McHenry, James, 1785-1845 [1824], O'Halloran, or, The insurgent chief. An Irish historical tale of 1798, volume 1 (H. C. Carey & I. Lea, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf270v1].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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O'HALLORAN;
OR,
THE INSURGENT CHIEF.
AN IRISH HISTORICAL TALE OF 1798.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE WILDERNESS” AND THE “SPECTRE OF THE FOREST.”
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round the shore;
Till overwrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Goldsmith.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol. I.
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY H. C. CAREY AND I. LEA.
J. HARDING, PRINTER.
1824.
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Acknowledgment
[figure description] Printer's Imprint.[end figure description]
Eastern District of Pennsylvania, to wit:
BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the tenth day of March,
in the forty-eighth year of the Independence of the United
States of America, A. D. 1824, H. C. Carey and I. Lea, of the
said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book,
the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following,
to wit:
“O'Halloran; or, the Insurgent Chief. An Irish Historical
“Tale of 1798. By the author of “The Wilderness” and
“the Spectre of the Forest.”
“Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,
“Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled;
“Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
“Represt ambition struggles round the shore;
“Till overwrought, the general system feels
“Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Goldsmith.
“In two volumes.”
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States,
intituled, “An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing
the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and
proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;”
and also to the act, entitled, “An act supplementary to
an act, entitled, “An act for the encouragement of learning, by
securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors
and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned,”
and extending the benefits thereof to the Arts of designing,
engraving, and etching historical and other prints.”
D. CALDWELL,
Clerk of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
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PREFACE.
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THE conspiracy and insurrection of the
United Irishmen, were undeniably of the
most interesting, and, perhaps, of the most
important character of any that ever agitated
a country. Its leaders exhibited a
combination of talents, courage, and disinterested
patriotism, which has but seldom
been equalled, and which, in conjunction
with the generous nature of the principles
for which they contended, could not, and did
not fail to attract towards them the admiration
and sympathy of all classes of men in
Christendom, without excepting even those
against whose authority their arms were
wielded. Their enterprise failed, whether
fortunately or unfortunately for mankind, it
is not the business of the novelist to inquire;
but had it succeeded, and the designs they
had formed for the advantage of their country
been realized, what epithets of praise
would have been considered too high for
their deserts? Their cause would have been
called holy, and their efforts glorious. Even
as it is, all parties admit that they were zealous
for their country's good. The purity of
their motives is not denied; it is only the
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accuracy of their views, and the soundness of
their principles that are called in question.
Whatever our own judgment on this subject
may be, we have refrained from expressing
it; and in writing the following
narrative, which, we seriously assert, contains
numerous facts that have never yet
appeared in print, the course we prescribed
for ourselves was that of strict impartiality
not only in relating the events, but in detailing
the opinions, and delineating the characters
of the different parties. The United
Irishmen and the loyalists, are permitted to
express their sentiments with equal force
and freedom. The fanatical and the fierce
on either side, are painted as such, while
the moderate and lenient, we hope, have
ample justice done to the rationality of their
views.
We have thought it necessary to say this
much in behalf of the neutrality of our plan,
because many of the actors in the scenes
we have described, are yet living, whose
prejudices either for, or against the principles
which occasioned the contest, may induce
them to expect either a defence or
reprehension of their doctrines and conduct.
These men, whether republicans or royalists,
must expect no such thing, and we caution
politicians of every creed, against identifying
our private sentiments with those
of any of the characters we have drawn.
These characters are drawn nearly as we
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knew them in life; and with respect to the
events, it was our lot, although then in our
childhood, personally to witness many of
them; of many others of the class, that assume
to be historical, we have obtained our
information from sources of unquestionable
authenticity. As to these events, however,
we will not deny that we have exercised
the privilege of our calling, by giving to
many of them the colouring of romance; but
during the singular period that has supplied
our subject, numberless exploits and transactions
took place highly enough coloured
of themselves, and requiring no embellishment
from fancy to suit them to the appetite
of the most choice admirer of extraordinary
facts that ever derived gratification
from novel-reading. These it was not
thought necessary to array in any other
garb than that of the simple truth. For
any further information that may be wanted
relative to the writing of these volumes,
the reader is respectfully referred to the
following INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS to himself,
in which he will find that he is spoken to
plainly and familiarly, as one friend should
speak to another.
Judicious Reader,
Having the enjoyment of thy good
opinion very much at heart, I cannot but
feel extremely anxious respecting the impression
which my hardihood in submitting
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the following history to thy perusal, will
cause thee to imbibe concerning me. There
may be innumerable errors in the work,
which I cannot discover, but which may be
very apparent to thy superior discernment.
While therefore, the great object of my
ambition is to appear in thy sight a very
wise man, thou mayest be inclined to look
upon me as a very great fool, for expecting
to acquire thy esteem by such a trifling—
or as thou mayest, peradventure, say,
silly performance.
It hath, in these latter times, been the
custom with some authors, who, like me,
have approached the awful tribunal of thy
judgment with trembling steps and palpitating
hearts, to attempt evading at least
a portion of thy censure, by ascribing the
authorship of their productions to persons
altogether innocent thereof; and falsely assuring
thee that the manuscripts fell accidentally
into their hands, and that they are
only the editors. By this means they expect
to deceive thee into the belief that
they have been guilty only of the fact of
publishing, and consequently, are not answerable
for any imperfections in either the
design or execution of the performances.
O! sons of disingenuity and fraud, how
vain are your efforts to impose on the wise
people of this sagacious age? Your shallow
artifices are easily seen through, and
not one novel-reader in ten thousand
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believeth your foolish statements on this subject.
In vain doth the pathetic author of the
“Man of Feeling” assure us that he rescued
the manuscript of that affecting work, from
the unfeeling fowling-piece of a fat, sporting
curate; or that the amiable Mrs. Wistanly
made him a present of the original of
“Annesly's Sorrows.” It is equally vain for
the authoress of “The Modern Philosophers,”
to declare, that she found a chamber-maid's
brush about to consign the papers
containing that cleverly told tale, into a
kennel, along with the dirt and rubbish
swept from a lodging house. A respectable
Dutchman of the name of Knickerbocker,
hath also been accused, by Mr. Washington
Irving, formerly of New York, of having
written an amusing history of that ancient
and venerable city: but nobody, now-a-days,
believeth him. Fruitless also hath been
the attempt of the most prolific of all novelmakers,
to deceive the children of this generation,
by fathering a number of his own
multitudinous offspring, upon a schoolmaster's
usher.
But it would be tedious, benevolent reader,
to go over the catalogue of these writers,
who have had recourse to this method
of screening themselves from thy condemnation.
It will be sufficient to observe that
not one of them hath succeeded; but that
in consequence of thy great penetration,
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they have always been detected; and thou
hast, as became thy great and inflexible
justice, uniformly acquitted the accused, and
condemned the accusers.
With such warning before my eyes, I
would be guilty of something far worse than
folly if I should imitate these writers in
their detected falsehoods. I shall, therefore,
boldly and unreservedly avow myself to be
the bona fide author of the following history,
and must, consequently, submit to
whatever doom thou shalt assign me; as
such, humbly requesting, however, that in
consideration of my candour in pleading
guilty, thou wilt, in pronouncing my sentence,
mingle mercy with justice.
But, although, my dear reader, I cannot,
with a safe conscience, deny being guilty
of having both written and published this
history, yet I will make a statement to thee,
which, I trust, thou wilt consider as, in a
great degree, apologizing for my fault. By
this statement thou wilt perceive that I had
either to commit that fault, or lose one hundred
and fifty pounds a year, which, as I
am like too many other authors, but a poor
man, I hope thou wilt think that I acted
wisely in securing.
The facts are these:
My aunt Nancy, who died about two
years ago, bequeathed me her whole property,
amounting to the before mentioned
annual sum, well secured in real estate for
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ever, on condition that I should, within
three years after her demise, write and
publish such a narrative of the rise, progress,
and termination of the conspiracy
and insurrection of the United Irishmen, interweaving
therewith such an account of
the views and feelings, manners and customs
of the people of Ulster, at the conclusion
of the last century, as would meet with
the approbation of her executors. In default
of my performing this condition, she
ordered her property to be distributed, in
equal proportions, between nearly three-score
and ten nephews and nieces; to prevent
whom from enjoying their several pittances,
I hope thou wilt, indulgent reader,
think that I was in prudence bound to make
an effort; especially, as I found that the
greater number of them were not much inclined
to thank their deceased relative for
her bequest.
Thou wilt, no doubt, wish to know what
could induce my aunt Nancy to make such
an odd disposal of her property; and, as I
am desirous to gratify all thy reasonable
wishes, I shall, with pleasure, inform thee.
My aunt, as thou already perceivest, was
a curious woman. She was sixty-one years
in this world, and lived all that time in a
state of single blessedness; and, what is as
true as some may think it strange, she did
so from an actual preference of that state to
the more popular one of connubial felicity.
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When I first remember to have known
her, she was on the upper side of forty; of
a tall, slim figure, with small, keen, hazel
eyes, a nose tolerably well sized, but somewhat
sharp pointed, and a chin of more than
ordinary longitude. In fact, the contour,
(pardon a French word, dear reader, I shall
not often offend in that way) of not only
her countenance, but her whole person, was
remarkable for the length, thinness and
keenness of its aspect. The effect of this
natural conformation upon the beholder,
was very much increased by the fashion of
her dress, which was that which prevailed
during the earlier half of George III.'s reign.
Its most prominent parts were a long-bodied
gown, closely fitted to a pair of tightly-laced
stays, which reached from the arm-pits to
the haunches, and compressed the whole
body into the smallest possible dimensions;
a huge head-dress, called a “mob,” which
towered half a foot higher than a grenadier's
cap above the crown; and shoes,
the tapering heels of which elevated their
wearer several inches from the ground.
When my aunt stood upright in this uniform,
she was no bad representation of
what may be seen in several of our large
cities, a tall slender iron bar stuck into a
thick stone pillar, and supporting a large
globular lamp at its top.
So much for my aunt's person. As to
her manners, she was rather precise and
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serious in her deportment, and perhaps,
possessed a little too much affected gentility,
and was too solicitous about the minute
forms of politeness, to be quite agreeable;
besides, she had contracted a filthy
habit of using snuff immoderately. But as
she was, upon the whole, tolerably good
natured for an old maid, and, as she always
made an excellent cup of tea, and was somewhat
of an epicure in good toast, those who
were familiar with her could occasionally
contrive to spend a comfortable evening at
her table. With respect to her mind, she
had, in her youth, improved it much, by
reading a multitude of the most exquisite
and wonderful plays, novels, and romances
in the language. For the last ten years of
her life, however, she had devoted her faculties
to the graver studies of the history,
antiquities, geography and statistics of her
native island; and, as a natural consequence,
she had latterly permitted politics also to
engross a great share of her attention.
Amidst the immense multitude of volumes
which she had persued on these subjects,
she was surprised to find none that gave
any thing like an accurate account of the
people among whom she had spent her
whole existence; and whom her local partialities
induced her to consider the most
interesting, if not the most important people
on the earth. She was much chagrined
with the carelessness with which even
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professed travellers through Ireland have uniformly
mentioned its northern province.
Some, she would say, seem to treat the
people of Ulster as altogether beneath their
notice; others take delight in making them
the objects of misrepresentation and slander,
while none manifest for them that sympathy
and respect, to which, from their spirit
of enterprise and industry, they are assuredly
entitled.
The authoress of the “Wild Irish Girl”
particularly provoked her indignation, by
the invidious and unfair comparison she
hath drawn, in that work, between the
Southern and Northern inhabitants of the
Island; for she thought that an Irishwoman
at least, ought not to have been so wilfully
and unjustly abusive of any portion of her
countrymen, even if they did not happen to
be descended from Milesian ancestors, and
were unable to speak the original language
of the country. She ought, especially, to
have spared her attacks upon that portion,
to whose activity and intelligence the nation
is chiefly indebted for whatever it possesseth
of either prosperity or importance.
My aunt was also much displeased at the
very partial and inaccurate accounts which
have been given to the world of the motives,
designs, and transactions of the Northern
United Irishmen; and, as she conceived
that her opportunities of knowing the facts
entitled her to be a tolerably good judge of
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these matters, she took the greater liberties
in condemning the writers of such accounts.
During the last two or three years of her
life, she had, by constantly meditating, conversing,
and writing on this subject, excited
herself to such a pitch of enthusiasm concerning
it, that she declared that she would
not die contented unless she would meet
with something approaching, at least, to a
fair statement of the manners of the people
of Ulster, and of the part they had taken in
the late rebellion.
But all her inquiries after such a work
were in vain; and, it is said that the vexation,
occasioned by this disappointment,
greatly contributed to bring on her last illness.
However that may be, the tenor of
her will proves that she had laid the matter
much to heart. I hope, therefore, that if,
where she now is, she still feels the same
interest concerning it, the work which I
now submit to thee, dear reader, will yield
her gratification, and remove her uneasiness.
It has already been approved of by
her executors, and has consequently procured
me her property; and it now only
wanteth thy approbation to procure me
that reputation, which I would esteem a far
more valuable reward for my humble efforts
in its production.
Having told thee what caused me to become
an author, I may now mention how I
became capable of being one. My father
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who was far from being abundantly supplied
with any other possession except a numerous
family of sons and daughters, could not
afford to expend much worldly substance
upon my education. But on account of the
studious disposition which I had manifested
from my infancy, I had early become a great
favourite with my aunt. She, therefore,
generously took the charge of this matter
upon herself. It was the wish and intention,
of both her and my father, to prepare
me for the pulpit, and I have accordingly
been, for many years, a probationer, belonging
to that learned and reverend body,
the Synod of Ulster. But not being gifted
with sufficient efforntery to make a good
preacher, I believe, now that I have come
into the undisputed possession of my aunt's
income, I shall give up the employment,
for which I had never any great predilection,
and shall follow a life of literature, if
thou, kind reader, by thy patronage of my
present work, wilt give me any encouragement
thereto. If not, I must content myself
with creeping indolently and uselessly
through this weary world; and, if the withholding
of thy patronage hath been owing
to the evil counsel of any ill-minded critic,
upon the head of such critic be all the blame
of my indolence and uselessness, for my own
conscience will acquit me thereof.
Benevolent reader, thou wilt see, by the
following pages, that I had, in writing them,
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another object in view besides gaining my
aunt's money. I also wished to give all the
great men of the earth, of whom peradventure
thou art one, a good advice, not to be
too rigid and harsh with those in subjection
to them, but to treat them with kindness
and good nature, and leniently overlook
their faults, as, I hope, thou wilt overlook
mine.
Solomon Second-sight.
Preliminaries
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Main text
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CHAP. I.
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A gallant youth, just fresh from college halls,
With love of nature glowing in his breast,
Roams venturously amidst her wildest scenes,
With fervid and romantic admiration—
Thaunus the Druid.
Perhaps no where in the British Islands, will
the admirer of the grand and sublime, in the works
of nature, find more gratification than along the
northern shores of the county of Antrim. From
the Gabbon precipices, near the entrance of Larne
Harbour, to Port Rush, near Colerain, a long
range of rocky coast, extending upwards of fifty
miles, exhibits, in some places, the boldest promontories
jutting into the sea, and perforated with
numerous caverns, into many of which the raging
waters pour with reverberating noise. In other
places, small bays, occasioned by the mouths of
the rivers and rivulets that there seek a junction
with the ocean, interrupt the continuity of the
rocky chain, and by affording to the visiter the
view of towns and villages, surrounded by the fertility
of nature, and the conveniences of art,
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produce a striking and pleasing contrast to the prevailing
wildness of the coast, and make its grandeur
still more grand.
The Giant's Causeway, which forms a part of
this wonderful coast, has long been an object of
astonishment, both to the philosopher and the
peasant. It is annually visited by travellers from
all countries, where science excites curiosity, and
the wonders of nature inspire admiration.
Edward Barrymore was in his twenty-second
year, and had just finished his education at Trinity
College, when he resolved to visit this interesting
coast, and examine with his own eyes, those immense
structures, of which he had heard so much,
and which, both as a man of science and of taste,
he was so well calculated to enjoy. It was in the
afternoon of a very fine day, in the month of May
1797, when he arrived at the promontory of Ballygally.
He alighted and sent forward his servant
with the horses to the next town, which was about
three miles distant, intending after he had explored
the cliffs, to follow along the beach on foot.
He descended the crags, and got to the beach,
when turning round a huge rock, he perceived an
elderly gentleman, with a young lady, advancing
along a sandy portion of the shore towards him.
Not wishing to be seen, and, at the same time,
struck with the appearance of the lady, he concealed
himself in such a manner, that he had a fair
view of them, without being himself noticed. They
advanced slowly until they came to the bottom of
the rock where he was stationed, when all at once
they disappeared; but not until they were so near,
that he heard the lady utter the following exclamation:
“Oh father, what miseries are in store for
thousands!” and, immediately he was startled with
a sound, as if part of the cliff on which he reclined
had broken off. Full of astonishment, he got down
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to the bottom of the rock, but could perceive no
traces of the persons, who had just the moment before
excited so much of his attention. Their sudden
disappearance was to him quite unaccountable,
unless he should suppose, that they had found admission
into some cavity within the rock. He
viewed it at every accessible point, and minutely
examined every fracture and crevice, in the hope
of discovering some concealed entrance, but in
vain. He imagined, however, that he heard, as
from a distance, the sounds of footsteps and voices;
but they soon died away, and left nothing audible,
but the screaming of the sea-fowl, and the dashing
of the waves upon the shore.
Edward, however, determined to remain near
the spot until night, in hopes that something might
take place that would lead to an explanation of the
mystery. For this purpose, he chose a recess on
a level with the beach, under an over-arching ledge
of the precipice, by which he conceived the fair
vision, and her companion, if they were really
mortal, must return, as he knew that there was no
passing by the way he came, unless by clambering
up the rocks, a task which would be almost impracticable
for the lady.
Having a small volume of Dryden's Virgil in
his pocket, the loves of Æneas and Dido, soon engrossed
his attention, and the time unheedingly
stole away, until the shades of twilight aroused
him from his situation. The tide, which had been
advancing all the time, now rolled at his feet, and
rendered it impossible for him to retreat from his
recess without the greatest danger. He was a good
swimmer, but the shore was unknown to him, so
that he could not tell how far he might be from
any spot, where it would be possible to land. To
stay where he was, was evident destruction. The
tide encroached rapidly upon him, and he had no
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alternative but to encounter the wave. He, accordingly,
plunged in, and endeavoured to gain
the mysterious rock, for the purpose of escaping
by the way he came. A current of water, however,
that issued, now that the tide was so far advanced,
between that and another rock farther out in the
sea, rendered his efforts unavailing, and becoming
exhausted, he expected nothing but immediate dissolution.
In this situation, he heard a scream, and
immediately a loud voice calling, “Swim a little
more to the right, and out to sea—I shall help
you!” He obeyed, and got out of the influence of
the current that had baffled him, but was on the
point of sinking with fatigue, when a powerful arm
seized him, and dragged him to the shore in a state
of insensibility.
When Edward recovered, he found himself in
bed, in a small apartment belonging to a respectable
farm house. The mysterious gentleman was
employed rubbing his breast with warm spirits,
while his fair companion sprinkled hartshorn drops
over his brows and temples, and occasionally applied
them to his nostrils. An elderly peasant woman
was also busy rubbing his feet and legs with
warm flannels.
“Oh, father! thank heaven! he breathes,” were
the first sounds heard by Edward, on his recovery.
“God be praised! then all is well,” was the reply.
He lifted his head to look at his preservers, and to
thank them, but his voice faultered, and he could
only press the hand of the young lady, in token of
gratitude. A lovely blush suffused her countenance,
but she spoke not; while her father exhorted Edward
to remain silent, as perhaps exertion, in his
present exhausted state, might be attended with
bad consequences. Edward obeyed, for his mind
was so distracted with the hurry and variety of his
reflections, and the strangeness and intensity of his
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emotions, that he knew not what remarks to make,
or if he knew them, he could not find suitable expressions
to convey them. He was glad, therefore,
to conceal his confusion in silence.
He was not long in this confused state of agitation,
approaching almost to delirium, until a doctor,
for whom the old gentleman had sent immediately
on getting him ashore, arrived from Larne, the
adjoining town. After extracting some blood, and
administering a composing draught, he ordered the
room to be kept quiet, so that the patient might
have an opportunity in silence and repose, to recover
from his fatigue and agitation; then giving a
few other necessary directions, and assuring the
by-standers, that all danger was over, he took his
leave, promising to return the next morning. The
old gentleman and his daughter, then wished Edward
a good night, and retired.
Left to himself, he gave a range to his imagination,
on the strange occurrences of the day. His
fair attendant still seemed to bend over him, as
she did when he first opened his eyes from his
trance; and the fervour of her joyful exclamation,
at his recovery, still seemed to reverberate in his
ears. His exhaustion, however, and the influence
of the medicine he had taken, soon interfered with
these waking dreams, and he fell into a refreshing
sleep, which continued till midnight. When he
awoke he found that he had been attended by two
decent-looking elderly people, a man and woman,
who appeared to have been reading a newspaper.
Not perceiving when he awoke, they continued the
conversation which had been excited by the newspaper.
“An' they are raising a subscription for the benefit
of Orr's family, an' I this day put my name
down for half a guinea, for you know, my dear,
that what is gi'en to the persecuted, in a guid cause,
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is never lost; besides, I would not let it be said,
that William Caldwell, refused to help a man who
was suffering for his country.”
“Ah, my dear, you did well to gie the money,
but I wish these things may come to a good end.
There's sea mony sodgers in the country, and sea
mony informers, and sae mony kingsmen, that I'm
feared the poor United Irishmen will never do ony
guid. Not but I wish God may bless the cause, for
if they get leave to gae on, they will persecute and
kill a great mony more of us, for no crime at all,
as they did poor Murphy, an' the four militia men
at Blarismoor. But though I love Mr. O'Halloran,
I wish he could not have persuaded you to join the
United Irishmen, for I fear this work will bring
trouble on us all.”
“I could not help it. He argued that it was my
duty; told me how poor Ireland was enslaved—
an' when he mentioned the sufferings of Orr, an'
the killing of Murphy and the militia men, I felt
my blood get warm, and I tauld him, I would tak'
the oath, let what like come o't!”
Here Edward not wishing longer to act the
mean character of a listener, especially to such
discourse, made a noise, as if he had just awoke
from sleep. He asked what hour of the night it
was. The woman told him; when having enquired
how he felt, she requested permission to bring him
some wine and toast, which she said the doctor
had allowed him to take, as soon as he wished for
refreshment. “The wine,” she remarked, “must
be very good, for it was sent from the castle by
Mr. O'Halloran, God bless him, just of the kind he
kept for his own use. Oh! Sir! how fortunate it
was, that he and Miss Ellen were at the Point,
when you were a drowning, otherwise you would
hae been drowned altogether, for he jumped into
the sea, and saved you, just when you were
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
sinking the third and last time? And then, Miss Ellen,
how she attended to you till you recovered! God
bless her every day she rises, for she's as good as
an angel, and as beautiful too.—But I was forbidden
to speak owre muckle to you, for fear I should
disturb you; but you look sae weel, that I'm thinking
my talk doesn't hurt you.”
Edward assured her that he was delighted with
her communications, and begged to know whether
Mr. O'Halloran lived far off, and whether he
might not have an opportunity of thanking him the
next day in person, for the important service he
had rendered him?
“Oh! that you will,” she replied, “for he lives
only about a mile off, and I'm sure he will be here
in the mornin', for he will not be easy till he sees
himsel' that you are gaun to lieve an' be weel.”
“And the young lady,” said Edward, “does she
live with him? Is she his daughter?”
“She is his grand-daughter; but he still calls
her his own child, for since that jewel o' a woman,
her mother, died she is now all that he has.”
“Jenet!” cried the husband, “you disturb the
gentleman owre much wi' your cracks. You had
better let him sleep. The doctor said sleep would
be good for him. Come awa', we'll send Peggy to
tend him.”
“Aye, aye,” said the wife, “Peggy is a tidy
lass, an' winna mak' sitch a clatter as I hae done.
Poor thing! she's amaist owre shy, to speak much.
Guid night! or, rather guid mornin', sir; sleep
sound, an' whatever you want just ask it frae Peggy,
an' you'll get it at yince.”
They both left the room, and Edward had just
begun a train of reflections on the strange incidents
of the preceding day, when the door gently opened,
and a pretty modest-looking peasant girl, apparently
about seventeen years of age, entered the
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
apartment without noise. As Edward lay quiet,
treading on tip-toe, she slowly approached the bed
in order to ascertain if he were asleep. Presuming
that he was, for he purposely feigned to be so, she
was about retiring in the same slow and noiseless
manner, when wishing to detain her, that he might
get some more information concerning O'Halloran
and his lovely grand-daughter, he asked, in a tone
as if he had just awoke, if any one was there?
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, “my mother sent me
to see if you wanted ony thing.”
“My pretty girl, I want nothing but to enquire
in whose house I am, and by what strange accident
I have been brought here?”
“The house is my father's, William Caldwell's,
and you were brought here carried by Mr. O'Halloran,
our landlord at the castle, quite dead, for he
found you drowning, in the sea, at the Point Rock.”
“And are you acquainted, Miss Caldwell, with
the young lady his grand-daughter?”
“With Miss Ellen? yes, I am sir, right well, for
she has no pride at all. She sends for me often
to walk with her from one house to another, when
she visits the poor sick people of the neighbourhood,
and carries things for their use; and, we
often go together to the top of the hill, when it is
a clear day, where we can see Scotland and the
ships passing back and forwards. For, she says,
it is a beautiful sight, and takes great delight in
looking at it.”
“And, my dear girl, does she ever speak of her
parents? Do you know any thing of them?”
“I remember her mother. She died about seven
or eight years ago, when I was a very little girl.
Miss Ellen was then very little also; for she is not
quite two years older than myself. She often talks
about her parents, and laments their misfortunes
so much, that it makes her rather pensive in her
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
disposition, though she is generally one of the
merriest and liveliest young ladies you ever knew.
Her father, it is said, fled the country for fear of
being punished for killing some lieutenant in the
army, in a duel, when she was but an infant.”
“Have they never heard of him since?”
“Not that we poor country folk know of.”
“Did you ever hear his name?”
“Yes; his name was Hamilton, and she should
be called Miss Hamilton, but her grandfather will
let her be called nothing but Miss O'Halloran.”
“Has she any brothers or sisters?”
“No; her father and mother did not live long
together. They never had any children but herself.—
But, sir, the doctor told us not to fatigue you
by talking to you, too much. Would it not be better
to leave you to your sleep? for you must be
very weak and distressed after being drowned. If
you want any thing, tell me, for I ought not to stay
longer with you, unless to attend you.”
This impatience in Peggy, arose from the manner
in which Edward had almost unconsciously
caught her hand, and pressed it rather warmly, as
he listened to her account of Ellen's parentage.
Peggy's cheeks displayed a blush, which plainly
discovered that she felt the indelicacy of her situation
with a young man, who in place of being as
she expected, half dead with drowning, seemed
quite alive to all the impulses of gallantry and
feeling. He checked himself, however, and bade
her good-bye, thanked her for the information she
had given him, and the attention she had manifested
to his comforts.
