiment, and rode off
with set face and cleaning eyes which
never softened, even as he kissed good
by to wife and child-my sister Meg,
your grandmother-I was not born then.
Three days-a long, hot, breathless ag-
ony. of suspense for poor mother-did
not bring him back; with the dawn of
the fourth came the heavy tramp of
armed men; her weary eyes, which had
not closed since she had looked her last
on her husband, watched band OF reb-
els march sullenly down the hill beside
the house, looking neither to left nor
ri uhf cpeak kino, NO word Iaov;no n broad