"Just tell Denis O'Dwyer, if you find him alive, that you saw me, and that I hope to liquor up with him next time I go his way."

My father thanked him for his hospitality, but he made no reply, and turning on his heel, re-entered his house. We found Dio, who had run on, waiting for us out of sight of the house. He waved his hand, but said nothing.

Eager to reach Uncle Denis's farm, my father drove on as fast as the horses could trot over the rough track. We had to endure the same amount of b.u.mping and jolting as on the previous day. My poor mother's anxiety increased as we approached my uncle's farm. We met with no one who could give us any information. Since the fearful danger we had been in, she had become much more nervous than was her wont, and consequently could not help expecting to hear the worst. Great was her joy, therefore, when, on driving up to the door, who should we see but Uncle Denis himself seated in the porch, smoking a cigar.

"I'm glad to see you, sister," he said, "but Doctor O'Dowd had no business to frighten you. He is always so accustomed to kill his patients that he fancies they are all going to die under his hand, and faith, it's no fault of his if they get well."

My uncle's appearance, however, showed that he had gone through a severe illness. He was still too weak to walk without a.s.sistance, but his indomitable spirit, my father observed, had done much to keep him up; our coming also was of great a.s.sistance, as my mother was able to nurse him more carefully than were his usual black attendants. We remained with him for several days, at the end of which time he was able to mount his horse and take a gallop with my father in the early morning. Uncle Denis was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever met, and generally one of the merriest; but a shade of melancholy came over him occasionally.

It was when he thought of Uncle Michael, or of that "dear fellow, Mike,"

as he used to say. He believed himself to have been in the wrong, and to have been the cause of his brother's leaving him, without taking an opportunity of acknowledging that such was the case, and asking for his forgiveness.

My father and mother of course described to Uncle Denis the narrow escape we had had in crossing the river, and the somewhat doubtful style of hospitality with which we had been received by Mr Bracher.

"He knows you, Denis," said my father.

"And I know him," answered my uncle; "a more surly curmudgeon does not exist in these parts, or a harder master to his slaves. He is a man people wish to stand well with, not because they love him, but because they fear his vengeance should they offend him. I make a point of keeping out of his way, for fear that he should pick a quarrel with me, though he pretends to be friendly enough when we meet. The slaves hate him, as well they may, but the lash keeps them in order, and he has a set of fellows about him of his own kidney, who serve him because no one else would willingly employ them."

This no very flattering account of our late host made my father determine not to pay him another visit, if he could help it, on our return.

"I'll follow your example and keep out of his way," observed my father, "though I should have been glad to make another attempt to purchase his slave Dio, for the sake of getting the brave fellow out of his power."

"The more desirous you appear to obtain the slave the less likely will he be to part with him, so I would advise you not to allude again to the subject," said my uncle. "I'll keep an eye on his proceedings, and, should he at any time suffer losses and be obliged to sell up, I'll take means to buy Dio, not letting his master know that you want to become his owner."

With this arrangement my father was obliged to rest satisfied, as he saw that there was no other chance of getting Dio out of the power of his tyrannical master.

A few days after this conversation Uncle Denis was so far recovered, that my father announced his intention of returning home.

"Stay a few days longer; don't think of going yet," answered Uncle Denis; "it seems but yesterday that you came, and I shall feel more lonely than ever when you are gone; besides, you haven't seen the great wonder of our part of the country, nor have I forsooth, and I should like to pay it a visit with you."

"Of what wonder do you speak?" asked my father.

"Sure, of the big caves we have deep down in the earth, a few miles only from this. It is said there are mountains, rivers and lakes within them, and I don't know what besides."

"Oceans, forests, and valleys, perhaps," said my father, laughing, and scarcely crediting the account my uncle gave him; for at that time the wonderful Mammoth Caves of Kentucky were unknown to the world in general, although the native Indians might have been acquainted with them, and some time before, a mine of saltpetre at the entrance had been discovered. My mother, more to please Uncle Denis than from any expected pleasure to herself; agreed to accompany him, and to my great delight, they promised to take me.