The alarm that Peggy felt was quite natural,
and, to handsome young women who have been in
similar situations with handsome young men, any
explanation of it would be unnecessary. Even
Edward felt that her withdrawing had relieved
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
him from an impending danger. For whether it
was occasioned by the sweetness of her looks, or
the interest he took in her communications, he felt,
as he pressed her hand, a warmer tide of blood
than usual, flowing from his heart, which was not
cooled for some minutes after her leaving the room,
when the idea of the fair Ellen, excited a flow of
affections, more congenial to his principles, and
more agreeable to his feelings, because more capable
of being approved of by his reason.
The various agitations of his mind, together with
the still fatigued state of his body, however, soon
again found relief in sleep, from which he did not
awake until the arrival of the doctor, accompanied
by O'Halloran and his granddaughter in the
morning. The doctor found him rather exhausted,
with a slight degree of fever, which, although
chiefly caused by the state of his mind, was readily
enough accounted for by the preceding day's
accident. He was assured, however, that the only
inconvenience that could result, would be a few
days confinement. O'Halloran was desirous that
he should be conveyed to the castle until his recovery;
which, after the adjusting of some preliminaries,
such as apologies and expressions of
gratitude on the part of Edward, and assurances
that he considered it nothing but his duty, on the
part of his deliverer, was at last effected. The
doctor then having given some directions for his
management, took his leave, carrying a letter to
Tom Mullins, Edward's servant, whom it was expected
he should find at the Antrim Arms, in the
town of Larne. In this letter he informed Tom of
the accident he had met with, and instructed him
to continue at the inn until further orders, without
communicating to any one his master's real name
or quality, as he had important reasons for wishing
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
to remain unknown in this part of the country for
some time.
Edward Barrymore, was of a very conspicuous
family, distinguished alike for its rank, wealth, and
devoted attachment to those political principles,
which had set the family of Brunswick upon the
British throne. With respect to England, their
politics were exactly those professed and acted
upon by the whigs of the country. Hence they
were in favour of extending every kind of indulgence
to the dissenters, and had opposed the
American war, and lord North's administration. In
Ireland, however, where their principal property
and influence lay, they supported every high-handed
measure of the government, and were rigid
sticklers for the protestant ascendancy. Whatever
were their motives for such difference in their political
conduct with respect to the two countries, it
is certain that they acted only as many other great
Irish families at that time did. Their avowed
reasons were, that it would not be safe to allow the
mass of the Irish community the same political
privileges, that might with advantage be allowed
the English, because the former were chiefly
catholics, professors of a religion which, they insisted,
inculcated direct hostility to the establishments
of both church and state, in either country.
Those sentiments, while they made the family of
Barrymore high in favour with the ruling powers,
caused them to be looked upon as no better than
tories, by those protestants, whose views with respect
to their catholic fellow-subjects were more
liberal. By the catholics, they were held in utter
detestation, as their natural enemies, and as the
supporters of a tyrannic system of government,
which had deprived their ancestors and themselves
of some of the most valuable privileges of the constitution.
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
At the period at which our history commences,
Edward's paternal uncle, the earl of Barrymore,
was a member of the Irish privy council; and, his
father, who was a member of the house of commons,
had distinguished himself by his strenuous
opposition to some measures, which had recently
been introduced into parliament for the relief of
the catholics.
In consequence of these circumstances, Edward
supposed, that if he made himself known, he should
be no welcome guest in the house of O'Halloran,
whose political principles, he had reason to believe,
were in direct opposition to those of his family;
and, as he could not venture to incur the dislike of
the lovely Ellen, or her venerable grandfather
who had saved his life, he determined on concealment.
-- --
CHAP. II.
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
One evening as I wandered forth,
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
Burns.
On the fourth evening after his arrival at O'Halloran
Castle, our hero (for the reader will, by this
time, have perceived that Edward Barrymore is
that important personage) being considerably recovered,
took a walk in company with his host and
Ellen, along the beach, in order once more to view
the spot that had likely to have been so fatal to
him. Returning homewards, they took a path
along the edge of a rivulet, that led to a small
glen, not more than the fourth part of a mile from
the Castle. The ground was overspread with primroses,
violets and daisies; and the ash, elm, and
beech trees that skirted the banks of the stream,
were intermingled with abundance of willows,
sweetbriars, and honeysuckles, which had opened
their blossoms, and yielded a delightful fragrance;
while a thousand warblers from amidst their
branches, produced a melody, the sweetness of
which can only be known by those who are acquainted
with the music of the Irish groves, in the
spring and summer seasons of the year.
Struck with the beauty and romance of the
scene, Edward paused. “This, indeed, Mr. O'Halloran,”
exclaimed he, “is a delightful place.”
“Yes, Mr. Middleton,” (which was the name
Edward had assumed, being that of his maternal
relations) “our country is, indeed, a pleasant one.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
Her soil is fertile, her sons are brave, her daughters
fair; but she is an oppressed country—she is a
betrayed country. Thousands of her sons have
sold themselves to strangers, whose delight is to
rule her, not with a sceptre of justice, but with a
rod of cruelty; and a country that has been blessed
by Heaven, is accursed by man.”
“My friend,” replied Edward, “I will not, I
cannot, altogether differ with you, in those sentiments;
for, I believe that the authorities of the
country, have not done as much as they could to
promote its prosperity. They have not attended
sufficiently to the encouragement of industry among
the poor, by directing their attention to internal
resources, and facilitating that spirit of enterprise
among the wealthy, which would not only discover
and establish sources of employment at home,
but greatly contribute to extend our commerce
abroad.”
Edward had scarcely finished this remark, when
the attention of the party was drawn to a man of
peculiar appearance, who advanced slowly towards
them. On coming forward, he took off a gray cap,
made of rabbits' skins, which had covered a head
the hair of which was as white as snow, and making
a respectful bow, asked God to bless them, and
was passing on, when Edward, who wished to
avoid renewing the political conversation, and
whose curiosity was really excited by the appearance
of the stranger, thanked him for his civility,
adding, “My good sir, perhaps you are like myself,
a stranger in this part of the country, and not
having the good fortune to meet such friends as I
have met with, may require some assistance from
those who may be willing to afford it.” So saying,
he held out a handful of silver to the stranger,
which, to his astonishment, he refused; but without
any air of offended pride.
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
“Although I am a forsaken old man,” said he,
“I cannot take your money. In this glen it would
do me no good. Mr. O'Halloran and my other
neighbours supply me with food, I get water from
that brook, and very little more clothing than I
have on me, will be sufficient to cover my carcass,
until the grave covers it.”
Edward was in the act of putting up his money,
when a coarse unhesitating voice called out briskly,
“Giff auld Saunders dinna tak' yere money, my
bonny young gentleman, ye need na' be at the
pains to pit it up; Peg Dornan winna refuse it.”
Edward turned round, and beheld a stout weather-beaten
woman, in the habit of a beggar, apparently
between forty and fifty years of age. She
made a low, unceremonious courtesy, and held out
her hand for the money. Edward hesitated; but
in the most unabashed manner, she continued—
“Giff ye dinna like to gie't, I'll no' be affronted;
but his honour there can tell you I'll no' drink it.”
“I cannot answer for that, Peg,” said O'Halloran,
“and you should be ashamed to ask any gentleman's
money in so rude a manner.”
“It's likely you may be richt,” said Peg, “ye
ken them things better than I do; but gin the gentleman
likes, he may either keep it or gie't; I'll no'
insist.”
Edward now saw something so amusingly independent
about Peg, that he immediately handed
her the money, enjoining her not to make a bad
use of it. She made another courtesy, and told him,
she would buy herself a new bonnet, and wear it
on Sundays, for his sake, though he might never
see her again. “But gin ye should na,” she continued,
“bonny Ellen will, an' surely that will gie
you pleasure.” She then stalked away, with such
a solidity of step, and length of stride, as gave Edward
the idea of a female Hercules.
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“This Peg Dornan,” said O'Halloran, “is one
of the most forward beggars in this part of the
country, whereas our friend Saunders here, is one
of the most modest pensioners that ever lived on
the public bounty.”
The old man's face seemed to redden a little at
this remark; and again wishing God to bless them,
he bade them good evening, and ascending the glen
a little further, disappeared among the bushes.
Old Saunders, as he was called in the neighbourhood
of O'Halloran Castle, appeared to Edward
to be about sixty years of age. His beard
was of a flaxen white, and about an inch in length.
His eyes were of a dark blue colour, possessing
a greater degree of liveliness than might have
been expected from his advanced age. His height
in the prime of life, might have been nearly six
feet, but as he now bent forward very much when
he walked, it did not seem more than about five
feet eight inches. His gait, bent as he was, was
evidently firmer and indicated more strength than
could have been expected from his age. He wore
a dark brown great coat, which looked as if it had
done the service of half a century. His cap of
rabbit skins we have already noticed. His waistcoat
had nothing peculiar, except its being made
in the old fashion, with the pockets inserted into
large lappets, that hung half way down his thighs.
It was variegated in its appearance, owing to some
heterogeneous patches with which it was here and
there ornamented; but the ground work seemed to
have been gray cloth, similar to that which formed
the great coat. His breeches were of dark velvet,
but were now pretty much party-coloured, in
the same manner, and from the same cause, as the
waistcoat. They were bound at the knees by a
huge pair of buckles, that might have belonged to
some cavalier in the days of Charles the Second.
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
As to his boots, they exhibited nothing singular,
except their uncommon strength and size, and the
sameness of colour which existed between the tops
and the legs. There only remains to be mentioned,
a belt which he wore round his waist, and which,
at a distance, resembled a military sash, with a
sheath at each side for a dirk or a pistol; but
which, on a nearer approach, discovered itself to
be a more harmless appendage—it being nothing
more than a common horse girth, with a buckle and
a large loose-hanging strap at the one side, and
containing at the other, a pouch for holding any
little donation that the country people forced upon
him. For it was remarkable of old Saunders, that
he never carried a bag on his shoulder like another
beggar. As he was a good scholar, he was fond
of voluntarily teaching the children of those who
were charitable to him; so that there was scarcely
a family in the parish to which he did not, in this
way, give value for what he received from it.
When he left our party, as before stated, to an
inquiry of Edward, O'Halloran replied, that the
old man's habitation was in the side of a hill, at the
upper extremity of the glen, and only a short distance
off. “It is about five years,” he continued,
“since he came to this part of the country. As I
found him to be a sensible man, and even somewhat
of a literary disposition, I, at one time, prevailed
on him to open a regular school; but being
rather of a melancholy temper, and fond of solitude,
he in a few months, gave up that employment, and
retired to this glen, where he now leads altogether
the life of a hermit. He has become much esteemed
in the neighbourhood, having rendered himself
very useful to the people, by occasionally teaching
their children, and advising them in their perplexities.
So that a number of them are as punctual
in sending to his habitation their weekly donations,
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
as if he had a legal claim upon them. I have myself
wished to enjoy more of his society than he
appears inclined to permit; and when curiosity has
at any time, prompted me to make any inquiries
into the history of his life, I have been always
checked by the reserve he has ever shown on that
subject, although he is communicative enough on
every other. After sunset he never admits any one
into his dwelling, otherwise we might visit him, and
you would be sure of a kindly reception.”
“Mr. Middleton,” said Ellen, “must not think
that it is from any surly humour, that our Recluse
keeps his cell sacred from visiters after sunset.
Although we have found him often pensive, I believe
surliness forms no part of his character;
much less can he be suspected of any superstitious
whim in this part of his conduct, as I have found
him more liberal than most men in such matters.
I believe that it is from a mere wish to enjoy his
own meditations uninterrupted, that he has adopted
this rule; for without it, such an enjoyment would
be impossible, on account of the social temper of
his neighbours, and the esteem in which they hold
him. Indeed, it is my opinion, that, if he would
permit it, his cell would every night be made the
scene of boisterous conviviality.”
Conversing in this manner, they had nearly
reached the outer gate of the castle, when a horseman
overtook them at full speed, and delivering a
packet to O'Halloran, rode off again without saying
a word. As soon as they entered, O'Halloran
hastily broke the seal, and evidently with some
emotion, glanced over the contents. He then suddenly
told Ellen that he must be absent for a few
hours, and desiring that a light and some refreshments
should be left in his library to await his return,
he bade Edward good night, and hastily
withdrew.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
On finding himself alone, with a lovely young
woman, of whose influence over his heart, Edward
was, by this time, fully aware, he felt embarrassed;
and although he had abundance to say, he found
himself utterly destitute of expression. Silence for
a few moments ensued. At length he made an effort,
and approaching Ellen, remarked—
“It is a remarkable circumstance, Miss O'Halloran,
that when the emotions of the heart are most
acute, the capability of expressing them, is the
most difficult.”
“Sir,” said Ellen, hesitatingly, “your observation,
I believe, is just. Moderate emotions may be
expressed without effort, but strong and extraordinary
feelings, require language correspondently
strong to do them justice.”
“And, therefore,” resumed Edward, “not at all
times to be commanded. How well Miss O'Halloran,
have you accounted for the difficulty of
speech, under which I now labour? My sensations
since I first saw you, have been of that extraordinary
character, of which common language can
convey but a feeble idea.”
“Mr. Middleton,” she replied, “the extraordinary
and almost fatal circumstances, under which
your acquaintance with my grandfather commenced,
being still recent, may very well account for
the extraordinary feelings you mention. You are
still feeble from your late accident. Neither your
strength of body, nor tone of mind, is yet recovered;
and, consequently, occurrences seem strange,
and make an impression on you, that, in other circumstances,
you would have scarcely noticed.”
“I cannot, Miss O'Halloran, attribute my present
agitation, in the slightest degree, to this cause.
I scarcely feel the worse for the accident, and am
persuaded that I should in a short time forget it
altogether, were it not for the feelings of gratitude
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
and admiration for your grandfather and yourself,
that it has excited, and, which, believe me, it shall
be the study of my life never to forget. Oh! how
happy I should be, if I only enjoyed the confidence,
the favourable opinion of persons, to whom I am
so much indebted, and who shall be for ever so
dear to me!”
“That favourable opinion,” she observed, “we
are never in the habit of withholding from those
we think deserving of it. Hitherto our impressions
concerning you, are, I believe, as much in your
favour as you could wish, and until you do something
to forfeit our esteem, of which I am not
afraid, I can almost assure you, that you shall enjoy
it.”
Edward was about thanking her for her kind
sentiments, and vowing never to forfeit them, by
any voluntary thought, word, or action of his life,
when he was prevented by a servant entering with
the tea equipage. During the time they sat at
table, although not an expression was uttered by
either of them in the presence of the servant, that
might not have been dictated by mere politeness,
yet, if any disinterested person of discernment
could have seen them, he would have been convinced
that their thoughts ran more upon each
other, than upon the whole world besides. Many
a stolen glance they mutually detected, and many
a tender thought was only half expressed, lest it
should be expressed with all the tenderness with
which it was conceived. On the part of Edward
this embarrassment only occasioned a few blunders,
which he got over pretty well, as there was
no one present who laughed at them; but on the
part of Ellen, the detected glances, and little slips
of the tongue, occasioned blushes, which were only
rendered more apparently lovely and interesting,
by her attempts to conceal them.
-- --
CHAP. III.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot,
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the latest minstrel sung.
—Scott.
After tea, Ellen, afraid of a renewal of the love
conversation, proposed to call up Mr. Arthur O'Neil,
the harper, who had, for several months past, generally
attended two evenings in the week, for the
purpose of instructing her on that instrument. Although
at that moment, perhaps, Edward would
have preferred an arrangement which would have
given him her company alone, he acceded to the
proposal. He was rejoiced at the opportunity of
seeing the only individual then living of that venerable
race, whose profession had once been so respectable
in Ireland; and he seized the occasion to
enlarge on a subject dear to the heart of Ellen, and
gratifying to his own, the praise of the bards of their
native country.
He was observing that no country had ever possessed
a race of men who so much excelled in all
the tenderness and pathos of music, or who had
produced strains of sentiment so much calculated to
affect the heart, when the old, blind musician appeared,
led by a boy whom he kept to attend him.
He was struck with his appearance. He looked
upon him as a remnant of antiquity; and was ready
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
not only to pay him respectful attention, but to yield
him all that veneration and homage which was once
yielded to the bards of Tara.
Indeed, the appearance of Arthur O'Neil, detached
from any consideration of his profession, was
sufficient to command an uncommon degree of respect.
He was nearly sixty years of age, and in
height about five feet ten inches, robust, but not
unwieldy in his person. His head was gray, and
somewhat bald towards the front, displaying the
wrinkles, but not the debility, of age, upon his high
and arching forehead. His nose was of the most
dignified Roman make; while his whole countenance,
which was oval, although somewhat weather-beaten,
exhibited a freshness, which indicated that
the possessor had long enjoyed a healthy and active
frame of body. His coat was of dark brown
cloth, made in the old fashion, wide in the skirts,
and without breasts. His waistcoat was a little
longer than usual, but had no affectation of singularity
in its construction. In short, the whole of his
apparel was characterized, not by its peculiarity,
but by its comfort, decency, and durability.
After an introduction to Edward, in which the
usual Irish salutation of “God bless you” was not
forgotten by the venerable minstrel, he adjusted
himself to his harp, and began the beautifully sweet
air of the “Blackbird.” When he had done, he
asked Ellen if she had committed to memory the
verses to that air, which he left with her on his last
visit. On her replying that she had fulfilled his
desire in this instance, he expressed a wish that she
should sing them, while he accompanied her voice
on the harp. She, at first, hesitated, but on Edward
joining in the request, she complied; and with a
voice sweet as a seraph's, at least so it sounded in
her lover's ears, she sung as follows:
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
On Ballygally's summits wild,
The slowly-setting sun delay'd,
The dewy lips of evening smil'd,
In nature's vernal charms array'd;
Soft fragrance scented every shade,
From every tree soft music fell,
While zephyrs wanton'd o'er the mead,
Fraught with the sweets of Tobergell.
As musing here I chanc'd to stray,
A lovely maiden caught my view,
To whom creation seem'd to say,
All these my beauties are for you!
The fragrant gale, the pearly dew,
The wild-bird notes with love that swell,
Each night their off'rings here renew,
To you, sweet maid of Tobergell!
She slowly trod the flow'ry lea,
Soft, modest beauty in her mien;
Oh! who could stand unmov'd to see,
So fair a nymph, and fair a scene!
My quick'ning pulse, and rapture keen,
Confess'd the charms that did impel
My very soul to tread the green,
With the sweet maid of Tobergell.
Not in the palace of the great,
The diamond blaze of lab'ring art,
Must we expect the happy seat,
Of scenes whose beauties reach the heart:
But feelings pure, spontaneous start,
That raise the soul with mystic spell,
To taste what nature's sweets impart,
In scenes like these at Tobergell.
Give me a home midst bow'rs like these,
With such a maid as this to gain,
And health, and just enough of ease,
Sometimes to weave the rural strain:
Then bustling pomp, and grandeur vain,
Away! with me, ye ne'er shall dwell,
For happy here I'll still remain,
With the sweet maid of Tobergell.
“Ah! poor M`Nelwin,” exclaimed O'Neil when
she had finished, “how gratified he would be to
hear that sweet voice sing his verses! The poor
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lad was afraid you would be displeased at his presumption
in sending them to you; but I knew you
were too good for that. He said you might think
that he wished to flatter you, but he declared every
sentiment of the piece to be the genuine dictate of
his heart, when he wrote it.”
“Mr. O'Neil,” she replied, “you may return the
young man my thanks for the compliment he has
paid me. Tell him that I respect his poetical talents,
and that I am proud of his favourable opinion; but
that I hope he will, for the future, select a more
worthy subject for his complimentary effusions,
than he has done on this occasion.”
“That, I believe, is impossible,” said O'Neil.
“It is—it is absolutely impossible,” thought Edward.
Then starting suddenly, as if he had just
awoke from a trance, “Miss O'Halloran! Mr.
O'Neil,” said he, scarcely knowing what he said, “I
beg pardon for not expressing my admiration sooner
of your performance. Either the musician, or the
poet, or the singer, or perhaps the combination of
the merits of the whole three, produced such an
extatic impression on my feelings, that I found it
impossible for some moments to collect my thoughts
sufficiently to thank you in a rational manner; and,
believe me, I can, with your poet, sincerely say, I
do not flatter.”
“Mr. Middleton,” said O'Neil, “your enthusiasm
of compliment is highly gratifying; but I make no
doubt that the sweet voice of the singer has had
the greatest share in exciting it.”
“You, too, can compliment as well as Mr. Middleton,”
said Ellen, “but if I may give an opinion,
I must ascribe a great deal of our friend's present
enthusiasm, to his patriotic delight in listening to
the strains of his country's favourite and venerated
instrument.”
“In our inquiry into the causes of our friend's
-- 041 --
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delight, we must not forget the poet,” replied O'Neil
in a lively manner. “If not the verses themselves,
at least their subject must have been in unison with
his feelings.”
“I believe you will allow me the right to settle
this controversy,” said Edward, willing to relieve
Ellen from the embarrassment into which the harper's
last observation had thrown her. “It would
be ungallant, as well as untrue, to deny the share
which the sweet songstress has had in administering
to the pleasure afforded me this evening. You
must, however, take to yourself, Mr. O`Neil, a due
portion of the merit. What Irish heart that reveres
the ancient music of his country, and is proud of
her former excellence in this most delightful of all
arts, but must feel an unusual glow of satisfaction,
on seeing for the first time, the only remaining
branch of that illustrious stock of bards to whom
her musical eminence is to be ascribed; and on
hearing for the first time, the inspiring tones of that
instrument, on which they awoke those soul-moving
numbers, that, at once, constituted the delight of
our ancestors, and their own immortality. The
recollections thus produced must, indeed, be thrilling!”
Edward made a pause. O'Neil sighed, and appeared
to be too much affected to reply. He, however,
poured forth the fervour of his soul upon his
harp; and pathetically swept the chords, accompanying
their tones with the following words of a
song written by his friend M`Nelvin.
Oh! the days are long past since the music of Erin,
Delighted her sons in the mansions of kings,
Since her chiefs in the joys of the festive board sharing,
Were rous'd by the magic that flow'd from the strings!
O! 'tis long since the patriot heart was affected,
By strains that the deeds of our forefathers told;
And long since the bard and the harp were respected,
By Irishmen free, independent and bold!
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Our island long flourish'd the pride of the ocean,
As the olive of Europe, she bloom'd in the west,
And learning when chas'd by war's barb'rous commotion,
In her shamrock-clad vales found protection and rest.
Our bards then with rapture oft sang of her glory,
While the harp sweetly sounding accompanied the strain:
Each patriot heart fill'd with antiquity's story,
Felt the warm pulse of gratitude throb in each vein!
But despis'd by the stranger, who felt not his numbers,
The bard is now sunk in obscurity's vale;
And the harp quite neglected, in deep silence slumbers,
Except when awaken'd to sorrow's sad tale:
But there is an ardour and strength in the spirit
Of Irishmen yet, that shall bid them arise,
And the day brightly dawns when the bard shall inherit,
The praise of his country, his dearest of joys!
When he had finished, he exclaimed with energy,
“Do not fear—I shall no more be the last of
Irish harpers, than M`Nelvin shall be the last of Irish
poets. Yes; gloomy as our present prospects now
are, a day shall yet dawn in which the bard and
the harp shall flourish together, and be cherished
in the hearts of Irishmen.” He then requested
Ellen to come forward, and receive a lesson.
She had scarcely seated herself to the harp, when
a servant entered with the following note, which he
delivered to Edward.
“The old man whom Mr. Middleton met in the
glen this evening, and to whom his benevolence
prompted him to offer charity, solicits the favour
of an interview. He shall wait for him at the
place where the late rencontre happened until 10
o'clock.”
Edward immediately obeyed the summons, telling
Ellen that he had occasion to go but a short distance,
and did not expect to be long absent.
On arriving at the place mentioned he found the
Recluse true to his appointment. “Follow me,”
said he to Edward; and he led the way up the glen
until they came to a place altogether overgrown
-- 043 --
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with trees, shrubs, and brambles, and various other
kinds of undergrowth. They then turned to the
left, and keeping close along the margin of the
stream, in a few minutes came to the bottom of a
precipice between thirty and forty feet high, which
formed one bank of the rivulet, a corresponding
precipice banking it on the other side. These
banks approached almost close to each other at the
upper termination of the glen, which was formed
by their gradually widening and diverging from each
side of the brook until they were lost in gentle
swellings on the sea shore. A small distance farther
up the brook than where these banks began to
leave it, a beautiful and romantic cascade was
formed by the water rushing over a breast of
rock nearly as high as the banks themselves, and
which formed their junction. But before coming
to this cascade, Edward and his conductor reached
the mouth of a cavern which the latter said was the
entrance of his abode.
When they entered a few yards, they were stopped
by what Edward supposed to be the solid rock
at the farthest extent of the cavern; but the recluse
taking a key from his pocket, soon opened a door
which the darkness had prevented him from seeing.
They now entered a large clean apartment with
a well baked earthern floor, at one side of which
blazed a large turf fire. It also contained several
chairs, a table, a large lumber chest, a few working
utensils, a large old fashioned bureau, and several
mats of straw heaped on each other for a bed,
and covered with bed clothes looking extremely
clean and comfortable.
“You are welcome to my habitation,” said the
old man.
“Why really” replied Edward, “you have a
more comfortable dwelling beneath the surface of
the earth than many I have seen above it.”
-- 044 --
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“As to that, you have as yet only seen one portion
of my abode. I shall now introduce you to
another, and you will be aware of the progress you
have already made in my estimation, and the confidence
I repose in you, when I tell you that you
are the second individual living to whom I have ever
opened its door.”
He then approached what Edward supposed to
be the large bureau, and touching a concealed spring
in one side of it, it flew open and displayed to view
a handsome parlour, lighted with two wax candles,
having a boarded floor, and plastered and ceiled in
the neatest manner. Edward's astonishment was
still more increased, when advancing, he perceived
at the farther end a large and elegant assortment of
books, arranged along shelves which seemed to
have been erected in a temporary manner for the
purpose of containing them.
“The surprise I perceive in your countenance,”
said the old man, “is natural. But sit down, and I
shall, in part, account for what you see, by stating
that I am not the person which to the world I appear
to be. I have met with misfortunes, Mr. Barrymore!
Do not startle. I know your name, and
about five years ago received some civilities from
you at Trinity College. You were then, to be
sure, less firmly made than at present; but I think
I cannot be mistaken as to your identity with the
individual to whom I allude.”
Edward acknowledged the identity, and confided
to the old man his motives for concealing his real
name from O'Halloran's family. The old man approved
of them.
“You have entrusted me with a secret which I
shall keep,” said he. “I shall now entrust you
with one of more importance. Indeed it was for
this purpose I requested this interview. Your's is
one only of a temporary nature, mine involves very
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
serious interests. It is calculated to affect no less
than the life of a man whom we both highly esteem.
But it is from a regard to that life, that I entrust
you with it. By enlisting your family influence in
favour of this person, I foresee that it will be one
day in your power to contribute to his safety. To
him you owe the preservation of your life. To him
you are therefore bound by gratitude. I shall commit
the secret of his offences to your bosom, honour
will, therefore, bind you not to betray him,
and I know you possess honour. But there is, as
I before suspected, and as you have just now confessed,
another circumstance, a tie which binds you
to his interests, if not of a stronger, at least of a
more endearing nature than either gratitude or honour—
I mean love; for the filial affection of his
granddaughter, I am convinced, is so strong that she
would never survive his public execution. Ah!
sir, I tremble for that young lady, when I think of
the danger into which the ardent but mistaken patriotism
of O'Halloran is likely to involve him. I
have endeavoured for several months past, to prepare
her mind for whatever calamities may overtake
her, by lessons of fortitude. But I still dread
the consequences of her grandfather's imprudence.
I wanted a coadjutor to assist in delivering him, if
possible, when the day of calamity shall come.
For I clearly perceive that such a day is fast approaching—
how far it is distant I cannot tell—but
come it will. On such a day I shall have a recourse
to you. I know your power is great and
your heart is willing. I thank that Providence
which threw you in my way before the cloud had
burst; and I look upon it as a favourable omen,
which bids me hope that Ellen Hamilton and Henry
O'Halloran, the two dearest objects I have on
the earth, shall survive the fury of that storm under
which thousands are doomed to fall.”
-- 046 --
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Edward was affected with the Recluse's fervency.
He assured him that he would, at any time,
be ready to undertake any thing that should contribute
to the safety of O'Halloran, and the happiness
of Ellen. He hoped, however, that whatever were
the circumstances which occasioned such an alarm
in his mind, they would not entail the misfortunes
he apprehended. That if he would inform him
of the particulars he should be the better prepared
to act on any emergency, and he might rely upon
his honour, without taking into view the high interest
he felt and ever must feel for the welfare of
O'Halloran and his granddaughter, as a sufficient
pledge of secrecy, so long as secrecy should be
attended with any advantage to either of them.”
“I am satisfied on that head,” said the Recluse,
“your political principles, opposed, as I know
them to be, to those of O'Halloran, will not, I am
persuaded, prevail with you to break through the
various ties of honour, gratitude, and love, which
bind you to the interests of this worthy but mistaken
old man. Yet I cannot but think that your
conscience will scruple at enlisting your services
in behalf of a man, whom, when you are informed
of the whole of his conduct, (and of the whole
of it you must be informed before you can be sensible
of the extent of his danger,) you will be inclined
to look upon as a traitor to his country, and
to that constitution of government, which, from
your youth, you have been taught to venerate and
consider as the most excellent that ever was
framed for the benefit of society.”
“I indeed acknowledge my admiration of the
excellencies of the British constitution,” replied
Edward. “At the same time, I am sensible that it
contains a great many imperfections; and, in various
minor points, should be an advocate for its
amendment. But, whatever may be my opinions on
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
this subject, depend upon it they never can alter
my affection for the interesting family to whom I
owe so much. Still, I hope, that Mr. O'Halloran
has not acted so as to deserve the severe epithet
of traitor, which you have applied to him.”
“Would to God!” said the Recluse, “that I were
unjust in applying that epithet to him. But, I
greatly fear, that when you hear the particulars,
you will be but too much convinced that the laws
of this country would make the same application.
Against that statute which defines treason to be the
abetting and encouraging the enemies of the country,
it is but too true that with many others of
the society with which he is connected, he has
offended. That it does not amount to treason to be
a United Irishman, I am aware; and if my friend
were only such, I should neither feel the uneasiness,
nor give you trouble concerning him, which
I now do.”
“I am ignorant,” said Edward, “of the designs of
the United Irishmen. But I am aware that their
association has occasioned a great deal of disturbance
in the country; although I am also aware
that the severe measures resorted to by the present
administration to suppress this association,
may have provoked many of the atrocities that
have been committed. As, however, you are better
acquainted with their proceedings and intentions,
I shall be glad of your information; but of
this you may be satisfied, that nothing you can tell
me of a mere political nature, shall lessen my
esteem for our friend, or alter my resolution to
serve him, if ever Providence shall so order it that
I may have the power.”
“This,” said the Recluse, “is the point I wished
to gain. I shall not, therefore, hesitate to communicate
all I know concerning O'Halloran's connexion
with this association. Among the United
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
Irishmen there are numbers of virtuous characters,
and, at the commencement of the society, it was
joined by men of the purest patriotic and constitutional
principles. The avowed object of its
founders, was only to unite all classes of Irishmen,
without regard to religious distinction, in exertions
to obtain those rights, and the redress of those
grievances which the volunteers had failed to obtain.
The three leading objects with them, are the
same for which many of our best and most enlightened
statesmen, both in and out of parliament,
have long contended; namely, a reform in the representation
of the commons, emancipation of the
catholics, and a melioration of the tythe system.
These are just and constitutional demands for the
people to make; and had the government granted
them to the solicitations of the volunteers, we
should never have heard of United Irishmen. But
the administration became jealous of that gallant
army of patriots; and as soon as they no longer
needed their aid, not only stopped short in their
reluctant concessions to their just demands, but in
defiance of the wishes of the nation, occasioned
their disorganization.
“Some of the leaders of the volunteers, and
other men of restless and active dispositions, and
many, no doubt, from the purest motives, determined
to persist in urging their claims; and, since
they were forbidden to arm as a public body, they
resolved to arm as a secret society. The plan they
adopted was originally suggested by Theobald
Wolfe Tone, whom I have frequently seen in this
part of the country, on his visits to ascertain the
progress of the association, and to give instructions
respecting the management and regulation of its
concerns. Mr. O'Halloran, who had been a leader
among the volunteers, became active in recruiting
for the new establishment, which, at its origin, was
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
hardly considered in any other light than as a substitute
for that which had been so arbitrarily and
unwisely suppressed.
“Unfortunately the French revolutionists began
at this time successfully to propagate their disorganizing
doctrines throughout all Europe. Numbers
of their emissaries were scattered over Ireland,
and, in consequence of their exertions, a
spirit of innovation upon every kind of ancient
establishment spread itself rapidly among the people.
This was, however, somewhat checked by
the seeming spirit of conciliation which the ministry
of Britain manifested in sending the earl Fitzwilliam,
a man who was known to be friendly to
the popular wishes, as viceroy to the country.
Happy it would have been for the people, and
happy also for the government, had he been permitted
to remain at the head of our affairs. The
United Irish Association would, of itself, have desolved
by being gratified in the principal of its
wishes. But, unfortunately, it was not the design
of Mr. Pitt and his colleagues that the people should
be gratified. Accordingly the popular viceroy was
withdrawn. He left Ireland in tears, which I am
afraid will never be dried until they be changed
for blood.
His successor, lord Camden, you are aware, has
adopted a different system of government. Instead
of a redress of grievances being granted, oppression
is increased, under the plea of suppressing treason,
until numbers have actually been irritated into treason,
who would otherwise have remained peaceable
and loyal; and the red arm of vengeance has
been bared to inflict punishment for crimes that
would never have been committed, had not the
same arm been previously employed in oppression.
To Camden's ill-fated and ill-managed administration,
the whole of the evils that now overspread
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
the land are to be attributed. By passing the impolitic
law of the last session, called the Insurrection
Act, which has for a season, surrendered the
liberties of the people into the hands of an executive
that has shown itself so ill disposed to make a
proper use of such a trust, the parliament has
sharpened the sword of oppression, and given a
cruel sanction to the military outrages that are now
committing throughout the country. That act has
permitted the ordinary forms of judicature to be
superseded by tribunals, unknown to the constitution,
and military courts are now busied, in many
places, in hurling the vengeance of power wherever
disaffection is suspected, or even wherever it is
convenient for interested malice that it should be
suspected.
“The captivity and sufferings of William Orr, a
respectable man of this county, who, under the
operation of that unfortunate act, has been, since
September last, immured in prison, among many
other instances of misgovernment, have contributed
much to excite the present incalculable and fearful
degree of irritation which has seized the minds of
the people of this province. Immense numbers of
every class view the present state of things with
horror, and the legislature having legalized the
oppression under their labour, they also view them
without any hope of deliverance, except by an exertion
of their own strength. Hence thousands who
before the existence of the Insurrection act resisted
every solicitation to join the united ranks, are now
voluntarily coming forward to enrol themselves
upon their lists, and to take the oaths of fidelity to
their cause. Ambitious men, in the interests of
France, have taken advantage of this enthusiasm
among the people, and have, of late, been too successful
in infusing principles absolutely treasonable
into the minds of many.
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
“Among the most zealous for revenge upon the
oppressors of the country, we may consider our
friend, Mr. O'Halloran. Excited by the integrity
of his nature to a hatred of every species of injustice,
and being fearless and persevering in whatever
cause he embarks, he has taken a lead in the
existing conspiracy, not, like many others, from
selfish views, but from the purest motives—from
his ideas of duty, and from his feelings of benevolence
and patriotism.
“Many, however, on the contrary, of the ablest
men who were conspicuous at the commencement
of the confederacy, have become dissatisfied at the
lengths to which matters have latterly been driven,
and are now either altogether inactive, or have
thrown their weight into the scale of government.
But encouraged by the great accession they have
received in point of numbers from the lower orders,
the more zealous leaders, instead of being discouraged
by this defection of the more moderate from
their cause, have become bolder in their measures,
and have not stopped short of treason in their views.
They avow, unreservedly, their intention, with the
assistance of France, to establish a republican
form of government in this country, altogether unconnected
with Britain; and these imprudent men
now regulate the whole concerns of the united confederacy.
The lower orders look up to them as
the only true patriots, and brand those who wish
to restrain them in their mad career, with the
name of apostates; and it has unfortunately happened
in this, as in all other cases of national excitement,
that the most violent have become the
most popular.”
“Is there any system of insurrection yet organized?”
enquired Edward.
“There is no time, I believe, yet fixed upon for
taking the field; but they have given up all idea
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
of again applying to government for a redress of
grievances, and appear resolved to trust to arms
alone for the success of their cause. Still I am of
opinion that conciliatory measures on the part of
the government, and granting them their just and
constitutional demands, would so separate the members
of the confederacy, as to check the progress
of the threatened rebellion, and render the machinations
of the more violent and fanatical abortive.
But I have so little faith in the government adopting
these healing measures, that I expect nothing
else than a state of things to take place, more disasterous
and unfortunate for the country, than any
she has ever yet experienced. The government is
obstinate, it is oppressive; the people are inflamed,
and imprudent, and under the management of ambitious,
rash, and desperate men. O! my friend,
what misery awaits our unfortunate country?”
Edward felt the full force of the old man's sorrow.
His heart bled at the prospect thus opened
before him of the calamities that were about to
overspread the land of his nativity; the land of
his affections; the abode of all that was dear to
his feelings and pleasing to his hopes, and he heaved
a sigh as he confessed that he could see no means
by which the threatened misfortunes might be
averted.
The Recluse now gave him an account of numerous
instances of misrule and oppression committed
by the government, and of the violent measures
frequently resorted to by the United Irishmen in
retaliation throughout the northern parts of the
country. At length Edward took leave of the old
man, with a promise not to depart from the neighbourhood
until he should have another interview
with him on the subject.
On his way to the castle, his heart, distracted
with sorrow and with love, became overpowered
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
with his emotions, and before he knocked for admittance
at the gate, which, at that hour of the night,
was always closed, he retired into a little arbour
behind the porter's lodge, to give vent to his feelings.
He had scarcely entered, when a coarse
voice called out “Wha comes there?” which he
immediately conjectured to be the voice of Peg
Dornan.
“Is this you, Peg?” was the reply.
She started to her feet, muttering, “In the name
o' Gude! what brings you here at this hoor of the
nicht? Surely you ha' na been out exercising wi'
the crappies. Poor lads! they maun aye tak' the
dark covering o' the nicht to be drilled, for fear o'
the blackguard informers, or the king's red-coats,
that would shoot them or hang them without mercy.
The deil tak' them!”
“Is this where you make your bed at nights,
Peg?” said Edward.
“Sometimes, sir; ony place does Peg Dornan.”
At this moment they heard the sound of voices
approaching.
“It's his honour,” said Peg, looking out at the
entrance of the arbour, “an' anither I dinna ken,
gaun to the castle. Na doubt they're talking politics.
I ne'er fash my head wi' sic things, except
to sing a crappy sang noo an' then, an' to wish Gude
to bless the cause, be it richt or wrang.”
The speakers were now so near that Edward
could distinctly hear O'Halloran saying to his companion
“We have now upwards of a hundred thousand
men sworn to us in this province, and, I think,
we might have things prepared for a general rising
as soon as your government can effect the landing
of ten thousand troops on any part of the coast.
My last letters from the Dublin Directory inform
me, that in the various part of the kingdom there
are upwards of three hundred thousand United
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
Irishmen and Defenders ready to take the field at
the first signal!” To this the other answered—“Our
government has the interests of your country much
at heart, and if our transports can only escape the
fleets of Britain, the number of troops promised
you may rely on receiving at the stipulated time.”
The sounds now died away, and the encreasing
distance of the speakers prevented Edward from
hearing more. The fact that French aid in order
to assist in separating Ireland from England, was
negociated for by the leaders of the United Association,
was now to him no longer questionable; and
that the only parent of his Ellen, the preserver of
his life, was deeply implicated in this traitorous and
dangerous measure, sunk heavily to his heart, and
impressed him with such a degree of vexation and
sorrow, as he had never before experienced.
“I will not disturb you longer, Peg,” said he,
“when I stumbled in here, I did not expect that
the place was previously occupied.”
“Guid nicht!” she cried, “and Gude be wi' you;
an' thank ye for the money—I had na' sae muckle
this twal month before.”
-- --
CHAP. IV.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair,
An Irishman all in his glory is there,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
His clothes spic and span new without e'er a speck,
A new Barcelona tied round his neat neck;
He comes into a tent and he spends half a crown,
Comes out, meets his friend, and for love knocks him down,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
POPULAR SONG.
When Edward had retired to bed and begun to
ruminate on the distracted and dangerous state of
the country, he found sleep to be utterly out of the
question. So many images of the distress and misery
about to take place, crowded on his imagination,
that when he, at length, fell into a slumber, the
state of his mind excited the most frightful dreams.
At one time, he thought that his old friend was
seized by a party of dragoons, and hanged at the
gate of his own castle, which was fired by the military;
and, before he could fly to prevent it, he
thought he saw his beloved Ellen consumed in the
flames. Here the horror of his feelings increased
to such agony that he awoke.
The day was dawning, and as it was in vain for
him to seek again for repose, he wandered to the
garden, which was situated at a small distance from
the castle. It was a lovely May morning. A thousand
warblers saluted the rising sun from the trees
and hedges around him. “How happy are you!”
thought he, “ye little songsters, when compared
with man, that lord of the creation! No vicious,
turbulent passions agitate your contented bosoms.
You do not, like us, enter into combinations to bring
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
upon each other misery and ruin. Ambition never
swells your breasts, nor does revenge goad you on
to mutual hatred and destruction. The sweeter and
more amiable passions alone find admission into
your bosoms, and the enjoyments of love, friendship
and innocence seem to be the only occupation
of your lives. Your lot is, indeed, that of innocence
and joy.”
Absorbed in these contemplations, he moved
slowly along the garden walks, amidst a profusion
of cowslips, daisies, hyacinths, tulips, and numerous
other flowers that scented the air all around, and
from the leaves and petals of which were suspended
myriads of pearly globules, glittering in the early
beams of the eastern sun. “But there is one of our
race,” thought he, “as lovely as these, whose breast
to me is fragrance, and whose voice is music. Oh!
may heaven grant her protection amidst the dangers
that surround her; for her bosom is the seat
of innocence, and her soul too pure for the vengeful
feelings of the times!” This soothing walk, and
the contemplation of Ellen's charms, calmed the
perturbation of his spirits, and he was enabled to
meet O'Halloran in a more unembarrassed manner
than he expected.
After breakfast he signified his intention of going
to town, in order to give some directions to his servant,
observing at the same time, that, as he wished
to remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood, he
should take lodgings at the inn where his horses
were kept. O'Halloran invited him to make the
castle his home so long as he remained in that part
of the country. He declined the invitation, but
mentioned that he should frequently obtrude upon
them as a visiter. O'Halloran then expressed his
intention of going to town with him, on condition
that he would accompany him back to the castle in
the evening, a stipulation with which he complied.
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On the road, O'Halloran introduced the subject
of politics. “You are a young man,” said he, “I
believe, of generous sentiments and a liberal mind,
and such I have ever found to be possessed of that
first of virtues, patriotism. You cannot, therefore,
but feel the injustice, cruelty, and despotism, with
which the government of Britain has always treated
this country. It has been the policy of our haughty,
domineering neighbour, ever since we have been so
unfortunate as to be connected with her, to treat us
as a conquered people. She has taken advantage
of our religious dissentions, and made them the
means of fomenting divisions amongst us, that she
might the more easily oppress us, and incur no danger
from her tyranny. We are, however, Mr. Middleton,
resolved no longer to be her dupes. The
minds of all classes of our people are enlightened,
and whether Protestants, Presbyterians, or Catholics,
a cordial brotherhood has taken place. We
feel oppression, and are resolved to endure it no
longer. We know the natural rights of men, and
shall assert them in the face of our enemies. They
have made us slaves, but we are determined to be
free. It is the duty of every true Irishman to assist
in such a cause, a cause which cannot but obtain
the approbation of heaven, and be successful.”
“My friend,” replied Edward, “of all accusations,
I should wish to avoid that of being indifferent
to the welfare of my country. I feel that Ireland
has not a son who more fervently desires her prosperity
than I do. I have seen her distresses, and I
have grieved for them. I have contemplated the calamities
that seem hovering over her, and if a sacrifice
of my life, or any other sacrifice in my power to
make, could preserve her from them, it should be
joyfully offered. Oh, sir! while we were a quiet
people, living in obedience to the laws of the land,
without embroiling ourselves in impracticable
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schemes for the attainment of merely abstract and
controverted rights, were we not a happy people?
were we not in possession of every practical good
that could arise from the enjoyment of known laws,
and a firm and well regulated government? Our
lives and our properties were secure from violence;
and no earthly power, except the power of offended
laws, could injure us with impunity. I grant that
our government has often been wrong. Every thing
human is liable to error, and our government is
human. We should have been content with applying,
in a legal manner, for redress. Ah! my heart
is sore to think of the state to which matters have
been carried. The administration has been unwise,
and the people imprudent. The one is obstinate,
and the other rash; and, in all probability, it will
require a deluge of blood to extinguish their mutual
animosity.”
They had now arrived at Larne. It happened
to be the monthly yarn market-day, and the market
for May in that town, is always the largest in
the year.
Edward was astonished at the multitude of people
of all ages, sexes, and ranks that filled the
streets; some for amusement, and some for business,
making a confused mixture of sounds, loud and discordant
indeed, but at the same time cheerful, lively
and diverting. After making their way, with
some difficulty through the crowd, they, at length,
arrived at the inn where Edward's servant had
stopped. They entered a small room where two
decent looking countrymen were adjusting the payment
of some linen cloth which the one had purchased
from the other. After an interchange of
civilities with Edward and O'Halloran, he that received
the money, insisted on calling for something
to treat his companion; and immediately rapping
aloud on the table with a small wooden mallet
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called a bruiser, an instrument used in mixing punch
throughout the North of Ireland, a young girl quickly
appeared.
“Were you calling gentlemen?” said she. “Bring
us half a pint of Innishown, with some sugar and water,”
was the reply of the linen-seller. Edward
wondered at the quantity ordered at once for only
two individuals. But as soon as the materials arrived,
he found that although O'Halloran and he
had not been formally asked to accept a share, they
had been provided for in the countryman's calculation.
The linen dealers immediately applied
themselves to their glasses; and O'Halloran without
hesitation followed their example. But Edward
declined until he saw that it was necessary for the
sake of civility to comply, which he did, however,
sparingly.
The conversation now turned upon politics; and
Edward soon perceived that his two new companions
were United Irishmen; for seeing him in
the company of O'Halloran, they took no pains to
conceal their sentiments in his presence. After
commenting on the usual topics of the Insurrection
law, and Orr's sufferings, they adverted to the punishment
that had been recently inflicted upon one
William Murphy, a soldier belonging to the king's
artillery, who had become a United Irishman, and
deserted. It appeared that he had been apprehended
in the house of the man who had bought
the linen, and who told them the whole story with
as many exaggerations as he thought necessary to
ornament the narrative, and blacken the conduct
of the military.
“Murphy's a damned clever fellow,” said he,
“for when the soldiers threatened to burn the house
over us if we did not give him up, he jumped out
of his hiding place and went out to them, in spite of
us all. You are a fool, said I, you might escape
-- 060 --
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out of the back window, and up the loanin, and behind
the stack-yard, an' it's ten to one if they would
see you, until you would be so far off that they
could neither catch you nor shoot you.”
“And don't you know,” said he, “that they would
punish you for letting me escape?”
`Never fear that,' said I, `they have nothing
against me.'
“They would soon find something against you,”
said he, `your letting me off would be enough.
But I'll be damned if they shall injure you on my
account.' He then called to the officer not to burn
the house for he would surrender, and he resolutely
walked out to them.
`Damn you Murphy,' said the officer, `what a
pretty scrape you have brought yourself into with
these cursed croppies—you will get a sore back for
it, I'll warrant you. But we must see whether
the good codger within, has any hospitality for
honest soldiers, as well as for deserters. Good
morrow, Mr. Clements,' said he to me, coming into
the house with a dozen of soldiers after him, `you
have actly wisely. What a devil of a sin it would
have been for you to have let the house be burned
about these pretty chubby cheeked daughters of
yours! What are you crying for,' said he to
Nancy, “Ah sir!” said she, “I am afraid you will
flog poor Murphy.” “He shall only be used as
every cowardly deserter should be used, my pretty
girl! But I am damned hungry. Come, Clements,
let's have something to eat, for curse the morsel either
I or my men have tasted since we left Carrickfergus.
Come, my tender hearted little damsel! quit
sobbing, and take pity on starving soldiers. Prepare
us some of this bacon, with a few eggs and
some bread and cheese, and a bottle or two of
whiskey, to warm our stomachs, or, by G—d, we
shall save you the trouble and do it ourselves.”
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“Weel, Nancy, to gain their favour for poor
Murphy, treated them as well as she could. At
parting we all shook hands with him, but our hearts
were heavy. He kissed Nancy, she wept like a
child. “May God protect you,” said he, `it is
likely we shall never meet again in this world!'
And heaven knows they never did, nor never will.
Even the officer himself was somewhat affected; and
to do him justice, he treated us civilly enough, though
he was a hard-hearted rascal in the main, for when
they had left the house, as I followed them a little
way, I heard him tell Murphy to prepare, for he
had no mercy to expect!”
“Perhaps,” said Edward, “the admonition might
have been given to induce Murphy to a timely preparation
for death. Under such circumstances, I
think, I should wish at once to know my doom.”
“By heaven! you are right,” cried the linen-seller,
“I should like to know the worst that I might
prepare for it. Death is bad enough; but it is soon
over, but suspense is—is—confound me, if I know
what to call it!—it is worse than death.”
“It is lingering torment,” said Edward.
“By George, you have it,” returned the linen-seller,
“just what I wanted to call it. We must
have another round for the gentleman's 'cuteness.”
But before he could get once more applying the
bruiser to the table, a woman entered the room with
a face of inquiry.
“Wull ony o' ye, gentlemen,” said she, “tell
me how much six spinal and a half o' yarn comes
to, at eleven pence ha'penny a hank?”
“Wha gets your yarn? Nanny,” asked Clements.
“Billy Boyd, sir.”
“Has Billy ony wabs to sell the day, ken ye?”
“I doubt na, sir, he has; though I canna tell
for certain.” By this time the other linen dealer,
who had suspended his attack upon the table, to
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calculate the amount of Nanny's yarn, told her
that it came to one pound four shillings and eleven
pence; and handed her the figures, marked
with his pencil upon a piece of paper, with an air
of conscious superiority in scholarship, that might
have become any pedagogue philosopher in the
country. He then invited her to take a dram; and
asked her if she had any more yarn to sell.
“No,” she replied, “but, I believe, my sin Jemmy's
wife has twa or three spinal o' six hank
yarn.”
During this dialogue, Edward who wished to
avoid the second bacchanalian attack which he saw
contemplated, withdrew. He was soon followed
by O'Halloran, who invited him to take a ramble
through the streets in order to witness the humours
of a Northern Irish yarn market.
“The market,” said he, “in this town, is held
once a month, and is generally attended by people
from all parts of the country who wish to buy
linen cloth or yarn, although, besides these articles,
there are exposed for sale great numbers of
cows and horses, and generally all kinds of merchandise,
either the growth or manufacture of the
country.”
They had not gone far until Edward perceived
the scene diversified by the tents of hawkers,
erected on the sides of the streets, in which were
vended a great variety of haberdashery, cutlery,
&c. Not far from these were stationed the humbler
stalls of a species of travelling huxters called
ginger-bread women, constructed either of old
doors supported on the ends of barrels, or of two-wheeled
cars leaning on supports of a similar description.
Turning a corner near the market-house,
he perceived to the left, a man elevated on a table
selling waistcoat patterns and shawls by auction,
and bawling lustily in order to attract customers. On
-- 063 --
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the other side of the street, an old female ballad-singer
exerted her lungs at a most powerful rate,
in successful opposition to the auctioneer.
The course jests of the one, and the ludicrous
gestures of the other, were in complete rivalry.
The ballad-singer, however, seemed to attract the
greater attention, perhaps owing to her subject,
which was of a political nature, giving an account
of the trial, death, and heroism of the four militia
men before noticed, who had been lately shot for
treasonable practices, at Blarris-Moor, near Belfast.
Of this elegiac composition of some of the rustic
political bards, whose numerous effusions were
then so prevalent and so eagerly sought after in
the country, it may not be amiss to give the reader
a few stanzas, as a specimen of those lyrical productions,
which, although utterly destitute of the
graces of fine writing, yet being adapted to popular
airs, being in unison with the popular feelings,
and containing sometimes a great deal of simplicity
and nature, were altogether suited to the taste of
the lower orders, and produced in their minds a
wonderful degree of political enthusiasm. It has
been asserted that the prevalence of those songs
did more to increase the numbers of the conspirators
than all the efforts of the French emissaries,
or the writings and harangues of all the political
philosophers, and age-of-reason men of the times.
Some of the stanzas that now attracted the attention
of Edward were as follows:—
Ye Muse, grant me direction,
To sing that foul transaction,
Which causes sad reflection,
Late done at Blarris-Moor,
By wicked colonel Barber;
Should I proceed much further,
And call his conduct murder,
'Twere treason, I am sure!
-- 064 --
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Belfast may well remember,
When tyrants in their splendour,
In all their power and grandeur,
They hois'd them on a car;
While infantry advancing,
And cavalry were prancing,
And glittering armour glancing,
All in the pomp of war!
They were of good behaviour,
No heroes e'er were braver,
But a perjured base deceiver,
Betray'd their lives away.
For the sake of golden store;
The villain falsely swore;
And the crime we now deplore,
In sorrow and dismay.