We were to perform the trip in two or three days, and Uncle Denis said that in the meantime he would try and find means of amusing us. We went all over the farm, on which he grew tobacco, maize, and other cereals.

He was a great sportsman, besides which he had a fancy for trapping birds and animals, and taming them, when he could. In this he was wonderfully successful; he had a large menagerie of the feathered tribe as well as numbers of four-footed beasts which he had trapped and contrived to domesticate. His ambition was to tame a panther, a bear, and a wolf; but as yet he had not succeeded in taking any of them young enough, as he said, to be taught good manners.

"Perhaps if you had a lady to help you, you would be more successful,"

observed my mother, "like Orpheus of old, who charmed the savage beasts.

She would with her voice produce a greater effect on their wild natures than any man can do."

"I'll think about it," said Uncle Denis, looking up and laughing.

My mother's great wish was to see Uncle Denis married happily, though where to find a wife to suit him, or, as she would have said, "good enough for him," was the difficulty. There were no lack of excellent girls in Kentucky, daughters of settlers, but they could seldom boast of much education or refinement of manners, and Uncle Denis was a gentleman in every sense of the word; at the same time that he had as much spirit and daring as any Kentuckian born.

It must be understood of course, that at the time I speak of, I was too young to understand these matters, but I heard of them afterwards from my mother, and am thus able to introduce them in their proper place in my history.

Uncle Denis took great delight in showing us his various traps and snares, as well as other means he employed for capturing birds or animals.

The traps had been greatly neglected during his illness. I remember being especially delighted with what he called his "pens," which he had erected for the capture of wild turkeys, with which the neighbouring woods abounded. The two first we came to contained birds lately caught; the third was empty, and the fourth had been broken into by a hungry wolf, which had carried off the captive.

"There is another I built the day before I was taken ill, further away in the forest. No one but myself knows of it," observed Uncle Denis; "we'll pay a visit to it, though I am much afraid if a bird has been caught, it must have starved to death by this time."

The pens Uncle Denis was speaking of were simple structures formed like a huge cage by poles stuck in the ground sufficiently close together to prevent a bird from getting out. They were roofed over by boughs and leaves, and were without doors or windows. It will then be asked, how can a bird get in? The trap is entered in this way.

A pa.s.sage or trench is cut in the ground twelve or fourteen feet in length, pa.s.sing under the wall of the hut and rising again in its centre. Inside the wall and over the trench, a bridge is thrown. To induce the bird to enter, grain is strewn along the trench and scattered about its neighbourhood, while a larger quant.i.ty is placed on the floor inside the hut. The unwary turkey, on seeing the grains of corn, picks them up, and not suspecting treachery follows the train until it finds itself inside the pen; instead however of endeavouring to escape by the way it entered, it, like other wild birds, runs round and round the walls of the hut, peeping through the interstices and endeavouring to force its way out, each time crossing over the bridge without attempting to escape by the only practicable outlet. In this way Uncle Denis said that he had caught numbers of birds, one and all having acted in the same foolish manner.

"Hereabouts is my forest pen," he said. "Hark! I hear some curious clucking sounds. There's more than one bird there, or I am much mistaken." Stepping forward he peered over the branches, when he beckoned us to advance, and, he lifting me in his arms, I saw not only a hen turkey in the pen, but a brood of a dozen or more turkey poults running in and out among the bars, while the hen was evidently calling to them, suspecting that danger was near.

They were too young to fly up into the trees, which they do on being alarmed, when scarcely more than a fortnight old. Uncle Denis was highly pleased.

"I shall have a fine addition to the poultry-yard," he said, "for I shall tame all these young ones by cutting their wings, and they will not be able to follow their mother into the woods, so for their sake she will probably be content to share their captivity."

Peter, a black boy, had accompanied us, and Uncle Denis sent him back for a couple of baskets. The turkey hen, though much alarmed, having gathered her poults under her wings, stood ready to defend them bravely.