Amidst a hollow square,
Well guarded front and rear,
With guns and bayonets there,
Their constancy to move.
When they receiv'd their sentence,
Their hearts felt no relentings;
They bow'd to each acquaintance,
And kneel'd to God above!
Then their foes held consultation,
To find out combination,
And thus in exhortation,
Curs'd Barber did propose:
Arise from your devotion,
Take pardon and promotion,
Or death will be your portion,
Unless you now disclose.
Some moments then they mused,
For their senses were confused,
Then smiling they refused,
And made him this reply:—
We own we are united,
Of death we're not affrighted,
And hope to be requited,
By him who rules on high.
The guns were then presented,
The balls their bosoms entered,
While multitudes lamented
The shocking sight to see
-- 065 --
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Those youthful martyrs four,
Lying weltering in their gore,
And the plains besprinkled o'er,
With the blood of cruelty.
In coffins they were hurried,
From Blarris-Moor were carried,
And hastily were buried,
While thousands, sunk in grief,
Cried, “Granu! we much wonder,
You rise not from your slumber,
With voice as loud as thunder,
To grant us some relief!”
When Edward had listened to a few stanzas
of this song, he perceived Dr. Farrel, his physician,
approaching, who saluted him with great cordiality.
Edward, who really esteemed this gentleman
for his good sense and urbanity of manners,
returned his salutation with unfeigned pleasure.
The three gentlemen had not walked far together,
until O'Halloran was taken aside by a square
built, stout-looking man, in the habit of a traveller,
who desired to converse with him in private. Edward
and the doctor therefore walked on, while
O'Halloran and the stranger went off in a different
direction. Edward found in his new companion an
inexhaustible mine of intelligence concerning the
manners of the people of the North.
“You see,” said he, “how open every man's
countenance is; how ready every individual is to
be civil. No matter how much he may be jostled
in the crowd, he is willing to submit to the inconvenience,
and to yield the way to his neighbour.
This state of things, however, will only last for a
few hours. Whiskey will soon overcome discretion,
and you will then see this prudent, cautious people,
who now seem so anxious to avoid giving offence,
that they will not resent even real annoyances,
taking fire at a look, and becoming ready
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
to knock down every man who comes in their
way!”
A recruiting party of soldiers now passed them,
for whom the crowd made way without seeming
to pay them the slightest attention in any other
respect. Far different was their deportment to a
party of rope-dancers and equestrian performers,
who next advanced, mounted on their well-taught
steeds with trumpets sounding, and preceded by a
Pickle Herring, whose antic grimaces and low
jests excited frequent peals of laughter among the
assembled multitude. It was with some difficulty
that Edward and his companion kept their ground
until this splendid and noisy procession had gone
past; when, proceeding onwards, they came to the
tent of an itinerant dealer in haberdashery, at the
one end of which sat a group of well-dressed country
girls. Edward immediately knew one of them to
be his acquaintance, Peggy Caldwell; and while
the doctor's attention was drawn to a fine, noble
looking horse which a jockey was putting through
his paces at some distance, he approached her.
“Miss Caldwell,” said he, “I am glad to meet
with you here. Is there any thing within this tent
I can have the pleasure of bestowing upon you, in
token of my gratitude for your attention to me
during my confinement in your father's house?”
“I believe, sir,” she replied, somewhat abashed,
“it would be wrong in me to take any present
from you.”
“You will gratify me,” said Edward, in a persevering
manner, “by receiving some gift—a new
gown, or a new shawl, or any thing else you
choose, as a testimony of my regard for you.”
“Hold!” cried a loud determined voice behind
him. “Gentle or simple, by G—d, you shant affront
Miss Caldwell in my presence.”
“Who are you?” demanded Edward, as he
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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
turned round, and beheld an active looking young
fellow whose countenance indicated that he felt an
offence, and was determined to resent it. “Who
are you, who dares address me so rudely in the
public street?”
“As to that,” said the other, “I will let you feel
wha I am, gin you dare to affront that young woman
again in my hearin. She's no o' the kind
you tak her to be.”
“I am as incapable of insulting that young woman
as you, or any other of her friends can be,”
returned Edward, “but I am capable and determined
to punish any unprovoked rudeness that
may be offered to myself.”
Peggy here interfered, and explained to the
young man that the gentleman had not offended
her; that he was the person whom Mr. O'Halloran
had saved from drowning, and on whom she
had attended when he was confined in her father's
house. The doctor now advanced, for he had
overheard part of the altercation.
“What is the matter? Jemmy,” said he to the
young man.
“Naething,” replied Jemmy, “I see I mistook the
thing; and I beg the gentleman's pardon. I was
owre hasty. But I hope his honour an' you will
oblige me, by comin' wi' Peggy and these ither
lasses, to tak share o' half a pint, an mak' up the
matter.”
“Since your acknowledgment is as candid as
your attack was unprovoked,” said Edward, “I
shall drink to our reconciliation; but it shall be
only on condition that Peggy previously receives
from me some donation, as I before proposed, and
you yourself may choose it for her.”
A silk shawl, alternately striped with green,
white, and red, an arrangement of colours then
much affected by the United Irishmen, was
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
accordingly purchased for Peggy, and the party immediately
retired into the next public house, every
room of which was so completely filled with people,
that they could scarcely find seats.
“What a terrible consumption of ardent spirits,”
thought Edward as he seated himself, “must take
place in the markets and fairs of this part of the
country! No bargain, it appears, can be concluded,
nor any offence atoned for, without the interference
of this enemy to human happiness.” While
he thus meditated, Jemmy Hunter seated himself
beside him, and in a low whisper, said,
“Ye maun ken, sir, that Peggy an' me are sweet-hearts.
I like her sae weel that I canna see ony
body else lookin' at her, without taking it amiss.
Besides, ye maun grant that it was na very creditable
for a poor bonny lass, like her, to be ta'en
notice to by a rich lookin' gentleman sa far abune
her, in the market. I hope ye wanna be offended
at me, as I did na ken that you only wanted to
pay a debt o' frien'ship.”
“Your motive, I perceive,” replied Edward,
“was good; and not being acquainted with the
etiquette of this part of the country on such occasions,
I may have done wrong. On these accounts,
I assure you, I entirely forgive the harshness
of your conduct; but, could this explanation
not have taken place, without accompanying it with
such a useless ceremony as whiskey drinking?”
“Na, na, sir, by my troth, we'll ha' nae dry reconcilements.
Besides ye maun ken (whispering
close into Edward's ear,) I wanted to treat the
lassie hersel to a dram. It mak's courtin' sweet on
market days.”
Edward having no argument to oppose to this
last remark, gave a smile, and nodded in acquiescence
to the propriety of Jemmy's method of courting.
When the company in various parts of the
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room began to grow noisy, which, as the country
people had now commenced setting themselves
thoroughly to their cups, was soon the case, Edward
and the doctor thought proper to withdraw.
On reaching the street, they perceived a great
commotion among the crowd; the people running
all in one direction. They soon understood that
a quarrel had taken place between two drunken
fellows; and observed that the men were running
pell-mell either to gratify curiosity, or to see fair
play, while the women were hurrying fearlessly
forward to separate and pacify the combatants.
The combatants, at length, were seen belabouring
each other heartily with large sticks, whenever the
crowd permitted them to approach near enough.
Their immediate friends, at last, coming upon the
scene, they were carried away in different directions,
streaming with blood, and each uttering the
most terrible imprecations, not so much against his
antagonist as against those who had interfered to
prevent a longer continuance of the affray.
Edward was persuaded that the assistance of
his medical friend would have been immediately
required by some one of the parties; but the doctor
assured him that he expected no such thing.
“Such quarrels,” said he, “generally produce
only black eyes, or a few bruises about the head,
for which the people who engage in them care so
little that they scarcely ever drink a single gill the
less on account of them. Formerly these fights
occasioned considerable animosity between the
families related to the parties. At present this is
not the case. As soon as sobriety returns, the combatants
forget their rage, shake hands, drink a few
gills more in token of friendship, and in the height
of their conviviality, perhaps again dispute, and
try the strength of each other's sculls with renewed
fierceness and animosity. If, indeed, the dispute
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
be of a religious or political nature, it often assumes
a more malignant character, and involves
numbers in its consequences. Often pitched battles
are appointed, and actually fought by the contending
factions, when the civil power has to interfere
for their suppression. In these threatening
times, the military are frequently called out in aid
of the constables, in order to preserve the peace,
which otherwise it would be impossible to effect.”
At this moment, a guard of soldiers was seen approaching,
commanded by their lieutenant, but
under the direction of the high constable of the
town. Having dispersed the crowd, which the late
fight had collected, they entered every public
house to ascertain if all was quiet, while the constable
left strict injunctions upon each landlord to
entertain no company later than nine o'clock that
evening, on pain of being subjected to the penalty
for keeping an irregular house, which the late law,
adapted to the troublesome nature of the times
rendered very severe upon publicans.
-- --
CHAP. V.
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
Light care had he for life, and less for fame.
But not less fitted for the desperate game;
He deemed himself marked out for others hate,
And mocked at ruin so they shared his fate.
What car'd he for the freedom of the crowd,
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay,
And they must kill, they cannot spare the prey.
In voice, mein, gesture, savage nature spoke,
And from his eye the gladiator broke.
Byron.
The doctor being called away on some business,
Edward returned to the inn where his servant
staid. Here he found O'Halloran and the stranger
who had some hours before taken him aside on the
street. They were sitting, one at each end of a table,
in an angle of a tolerably large room, which, like
every other in the house at that juncture, was quite
full of people enjoying the convivial cup with great
noise and good humour. Edward observed that his
friend and the stranger were the two most silent people
in the room, and he was surprised to find that
O'Halloran, although he was evidently on an intimate
footing with the stranger, never named him.
The latter was wrapped in a great coat, booted
and spurred, and held in his hand a huge horseman's
whip, heavily loaded with lead. He appeared
to be about forty years of age, slightly
pockpitted, very muscular, and broad shouldered,
fully five feet ten inches high, with small gray
eyes and heavy eyebrows. There was something
very daring and at the same time very gloomy in
his countenance. He sat with his back to the wall
seemingly abstracted in deep meditation, with his
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
hat drawn forward over his face, so as partly to
conceal it. O'Halloran appeared also to be rather
in a thoughtful mood, although there was something
of satisfaction visible in his countenance.
He was proposing to Edward to return home,
when the attention of the company was attracted
by the arrival of two dragoons at the door of the
inn, with intelligence of an alarming nature from
Belfast.
They gave an account of the assassination of one
M`Bride, an informer, which had taken place in
that town, the preceding evening, by means, it was
conjectured, of an air-gun, no report having been
heard, although the deceased was shot dead on the
spot. They produced some printed handbills describing
the persons of the supposed perpetrators,
and offering a reward of five hundred pounds, for
the apprehension of each. They said, that parties
of the military had been dispatched in all directions,
in search of them, and that they had come on the
northern route for that purpose.
The whole Inn now became a scene of confusion,
occasioned by the multitude rushing in to obtain
particular information of the affair. This confusion
continued until the arrival of George M`Claverty,
Esq. the principal acting magistrate of the neighbourhood.
He stationed some soldiers to guard the
doors, until he should examine every suspicious
person in the house, and compare him with the descriptions
in the hand-bills.
The stranger had disappeared on the first arrival
of the horsemen. Edward, therefore, was almost
the only person in the house totally unknown to the
magistrate. He was accordingly very particular
in scrutinizing him. The first description was read.
“Five feet ten inches”—that was nearly Edward's
height—“Firm made and very muscular,” he was
the former but not the latter. Still so far it might
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[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
do—“Slightly pock-pitted”—Edward had only one
or two traces of the small-pox.—“Full-chested”—
he was portly enough in his appearance. All this
might answer.—“Forty years of age”—Here the
description was totally out. Edward did not appear
to be much above twenty.—“Reddish, straight
hair”—Here the application altogether failed. Edward's
hair was black, and somewhat curled.
“Well!” said the magistrate, “let us see the other
description.”—“Five feet high”—“That wont do.”—
“Stoop shouldered”—“That wont do either.—
Young man, what is your name?”
“Middleton, sir.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From the neighbourhood of Dublin.”
“A damned seditious neighbourhood! What is
your business in the North?”
“Curiosity, sir.”
“A damned suspicious employment! Is there
any one here who knows you?”
“Mr. O'Halloran, sir.”
“A damned suspicious—I was going to say seditious
acquaintance—Mr. O'Halloran, I beg your
pardon. Although as yet we have no information
against you sufficient to warrant your committal,
we have heard enough to render you suspected. I
am sorry for it, as I know you are, in other respects,
a worthy enough character.”
“I thank you,” said O'Halloran, “for your favorable
opinion. As to this gentleman, if my report
in his behalf will not be taken, perhaps that of
Doctor Farrell will.”
“If Doctor Farrel says that he is a true man,”
replied the magistrate, “I will immediately crack
a bottle of wine with him to his majesty's health,
and you will join us, I hope, Mr. O'Halloran. The
king has not a better subject in his dominions than
the Doctor.”
-- 074 --
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The Doctor soon made his appearance, and
having declared his opinion in favour of Edward's
loyalty, the wine was introduced by the magistrate's
order. Edward immediately filled a glass
to the king's health, and drinking it started to his
feet.
“Mr. M`Claverty,” said he, “you are an entire
stranger to me, and I now find you on important
official duty, enquiring after the perpetrators of a
shocking murder. These circumstances amply excuse
if they do not quite justify the manner in
which you have accosted me. Were it otherwise,
no man with impunity should have made insinuations
of my being either an assassin or a rebel. I
will not obstruct you in the doing of your duty, nor
take offence at being exposed to an examination to
which my being a stranger under the present circumstances,
rendered me sufficiently liable. If you
have done with your interrogatories, however, I
shall now, if Mr. O'Halloran accompanies me, withdraw.
Should you want me at any time within the
space of eight days, you shall find me either at this
inn or at my friend's castle.”
He then retired with O'Halloran, and immediately
ordered out their horses. While they were getting
ready, Tom Mullins took Edward aside, with
a face of great importance.
“Master,” said he, “I want to ask your honour,
would it be right to be made a croppy? Here is a
very good friend of mine, they call Tom Darragh,
who says it will make a man of me; and that every
true Irishman ought to be united. By Jasus, said
l, I am an Irishman, every drop of my blood; but
if my master, who knows every thing better than I
do—which you know you do, your honour—says I
shouldn't, then I think I may still belong to my own
country without being united.”
“Tom!” said Edward, “I desire you not to
-- 075 --
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converse with any of the people you suspect to be united,
especially if they attempt to seduce you into
their confederacy. It would be next thing to becoming
a rebel to join them.”
“And haven't you been put up, master?”
“Mullins,” demanded Edward rather angrily,
“has any one had the audacity to tell you so?”
“Why, sure, sir, didn't Darragh himself, who
says he knows all about these matters, tell me so
not two hours ago. He said he could swear that
the old gentleman you came here with had done
it. Well, said I, if you can swear that, I'll be put
up too. So we got a pint of whiskey, and when
we had drunk a couple of rounds to old Ireland
and St. Patrick, he went away to get a bible, and
was bidding me stand on my feet to take the oath,
when the horsemen came, and we both ran to the
door to see what the crowd meant.”
“So you have not yet taken the oath?” said
Edward.
“No, sir; and it just came into my head when I
saw you here that I would ask your honour about it,
for I thought that if you were up yourself you
would know whether there was any good in it.”
“I am not up, as you call it,” said Edward. “I
am no United Irishman; and, hear me, Tom, the
moment I know you to be one, I shall dismiss you
from my service.”
“Arrah, master, don't be angry; for if it displeases
you, I wont take the oath for one of them.”
After a few more cautions on the subject, and
also with regard to secrecy concerning himself,
Edward left Tom, and set off with O'Halloran for
the castle. He was anxious to hasten his friend's
departure from the town, lest his obnoxious politics,
and his imprudent warmth, might betray him into
some difficulties. On their way, they called at the
post office, and received the newspapers, which
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had just arrived. They then rode on in silence,
until they were nearly a mile from town, when
Edward observed, that the market scenes were
very amusing; but that, in this instance, any satisfaction
he had experienced was more than counterbalanced
by the unpleasant intelligence of the
horrible murder that had been committed in Belfast.
“Sir!” said O'Halloran, “killing for self preservation
is surely no murder; and it was certainly
meritorious to destroy a traitor whose longer existence
would have been the destruction of hundreds.”
“No man can plead self-defence,” replied Edward,
“unless he be personally attacked, which
does not appear to have been the case with the
perpetrators of this action; and deliberate assassination,
in cold blood, even when the most abandoned
and dangerous character is the victim, carries
with it something so abhorrent to my feelings,
and so contrary to all my ideas of morality, that I
do not see how it can be justified, even on the supposition
of it being intended to prevent occurrences
by which others might eventually suffer.”
“Your laws,” said O'Halloran, “may acknowledge
the propriety of self-defence only in repelling
a personal attack; but your laws in this, as in
many other cases are erroneous guides by which
to estimate the morality or immorality of an action.
Nature directs us better. She tells us that,
by every means in our power, we should frustrate
the machinations of our enemies and prevent impending
evils from falling upon us by the destruction,
either publicly or privately, of those who
would inflict them.”
“The establishment of such a doctrine,” replied
Edward, “as the propriety of privately destroying
our enemies, would abolish all security of personal
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
safety, which is one of the chief advantages enjoyed
from governments and laws. Each individual
would be constituted the sole judge of whether he
is threatened with sufficient danger to warrant the
destruction of his neighbour, and malice or interest
would seldom fail to aggravate the slightest injury
into a sanction for murder. Hence the flood-gates
of all the malignant passions that generate perpetual
strife and blood-shed, would be opened upon
society.”
At this moment the stranger who had engrossed so
much of O'Halloran's company during the day, galloped
down a lane from a farm-house, and joined
them on the road. Edward had observed this man
leaving the inn very hastily the instant the dragoons
were announced. This circumstance had excited a
vague suspicion that he might be one of the assassins.
This suspicion almost arose to a certainty,
when he read the first description, that the magistrate
had attempted to apply to himself. On his
approach now, Edward was more particular in observing
him, and was forcibly struck with the exact
correspondence of his person with the description
in all its traits. He made a bow to Edward,
which he returned coolly, for his soul shuddered
at the idea of being in company with a murderer.
“M`Cauley,” said O'Halloran, “the minions
of government are now on the alert to discover
those brave fellows, who have avenged their country,
and saved upwards of two hundred of her patriots
from the gallows, by the destruction of the
perjured M`Bride. Their suspicion falls upon
every stranger, and they were likely, before we
left town, to give some trouble to this gentleman.
“I suppose,” said M`Cauley, “your magistrate,
M`Claverty, is very zealous on this occasion.
But it may yet be so much the worse for him.”
No reply was made, and silence continued
-- 078 --
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until they were within a mile of the castle. M`Cauley
then stopped suddenly.
“Mr. O'Halloran,” said he, looking at the same
time earnestly in Edward's face, for the whole three
had stopped, “if I may judge from appearance,
your friend here, possesses too much honour to betray
a man who reposes so much confidence in
him as to entrust him with his life.”
O'Halloran replied, “that he had every reliance
on Edward's honour, but—”
“No buts,” said the other, “if he is a man of
honour, he shall know who I am, let his views of
my conduct be what they may. Young man,” continued
he, addressing Edward, “you see before
you, one whose whole heart and soul is devoted to
his country; and, who to avenge her cause upon a
traitor, has not scrupled to offend human laws past
forgiveness; and, perhaps, in the opinion of many
good men, has also violated the laws of heaven.
Of this, however, he can assure you, his own conscience
applauds the deed. Conviction tells him
he has done his duty. He has not only prevented
the lives of more than two hundred patriots from
falling into the hands of tyrants who know no
mercy; he has also prevented his country's enemies
from becoming acquainted with the efforts her
sons are making to free her from bondage. Sir,
you may condemn my action. I have destroyed
an enemy to my country, who had sworn to be
her friend; but you must respect my motives; they
were purely patriotic. I am not blood-thirsty; but
in competition with my country's welfare, I value
neither my own blood nor that of any other man.
In short, I have destroyed M`Bride, the informer,
before he got his traitorous designs accomplished,
and should the gallows be my reward, I shall there
glory in the deed.”
The magnanimity of M`Cauley made a strong
-- 079 --
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impression on Edward. He deplored his infatuation,
he condemned his crime, but he admired
his devoted fidelity to the cause he had espoused.
He assured him, “that although he would rather
not have been entrusted with his secret, he should
have no cause to repent the confidence he had
placed in him.”
O'Halloran's countenance brightened at this assurance,
and with more than usual spirits he led
the way to the castle.
On entering, Edward was introduced to an inmate
of the castle whom he had not before seen.
This was the only sister of O'Halloran, who had
been some weeks absent, and had just returned a
few hours before, accompanied by a Miss Agnew,
at whose father's house she had been visiting. The
old lady was remarkably intelligent, active and
cheerful for her time of life. She was older than
her brother; and might now be about her sixty-fifth
year. At the early period of her life she enjoyed
the sweets of matrimony for about five
years; but her husband who was an extensive
merchant in Belfast, was drowned in a voyage to
Liverpool. His name was Brown, and, although
they never had children, they were tenderly attached
to each other. Indeed, so fondly did Mrs.
Brown cherish the memory of her beloved husband,
who had been her first and favourite lover,
that she would never after his death listen to the
addresses of any man.
Miss Agnew was a pretty, lively, rosy-cheeked
girl of nineteen, who had lately finished a boarding
school education, and possessed an easy, gay
sort of familiarity in her manner, which was far
from displeasing. She was, occasionally, fond of
indulging in a sportive kind of wit approaching to
what is vulgarly termed quizzing. This, however,
if we except a little coquetry, which was natural
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to her, was her only foible, for she was in reality
a well informed and well bred handsome girl, with
a fortune of five thousand pounds at her own disposal,
bequeathed to her several years before by
a deceased uncle.
This accession to the castle party was highly
pleasing to Edward, as it promised not only to be
the means of preventing politics from engrossing
the conversation, but of affording him more of
Ellen's society, who would not be so shy of her
company when it would be only sought for in the
presence of her female friends.
After dinner the newspapers were produced.
On opening the Bolfast News-Letter, O'Halloran
read aloud the following paragraph:—
“Barbarous Assassination.—Yesterday evening a
shocking murder was committed in North Street,
in this town. A respectable man named M`Bride,
was shot dead at the mouth of Round Entry by some
villains who had stationed themselves there for that
purpose. It is supposed that the instrument used
was an air-gun, as no report was heard at the time
that the deed was done. Favoured by the confusion
which took place the villains escaped, it is supposed,
up the Entry, and have hitherto eluded pursuit.
Two men, namely M`Cauley, and Kelly,
were observed standing about the mouth of the
Entry for some time previous to the commission of
the crime; and are suspected. Descriptions of
their persons are given in an advertisement in another
part of our paper, where it will also be seen
that a reward of five hundred pounds is offered
for the apprehension of each. It is suspected that
they belong to the society of United Irishmen; and
that to prevent an exposure of the designs of that
association, which it is thought the deceased intended
to make to government, was the motive
that urged these wicked and misguided wretches
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
to the perpetration of the foulest and blackest
crime of which men can be guilty.”
“The editor of this paper,” said O'Halloran,
when he had finished reading the paragraph, “has
always been a tool to the government. But let us
see what the Northern Star says on the subject.
The conductors of that paper are true Irishmen, men
of enlightened minds and independent spirits, who
cannot be bought.”
“A warning to traitors.—Yesterday evening
an awful but just dispensation was inflicted upon
the notorious M`Bride, for an unprincipled conspiracy
with some Orange magistrates to betray the
cause of his country, in violation of the most solemn
oaths. We are informed that this unhappy man
had professed great zeal in the cause of the United
Irishmen, and had consequently enjoyed a great
share of their confidence. It appears, however,
that this zeal was affected for the purpose of treachery.
His intentions to betray the leaders of the
Union into the hands of government, it is said, were
only of late discovered, but discovered in such a
manner as to leave no doubt on the subject. On
his way to the stage office where he intended to
take the coach for Dublin in order to give his information
to the ministry, he was shot at the mouth
of Round Entry in North-street.
“We are no friends to assassination or any other
mode of destroying human life, but when the circumstances,
that those who were concerned in this
action, had either to do it or suffer themselves, is
considered, it is hoped that the public, if they cannot
altogether justify, will at least be ready to pardon
them. Those at least who so loudly eulogized
the destroyer of Marat, cannot with any consistency,
condemn the destroyers of M`Bride. We trust
that the fate of this unfortunate man will be a caution
to all who would betray their country, for it
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
demonstrates that the people have energy and promptitude
sufficient to baffle the attempts of treachery,
and to inflict vengeance on their enemies.”
The reading of these paragraphs made an impression
of deep horror on the minds of the ladies, and
when O'Halloran had finished, Mrs. Brown remarked
with a sigh, that the state of society must
be dreadful when even its most virtuous and enlightened
members, were found ready to exert their
eloquence in palliating the most terrible of crimes.
“Ah! my brother!” she exclaimed, preventing
him from interrupting her, “I know that you would
plead necessity and self-preservation. But necessity
is an old apology, and is always a dreadful one;
and self-preservation, valuable as it is, is surely
bought at a dear price, when assassination is paid
for it.”
“Sister,” said O'Halloran, “we shall not at present
contend this matter. The deed is done, and I
hope that God will bless it, as he did the slaying
of Eglon by the patriot Ehud.”
He then arose, and requesting M`Cauley to accompany
him, they withdrew together.
-- --
CHAP. VI.
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
What though no gaudy titles grace my birth,
Titles the servile courtier's lean reward,
Sometimes the pay of virtue, but more oft
The hire which greatness gives to sycophants,
Yet Heaven has made me honest, made me more
Than e'er a king did when he made a lord.
—Rowe.
“Poor man!” said Mrs. Brown, when her brother
had retired, “Ireland had never a warmer
friend; and if his power was equal to his wishes,
there would not be an unhappy individual within
the limits of her four provinces. Mr. Middleton,
I do not know your political sentiments, but I shall
have no hesitation in telling you mine. I wish earnestly
for the peace and prosperity of my country,
without respect to her form of government, and have
no objection to live under the protection of the British
constitution, except when that protection degenerates
into oppression, which, to our fatal experience,
we find that it frequently does.”
“Madam,” replied Edward, “if you can only
answer me one question in the affirmative, I shall be
happy to find my opinion on these matters corroborated,
and sanctioned by yours. Do you not think
that conspiracy, treason, and civil war, not to speak
of midnight burnings, and assassinations, are injudicious
and unjustifiable methods of correcting the
misgovernment, which we all acknowledge to have
but too much prevailed of late years in this country?”
“I do,” was the reply.
“Then we agree,” said Edward.
“Since that is the case,” said Miss Agnew, “we
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
have no occasion to talk more on this horrible subject.
I never hear it discussed, but it throws me
into the vapours; and absolutely that dreadful
story from Belfast, has depressed my spirits so
terribly to-night, that I shall not be able to recover
them this month. Suppose Ellen gives us a song;
perhaps it may do me good. Let us have one of
Mr. M`Nelvin's, and I'll try to touch the tune on
the Piano.”
As her aunt and Edward joined in this request,
Ellen complied, remarking that, “as she
was not in good enough spirits to give them an air
sufficiently lively to counteract the disorder of
which Miss Agnew complained, she would sing
them some verses which were lately put into her
hands by a friend of hers, who had once been an
exile from his native country, and who to relieve
the pain of absence from all he loved, had frequently
recourse to the consolations of the muse.”
SONG.
Oft as by fair Ohio's side,
I court the solitary scene;
Of hoary forests spreading wide,
Or prairies waving fresh and green;
From musing on the evening ray
That gilds the glittering landscape o'er,
On fancy's wings I fly away,
To Erin's sea-encircled shore.
There on the primrose covered vale,
By natal Inver's hallowed stream;
Once more I breathe the scented gale,
That oft refreshed my childhood's dream:
And sweet in many a tuneful lay,
I hear the warblers of the grove,
Where once as blithe in song as they,
I poured the rural strains of love.
In that fair hawthorn-skirted plain,
Where youthful pleasures first I knew;
I meet my long-lost friends again,
For ever loved, for ever true:
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
And, oh! while rapture uncontroul'd,
Bright glistens in their ardent eyes,
I to my glowing breast enfold
The partners of my early joys.
Fair visions of celestial hue!
O! still possess with kindly spell,
This aching heart, which but for you,
Might bid all earthly joys farewell.
From warm affection's source divine,
Your ever blissful charms arise;
Oh! let that throb be ever mine,
Your rapture-giving smile supplies.
“I am still melancholy,” said Miss Agnew, drawing
a long sigh when Ellen had done singing, “I
am still melancholy, but it is now a melancholy of
a sweeter nature than I felt before. Oh! how pleasant
it would have been to have wandered on the
banks of the Ohio with your poet, when he produced
those verses! But pray, dear, wont you
tell us who is the author?”
“He is a man,” replied Ellen, “whose present
station in the world almost approaches that of a
mendicant.”
“A very poetical station, truly!” said Miss
Agnew.
“But although,” continued Ellen, “he has the
garb, he never exhibits the meanness of a beggar.”
“That is still more poetical,” said Mrs. Brown.
“And although” Ellen again continued, “he has
now the gravity and wisdom of sixty, he possesses
all the warm-heartedness and enthusiastic
benevolence of twenty.”
“That is most poetical of all,” said Edward.
“This person” resumed Ellen, “whom you have
all pronounced to be so poetical, is no other than
our Recluse, old Saunders.”
“I shall visit him to-morrow,” said Miss Agnew,
for I wont be easy till I pay my respects to his
bardship.”
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
“But hush!” cried Mrs. Brown, “who is you?
Hah! it is Peg Dornan's coarse voice.”
“Is the bonny young Dublin gentleman within?”
was vociferated from the brazen lungs of Peg, to a
servant in the hall.
“He is. What do you want with him?” was demanded.
“I want to see himsel. I'll tell my errand to nae
body else. An'l maun see him soon, whare'er he be.”
Edward went immediately to the hall. “What
is the matter, Peg?” said he.
“Come awa', sir, wi' me and ye'll ken a' about
it, belyve.”
He followed her without hesitation till they
came near to the mysterious rock, from which he
first saw Ellen and her grandfather.
“They're gaen in noo,” said Peg, “but when
they come oot they'll, maybe, talk o't again. Ye
maun wait here, gin you want to hear them; an' it
concerns you nearly. I'll awa', but lie ye doon
amang thir bushes, and watch them, they'll come
close this way.”
He had not lain long, until M`Cauley and a
stranger appeared advancing from the rock. When
they approached within a few yards of him, at a
place where two paths crossed each other, they
stopped.
“Tell me before we part,” said the stranger to
M`Cauley, “what is your intention with respect to
this young man to whom you so foolishly entrusted
your secret. If he refuses to take the oath, I
advise you to despatch him, for dead men tell no
tales.”
“I shall be guided by O'Halloran respecting
him,” answered M`Cauley.
“O'Halloran is too womanish-hearted, to give
good advice in this case.”
“His advice I shall, nevertheless, abide by.
The disclosure was voluntary on my part, and
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
unsolicited by the young man; and I am much deceived,
if I cannot confide in his honour, which is
already pledged to me, almost as firmly as in his
oath.”
“Trust no man's honour in these times,” said
the other. “Happy would it be for our United
confederacy, if we had trusted even fewer oaths
than we have done. Government would not then
have been so well prepared to give us a warm reception,
whenever we shall attack it. But here
comes O'Halloran himself.”
The matter being referred to O'Halloran, he exclaimed
with energy. “Sooner than a hair of his
head shall fall, whether he join us or not, you
shall pierce me to the heart. He is my guest, and
my friend; and I shall protect him as such. Darragh,
let us hear no more of this detestable proposal.
It makes me shudder to think of it. Such
atrocities only tend to weaken the best of causes.
If frequently committed by our party, all virtuous
and feeling men will think themselves contaminated
by our connexion.”
“You are right,” said M'Cauley, “and the first
man that raises a hand against Mr. Middleton,
makes me his enemy.”
“You may act as you please,” said Darragh,
“but I foretel that this fellow will yet make you
repent your present forbearance. He must be a
damned orangeman in his heart. I could have
made his servant a United Irishman to-day, but for
his cursed interference; and now the fellow knows
that I am one, and no doubt will be ready to inform
on me; but, by G—d, before to-morrow
night, I'll make the rascal unfit to tell stories.”
“I beseech you,” said O'Halloran, “not to be
so rash. The poor fellow can be easily persuaded
that you intended nothing but sport with him.”
“Avast,” said Darragh, “that wont do. If he
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
swears to the facts as they took place, an orange
jury and a pensioned judge, will never consider
whether I was in sport or in earnest.”
He broke short the conversation by bidding
them good night, in a rather surly tone, and walked
off towards the town. O'Halloran and M`Cauley
moved towards the rock, and Edward, on
whose mind, it will be supposed, the conversation
had made a deep impression, returned to the castle.
Before he reached it, however, Peg Dornan
overtook him.
“Weel, sir, did you hear aucht you did na' like?”
“Too much, Peg; but how came you to know
any thing about it?”
“Why, sir, gin you'll no be in a hurry, I'll tell
you,” (for Edward's perturbation of mind made him
walk very fast,) “just as I was sauntering alang
the shore, about an hour syne, I saw Tam Darragh,
and anither doure-looking chiel they ca' M`Cauley,
walking tegither—an' no' wishing to be seen by
them, I lay doon amang the bushes, an' they cam'
quite close to me, an' said, the tain to the tither,
that's Darragh said to M`Cauley, that chap at the
castle maun be an orangeman, an' will, as sure as
death, tell your secret. You maun shoot him, or tak'
him aff some ither way, gin you want to be safe
yoursel.' `What! thought I, are they gaun to kill
my bonny Mr. Middleton? De'il be in my tongue,
but I'll tell him every word o't. But I thoucht you
would na' be likely to credit sitch an unfeasible
story; so I fancied it better to gie you a chance o'
hearin' about it yoursel, an' gin you should na'
happen to hear it, I would then tell you. Guid
nicht, an' tak' care o' yoursel, my bonny lad, for
they're no' canny cheils ye heard talkin'.”
Edward desired her to communicate the affair
to no one else; and thanking her for her timely information,
he gave her half a guinea, and hastened
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
to the castle. Just as he entered the avenne, he
perceived old Saunders coming out of the gate,
and not having come to any determination how to
act, he thought it would be proper to consult the
old man, in whose prudence he had every reason
to confide. He accordingly communicated to him,
the present aspect of his affairs, adding, that with
respect to his own safety, he was under no concern;
but how to protect his servant from the malice of
Darragh, without informing upon the latter, and
having him arrested, a measure to which he had
the utmost aversion, gave him a great deal of perplexity.
The Recluse, after a few moments reflection, replied.
“Fear nothing for your servant. I shall
undertake for his safety.”
He then desired Edward to accompany him to
William Caldwell's, where they found young Hunter,
with Peggy and one of her brothers, just returned
from the market. The old man requested
Jemmy to go with him and Edward to the glen.
On arriving there, he communicated to him the
danger in which Tom Mullins then stood, and
asked him if he would be willing to render Edward
a service, by rescuing him from it. The generous
youth, rejoiced at the office assigned him.
“That I will!” said he, seizing Edward by the
hand, “I'll stand by him, and if Tam Darragh, or
ony bluid-thirsty rascal like him, ventures to lay
a finger's end on him, he'll find whether his bones
or mine be the hardest. I ha' been made a United
Irishman, but I was na' made yin to stan' by an'
see my frien's murdered.”
“But you must go quietly about this business,”
said old Saunders, “we do not wish it to be made
public. You know if the kingsmen were to be informed
of it, they would soon sift the matter, and bring a
great many more than the guilty into trouble.”
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“Just tell me what I maun do, an' I'll follow
your directions to a hair's breadth,” said Hunter.
“You will go without delay,” returned the Recluse,
“with a letter from Mr. Middleton to his servant,
which will contain an order for him to obey
you in every particular. But first you must make
haste and saddle your best riding horse, and return
here with him as soon as possible. By that
time we shall have written instructions prepared for
you.”
In about half an hour, Hunter returned gallantly
mounted on a prancing steed, as boldly determined
to sally forth in defence of innocence, as ever any
knight of chivalry was in the days of romance.
Edward gave him a letter for Tom Mullins, and
the Recluse a packet of sealed instructions, which
he was desired not to open until he should convey
Mullins as far as Antrim, about eighteen miles from
Larne. He was desired not to set out in the night,
lest Darragh should suspect his designs to be discovered,
and thereby be rendered more rancorous
and inveterate in his resolution to destroy Mullins;
but he was ordered to keep a watchful eye
on the motions of the former, until the latter
should be out of his reach.
Having received these instructions, he clapped
spurs to his horse, and with a light heart and a
determined spirit, set swiftly forward on his benevolent
errand. He rode so fast that he overtook
Darragh who was on foot near the entrance of the
town.
“What's the matter, Hunter,” said Darragh,
“that you ride so fast to town at such a late hour?”
“Naething, Tam,” replied the other, “but I had
to tak' some lasses hame frae the market, and I
thoucht I would come back an' see some mair o'
the fun, an' gin you ha' naething better to do, we'll
ha' a naggin together.”
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In pursuance of this worthy resolution, they rapped
at the door of the first public house they came to,
which they found locked, although there was light
enough to be seen, and noise enough to be heard
from within, to assure them that the inmates had
still sufficient employment to keep them out of bed
for some time.
“Who is there?” was demanded by the landlord.
“A friend!” replied Darragh.
“Is it you, Tam,” cried the other? “It is scarcely
ten minutes since the soldiers have cleared the
house, though I have let in some neighbours by the
back way since that. Who is with you?”
“Nobody, but young Jemmy Hunter; you know
Jemmy.”
“If you go round behind the house, I'll let you
into a back room, and blind the shutters. You'll
make as little noise as you can, and take care that
nobody sees you.”
They followed his directions, and were soon
seated with a fuming jug of hot punch before them.
“Jemmy, you have been put up lately, I'm told,”
said Darragh. “That was right, man. Give me your
hand. I wish every stout fellow in the country
was united—we would then show the tyrants that
we are as good as they are, for all so much as they
despise us. But I'm afraid we'll never get one half
of the country united; though if I had my way, it
would soon be another story, for those who would
not join us from love, I would compel to join us
from fear!”
“Na, Tam, that would na do either,” replied Jemmy,
“for it would make a great many ill-wishers
to the cause join it; and they would be likely to do
it mair harm than guid.”
“I would prevent them from betraying us, at
least,” said Darragh, “by making a few examples
of informers. But Jemmy, I must tell that I am
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myself likely to be informed on by an Up-the-country,
silly fellow that I wanted to swear in this morning.
He is servant to a cursed kingsman, that I
thought Mr. O'Halloran had put up, but I was
damnably mistaken; for when the stupid dog of a
servant went to consult him about the business, he
threatened him within an inch of his life, if he
would take the oath. So that after exposing myself
to the rascal, I could make nothing of him; and
if the blockhead should take it into his head to inform
against me, you know my life would not be
worth a damn. But I'll run no risks, I'll send the
dog to Lucifer, before I sleep, or my name is not
Tom Darragh.”
“Surely, Tam,” said Hunter, “you would na be
sa rash; the man has done na harm yet.”
“Nor, by G—d,” exclaimed the other, “shall it
be long in his power to do harm.”
“Hoot man! dinna talk this way; its no safe for
me to hear you; you may tak' it into your head to
kill me for fear I should tell that you killed him.”
“I can trust you, Jemmy; you know that it is in
the guid cause; and you have sworn not to betray
it.”
“I never swore not to discover murder if I kend
o't;” replied Hunter with spirit; “I'll keep ony secret
you like but that: And when the United Irishmen
want my help, I'll be ready with as guid a
musket as ony in the parish to tak' the field. But
Tam, tak' my advice; be a little moderate. You
can keep close, ye ken, if you're afeared. But let
us hae na mair killing in cauld bluid—we'll hae
plenty o't in warm, I'll warrant you, when the time
comes.”
To these remarks, Darragh made no reply; but
sat for some minutes in a rather thoughtful and
sulky humour. At last he took Hunter by the
hand, told him he believed him to be an honest
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fellow, that, perhaps, he might take his advice; but
that happen what would, he was sure he would not
injure him.
Hunter reflecting that he himself was commissioned
to prevent the threatened crime from taking
place, and conceiving that it was in his power to do
so, assured him that he would not inform upon him,
for any thing that should happen. They then drank
another gill sociably together; and retiring from
the house by the way they entered it, separated in
the street with expressions of mutual good will and
confidence.
Hunter now proceeded to the Antrim Arms, and
procured admission by mentioning the letter he
had to deliver to Mullins. He informed the landlord
that he should lodge with him all night.
“In the meantime,” said he, “let this up-the-country
frien' o' mine an' me, hae a jug o' punch in
a room by oursels, for I hae some cracks for his
ain ear.”
The landlord obeyed, and in a moment Jemmy
had another fuming pitcher at his side. This important
matter being adjusted, he produced Edward's
letter, and desired Tom to be ready for a
journey by day-break. In a short time they retired
to rest without Hunter having informed him
of the designs of Darragh. In the morning they
both rose with the dawn, and, while Hunter went
to discharge the landlord's bill, Mullins hastened
to prepare the horses. He was not long in the stable
until two men presented themselves before him,
one holding a pistol and the other a bible to his
breast.
“Swear,” said Darragh, who held the pistol,
“that you will never inform any one that I wanted
to make you a United Irishman, or you are, this
instant, a dead man!”
“I will swear any thing, fairly,” said Mullins,
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petrified with astonishment, “but, dear gentlemen,
only give me time to bless myself.”
“We have no time to talk with you,” exclaimed
Darragh, “we must be gone, swear this instant, or
be shot and damned!” and he raised his arm as if
to perform the deed he threatened, when that arm
was seized by Hunter, who hearing the last words
of the threat, sprung upon him with the force and
agility of a lion upon his prey, and threw him upon
his back on the ground. The pistol went off in the
struggle, and grazing the arm of the man who held
the bible, lodged itself in the wall of the stable.
“By Jasus, he can't hurt me now,” cried Mullins—
“so you too shall lie down in the dirt with
your comrade, my jewel.” So saying, he struck
the poor bible holder such a blow as almost fractured
his lower jaw, and fairly prostrated him alongside
his companion, while the blood gushed like a
torrent from his mouth and nostrils.
The noise soon brought the landlord to the spot,
who, on hearing Mullins' statement of the case,
would have secured Darragh and his companion, in
order to have them carried before a magistrate;
but Hunter opposed this, representing it as a political
quarrel of which the government might make
a great handle, and that, at all events, no good
could result to either party by its prosecution. On
Mullins, therefore, declaring that he wished for no
further revenge, it was agreed to hush the matter
on condition that Darragh should swear never again
to make an attempt on Mullin's life, a condition
with which he, in a very surly manner, complied.
When this was done he could not, however, disguise
the strongly-excited malignity of his passions, and,
casting a fierce look at Hunter, “I shall yet be revenged,”
he ejaculated.
“May God forgive you!” said the good natured
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youth, who had heard him. “When your anger
cools, I'm sure you'll no' say so.”
The victors now set off in conformity to the Recluse's
instructions; but they had not gone far before
Hunter reflected that an account of the morning's
transactions might induce his employers to
change their intentions with respect to Mullins,
especially as Darragh was now under the obligation
of a solemn oath not to molest him. He, therefore,
thought it prudent to convey Mullins to the Recluse's
cavern in order to receive further instructions.
On arriving there, Hunter hastened to the
castle for Edward, who, on coming to the cavern
and learning the state of affairs, declared to the
Recluse his opinion that Darragh would not regard
an oath into which he had been frightened; and,
that while either he or his servant remained in the
neighbourhood, neither of them would be safe from
his malignity. He, therefore, desired Hunter to
proceed immediately on his journey with Mullins,
and mentioned his intention to follow them as soon
as he could make a proper excuse to O'Halloran
for his hasty departure.
Hunter accordingly set off with his companion,
but contrived to go nearly a mile out of his proper
course, to give a parting salute to Peggy Caldwell.
He found her blushing like one of the daughters
of the morning; and hastily seizing her by the
waist, impressed a short but hearty farewell upon
her lips. She burst from his arms in some trepidation;
but he soon again caught her.
“Hoot, Peggy, lass,” said he, in an endearing
tone, “dinna be sae flirted. It's a fareweel kiss for
a few days. I'm gaun on an erran' o' your frien'
Mr. Middleton. But you may tell my mother an'
the rest, that I expect to be back in time to help to
set the potatoes in the Lime-Kiln Knowe.”
He then gaily mounted his steed, and Mullins
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and he galloped off. In a short time, however, he
slackened his speed to what may be called a conversation
pace, for his heart was full of Peggy,
and he wished to relieve his feelings by descanting
on her charms.
“Isn't she a pretty lass, that?” said he to Mullins,
“hae ye ony like her up the country, amang
the wild Irish?”
“In troth and we have,” replied Tom, “as beautiful
creatures there, as ever sat by a turf fire to
sing a poor fellow's heart to rest after a hard day's
digging. By the mother of me! if the sweet looks
of Biddy O'Flagherty herself, my second cousin,
whom the priest wouldn't let me marry, bad luck
to him! wouldn't have pierced the heart of a blind
man, that is, if he had eyes to see her.”
Instead of attending to Tom's eulogy on the
power of Biddy O'Flagherty's charms, Hunter
began in the fulness of his heart, to sing from the
Gentle Shepherd.
“My Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens;
Fair as day and sweet as May,
Fair as day and always gay;
My Peggy is a young thing,
An' I'm no' very auld,
An' weel I like to meet her at
The walking o' the fauld.”
At length he stopped. “Weel, Tam,” said he,
“I'll no' dispute the matter o' Biddy, what do ye
ca' her, being a bonny lass; but gie me my ain
Peggy, an' I care na' wha gets a' the lave o' the
bonny lasses in the country. I'm thinking, Tam,
its no' a bad thing to be married, when yin gets
wha yin likes.”
“By my shoul, and that's my own opinion to a
hair, master James;” replied Tom, “and Bridget's
own self, the dear creature, would have married
me; but that ill-looking thief, priest O'Bletherem,
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said he would excommunicate us for heresy, unless
we paid him twenty pounds for a pardon; and
the devil a twenty pounds had poor Tom Mullins
in his life. So I thought it best to go to sarvice,
and left my mother, and Paddy, and Barney, and
little Juddy, to work at home, until I should make
twenty pounds; and my master, God bless him, for
he's a gentleman every inch of him, says he'll
help me to get the priest's pardon as soon as we
return home.”
“Damn the priest! Tam,” exclaimed Hunter,
“why didn't you kick the rascal oot o' the hoose,
for pitting atween you an' your sweetheart. Why,
man, if Peggy were yince agreed, an' wha kens
hoo soon it may be sae, a' the priests on this side
o' hell, wi' the wh—re o' Babylon at their back,
should na prevent us fra' being married. Hoot,
man, when you gang hame, marry your lassie;
tak' a frien's advice. Gin your master gies you
twenty pund, lay it out on plenishing, an' stock
for your farm, an' ne'er fash your thumb aboot the
priest and his d—d pardon.”
“Master Hunter,” said Tom, “I believe you
are a friend to poor Mullins, after all, for my own
mother never gave me such good advice. Ah!
honey, why weren't you with us when we argued
the case with the priest, but could make nothing of
him at all, at all; but had to listen and tremble,
for he swore he would never let our souls, that is
after they are dead, out of purgatory, if we got
married and didn't pay him.”
“By Heavens! Tam,” exclaimed Hunter, “had
I been there, I would hae thrashed the scoundrel, as
soundly as ever he'll be thrashed in purgatory,
though I hae a notion that auld Satan winna spare
him, yince he gets his claws on him.”
We shall leave our love-sick rustics to proceed
on their journey, and entertain each other in
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their own unadorned and homely style, and direct
our attention to Edward Barrymore, who was
as deeply enamoured as either of them, and at that
very moment anxiously pining for an opportunity to
pledge his vows to the mistress of his affections.
But in order to proceed with his affairs, we must
open another chapter.
-- --
CHAP. VII.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
Maid of the lovely rolling eye,
Maid of each grace that kindles love,
Ah! do not frown to hear me sigh,
Nor do my faithful flame reprove!
For shouldst thou unpropitious be,
My griefs in secret shall remain;
Ah! never will I tell to thee,
What would the hallowed bosom pain.
Thaunus the Druid.
The reader will remember that we left Edward
and the Recluse together in the cavern. The old
man, reluctant as he was to part with our hero,
acknowledged the necessity of his speedily withdrawing
from that part of the country, since he
had, however innocently and unintentionally, became
an object of suspicion to some of the United
Irishmen.
“The virtuous and more influential of them” said
he, “I know will oppose to the utmost of their power,
any attempt to injure you, and will, no doubt, succeed
in frustrating any such attempt if they only obtain
timely information of its being intended. But the
framers of this confederacy, have not been choice
in selecting its members; and the more wicked and
abandoned of them pay little respect to the opinions
and wishes of the wiser and more virtuous, when
they do not happen to correspond with their own
passions and prejudices. It is not, therefore, to be
expected that the injunctions of O'Halloran, or
any other of their leaders, will have much influence
in restraining the violence of such men as Darragh
and his companion, who would set the orders of
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
their supreme directory itself, if they interfered
with their views, at defiance.”
“My friend,” replied Edward, “your good sense,
and the interest you have evinced in my welfare,
deserve my confidence. I will, therefore, entrust
the dearest wishes of my soul to your keeping. It
is now become necessary that I should leave this
part of the country. Not only my own safety, but,
perhaps, the safety of one dearer to me than myself,
demands it; for, if I should fall, who would
then, with the same solicitude, watch over her and
defend her from danger? Ah! sir, so strongly have
my affections become riveted on that object, that I
feel as if one of the strings of my heart were breaking,
when I think of leaving the part of the country
where she resides, and, in times too like these, when
evils threaten her from every quarter. Should
misfortune overtake her in my absence, my only
consolation will be, a reliance on your prudence
and friendship to afford her protection, until I can
fly to her aid. Promise me that you will give me
frequent and speedy information of whatever may
befal her; and that when the storm bursts, you
will, if in your power, in this sacred asylum, afford
her shelter from its fury. Promise me this, and
the weight of anxiety that now oppresses me, shall
be greatly relieved.”
“I not only promise you this,” said the Recluse,
“but whatever else may be in my power to do for
the safety and welfare of Ellen Hamilton.”
“Will you consent to be the medium of any
communications I may transmit to her?” asked
Edward.
“I will,” replied the Recluse without hesitation,
“unless she forbids it. But hasten from this dangerous
neighbourhood, for here there are active
and malignant spirits aroused against you, for your
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destruction. Farewell, and may the Almighty God
of all things, protect and bless you!”
“Farewell, father,” said Edward, and he hastened
to apprise O'Halloran of his intended departure,
and to seek a farewell interview with Ellen.
The early part of the morning had been somewhat
cloudy; and one of those gentle rains, known
among the Northern Irish, by the name of May
showers, had fallen, and rendered the atmosphere
moist but not cold.
The day, however, assumed a brighter aspect,
and the advancing sun had dried away all the
lucid pearls that had lately bespangled the tender
springing grass, the lovely richness of whose verdure
has procured for Ireland the appropriate
epithet of the Emerald Isle. With this refreshing
verdure were intermixed innumerable multitudes
of those simple flowers, so sweetly described in the
beautiful pastoral song of Gramachree.
The primrose pale and violet blue,
Lay scattered o'er the fields;
The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of nature yields;
Such fragrance in the bosom lies,
Of her whom I adore;
Ah Gramachree, &c.
Invited by the beauty of the season, and of the
weather, Mrs. Brown, after breakfast, proposed
to the ladies to walk along the meadows that skirted
the shore, and lay between the castle and the
promontory of Ballygally.
“Miss O'Halloran,” said Miss Agnew as they
walked onwards, “do you think this Mr. Middleton
will remain long here? If I only knew who he
is, and if he were only a little merrier in his manner,
he appears in other respects, such an elegant
young fellow, that I could almost fall in love with
him; that is, I beg pardon, if he be not already engaged.”
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“That begging pardon,” replied Ellen, “seems
to come rather awkwardly into such a fine promising
speech, for I cannot see what connexion it has
with any other part of it.”
“O! dear me, Ellen,” cried the other, “I forgot
that love is always blind, or I would have
spoken more plainly. The propriety of this improperly
introduced ejaculation, only consists in
the desire I had to obtain the pardon of your fair
self, for proposing to fall in love with a handsome
young man, whom you had the advantage of first
seeing, and, of course, the privilege of first loving.”
“If it will be any advantage to you,” retorted
Ellen, “I will relinquish my privilege in your favour;
and here, in the presence of my aunt, I give
you full liberty to fall in love with him, as soon
and as deeply as you think proper.”
“Very disinterested!” exclaimed Miss Agnew;
“It is not every young lady now-a-days, who will
sacrifice love to friendship.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Brown, “here comes the
gentleman himself, and really he is such a fine
looking youth, that if I were only forty years
younger, I should threaten you both with a rival.
As it is, however, I have a good mind to inform
him of your controversy, and let him choose between
you.”
“Oh! aunt,” exclaimed Ellen, “do not, I beseech
you, mention that we spoke of him. You
know I did not—it was altogether Miss Agnew's
mad talk.”
“I really believe, child,” said Mrs. Brown, that
you are somewhat in love. This seriousness betrays
you.”
“Believe what you please, dear aunt, but do not
mention that we spoke of him.”
“At all events,” cried Miss Agnew, “don't tell
him till we reach the top of the hill yonder, and
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then, you know, we can act the three gooddesses on
Mount Ida, and he shall be Paris to settle our controversy.”
“I should not wish to go through such a scene,”
replied Mrs. Brown, “lest it should be followed by
a similar result. Juno and Pallas would imbibe
eternal hatred against Venus, and then, nothing but
war, barbarous war, could be expected amongst us.”