Uncle Denis said that she had probably got into the pen directly after he had last seen it, and he recollected having left inside a quant.i.ty of corn, with which he was going to bait some other pens in the neighbourhood. This had served to keep her alive, unless perhaps her faithful mate had brought her food. If such was the case, the "gobbler," as the male bird is called, took good care to keep out of our way. Wild turkeys in those days abounded through the whole of the southern states. I have often seen--of course I speak of a subsequent time of my life--ten or a dozen hen turkeys, with their families amounting to eighty or a hundred head, on their annual migration, old and young moving in the same direction, making use of their legs in preference to their wings, unless when intercepted by a river, or frightened by the appearance of a hunter and his dogs. On reaching a river they climb to some neighbouring height, where they remain for a day or two to consult apparently as to the best means of getting across: on such occasions the males making a loud gobbling noise, strutting about looking very important, as if about to perform some heroic action.

At last, when they have settled their plan, the birds of all ages mount to the tops of the highest trees bordering the stream. There they sit for a short time, when their leader gives a loud "cluck." It is the signal to commence the adventurous pa.s.sage. Together they expand their wings and rise in the air; the stronger birds will thus cross a river a mile wide, but some of the younger ones find it impossible to sustain themselves so long in the air, and fall flop into the water. Serious as this misadventure may appear, being birds of spirit, they do not give up the attempt in despair. Closing their wings, they spread out their broad tails, and strike away with their feet towards the bank they desire to reach. Should they find, as is sometimes the case, that the bank is too steep for landing, they cease their exertions and allow themselves to float down the stream until they reach an accessible part, when by violent efforts they manage to scramble up the banks and regain the main body. On such occasions, should any of their human or other enemies be on the watch for them, they are easily taken, as they are too much exhausted to fly away and have not regained their sh.o.r.e legs. On landing also they do not appear at first to know what direction to take, and are seen rambling about, sometimes up the stream, sometimes down it, or making an uncertain run inland. Of all the birds of America, the turkey deserves the pre-eminence: the plumage, a golden bronze, banded with black, and shot with violet, green, and blue, is beautiful in the extreme. We had scarcely done admiring our captive, when Peter returned with two large baskets, into one of which the hen turkey was trundled in spite of the fierce use she made of her beak and claws, while her brood, who were too much bewildered to run away, were caught and secured in the other. We returned home with our unwilling captives. Uncle Denis at once had a pen put up, and in a few days the young turkeys appeared perfectly reconciled to their lot, and Uncle Denis succeeded in domesticating them: as for the old hen, one day early in the following spring, a loud "gobbling" being heard in the distance, she, leaping up on a pailing, spread her wings and flew away in the direction from whence the sounds came. Her brood, then more than half-grown, would have followed her example, but their wings were cut, and down they toppled on their backs, greatly to the amus.e.m.e.nt of Peter, as Uncle Denis afterwards told us.

The day for our excursion to the wonderful Cave arrived, and having breakfasted by candle-light, we set off before sunrise in a waggon, attended by Peter and Caesar, another black boy, on horseback. Uncle Denis drove, and it needed an expert whip to get along the rough road.

On coming to the farm, we had been b.u.mped and jolted enough to dislocate our limbs, had we not had some soft cushions to sit upon. We were now tumbled about in a fashion which threatened to upset the waggon. Uncle Denis shouted out--

"Never fear, the machine is accustomed to it, and will go over places ten times as bad as this is. Hold fast though, in case of accidents."

Sometimes we crossed what might have been called, in compliment, a piece of corduroy, though it looked more as if trees had been blown down by a hurricane in close ranks. On other occasions we had to twist and turn in and out among the stumps, and fly over big holes, the well-trained horses keeping their feet in the most wonderful manner. At last we reached a hut, where in subsequent years a fine hotel was built. As we pulled up before it, a tall Indian appeared and, asking if we wished to see the cavern, volunteered to act as our guide.

"You're the man we want," answered Uncle Denis.

On this the Indian, retiring to his hut, returned with a bundle of torches. We had brought a couple of lanterns and a supply of candles, so that there was no chance of our being left in darkness.

The two negro boys having taken charge of our horses, we proceeded on foot, followed by Peter and Caesar, to the mouth of the pit down which we were to descend into the cavern. This was like a large well into which a stream fell with a cheerful splash. I remember asking not unnaturally whether we should have to swim when we got to the bottom.