“O then,” said Ellen, entreatingly, “let us say
nothing about it. Let us meet the young man, and
treat him civilly; but I would not, for the world,
that he should know, he excited any particular
conversation amongst us.”
“We shall talk of this again,” said Mrs. Brown,
in a whisper to Ellen, for Edward was now so near,
as to prevent her from speaking aloud, unless she
chose that he should hear what she said. She
then turned to him.
“Mr. Middleton,” said she, “if you have no
better employment in view, we shall be gratified
with your company during our ramble.”
“You cannot be so much gratified with my company
as I shall be with your's,” replied Edward,
“and, surely, Mrs. Brown cannot suppose me so
insensible to the beauties of nature, and the charms
of refined conversation, as not to prefer the enjoyment
of such a scene, in such a company, to any
other employment whatever.”
“I expected as much from your gallantry,” rejoined
Mrs. Brown.
“But, aunt,” said Ellen, “if Mr. Middleton has
any business of importance to attend to, you know
that it would be wrong that he should neglect it on
our account.”
He assured them that he had no business on
hand of sufficient importance to induce him to
forego the pleasures he felt in their company.
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“How do you like the appearance of our part
of the country?” asked Mrs. Brown, turning round
upon an eminence to which they had arrived; and
from which they had a tolerable prospect of the
surrounding scenery.”
“Every thing in your country,” replied Edward,
“has had the effect of highly interesting my feelings,
and exciting my admiration. The wonderful
curiosities and romantic grandeur of your bold basaltic
coast, could not fail to impress attention from
the most unobservant spectator; while the fervid
feelings which animate your people must be a subject
of deep interest, not unmixed, I must confess,
in these distracted times, with some concern, in
the breast of every one who wishes for their happiness.
In short, since I visited these scenes, I may
truly say that I have lived more, that is, I have
felt more of both the sweets and bitters of life,
short as the period has been, than I did through
the whole previous course of my existence.”
“I really believe you have felt sharply of the
bitters,” said Miss Agnew. “Yon gulf below gave
you a strong and almost a fatal sample of them.”
“Had I met with nothing to make a deeper impression
on my mind,” replied Edward, “than the
accident to which you allude, in leaving these
scenes, my regret would not, perhaps, have been
greater than it will be, but my recollections would
have been more unmingled with sorrow. In short,
ladies, I, this morning, received accounts which
constrain me to an almost instantaneous departure,
a circumstance which I assure you gives me a
heavy heart.”
In saying this, he turned his eyes towards Ellen.
She attempted to speak, but her voice faultered,
while the blood which but the moment before had
spread the bloom of roses on her cheeks, had fled
and left them as pale as ivory.
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“What is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Brown,
who had observed her emotion.
“Nothing,” she replied. “I felt suddenly a little
dizzy. I, perhaps—I was fatigued; but I am now
better.”
“You are weak,” said Edward, in agitation,
“may I beg permission to support you?”
“It—it is not now necessary; I am quite well
again.”
“We had better return home,” said Mrs. Brown,
“Mr. Middleton you will have the goodness to
support her.”
Edward again offered his assistance, requesting
her to lean on his arm. She reluctantly complied;
but desired her aunt not to forego the pleasure of
a longer excursion, as she felt perfectly able to
continue it.
“Well then,” said Miss Agnew, “let us proceed
to the top of the hill, as we before proposed. Mrs.
Brown and I shall drag each other up—and since
you have become an invalid, we will permit you
to engross all Mr. Middleton's assistance. Come
along, Mrs. Brown, we had better take a start of
them, for you see we are to have no help but our
own agility in the ascent.”
So saying, she dragged Mrs. Brown onwards,
telling her that the two sentimental people behind
would follow on the wings of imagination.
“Do not leave us,” cried Ellen, “or I shall be
again obliged to fatigue myself in hurrying after
you.”
Whether it was by accident or design, however,
let love-casuists determine, instead of keeping
pace with their companions, Edward and Ellen
walked so slowly that in a few minutes the others
were too far advanced to hear their conversation.
“Ah! Miss O'Halloran,” said Edward, who
gladly seized so favourable an opportunity of
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opening his soul to his beloved, “you cannot imagine
the pangs that I feel on account of leaving this
place, for you are not aware how powerful are the
chains that bind me to it. I have travelled round
the greater part of the kingdom, I have witnessed
numerous interesting scenes, and have fallen in
with company of the most worthy and attractive
description; but here alone it is that my heart has
been touched, here it is that my affections have
become centred.”
“You speak of some necessity that compels you
to leave us; I hope that necessity includes no misfortune.”
“I feel that the greatest misfortune attending my
departure is the circumstance itself. My dear Ellen,
forgive the expression, but Providence has given
me this much-desired opportunity of telling you my
whole heart, and I must not let it pass unimproved.
You alone are the object that binds me to this spot.
Ah! dare I hope that this declartion is not offensive
to you? Dare I indulge the expectation that when
I am afar off, you will sometimes reflect with complacency
on the wanderer who, on seeing you, first
saw the object to whom his soul must forever be
devoted, the object that has charmed his sensations
into a new feeling of existence.”
“Mr. Middleton,” said Ellen, extremely embarrassed,
“is it proper that I should listen to this language?”
“I shall not long trouble you with it,” he replied.
“I know I am a stranger, in whose professions,
I have no right to require that you should
confide. Of my family, my prospects and my
standing in society, you have no knowlege. It is,
therefore, I confess, presumption in me to solicit
your confidence, to request your regard, without
informing you of these particulars. But ah! my
beloved, say, has no youth, more fortunate than I,
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and known to you, and worthy of you, in all these
respects, already engaged your affections? If so,
my fate is decided. I shall not disturb your peace
by obtruding on your notice a passion which you
cannot return, nor will I endeavour to secure a
place in your heart, if that heart be another's.”
“Why sir,” said she, “do you ask from me such
a confession?”
“I have no right, I acknowledge,” he replied,
“to require any such disclosure from you. Forgive
the freedom I have taken. All my happiness
depends upon your favourable opinion of me. O!
surely it cannot be unpardonable in me to be desirous
of knowing whether that heart is irrecoverably
another's, which I would stop at no sacrifice, except
that of virtue and honour, to make my own. O,
Ellen! if a love as warm and sincere as ever animated
a human breast, can excuse the liberty I
have taken, I can plead that love, an equal to which
no other woman shall ever awaken in my bosom.”
“Mr. Middleton” said she, in a serious tone, “I
believe you are a man of honour, and of too much
generosity to sport with the feelings of an unoffending
and inexperienced girl, merely for the gratification
of curiosity or caprice. I feel no offence at
your inquiry, although, I confess, that I am not
sure whether in prudence, I ought not to be offended.
Of this, however, I am certain, that under
present circumstances, it would be highly imprudent
to promise a return of those feelings you
profess for me. I feel grateful for your preference,
and as a mark of my gratitude, I may inform you
that to none of your sex have I ever pledged my affections.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Edward, fervently,
“then I may hope. Oh! do not forget me, dearest
Ellen, in my absence. I must now leave you. My
soul sinks under the idea. Trouble and calamity
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threaten the country. They may even reach thee,
pure, and lovely, and innocent as thou art, before
thy lover can fly to thy aid. But I trust that God
will protect thee. To his keeping I resign thee,
until I again inhale love and joy from thy presence.
Then, then I hope to plead my suit under circumstances
more favourable for its acceptance. The
Recluse will often let you hear from me.”
“Hush!” said Ellen, “my aunt and Miss Agnew
have turned back for us.”—This either of them
might have seen for several minutes before, had
they not been too much engrossed with each other;
in other words, had not love rendered them blind.
They had made such slow progress during their
conversation, that their companions, without being
aware of it, had advanced nearly half a mile before
them, when Mrs. Brown turning round, observed
the distance, and suggested the propriety of returning
to meet them.
Miss Agnew and she, were in consequence within
a few yards of the lovers, when Ellen suddenly
observed their proximity and uttered the exclamation,
“hush!” as before stated.
“You must be very weak, Ellen, otherwise you
would have walked faster,” said her aunt.
“O! dear me,” cried Miss Agnew, “do you not
see how strong she looks? We left her as pale as
sackcloth, leaning for support on the arm of that
gentleman. Now she blushes like a carnation, and
appears as if afraid to touch him. Come, Mr. Middleton,
give me your arm. I am in more need of
your assistance, after that long walk, than she is.”
“And what assistance must an old frail woman
like me, need, after such a walk, if a young smart
chit, like you, requires any?” cried Mrs. Brown,
sportively, and she also caught an arm of Edward,
saying, “Ellen has monopolized you long enough;
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it is now our turn; Miss Agnew and I cannot bear
to be longer neglected.”
“O dear!” cried Miss Agnew, “do not let us
fight about the gentleman. I fear Ellen has not
willingly resigned him, and we are intruders.”
“I indeed resign him cheerfully,” said Ellen, “I
am now perfectly recovered, and can ascend the
hill without fearing fatigue.”
“So can I,” cried Miss Agnew, “give me your
arm, my sprightly maiden, and we shall show that
gentleman and lady, that we have both life and
limbs, when we choose to use them;” and she seized
Ellen for the purpose of dragging her forward on a
race.
“You are too wild,” said Ellen, slightly restraining
her, “when will you become sober?”
“Not till I fall in love,” said Miss Agnew, “and
then, you know, I shall be as ready to sigh and become
pensive and fatigued as yourself.”
They were too far removed from Edward and
Mrs. Brown, for the latter to hear the last remark,
which prevented Ellen from suffering all the confusion
it would otherwise have occasioned.
“You insinuate then, Maria,” said she, calling
Miss Agnew by her christian name, “that I am in
love.”
“I am sure of it,” said Maria. “No female heart
could withstand the partiality which that charming
young man shows for you, not to mention the
interesting circumstance of assisting to raise him
from the dead: much as I value my own resolution,
I believe, Ellen, that if I were similarly circumstanced,
I should myself love him.”
“Mad-cap!” said Ellen; “quit this subject. It
is all nonsense; but—but, what partiality has he
shown for me? I am sure you could never have
observed any.”
“Rare consistence!” cried Maria. “You desire
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me to drop the subject; and then, you ask me a
question which compels me to continue it. But
this is so characteristic of a love-sick damsel, that
it does not surprise me; and, dear Ellen, in pity to
you, I will not drag you from the young man's
company. It would be cruel as he is so soon to
leave us.”
She then turned suddenly, and held Ellen, who
blushed deeply, from advancing.
“Come on,” cried she, “this blushing girl and
I would be at the top of the hill in a minute, did we
not love our company too well to leave it.”
Edward and Mrs. Brown approached. They
had walked slowly, for they had conversed on the
alarming nature of the times, and short as their
discourse had been, Edward could easily perceive
that the old lady's feelings rather than her judgment
sided with the United Irishmen.
“They are my countrymen,” said she, “and
although their struggle may be to recover rights
which you think are not lost, or to obtain objects
which are but of visionary consequence—they may
demand that liberty which you say they already
enjoy, and may contend for an equality which instead
of benefiting them, might be their greatest
political misfortune; notwithstanding all this, if
they be conscientious in their aims, which I believe
the majority of them are, I must regard them with
complaisance. If they believe themselves oppressed,
which I know they do, and ah, sir, do not
some of them also feel it, resistance to oppression
is natural, it is noble and manly, and must ever
secure my affections to its cause.”
Before Edward could reply, they were hailed
by Maria, as we have already observed.
“Ah, Miss Giddyhead, I see what you wish for,”
cried Mrs. Brown aloud, while she advanced to
Maria, “here, take Mr. Middleton to yourself.
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You envy every one who has but a few minutes
conversation with him, though I think you need
not have become jealous of an old woman of sixty.”
“A woman of Mrs. Brown's accomplishments
and power of conversation, might excite my envy
at any age,” replied Maria; “but do you think
that no other person than Maria Agnew envies
you?”
“If there be any one else, she has not, at least,
betrayed it so audibly,” said Mrs. Brown. “What,
Mr. Middleton,” she continued, “do you think of
two young women in all the charms of youth and
beauty, becoming jealous of old age and decayed
nature enjoying a few moments of your company?
You must surely have made a progress in their
esteem warmer than the usual esteem of friends.”
“I should be proud to excite such an esteem,”
said he, “but I fear I am not so happy.”
In saying this he cast a look at Ellen, who unconsciously
returned a glance that spoke peace to
his soul.
-- --
CHAP. VIII.
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No titled birth had he to boast,
Son of the desert, Fortune's child.
Yet not by frowning fortune crossed,
The Muses on his cradle smiled.
He joy'd to con the fabling page,
Of prowess'd chiefs and deeds sublime;
And even essay'd in infant age,
Fond task, to weave the wizzard rhyme.
Dermody.
Our party ascended to the top of the promontory,
from whence they descried the gulf below.
It was the very place where Edward had first seen
his beloved as if he had seen a vision of light; and
where, charmed to the spot, he had lingered until
he encountered death, and would have fallen in the
combat, had not the same vision become his guardian
angel, and sent effectual succour to his rescue.
Amidst the reflections which this scene excited,
he was interrupted by Mrs. Brown, who pointed
to an arbour, at some distance, made of the interwoven
branches of willows, round which honeysuckles
exuberantly entwined their tendrills. It
was constructed in the neatest style, consistent
with that rustic simplicity which seemed to have
been studied by its architect. Within its sylvan
walls a semi-circular range of seats were formed
of earth, and covered over with a fragrant bed of
chamomile and thyme. The floor was simply of
nature's making, and the only furniture it appeared
to contain was a small folding table placed in the
centre.
“This is, indeed, a remarkable spot for a
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summer-house; but a very suitable one for an observatory,”
remarked Edward.
“It is not so much used,” said Mrs. Brown, “for
the study of the stars, as for the worship of the
Muses. It has been erected by a young man of
our neighbourhood, who, although he performs the
office of a teacher to the farmers' children, contrives
to find sufficient leisure to study nature,
poetry and taste, in this temple of simplicity.”
“I imagine,” said Edward, “I have already
been delighted with one of the effusions of your
rural bard. Is it so, Miss O'Halloran?” he added.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Poor M`Nelvin, as the
old harper called him, the author of the verses to
which you allude, is the possessor of this arbour.”
“Is he unfortunate,” asked Edward, “and can
you tell from what cause?”
“He is unfortunate, and I can tell the cause;
but, alas! it is beyond human power to relieve
him. With one of the best and warmest hearts, he
is a prey to a melancholy disposition, the cause of
which, had he less susceptibility of feeling he
would not permit to make such an impression on
his mind. His body is deformed from an accidental
injury he received when a child; and as the
deformity cramps his personal exertions for eminence
in the world, he permits his feelings of disappointment
and regret, to weigh too heavily on him.
What has lately, I believe, tended to increase his
melancholy is the turn which the political prospects
of the country have taken. Formerly he
was affable and communicative; but, for some
months past, he has become particularly reserved
and averse to society.”
“I should be glad of the acquaintance of this
young man,” said Edward, “and I am sorry that
the necessity of my speedy departure will deprive
me of that pleasure.”
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“You shall have that pleasure in five minutes,”
cried Miss Agnew, “for yonder he is, just appearing
from the side of the hill.”
They all observed him; but it was only for a
moment; for he suddenly turned, and retracing his
steps rather hastily, as if he wished to avoid them,
disappeared.
“Shall I run after him?” said Miss Agnew:
I'll overtake him in a minute.”
“I request,” said Edward, “that you will not
occasion him any pain on my account.”
“I also request,” added Mrs. Brown, “that the
young man may be left to his own inclinations. He
seems desirous to avoid us at present, and we have
no right to force ourselves upon him.”
“Well, well,” returned Miss Agnew gaily, “since
I am not allowed to run after young men, I shall
take care to allow no young man to run after me:
So, if you please, Mr. Middleton, you will either
walk along side of me or before me.”
They now descended the hill on their way to
the castle. On coming to a smooth, gently sloping
lawn of considerable extent, near the bottom,
Ellen stopped suddenly.
“Here is the spot,” said she, “where I felt the
first thrill of patriotism that ever warmed my heart.
Here it was that I first felt devoted to my country's
cause; for here while only in my fourteenth year,
I was present, for the first and the last time, at a
review of a large party of that noble army of patriots,
the Irish Volunteers. To my view, their appearance,
that day, exhibited something more magnificent
and impressive than any thing of which
my young ideas had ever formed a conception. I
rejoiced to see my country's strength displayed in
the unbought energies of her sons. In performing
their evolutions, they appeared as if they were
animated with one soul, and their dress and the
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brilliancy of their arms, displayed the highest
polish of military splendour. I looked upon them
as an irresistible band of heroes; and my heart
throbbed with rapture to think that those heroes
were my acquaintances, my neighbours, my friends,
my protectors; and that if ever their weapons
should be stained with human blood, it should be
the blood of my country's enemies. I saw them,
and became proud of my country; and frequently
to this day, does my imagination present the scene
before me in all its liveliness; but, alas! it is now
only imagination!”
“I delight in your enthusiasm,” said Edward,
“and cannot but heartily condemn the ungenerous
and imprudent policy which occasioned the
disorganization of that gallant association of soldiers.”
“I have seen,” said Mrs. Brown, “various reviews
of military; and I must confess that I never
saw a body of men exhibit a more imposing and
soldier-like appearance, than the Volunteers did on
that day. I do not, indeed, wonder that they
should have made Ellen proud of the country, for
on that day I felt in my own breast, a warmer
pulse of patriotism than I ever experienced before.
“I never again saw them embodied; for a jealous
and ungrateful government, in a short time afterwards,
issued its mandate for their suppression.
Ah! little did I think when, on that day, I heard
the last sound of their martial music, that it was
the funeral knell of my country's liberty and
peace; and little did I think, when I saw the
last glimpse of their standards disappearing beyond
yon hill, that I, for the last time, beheld the only
soldiers whose hearts and hands were alike sincerely
devoted to the salvation of their country!”
“I hope,” remarked Miss Agnew, “we may yet
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see Irish soldiers whom no foreign authority shall
have the power to disband.”
“Much as I dislike the late despotic measures
of the British government,” replied Mrs. Brown,
“I cannot yet bring my mind to consider it a foreign
one. But I acknowledge that the conduct of
its ministers in this country, is every day weakening
that partiality I have hitherto felt for it.”
“It is indeed to be lamented,” said Edward,
“that the interests of the government, and the
wishes of the people are so opposed to each other;
and, believe me, ladies, I feel as acutely as any
Irishman can, for the calamities which such a state
of things forbodes to the country.”
“In reading history,” remarked Ellen, “I have
often wondered at the cruelty of all governments.
They universally seem to delight more in keeping
the people in subjection by terror and punishment,
than in securing their affections by kindness and
benefits. It is surely a strange taste in rulers, and
is to me quite unaccountable, that they should
take pleasure in the misery of their fellow-creatures.
But rulers are generally men; methinks that
our sex would both feel and act more tenderly towards
those in their power.”
As this opinion of the fair Ellen might lead to a
controversy, which would require a more thoroughbred
politician than myself to decide, and as I trust
that my reader is such a one, I will leave it altogether
to his disposal.
Having arrived at the castle, Edward took
O'Halloran aside, and informed him of the necessity
he was under of immediately leaving the country.
O'Halloran startled a little at the intelligence; and,
although it was nothing but what he might have
expected, he appeared very much confused.
At last recovering his self-possession, “Mr. Middleton,”
said he, “I did not calculate on your
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leaving us so soon, at least so suddenly; but if the
cause of your departure be not extremely urgent,
I request that you will not go until to-morrow.”
Edward was himself much inclined to remain
till the next day. A wish to be introduced to the
poet, M`Nelvin, and a desire to spend another
night, under the same roof with his beloved
Ellen, predominated over his prudence; and he
yielded to O'Halloran's request. O'Halloran was
not unacquainted with the danger which threatened
his guest from the violence of Darragh, and
some others of the conspirators; and he began to
suspect that their threats had reached Edward's
ears, and produced his sudden determination to
leave the neighbourhood. He himself had some
doubts whether the secrets of his party with
which this young stranger had involuntarily become
acquainted, were altogether safe in his keeping.
Although he had hitherto resisted the solicitations
of his confederates to prevent his departure,
by securing his person, least he should discover on
them, he began now to have serious doubts as to
the propriety of his so doing. In great agitation
of mind he left Edward, and retired to his library
to reflect on the most proper mode of proceeding.
“Were I alone involved in the dangers of this
young man's discovering upon us, I would then be
justifiable in running the risk;” he thus reasoned
with himself; “but the safety of others is also
concerned; nay, perhaps, the success of all our
plans to emancipate our country may be affected
by either his imprudent communication, or intentional
discovery of what he knows; and it is certain
that he knows sufficient to ruin all. It is enough,
it must be—my mind is resolved—my conscience
may accuse me of perfidy to my guest; but my
duty to the public cause in which I am embarked,
is of infinitely more importance than any personal
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consideration. He must be secured; but his life must
be preserved from all dangers; and he must be so
treated as to have no privation of which to complain,
but the loss of personal liberty.”
Having brought his mind to this conclusion, he
went in search of M`Cauley, and the other leading
conspirators. They soon agreed on a plan for
seizing Edward. “A single hair of his head shall
not fall,” said M`Cauley, in the course of their deliberation,
“if I can prevent it; for, I am myself to
blame for too rashly communicating to him that
information by which he can most seriously injure
us.”
Mr. Samuel Nelson, one of the proprietors of the
Northern Star, a man of great intelligence, and
one of the most influential leaders of the association
in the North, was present at this deliberation.
His opinion coincided with that of M`Cauley and
O'Halloran, that Edward should be well treated,
but strictly guarded. “Such a captive,” he remarked,
“may ultimately be of great service to
us as an hostage for the safety of some of our own
party; besides, as he has not yet manifested any
other hostility towards us, than merely refusing to
join us, it would be unjust as well as impolitic to
exercise any other severity towards him, than may
be absolutely necessary for our own safety.”
It was then unanimously settled that Edward
should be seized that evening, and confined in the
Point Cave, (which was within the mysterious
rock already mentioned,) but that he should be
there treated with every indulgence the circumstances
of the case would admit.
After dinner, the unsuspecting object of these
machinations, paid a visit to William Caldwell's,
to make his acknowledgments for the kindness he
had experienced from his family, and also with the
hope that he might there meet with an opportunity
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of being introduced to M`Nelvin; for he understood
that the poet was on a very intimate footing
with this family. In the latter object of his visit,
he was, however, disappointed. On his return he
met with the Recluse, to whom he reported his
wishes on this subject.
“You wish for a gratification,” said the old man,
“which it will be no easy matter to procure you.
But if it be in the power of any one, I think it is in
mine. You will, no doubt, be surprised when I tell
you that he whose acquaintance you seek, studiously
avoids yours, not from any prejudice he has
imbibed against your person or principles—on the
contrary, I know that he highly respects both; but
he is influenced with regard to you by a delicacy,
perhaps I should rather say, a weakness of feeling
on a tender point. In short, he loves Ellen Hamilton
with a hopeless passion, indulged in secret, and
he has perceived that you are an ardent, and likely
to be a favoured rival. I am the sole confidant of
his sorrows. His passion is involuntarily; but it
is acute; and as it is cherished altogether against
hope, I pity him.”
“Perhaps then,” said Edward, “it is better I
should not see him, for I should feel reluctant to
occasion him the smallest pain.”
“My friend,” replied the hermit, “I should wish
you and him to be acquainted with each other, as I
know it would increase your mutual esteem. His
personal deformity makes him shy with strangers;
and the particular circumstances of which I have
informed you would make him more than usually so
with you. I think, however, that the first interview
would be sufficient to remove this feeling. So, if
you have no objection, we shall proceed to my
cave, where I expect to find him very shortly. It
is to him alone, besides yourself, that I have entrusted
the secret of my inner dwelling; nay, it is
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to him alone, of all my friends in this neighbourhood,
that I have as yet intrusted the story of my
misfortunes, a story concerning which even to you,
I must, for some time yet, take the liberty of preserving
silence.”
Edward acquiesced, and they soon arrived at
the old man's dwelling. They were not long seated
until the secret door in the bureau opened, and
M`Nelvin appeared. He seemed somewhat disconcerted
on seeing Edward, but at the Recluse's
desire he came forward.
“Let me introduce the two most confidential
friends I have in this part of the country to each
other,” said the old man, “and I doubt not that on
further acquaintance, they will both thank me for
doing so.”
Edward approached, and shook the poet's hand
so cordially that his reserve almost instantly vanished;
and during the conversation which ensued,
he became so cheerful and communicative, and
displayed such an extent of information and
strength of intellect, as surprised and delighted his
new acquaintance. When they discoursed on politics,
and M`Nelvin descanted on the natural
rights of man, Edward felt within his breast a new
conviction of the injustice and iniquity of arbitrary
rule; and when he spoke of the benefits arising
from the establishment of known laws for the regulation
of society, and the maintenance of security
and order among mankind, Edward could not
refrain from wishing that the disorganizers of the
age had only an opportunity of hearing such sentiments
so enforced; but when he described and deplored
the accumulating miseries of his country, it
was with a fervour that almost brought tears to his
own eyes, and filled, almost to bursting, the hearts
of his auditors; and Edward could not avoid execrating
that mismanagement, to which these
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measures were so clearly and so feelingly ascribed.
When on the subject of poetry, he enlarged on the
influence of its precepts on the conduct of men, the
power which it often exerts over their dispositions,
and the enjoyment it yields, by its pleasing representations
of virtue and happiness, when it
chooses to display them unalloyed with the sad
realities of life; or, by its delightful delusions
when it carries the enchanted fancy into a species
of transient paradise, where the cares, and pains,
and vexations of the grosser world, are, for a time,
neither felt or remembered—Edward thought that
he had never been before so thoroughly convinced
of the benefits it confers upon mankind.
Thus the man whose poetical talents had excited
his curiosity, and whose misfortunes he was prepared
to pity, he found possessed of dignity which
enforced his respect, and of wisdom which commanded
his admiration; and he never felt so ardent
a desire as on this occasion, to make amends
for the injustice of fortune by some munificent testimony
of his respect for merit. Accordingly, after
M`Nelvin had left the cavern, which he did
early in the evening, he consulted the Recluse as
to the manner in which he could best serve so deserving
an object.
“I know, at present, no other way,” said the
old man, “than by showing him your countenance,
maintaining a correspondence with him, and perhaps,
occasionally administering to his poetical
vanity; for, like all other poets, he is vain of his
profession. Pecuniary assistance must not be mentioned.
In the present state of his feelings, he
would look upon it as a manitestation of your superiority.
His pride would be wounded, and his
reserve towards you might return, never to remove.
The inconveniencies of poverty, I can and shall
prevent.”
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“I envy you,” returned Edward, “the felicity
of being permitted to confer favours on such a
man. I trust the time will come when I shall enjoy
more of both his society and yours, under happier
circumstances.”
He then, after requesting the Recluse to remember
his wishes respecting Ellen, bade him adieu,
and returned to the castle.
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CHAP. IX.
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Thy arm is firm, thy heart is stout,
But thou canst neither fight or flee;
But beauty stands thy guard without,
Yes, beauty weeps and pleads for thee.
Hogg.
On emerging from the hermit's glen, our hero
perceived four men sitting on an eminence near
the path by which he was to pass. He approached,
and soon knew one of them to be his new and
undesired acquaintance, M`Cauley, who arose, and
very respectfully saluted him. “Mr. Middleton,”
said he, “I am glad to meet with you. Will you
favour me with your company towards the beach?”
Edward was about excusing himself, on account
of the lateness of the hour, when M`Cauley caught
him familiarly by the arm, and in a half jocular
and half irritating manner, swore an oath that he
would not part with him for that evening at least.
Edward remonstrated, and told him that he did
not think it friendly, so rudely to impose on his
inclinations.
“Mr. Middleton! you had as well consent,”
said the other, “to accompany me. I assure you
no harm shall befall you; and you see,” he added,
looking at his companions, “that we can enforce
compliance.”
Edward now perceived that foul play was intended,
and he demanded by what authority they
attempted to detain him.
“By the authority of present strength, and a
prudent regard for our own safety,” replied
M`Cauley.
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“And where am I to go, and for what purpose?”
was next demanded.
“To our head-quarters, to be both well secured
and well treated,” was the reply.
“Does Mr. O'Halloran know this?”
“He does; and its necessity grieves him.”
“Then I submit,” said Edward. “He once
saved my life; he is now welcome to take it from
me. Lead where you please.”
The four men enclosed him round, and conducted
him to the very spot where O'Halloran and his
grand-daughter vanished from his sight when he
first saw them on the beach.
One of them then ascended a projecting portion
of the mysterious rock, and removing a loose piece
of stone, which filled a narrow crevice about a foot
deep, an iron ring was disclosed, on pulling which
an internal bolt gave way, and permitted the upper
end of a large, rugged fragment of the rock, to separate
the mass with which it before seemed to
have been consolidated. M`Cauley then introduced
his hand and loosened the end of a rope, which,
passing through a pully fastened to the roof of the
cave now visible, had its other end fixed firmly
unto the moveable fragment which was thus managed
as a door, its base, upon which it turned, being
joined to the rock by means of strong hinges,
altogether invisible on the outside. The rope being
thus loosened, the fragment opened wide enough
to afford space for the admission of our party in a
stooping posture, but on advancing a few steps,
Edward found himself in an apartment fully ten
feet high, having a smooth hard-beaten artificially
made earthen floor. Through this, he was
conducted to another apartment, very spacious,
clean-looking and lighted with several lamps. In
its centre there was a large table covered with
newspapers, pamphlets, letters, &c. which three
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genteelly dressed men seemed to have been perusing.
These gentlemen accosted Edward in rather a cordial
manner, and welcomed him to their habitation.
They were quite unknown to him, but one of
them, he soon perceived from his accent to be a
Frenchman. He now saw that he had been ushered
into one of the council-chambers of the Northern
conspirators; but for what purpose, he could
not tell; although he was persuaded that it could
not be of a friendly nature. Here the men by
whom he was seized left him. By his remaining
companions he was politely invited to be seated,
and to accept refreshment. Conceiving that there
was no use in showing ill humour on the occasion,
he assented, when, to his surprise, tea was speedily
produced with its usual accompaniments, and afterwards
punch, of which his companions partook in
a spirit of great cordiality.
During the evening politics engrossed less of the
conversation than he expected. Literature, agriculture
and manufactures were the prevailing topics.
On these, Edward cheerfully took a part, and almost
forgot that he was a prisoner. His new acquaintances
seemed highly intelligent, and perfectly
conversant with every subject they discussed;
they were easy and affable, and appeared to make
his comfort their chief study. At length one of
them requesting leave to show him where he should
rest, when he wished to retire for the night, pushed
a sliding door along one end of the apartment,
which disclosed to view a small room resembling
the state-room of the cabin of a merchant ship, and
containing a bed of a comfortable appearance. On
bidding good night, one of the company remarked,
“I trust, Mr. Middleton, that the cause of your
confinement here will soon be removed; but whether
it shall be long or short, you may depend on
receiving good usage.”
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In fact, such is the influence of civil treatment on
the mind, that for some time after he was alone,
Edward felt more astonishment than irritation at
the occurrences of the evening. But when he reflected
on the loss of his liberty, and on the share
which O'Halloran had in effecting it, and which he
looked upon, not only as a breach of honour and
hospitality, but, from the promise he had exacted
from him in the morning, as savouring of treachery
itself, he became restless, agitated, irritated; and
when he considered that he had done nothing to
deserve being thus incarcerated in a den among
traitors, his chagrin and resentment partook of a
feverish violence, and sleep for that night became
a stranger to his eyes.
Here for the present we shall leave him, and direct
our attention to the inhabitants of the castle,
some of whom, by this time, had become as much
agitated on his account, as he was himself chagrined
and irritated. The perturbation of O'Halloran's
mind, now that a deed was done which he could
not quite justify, and to which he was accessary,
was such as no good man could wish even his worst
enemy to experience.
“It is I,” thought he, “who have in this affair
committed a breach of hospitality and good faith.
This young man whose disposition, I believe, to be
of the most generous description, reposed implicit
confidence in me; and yet I have betrayed him
into captivity. He may forgive me, God may forgive
me, but I cannot forgive myself.—But”—he
would say, his thoughts taking another turn—
“Why should I thus condemn myself! I have done
no more than my duty to the great cause in which
I am engaged. It is true, my private esteem for
this young man would have prompted me to act
otherwise, but the higher motive of duty made it
imperative that I should act as I did. On
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escaping from us, he might league himself with our
oppressors, for he is much inclined to their cause;
and might think it incumbent on him to reveal
those secrets which we imprudently disclosed to
him. No, I will not repent it—although the deed
was painful, it was necessary; it was called for by
the interest of my country. Why should I grieve.
It is weakness. Shall it be said, that O'Halloran
wished to sacrifice the great interests of the great
cause of Irish liberty, to private feelings or squeamish
scrupulosity!”
Thus O'Halloran grieved, and reasoned, and
reconciled himself to the painful duty, as he esteemed
it, which he had performed. It is indeed
no wonder, that he who always considered patriotism
the first of human virtues, should now when
that feeling was so much excited, and strengthened
by resentment against national wrongs and oppressions,
and by the general enthusiasm of the times,
be easily prevailed on to yield the personal safety
of a stranger, however well he might think of
him, to his country's welfare.
But there was another inmate of the castle, whom
the events of this evening agitated still more severely
than they did O'Halloran. This was she, who,
in the estimation of Edward, was the fairest of all
Erin's daughters, and whose tears of sorrow shed
for him this evening, had he known of them, would
have rendered him proud and happy in his misfortunes.
Ellen was sitting alone at a window in one of the
small turrets on the southern side of the castle,
watching, perhaps, the declining tints of the twilight,
or contemplating the dangerous aspect of the times,
or, what is quite as probable, meditating on the expected
return of Edward to the castle. It is certain,
that from the window where she was stationed,
she could survey the path by which he was to return;
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and if she at all took notice of the gathering shades,
perhaps it was because they marked the lateness of
the hour without bringing back the object of her
solicitude. While she mused, the moments followed
each other slowly, thought anxiously succeeded
thought, but still there was no appearance of him
for whom she sighed. Several people came at different
times up the avenue, but Edward did not
come.
“A little more patience, and he surely will appear,”
thought she. A well-dressed man was perceived
approaching at a distance. “Ah! this is surely
he?” He drew near enough to be distinguished.
It was only a messenger with some news to O'Halloran.
Another came. It was only a servant who
had been at town. A third, a fourth, all came who
were expected, and some who were not expected,
but he whom Ellen expected did not come. How
provoking is suspense!
“I will go down,” thought she, “to the gate: when
I perceive his approach, I can easily run back and
regain the castle without him seeing me.”
She went to the gate. She ventured into the
avenue. She saw a tall figure hastily advancing.
She retreated within the gate, when looking back
she perceived it to be the figure of a woman. She
returned to the avenue, and met Peg Dornan. Peg
was in great agitation, when she approached.
“Some yin maun help him,” she abruptly exclaimed,
“an' your ain bonny sel maun haste an'
fin' oot that yin, or it may soon be owre wi' him;—
an' he liked you weel, an' would hae run to help
you in sic need, at the blackest hoor a midnicht.”
“What is the matter?” anxiously demanded Ellen,
“for whom do you want help?”
“For the bonniest lad that e'er cam' to thir
parts—for Mr. Middleton, wham I like as weel as
e'er I liked Jock Dornan, my ain sin.”
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“For God's sake! dear Peg, what, what has befallen
Mr. Middleton?”
“He has fallen amang his enemies.”
“What! have they killed him?” exclaimed Ellen,
fearfully.
“No, my bonny bairn, I hope the hae na yet gane
that far; but they're no to be trusted owre lang.”
“For heaven's sake! tell me what you know of
the matter?”
“That's what I cam' for, my bonny bairn, an'
you'll hear me. I was saunterin' at my leisure
aboot an hour syne, on the road to Saunders's Glen,
when I saw four o' the hettist o' the warm crappies,
settin' on the road side, an' thinkin' they would be
talkin' politics, I did na want to disturb them; so I
turned through a slap to the other side o' the hedge,
an' I would na hae stapped but gane right on;
but when I cam' forenent them, though they did
na see me, I heard yin of them say something
aboot Mr. Middleton, so I just hunkered doon to
hear what it was.
“I'll warrant you he's an Orangeman, said Sam
Service.
“We must seize him, but not hurt him, let him be
what he will, said Jock M`Cauley. Our order is
to confine him in the Point Cave, where we will
soon find out whether he be friendly or not.
“I thought it was nae time to listen langer, but
to run and warn him to keep oot o' their way, as I
did yince before. I e'en ran to Billy Caldwell's,
whar I had seen him in the afternoon, but they said
he had gane wi' auld Saunders to his glen. I let nae
on, but ran there as fast as I could, for, thinks I,
they'll get him in the hame comin', giff I dinna see
him first. I ran like thoucht, for the deil tak' me
gin I'm lazy on sic an erran'. The auld man was
in the glen, I asked for Mr. Middleton.
“He left me half an hour ago, said he.
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“Gude preserve us! said I, then he's fa'en in
wi' them Auld man, you can do nae guid. I canna
wait to talk wi' you. I maun rin to the castle, for,
as sure as you're auld Saunders, the crappies hae
catched Mr. Middleton for nae guid.—When I said
sae, he sprang—I never thoucht the auld body was
sae soople. He would hae been here lang before
me, had he skipt on at that gate; but he turned an'
bade me haste, an' tell a' to either Mr. O'Halloran
or Ellen, thinkin', doubtless, that he wad do mar
harm than guid by being owre hasty.”
“And are you sure they have seized on Mr. Middleton?”
inquired Ellen.
“They maun ha' him,” replied Peg, “for when
I cam' back to whar they were sittin', they were
gane. I thought he micht hae escaped them, an'
won to the castle; but I met Ned Watt, the butler,
just before I saw you, who says he's no come
there; so I fear a's no richt.”
“It is too plain!” said Ellen almost inaudibly,
for speech and sense now failed her, and she sunk
on the ground.
With a voice like thunder, Peg shouted for help,
and in a few seconds, several of the domestics from
the castle were on the spot.
Ellen soon recovered, and being conveyed to her
apartment, she requested Mrs. Brown to remain
with her for a short time. All others accordingly
withdrew.
“My dear aunt,” said she, “I know your penetration
has discovered my weakness. I will now
therefore no longer affect to conceal it from you.
My heart owns a feeling for Mr. Middleton, which
is likely to be ruinous to my peace. But in loving
him, I have only loved what I conceived to be excellence;
and, if I have done wrong, I hope for forgiveness
from my more than mother. But he is
surely worthy of all the affection I can bestow on
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him. But, oh! I am miserable; for he is in danger.
He has been seized by the United Irishmen,
on suspicion of being an orangeman, and heaven
only knows if, at this moment, he be not breathing
out his soul in agony, under the hands of a murderer.
Oh! dear aunt, the idea is terrible, but I
fear it is real.”
She here clasped the hands of her aunt with a
convulsive force, which made that affectionate relative
tremble for her safety. If she considered
her niece's passion to have been imprudent, and
ill timed, she saw that the present was not the
period to expostulate or use cool calculating arguments
on the subject. She, therefore, adopted the
more humane and judicious method of soothing her
feelings by expressing a sincere hope, that no evil
had befallen Edward; remarking that the informations
she had received might be partly or wholly
unfounded. At all events, she encouraged her to
hope for the best, at least until they should obtain
more certain intelligence with regard to any thing
disastrous having taken place.
Ellen soon became so much quieted as to be
able to relate to her all that she had heard from
Peg Dornan. Her aunt then promised to communicate
with her brother on the subject; and
consult him as to what it should be best to do on
Edward's behalf. In the meantime none of the
castle servants knew of his captivity. O'Halloran
himself not being present, Peg Dornan would
relate her story to no one else, for she had too
much regard for the United Irishmen, as a body,
to propagate any report to their disadvantage.
She was also aware of the dangerous situation of
an informer in those times. She, therefore, especially
as she was persuaded that Ellen would lose
no time in making her grandfather acquainted with
Edward's situation, resolved not to mention the
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affair again, unless to those she could trust, and
who might possess sufficient influence to serve him.
The next morning, (for O'Halloran did not appear
that night,) Mrs. Brown hastened to inform
him of what she had heard respecting Edward's
seizure by the United Irishmen. Her brother not
only acknowledged that he knew of the fact, but
had consented to it, and acquainted her at large
with his reasons for so doing. He assured her,
however, that the captive would be treated with
kindness, and that his life was in no danger.
Mrs. Brown, with more warmth than was usual
to her, expressed her surprise and indignation of
what had taken place.
“What!” said she, “has my brother; he of
whose honourable and noble course of conduct, I
have hitherto been so proud; whose mind, I thought
superior to the narrow, selfish motives that too
often influence other men, become, at last, so forgetful
of his long boasted rectitude, as to betray an
unsuspecting youth, who was a stranger and his
guest, into the power of those who hate him, and
whose hatred to those who may be in their power,
is almost equivalent to destruction?”
“Mrs. Brown,” said O'Halloran, rising hastily,
“I have not been accustomed to hear such language
from you. I have already told you my
reasons for my conduct. If they are insufficient
to justify me in your eyes, it is of little consequence,
since they do it in my own. In the meantime my
regard for a woman's weakness, must not, shall
not turn my attention from that duty, however
stern it may be, which I owe to my country.”
He then left the apartment; and Mrs. Brown,
with a heavy heart, returned to sympathise with
her niece.
“Your grandfather has assured me,” said she,
endeavouring to comfort her, “that no attempt
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will be made upon his life, and that he shall experience
no inconvenience in their power to prevent,
except the loss of liberty.”
Ellen's uncertainty respecting her lover's fate,
being thus removed, the violence of her emotions
gradually subsided, and was in a short time succeeded
by a calm and settled melancholy.
The liveliness and ingenuity of Miss Agnew,
who soon discovered the cause of her friend's
distress, greatly aided the unceasing tenderness and
solicitude of Mrs. Brown, in assuaging the poignancy
of Ellen's grief, and she was in a few weeks
restored to a tolerable enjoyment of existence.
-- --
CHAP. X.
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
The hovering insect, thus complained;
Am I then slighted and disdained?
Can such offence your anger wake?
'Twas beauty caused the bold mistake;
Those cherry lips that breathe perfume,
That cheek so ripe in youthful bloom;
Made me, with strong desire, pursue
The fairest peach that ever grew.
—Gay.
Edward sustained his misfortunes with great
spirit, and however severely he felt his being thus
inclosed, as it were, in a living tomb, he took care
that none around him should perceive the state of
his feelings.
The Rev. Mr. Porter, a presbyterian clergyman,
at this time under cover from a threatened
prosecution for high treason, was his most agreeable
and constant companion. Mr. Samuel Nelson,
whom we mentioned before, and who at this period
was a very active agent of the United Directory,
was a frequent visitor at the cavern; but not
being under proscription by the government, he
frequented it rather for the purpose of business
than concealment. His arrival always excited
great interest; for he never failed to bring with
him a large assortment of news, and a budget
of political documents for the inspection of his coadjutors.
The Frenchman, whom we have also already
mentioned, was a bustling, active sort of a character,
who, on all occasions assumed an air of great
importance, as being a citizen and a public, or (to
speak more correctly,) a secret functionary of the
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Great nation; for at this period, the meanest officers
of the new Gallic republic exhibited a desire
of being thought superior to the people of every
other country; and in all companies and controversies,
arrogated a distinction and authority quite
inconsistent with that natural equality among mankind,
which they avowed as their favourite doctrine.
But the enthusiasm excited by their military
successes, and the boldness of their innovations,
veiled all their faults from the eyes of the
United Irishmen, and among many of the zealots
of the day, any indecorum might have been justified
by merely asserting it to be the French custom.
From not being at first aware of this circumstance,
Edward was greatly at a loss to imagine,
how men of such improved minds and refined manners,
as Porter, Nelson and O'Halloran, could tolerate
the superciliousness and flippancy of their
foreign guest; who would often, in the midst of the
most serious natural discussion, interrupt the speaker
by starting questions, or making observations
the most frivolous and irrelevant to the subject.
For the two first days of Edward's imprisonment,
O'Halloran did not visit the cave. On the evening
of the third, he entered with a bundle of letters and
newspapers, which he handed to Nelson. Then going
forward to Edward;
“Mr. Middleton,” said he, “I am truly sorry
that it is against your will you are here; and I hope
that it will be soon otherwise. I request you will
read this letter at your leisure, and seriously consider
its contents.”
He then seated himself at the table, and for
about an hour joined his confederates in perusing
the papers he had brought; after which he asked
Nelson to accompany him to the castle, and they
retired together.
Immediately on receiving the letter, Edward
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withdrew to his sleeping closet, where throwing
himself on his couch, he read as follows:
“My young and esteemed friend,
“In consenting to your confinement, I made a
greater sacrifice of feeling to duty than I had ever
been before called on to make. I had a hard
struggle; but my conception of what I owed to the
great national cause in which I am engaged, gained
the victory.
“Ever since I could lay down a plan of conduct
for my life, I have graduated the scale of my duties
in the following manner. The first is my duty to
my God, the second to my country, the third to my
neighbour, and the fourth to myself. It is my pride
that I have hitherto acted in conformity to this
scale; and I consider no instance of my doing so,
a greater triumph of my principles over my feelings,
than my resigning you to a captivity, which, I trust,
will not be of long continuance. This latter circumstance
will, however, depend altogether on
yourself. Were we certain that the secrets connected
with our cause, which have come to your
knowledge, would be safe in your keeping, you
should not be confined a single hour. But so long
as you profess a disapprobation of our designs, it is
manifest that, to permit your enlargement would be
unwarrantably to subject ourselves and our cause
to unnecessary dangers.
“I do not write to you for the purpose of apologizing
for my conduct. So long as that conduct has
the approbation of my own conscience, I will apologize
to no man. But I wish to represent the affair to
you in its true light; and to assure you that you have
no personal danger to apprehend, and that you shall
suffer no personal hardship nor privation, that
consistently with the precautionary views which
have induced us to confine you, we can prevent.
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“When I say that the recovery of your liberty
depends on yourself, I mean, that by evincing an
attachment to our association, and by coming under
the obligations we impose on its members, you will
satisfy us that we run no risk from your disclosures,
and you shall not only be immediately set at liberty,
but gladly hailed as a brother, and raised to
an honourable place in our esteem and confidence.
“At present we make great allowances for the
political principles in which you have been educated;
but we trust, that you have good sense sufficient
not to permit prejudice always to blind you
to justice. For my own part, I am persuaded that
you have liberality and discernment enough, provided
you exercise them, to enable you to throw
off the trammels of early impressions, when they
will not stand the test of reason. You are an
Irishman, and I believe you love your country,
and wish her to be free and happy. I will ask
you can she ever be so, under a government
which derives all its authority and its impulses
from a foreign country, absolutely inimical to her
prosperity; and surely a country which looks upon
ours as a conquered province, and is proud of the
domination she exercises over us, can never be
likely to grant us rights and privileges, to which, as
human beings, we are entitled, and of which she
herself has despoiled us.
“I need not enlarge upon facts to convince you
that Irishmen have nothing to expect from English
generosity. You are, I doubt not, well enough
conversant in the history of our British connexion
to know that it has been pregnant with nothing but
oppressions and calamities to our ancestors and
ourselves. As an Irishman, as a lover of justice
and of your country, you cannot but feel indignant
at the usage she has ever received from that nation
which has so long acted, not as her sister, but as
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her tyrant; and, if you feel indignant at the ages of
unmerited and cruel sufferings, that your country
has sustained, we call on you, in her name, to
join with those who are resolved to deliver her
from her oppressors, or perish in the attempt.
“It is in vain for any one to say, that it is our
own restless, discontented and riotous dispositions,
that have caused our misfortunes, and that if we
would live peaceably, we might live happily. Ah!
sir, we have tried that. We long submitted, but even
then we were not spared. We were forbidden to
exert our industry, but in such a manner, and in
the production of such articles alone as our neighbours
pleased; while our commerce was confined
to such channels as suited their interest. At their
caprice, we were extravagantly taxed, while we
were chained into poverty—while we were forbidden
to improve the natural wealth and resources
with which Providence has so bountifully blessed
our island, in her soil, her climate, her minerals
and her situation. Three-fourths of our population,
were deprived of every political privilege,
and are consequently, at this day, no better than
slaves, compelled to passive and degrading submission
to the will of their haughty and unfeeling
masters. When we patiently submitted, our submission
was considered want of spirit, and we
were represented as being incapable of either understanding
or relishing the blessings of liberty.
We then petitioned and remonstrated, and were
called seditious, and troublesome, and turbulent.
Our petitions were only answered by mockery,
and our remonstrances with threats; and, latterly,
these threats have been wantonly converted into a
malignant and cruel persecution.
“The state of the times, I need not describe to you.
That dreadful state has been caused by the tyrannical
system of vengeance, which has been adopted
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to counteract the natural and justifiable exertions
of an enlightened people to obtain from their oppressors
their legitimate and unquestionable rights.
On which side is the cause of justice, your own
good sense will readily perceive; and which side
has the greater claim upon your good will and
services, as a patriot your sense of duty to the
land that gave you birth will easily decide.
“As one who esteems you and feels a high interest
in your welfare, I exhort you to decide in
favour of an injured and oppressed nation, which
claims you as her son, and to whom alone your
allegiance and fidelity are due. Reflect seriously
on the subject, so that if your decision be in our
favour, it may be the result of deliberate reasoning
and true conviction. We shall then confide in
you as our friend, and I shall have the happiness
of regarding you as an Irishman worthy of the
name.
“I am, &c.
“HENRY O'HALLORAN.”
To this letter, Edward wrote a very copious
reply, from which the following passages are extracted.
After assuring O'Halloran that he gave
full credit to the motives which influenced him in
consenting to his captivity, and, on that account,
let its issue be what it would, he freely forgave
him, he proceeded—“But as to your attempts to
bring me over to your party, it will require considerations
more powerful, and arguments more conclusive,
than any you have advanced, or I am
persuaded have in your power to advance, to be
successful. I feel as much as any man for the misfortunes
of my country, and it is this very feeling
that prevents me from joining in measures which, I
know, will only plunge her into deeper distress.
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“I need not, I presume, recall to the memory of
a man of your historical knowledge, the origin of
those laws of which the catholic part of our countrymen
complain. Had James instead of William
been the successful competitor for the crown of
these kingdoms, I dare say, you will admit it to be
probable, that the catholics would have guarded
their religion by statutes, at least as strong and severe
as the victorious protestants found it necessary
to adopt. I need not inform you that in those countries,
where the catholics did prevail—in France,
Spain, Portugal, &c. they have secured their own
faith with infinitely more solicitude and zeal, than
the people of Britain did theirs, for they have secured
it to the total exclusion of all others. I will
not speak of the use they have always made of
power, whenever they happened to obtain it in
these islands.—You know it well, and knowing it
as you do, you and the other presbyterians who
have lately espoused their cause, merit, at least,
the praise of rendering good for evil, conduct which
must for ever elicit respect and admiration, from
every lover of generosity and magnanimity. I can,
as much as any one, appreciate the liberality of
such conduct; and would be no enemy to catholic
emancipation, if brought about by legal means;
for I am inclined to think that all the political privileges
they desire, might now be granted to the
Irish catholics with safety, nay, with advantage to
the national prosperity. They are become more
tolerant than their ancestors; and, I trust, that the
age is too enlightened for religious animosity and
fanaticism again to produce such a degree of human
misery as they did in the days of the Tudors
and the Stewarts.
“You must acknowledge that since the expulsion
of the last mentioned family from the throne,
no man is punished in these kingdoms for
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conscience-sake. Even with respect to the civil disabilities,
which the penal laws imposed on the
catholics, they have, within the last half century,
been considerably relieved from their effects; and
by a proper and temperate perseverance in applying
to the authority in whose hands the constitution
lodges the power of redressing grievances,
whatever yet remains of these laws, would undoubtedly
be repealed, whenever it should appear
that it could be done with safety. But I will appeal
to the common sense of any man, if the
present conduct of the disaffected in this island is
likely to hasten that event? No; if the sword again
must be used in defence of the laws and constitution
of the country, I fear it will be thought necessary
to make these laws stronger, perhaps severer
than ever. God forbid that ever such a crisis
should take place, but if it should, every unprejudiced
man can perceive who are to blame for it.
“With respect to the British jealousy of our
prosperity, which you say has had the effect of
shackling our commerce, and restraining our industry,
I am of opinion, that, if fairly enquired into, it
will be found to originate only in the imaginations
of theorists, or the ambition of demagogues, who
wish to disturb the public tranquillity. Why should
Britain be averse to our prosperity? It would be
directly contrary to her interests; for our prosperity
is her prosperity, and our strength is her
strength. As well might Middlesex oppose the
prosperity of Lancashire, and the authorities of
Edinburgh adopt measures to prevent the growth
of Glasgow. The fact is, our trade, manufactures
and capital, have more than doubled themselves
within the last twenty years, and, were it not for
the political broils that distract the country, it
would, at the present moment, be more prosperous
and happy than ever it was, during the whole
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[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
course of its past history. Here, sir, you cannot
deny that before the present discontents became
so alarming, every peaceable industrious man had
the safety of his person, property, and character
well secured to him by known laws; and could sit
down and call what he possessed his own, with
more confidence under our government than under
any other in Europe, or perhaps in the world.
“You say that my country claims all my allegiance.
I know it, sir, and I acknowledge it. But
I cannot identify my country with that imprudent
faction to which it grieves me to find you have so
zealously attached yourself. * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * I wish you to understand me clearly. I
am opposed to despotism as much as I am opposed
to anarchy itself. My politics are the politics of
the whigs of 1688, who expelled despotism from
the throne, and by placing in its stead a limited
monarch, gave the last finish to our excellent constitution.