We made our way down a flight of wooden steps, when, pa.s.sing under a high archway, we proceeded along a level road to what were called the "vats," where saltpetre was manufactured.

The torches lighted up the subterranean region in which we found ourselves. As to describing it exactly is more than I can pretend to do. From the large entrance-hall we made our way through a low narrow pa.s.sage, which is known as the Valley of Humility, into another hall of enormous extent, the roof so lofty that our torches scarcely illuminated either the walls or roof. At our feet we could see the glitter of water extending far away into the interior, while a bright stream flowed over a rocky bed into it. Uncle Denis proposed that we should sit down and refresh ourselves preparatory to exploring the interior recesses of the cavern. No objection being made, Peter produced some provisions from a basket he had brought on his back. Having discussed them, we slaked our thirst from the pure water of the rivulet. Once more moving on, in a short time we reached Echo River, on the sh.o.r.e of which we found a boat.

Our guide invited us to embark. Looking upwards it appeared as if a canopy of black clouds hung over our heads, while on every side we could see precipices and cliffs rising up, apparently into the sky; silence and darkness reigned around us, the smooth sluggish water alone reflecting the glare of our torches. Not a word was uttered by any of our party, until the Indian's voice suddenly burst forth into one of the melancholy chants of his race, echoed as it appeared by the spirit of his departed brethren. I clung to my father's arm, and asked where all those sounds came from.

"They are but the echoes of the Indian's voice," he answered. Now they rose, now they fell, as he gave forth the notes with the full force of his lungs, or warbled softly, sometimes finishing with a melancholy wail which produced the most mournful effect.

"Come, this is more than I bargained for," exclaimed Uncle Denis; "now stand by for a different kind of sound. Don't be alarmed, it's only the barrel of my pistol going to try what sort of noise it can make." He pulled the trigger, when there was a flash and then there came a succession of crashing, thundering sounds echoed from every angle in those enormous vaults. Backwards and forwards tore the sounds, rolling and reverberating from wall to wall with terrific crashes. Half a dozen pieces of artillery fired in the open air could not have produced a more tremendous uproar.

Scarcely had the sounds died away, when Peter and Caesar struck up a merry negro melody, contrasting curiously with the melancholy notes of the Indian's song; they made Uncle Denis and me, at all events, burst in to hearty fits of laughter.

"Come, I like that style of song far better than the music of our red-skin friend," exclaimed my uncle. The guide told us that although it was perfectly safe at most times of the year to traverse the cavern, there were occasions when the waters rising suddenly had prevented the return of explorers, but that a way had been discovered, through a narrow pa.s.sage, the course evidently at one time of a stream, up which they could climb over the mud and save themselves from being either drowned or starved, should they have come without provisions. This pa.s.sage has appropriately been called "Purgatory," but as we had not to take advantage of it, I cannot describe it more fully.

Leaving "Echo" River we entered another cavern named "Cleveland's Cabinet," when we found ourselves in what we might have taken for a fairy region.

Above our heads and on either side, the roof and walls were adorned with delicate flowers of snowy whiteness, and domes, and turrets, and spires, and shrubs, and trees, as well as the forms of birds and beasts of all descriptions; elephants and camels, eagles and turkeys and doves; indeed figures of every shape which imagination without any great exertion might please to picture. The representations of some indeed were so perfect that it was difficult to believe that they had not been carved by the hand of man, and yet one and all were produced by the dripping of water from the gypsum rock; the most delicate ice formations could not surpa.s.s them; indeed many equalled in form the choicest flowers growing in the most cultivated garden. As we proceeded on, we found that the cavern was not dest.i.tute of inhabitants. Huge crickets and spiders, almost of a white colour, crawled over the ground, the former not taking jumps, but moving steadily forward with their long legs. Rats too, Uncle Denis declared they were as big as leverets, ran by us, exhibiting their sharp teeth and extensive tails. When no other provisions are to be obtained, they live apparently on the spiders and crickets.

The next cavern we entered was called "Martha's Vineyard;" the trunk of a vine climbed up the sides, and spread its branches over the roof from which hung suspended what looked like cl.u.s.ters of delicious grapes.