“The abuses that have crept into our government,
during the lapse of more than a century, I
would endeavour to reform; but I would do it by
legal means; and these, if properly persisted in,
could not fail to be effectual. The corruptions of
the constitution, I would purify, not by violence,
desolation and blood-shed, remedies infinitely more
dreadful than the disease has yet become, but by
the means by which Grattan obtained our free
trade and independent parliament, namely, parliamentary
interference, which by persevering and
energetic applications from the people will always
be procured. When I say that my sentiments on
these subjects were the sentiments of Hampden
and Russel, Addison and Steel, Chatham and Fox,
Charlemont and Grattan, you will hardly think them
unfriendly to rational liberty, or unworthy of an
Irishman.
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“To obtain my enlargement, I will come under no
obligations that might by any possibility be ascribed
to meanness or timidity. I should scorn to act the part
of an informer, against either the misguided or the
unfortunate—and, with respect to you individually,
to whom I am under Providence indebted for life
itself, gratitude binds me too strongly to your personal
welfare, to permit me either inadvertently
or intentionally, to divulge any part of your conduct,
or of those connected with you, that might
operate to your disadvantage * * * *.
“Yours, &c.
“EDWARD MIDDLETON.”
O'Halloran and his confederates finding that they
could not shake Edward's political principles, desisted
after this, from making the attempt. They
also appeared more guarded when conversing in
his presence, so that, during the remainder of the
summer, he obtained very little information concerning
the progress of their affairs.
In the meantime, the Recluse being aware of the
capricious and revengeful disposition of several of
those who had access to his imprisoned friend, became
every day more uneasy concerning him.
With M`Nelvin, who also felt much on the subject,
and who was his only confidant, he had frequent
conferences on the practicability of procuring Edward's
liberty, but they could devise no plan that
seemed in the slightest degree to promise success.
Ellen, by the assurances she received of his personal
safety, and by the sympathy, and kind attentions
of her aunt and Miss Agnew, became daily
more resigned and cheerful, so that before the end
of August, she was seen taking her usual evening
walks, although it was observed that she generally
walked alone, and as much as possible courted
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solitude. One evening, about this time, an incident
took place which, as it had some connexion with
those events which led to Edward's enlargement,
should be related.
Monsieur Monier, the French emissary already
mentioned, had fallen desperately in love with her;
and having obtained her grandfather's permission
to address her, had added greatly to her affliction
by persecuting her with his passion for several
months past. He had been lately informed of her
partiality for Edward; and in consequence began
to hate him as the sole obstacle to his happiness.
Edward had never esteemed this man, for independently
of his criminal and disgraceful occupation,
his manners were flippant, profane and arrogant,
the very reverse of those he approved. In
several conversations, the dissimilarity of their
minds had been manifested, and on some occasions,
they had taken but little pains to conceal their mutual
dislike. Our Frenchman, therefore, cordially
wished perdition to his rival.
On the evening alluded to, he followed Ellen into
one of her favourite and lonely walks, in a small
wood that skirted the Volunteer ground. She was
indulging her melancholy feelings in reading Burns's
beautifully tender song of Highland Mary when
Monier approached. He had just left the company
of the gentlemen at the castle, among whom the
social glass had circulated freely, and was a little
heated with the liquor he had drunk.
“I am right happy, right glad, mam'selle,” said
he, “to meet with you here. This is a fine, lovely-looking
place for a lover like me to meet her he
loves better than all the world.”
“Sir,” said Ellen, “I have often told you not to
speak to me on such a subject. I now wish to be
alone.—You will, therefore, be pleased to walk on
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to wherever you were going, and leave me to myself.”
“Beautiful creature, do you think I can leave
you? I left my company and my wine to come after
you.”
“You did very wrong, sir; and I insist that you
shall immediately return to your company and
your wine, for whatever business you may have
with them, I assure you, with me you can have
none.”
“Ah! my dear, with your bright eyes, with your
lovely cheeks like the rose, and with your pretty
bosom like the snow, I must have business. I am
tired of politics, I now want to enjoy love.”
“What do you mean, sir,” said she, “by thus
pertinaciously obtruding yourself upon me, when I
tell you that your company is unwelcome?”
“Is my company unwelcome? Ah! I know somebody
else, whose company you would prefer in this
place.”
“No matter what you know; only begone from
me.”
“Ah! my love, you should think how that man
is in my power. He is my rival. I can be revenged.
Only let me sit with you, and talk with you, and
kiss your pretty hand, and he shall be used well.”
“I say again, sir, begone! How dare you use
such freedoms.”
“It is only the way in France, mam'selle. I
love you to my very soul, and I must kiss you and
court you as lovers always do there.”
“Your rudeness is intolerable!”
“Ah! my angel, my passion is intolerable.”
So saying he caught her very roughly.
“O God of mercy! is there no one to help me?”
exclaimed the terrified maiden.
“Villain!” cried a loud, tremendous voice, “receive
that for your infamous conduct to an angel”
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—and a tall stout man without a hat, or coat, and
bald headed, struck him on the face with such
force that he fell to the ground screaming, while
the blood gushed freely from his mouth and nostrils.
Ellen could not recognize the stranger.
“Whoever you are,” said she, “may heaven
bless you, for this deed!”
“Take my arm, fair innocence! I will protect
you home.”
She did so, and without speaking, he conducted
her to the public road which led to the castle.
“You are now safe,” said he, “I must leave
you.”
“But first,” she replied, “let me know to whom
I am indebted for this deliverance?”
“There are people approaching,” he replied,
“I must not be seen. Describe me to no one.
Call with the Recluse to-morrow, at five in the
afternoon. He will tell you who I am. But stop,
stay—I see M`Nelvin, who knows me. He will
conduct you to the castle.”
The poet on seeing Ellen, was about to retire,
but the stranger called him forward.
“Protect this young lady to the castle,” said he,
“ask her no questions; but return to me in an hour.
I shall explain all.”
So saying he disappeared, and M`Nelvin, with
considerable embarrassment, offered Ellen his arm.
“Oh! Mr. M`Nelvin,” said she, “I shall never
forget that man. I hope heaven will reward him—
methinks I should know his voice.”
“He is a good man, Miss O'Halloran, and you
may yet know him.”
“You have that pleasure it seems.”
“Yes, and that pleasure is the only antidote I
have against sorrows that would otherwise destroy
me.”
“Your unhappiness, Mr. M`Nelvin, which I have
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long noticed, grieves me, for I know you deserve
a better fate. Can nothing be done to remove the
cause of your melancholy?”
“No; nothing in this world,” he replied, with a
sigh, “without rendering a dearer object than myself
miserable.”
They had now arrived at the castle, into which
the poet declined entering. But before they parted,
Ellen requested him to call the next day to
accompany her to the Recluse's cavern, to which
he consented.
After much reflection on the Frenchman's misconduct,
Ellen resolved not to reveal it to her
friends. She recollected his threats against Edward,
and she conceived, that by publishing his
disgrace, she would only irritate his evil passions
the more against his prisoner, and perhaps stimulate
him to push his revenge even to assassination.
At the appointed time, she accompanied M`Nelvin
to the hermit's cave, at the door of which he
left her, promising to return in an hour to conduct
her back. She found the old man in his usual
attire in his first apartment. He informed her
that he was the person who had rescued her yesterday—
that seeing the Frenchman following her
in a state of intoxication, and knowing how she had
been lately persecuted by him, he thought it prudent
to remain convenient for her protection; but
not wishing to be known to him as the Recluse, he
threw off part of the disguise he had usually worn
since he came into this neighbourhood.
“Then you are not the decrepid, destitute old
man we have hitherto taken you to be?” said she.
“No;” he replied, “but I have strong reasons
for wishing to appear so for some time. This is
all I must discover to you at present; but, I hope
the time will come when throwing off all mystery,
I shall reveal myself fully to you and to the
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world. In the meantime, my daughter, when you
want a friend, when you need a protector, fly here,
repose confidence in me, and be assured you shall
receive ready and sufficient succour. I know the
secret of your heart with respect to the imprisoned
stranger. Be not ashamed of it. He is worthy of
your preference, and in thus encouraging you to
love him, you will yet find that I give a sanction
to your feelings, at which your reason will rejoice.
Return home now, my daughter—I may call you
such, for my chief wish on earth is to see you
happy; and my greatest anxiety is to guard you
against misfortune. May God bless you, and be
you still as innocent and virtuous as you now are,
and you will deserve his blessing.”
“Thank you, father,” said she, “for you have
spoke comfort to my soul. How shall I ever be
able to repay such kindness?”
“By nursing me on my death-bed,” he replied,
“and shedding the tears of affection over my
grave. Farewell! Visit me often.”
At the door of the cave, she met the poet, who
had been waiting there to conduct her home. Being
thus assured of the disinterested attachment of
two worthy persons, she became more cheerful in
her mind, although her terror of the Frenchman
was so great, that she resolved to discontinue those
solitary rambles from which she had drawn so
much enjoyment, least he should again find an opportunity
to assault her.
-- --
CHAP. XI.
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Her nature is all goodness to abuse,
And causeless crimes continually to frame;
With which she guiltless persons may accuse,
And steal away the crown of their good name;
Never a knight so hold, and never dame
So chaste or loyal lived, but she would strive,
With forged cause them falsely to defame.
Spencer.
As nothing material happened to either our hero
or heroine for some weeks after this period, I shall,
if my reader has no objection, take advantage of
this paucity of events to inform him what became
of Tom Mullins and his companion.
It will be recollected that Tom Mullins, Edward's
servant, set off in company with our gallant Northern
peasant, Jemmy Hunter, in obedience to his
master's orders, to avoid the violence of some enraged
United Irishmen, who had combined against
him. They rode that day, through a lovely and
highly cultivated country as far as the town of Antrim,
without meeting with any adventures worth
relating. Here they consulted their instructions, and
found that they were to remain there for two days
in expectation of Edward overtaking them, at the
expiration of which time, if he did not arrive they
were to proceed to the seat of Sir Philip Martin
in the county of Tyrone, who was a relation and a
confidant of the Recluse, and whose son having
been Edward's fellow-student at Trinity College,
he had resolved to visit on his return homeward.
They had also a letter from Edward to the Earl
O`Neil, whose castle lay on the way from Antrim
to Sir Philip Martin's residence.
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On the evening of their second night at Antrim,
as they were sitting comfortably over a mug of ale,
two soldiers belonging to a regiment of fencibles
that then lay in the town, and a townsman, came
into the room. On hearing Mullin's brogue, and the
simplicity of some of his remarks, one of the soldiers
who was a Scotchman, and possessed of more
mirth than good manners, thought to enjoy a little
diversion at his expense. Accordingly, mimicking
his tone of voice as well as he could, he approached
him, saying,
“Arrah, my friend Paddy, and where did yourself
come from?”
Tom, however, had more mettle than he expected;
and although he wished not to give offence, he
replied,
“I'll tell you, friend, whenever you are asked,
just say I came from Kilkenny, where I dont believe
in my shoul that your father was hanged,
though he might have been put in the stocks for
impertinence.”
“What! heigh, ho!” replied the Scotchman somewhat
nettled—“you maun either be a damn'd
crappy, or what is worse, a damn'd papist.”
“Lord! I doubt you're a warlack,” said Hunter,
eyeing him contemptuously, “you can guess sae
weel.”
“Be it sae,” said the Scot, whom wrath had now
reduced to his national accent, “ye'll please awa' to
the guard hoose, whar weel hae you examined, an'
taucht hoo to gie a ceevil answer.”
“By the L—d!” said Hunter, “you maun show
your warrant, ere we stir wi' you.”
“The king's uniform is oor warrant,” said the
fencible, “didna ye confess ye war crappies.”
“Confess the devil,” said Hunter, “if ye dont
leave the room this moment, ye'll no' leave it the
next-wi' a hale skin.”
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“What do you mean? you rascal,” cried the
other fencible, “do you mean to strike one of the
king's soldiers? Prepare to march!”
So saying both the soldiers drew their bayonets,
and swore that they would “gut them like herrings”
if they did not accompany them immediately
to the guard-house. The landlord now entered, and
having enquired into the cause of the disturbance,
he advised our travellers to go with the soldiers,
assuring them that if they could justify themselves
before the officers at the guard-house, they would
be instantly dismissed.
Hunter swore he would not stir until absolute
force should be used, or some lawful warrant for
seizing him produced. An officer happening to
pass at this moment, the landlord called him in. On
hearing the soldiers' statement, he ordered the travellers
to the guard-house without waiting for their
reply. Seeing it in vain to resist longer, they complied,
and in less than an hour, were both convicted
by a court-martial of being United Irishmen,
and attempting to abuse two privates belonging to
his majesty's regiment of Fifeshire Fencibles. They
were each sentenced to receive five hundred lashes
the next morning.
The townsman who had entered the room with
the soldiers, and had been an observer of the whole
affray, was, although a zealous kingsman, so much
struck with the iniquity of these proceedings, that he
resolved, if possible, to set the affair in its true light.
He therefore took an opportunity of enquiring of
Hunter, whether he was known to any gentleman
in the neighbourhood who could have influence
enough to procure a re-hearing of the case, offering
to give such evidence of the affair as would entirely
exculpate the prisoners. Hunter was unknown
to any man of property in the vicinity; but, he said,
that he had a letter from a gentleman, on whose
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business he and his companion, who was that
gentleman's servant, were then travelling, for lord
O`Neil, who perhaps on their employer's account,
might interfere in their behalf.
“He is just the man that can save you,” said
Thompson, which was the name of their new friend.
“Give me the letter. I will carry it to his lordship,
and tell him the whole truth. I know him well.
He is my landlord, and a good man. He procured
for me the office of guager in this town.”
Without delay Thompson proceeded to Shanes
Castle, long the stately and venerable seat of the
O`Neil family, situated on the border of Lough
Neagh, about two miles from Antrim, with the letter
for its noble owner. His lordship on hearing
the circumstances, and on reading the letter, immediately
ordered his horse, and set off for the
town with Thompson. He called on the commanding
officer, and having told him that he would
pledge himself for the loyalty of the two strangers,
who were then under sentence to be flogged, desired
that they should have the benefit of a new
trial, as he had sufficient evidence to prove their
innocence.
“Whatever your lordship wishes in this affair,”
said the officer, “shall be done.”
A new trial was accordingly ordered, at which
his lordship, as colonel of the Antrim militia, was
invited to preside. The soldiers testified as they
did before, that the prisoners had confessed themselves
to be United Irishmen, and that they had
threatened violence to the deponents who in their
own defence were forced to draw their side arms.
Lord O'Neil then enquired if there was no other
witness, and was answered that no other had been
examined on the last trial. That there had been one
Thompson present during the quarrel; but, in such
cases, they considered two witnesses sufficient to
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establish the guilt, and had not therefore examined
him. His lordship desired Thompson to be called,
who correctly stated to the court the facts as they
happened. His lordship then mentioned that he
had strong collateral evidence in favour of the
prisoners, evidence indeed which went to prove
that these men, so far from being conspirators
against his Majesty's government, were, at the moment
of their apprehension, actually flying from
the threatened vengeance of a party of United
Irishmen, whom they had offended by refusing to
join their society.
“Here is a letter which I received,” said he,
“from a son of the honourable Thomas Barrymore,
and a nephew to the earl of Barrymore, one of his
Majesty's privy counsellors, a young gentleman
with whose principles and integrity I am well acquainted,
in which letter he states that his servant,
Thomas Mullins, having had a political quarrel
in the town of Larne with some United Irishmen,
they laid in wait for him, and would have
killed him, had not his companion, James Hunter,
come to his rescue, and succeeded in beating off
the villains. He states further, that his business
not permitting him immediately to leave that place,
and fearing that the conspirators might renew their
attempts against his servant, he has prevailed on
Hunter to accompany him to the seat of his friend,
Sir Philip Martin, in the county of Tyrone, and as
they should pass by Shanes Castle, he took that
opportunity of recommending them to my protection,
in case any accident might befall them in
my neighbourhood. Gentlemen,” his lordship continued,
“after this statement, corroborative of the
positive and direct testimony of Thompson, I need
not enlarge on the injustice of the proceedings that
have taken place, and which, I perceive, have altogether
arisen from the misconduct and malignity
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of two private soldiers, who to gratify their revenge
on these innocent men, have not scrupled to
become guilty of perjury, and upon their oaths wilfully
to deceive this court. The testimony of Thompson,
who joined neither party in the quarrel, may
be safely considered impartial, and correct; and,
as the matter now stands, I should suppose that
no officer here will hesitate to concur in acquitting
the prisoners. I also hope that the incident will
impress on the minds of all present, the necessity
of receiving at all times, with extreme caution, the
evidence of men whose feelings are interested in
procuring the conviction of prisoners, which is generally
the case with informers, and of such as, in
times like these, officiously display a more than ordinary
zeal as partisans even in a good cause. I
would therefore recommend it to the court both
from a regard to justice, and as an example to
malicious persons, to inflict a suitable punishment
for perjury on the men who have been the occasion
of this disgraceful business.”
The court acceded to his lordship's wishes. The
prisoners were dismissed; and the two soldiers
ordered to receive each one hundred lashes.
Thus did our travellers escape from the unpleasant
predicament, into which their evil stars
had involved them. But it is impossible not to perceive
that this military court was induced to do
them justice, not so much from the merits of their
case, as from a desire to oblige a man possessed of
a title, of twenty-five thousand pounds a year, and
of unlimited influence with the ministers of the day.
Under the auspices of this great man, they arrived
without further accident, at the place of their destination,
where Hunter left his charge, and returned
home in safety, about three weeks after his departure,
to the great joy of all his kindred and acquaintances,
but to none more than the sweet
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Peggy Caldwell, whom he vowed never to leave
so long again until they became “man an' wife.”
Sir Philip Martin, to whom the Recluse had
written concerning Edward's detention, being a
favourer of the United Irishmen, and having by
inquiries from O'Halloran, satisfied himself that
his life was in no danger, refrained from acquainting
his friends with the circumstance. Lord O'Neil
was ignorant of it; consequently, to Edward's relations,
who had become uneasy at his long and
silent absence, and had begun to make some inquiry
after him, he could give no other information,
than that he had received a letter from him
in the month of May last, at which period he was
in the vicinity of Larne. Edward had written to
his friends shortly after coming to the North, that
he intended, before he returned home, to visit the
island of Staffa, and some other places in the
Highlands. It was, therefore, concluded that he
was exploring some of the remote parts of that
wild, but to a mind like Edward's, attractive portion
of the empire, from whence transmitting communications
by letter they knew to be rather difficult
and uncertain. They, therefore, thought proper
for a time to cease their inquiries after him.
-- --
CHAP. XII.
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—Old men and beldames in the street,
Do prophecy upon it dangerously:
Yourg Arthur's death is common in their mouths,
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear.
And he that speaks doth grip the hearer's wrist,
Whilst he that hears him makes most fearful action,
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
Shakspeare.
It was in the autumn of 1797, and sometime after
the preceding transactions, that the melancholy
event took place, which severed the last remaining
link of the chain which had hitherto bound thousands
of the presbyterian community in the North,
to the side of government, and gave that impulse to
the wheels of the conspiracy, which no subsequent
measure of either policy or force could arrest until
it terminated in the fury and vengeance of a sanguinary
rebellion. This event was the death, or,
as the popular voice termed it, the martyrdom of
William Orr.
To give a minute account of the sufferings of
this greatly lamented favourite of the people, would
interfere too much with the main design of this
history; but his fate was too closely interwoven
with, and had too important an influence on many
transactions, which it will be incumbent on us to
relate, to permit us to pass it over in silence. Indeed
the reader could but little appreciate those
feelings, which hurried the presbyterians of Ulster
into the disastrous enterprise of 1798, unless he
knew something of the story of Orr. As a body,
whether we consider their numbers, or their
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intelligence, their wealth, their habits of industrious
and active perseverance in their designs, they were
by far the most efficiently powerful class of the
conspirators. The majority of them, however, until
the time of Orr's catastrophe, were far from being
disloyal. They were indeed greatly dissatisfied
with the recent measures of the administration;
but they could have been easily conciliated, for it
was no trifling matter, that could totally estrange
their hearts from that government, which had been
the constant bulwark of the reformation. They
might, and did occasionally feel some jealousy of
the peculiar privileges and endowments, enjoyed by
a prelatic church establishment; but they never
viewed that establishment with the discontent and
animosity which was felt by the catholics; and with
respect to their ideas of civil liberty they had
been, generally speaking, strictly constitutional.
Many of them had of late years, from a feeling of
justice, warmly espoused the cause of catholic
emancipation; and when by the sagacious managers
of the United confederacy, that cause became
coupled with the cause of parliamentary reform,
which was the great object of their political wishes,
they scarcely made any difference in the zeal with
which they sought the attainment of both. Still a
great majority of even those among them, who had
joined the United Irishmen, did not aim at a total
dissolution of their connexion with Britain, notwithstanding
their leaders, ever since the passing of the
Insurrection law, did not hesitate to avow that such
a dissolution was the great object for which they
contended. Even to this period, thousands, whose
political views coincided with those originally professed
by the conspirators, had refused to join them,
but their reluctance now vanished before the awful
and exasperating spectacle of a virtuous,
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inoffensive, industrious and respectable man, vindictively
hurried to the gallows in the face of circumstances
absolutely demonstrative of his innocence; in contempt
of the most earnest recommendations of a repentant
jury, to mercy; and in opposition to the
wishes, the expectations and the prayers of multitudes
of all classes of the community.
After a year's wearisome imprisonment, this victim
of executive infatuation and resentment, was
brought to trial in September 1797, on a charge of
administering the oath of a United Irishmen to a
Scotch soldier of the name of Wheatly, an act
which a clause in the Insurrection law had rendered
punishable with death.
On the evidence of Wheatly, he was convicted,
and sentence of death passed upon him. So notoriously
bad, however, was the informer's character,
that several of the jury were prevailed on to agree
to the verdict, only by the cajolement and intimidation
practised by others, and on the express condition
that they should all join in a recommendation
to mercy. This recommendation was forwarded
to the Viceroy, together with the affidavits of three
of the jurors, stating their solemn belief of the prisoner's
innocence, and confessing that they were
under the influence of intoxication and terror when
they concurred in the verdict. The reader will be
astonished at this confession of intoxication, it being
a direct infringement of the British law which enjoins
abstinence on jurors during the solemn period
of their deliberations: but it is a fact, that the jurors
alluded to, swore positively to the introduction of
spirituous liquor through a window into their chamber,
and that they had used it to inebriation.
The day after the trial the informer also became
conscience-struck, and voluntarily deposed that his
testimony against Orr had been malicious and untrue.
Exertions were, therefore, made by the
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magistrate who had originally committed Orr upon the
soldier's information, and by many other respectable
gentlemen of the county, to save him. He was,
in consequence, three times respited, and great
hopes were entertained that he should finally receive
mercy.
During this interval of suspense, a slanderous
and unjust paragraph made its way into a Belfast
newspaper, stating that Orr had made a confession
of his guilt, and an acknowledgment of the justice
of his sentence, “which (it was added) he had done
to ease his conscience, and acquit the jury who had
been calumniated for their verdict against him.”
To repel this ungenerous fabrication, Mr. Orr
despatched his brother to Dublin with the following
letter; which was delivered to the lord lieutenant.
“May it please your excellency—
“Having received from your excellency's clemency,
that respite from death which affords me
the opportunity of humbly and sincerely thanking
you, I avail myself of the indulgence of pen and
paper, and of that goodness you have already manifested
towards me, to contradict a most cruel and
injurious publication in a late newspaper, stating
that I had confessed myself guilty of the crimes
which a perjured wretch came forward to swear
against me. My lord, it is not by the confession of
crimes which would render me unfit for society,
that I expect to live; it is upon the strength of that
innocence which I will boldly maintain with my
last breath, which I have already affirmed in a declaration,
which I thought was to have been my
last, and which I had directed to be published as
my vindication from infamy, ten times more terrible
to me than death.
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“I know my lord, that my own unhappy situation,
the anguish of a distracted wife, the mistaken
tenderness of an affectionate brother, have been resorted
to, to procure that confession, and I was
given to understand that my life would have been
spared on such conditions. I as decidedly refused
as I should do now, though your excellency's pardon
was to be the reward. Judge then, my lord,
of the situation of a man to whom life was offered,
upon no other condition than that of betraying himself,
by a confession both false and base.
“And lastly, let me make one humble observation
to your excellency, that the evidence should
be strong indeed to induce conviction, that an industrious
man, enjoying both comfort and competence;
who had lived all his life in one neighbourhood;
whose character, as well as that of all his
stock, has been free from reproach of any kind; who
certainly, if allowed to say so much for himself,
would not shed the blood of any human creature;
who is a husband and the father of a family; would
engage himself with a common soldier, in any system
that had for its end robbery, murder and destruction—
for such was the evidence of the witness
Wheatly.
“If upon these grounds, and the facts already
submitted to your excellency, I am to be pardoned,
I shall not fail to maintain the most dutiful sense
of gratitude for that act of justice as well as mercy;
and in the meantime, I beg to remain your excellency's
most obedient humble servant,
“WILLIAM ORR.”
Carrickfergus Jail, October 10th, 1797.
At this period also Mrs. Orr addressed lady
Camden in the following terms:—
“To her Excellency the Countess of Camden.—For
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this freedom, grief like mine thinks not of apology.
Despair and sorrow are my only companions; yet
hope bids me look up to you for happiness. A
miserable object, a mother and a wife, comes praying
for mercy for the father of her children.
“Pardon, most gracious lady, the frenzy of a
distracted woman, and listen to the petition of the
miserable wife of the unfortunate William Orr. I
come a suppliant, a low and humble slave of misery,
praying your ladyship's intercession in behalf of
the life of my husband, whose existence is dearer
to me than my own. O hear my complaint, and
grant one beam of hope to my frantic imagination.
You are the only person who has it in her power
to remove never-ending misery from a wretched
individual; to cheer the afflicted heart, and give
comfort and consolation to her that was ready to
perish. Suffer me to assure you that he is innocent
of the crime for which he is under sentence of
death. O cruel sentence! that will, without your
interference, tear me from my husband, and rob
my five poor little unoffending children of their father—
the best of fathers, the kindest and dearest
that ever lived. They join in solicitation for his
life; their innocent, fervent, grateful prayers, will
rise as a memorial before the throne of God; their
lisping tongues shall be taught, with unceasing
gratitude, to bless and adore the noble and generous,
exalted character of their benefactress, the
revered and loved countess of Camden. How will
that name be printed upon their souls never to be
effaced! Forgive my importunity—the life of my
husband, the father of my children, is at stake.
Despair has almost made me mad. I call upon
you to exert yourself to save his life. Thy God
will reward, thy country will thank thee, his children
will bless thee, if thou grantest my petition;
and when length of years, and increase of horror
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shall make thee tired of earthly joys, and the curtain
of death shall gently close around thy bed,
may the angels of God descend and take care that
the last ray of thy existence shall not receive one
rude blast to hasten its extinction. At that awful
period, may the recollection of your successful interference,
added to the prospect of your future
felicity * * * * * * * * * * *.”
The eyes of the whole community were fixed
upon these transactions, and public anxiety was
strained to the uttermost respecting the fate of the
prisoner. The last respite was to terminate on the
14th of October, on the evening preceding which
day, a messenger arrived from government to the
high sheriff of the county. It was fondly hoped
and confidently expected, that he was the messenger
of mercy; but no; he brought the mandate
of death—a death which snapped asunder every
lingering tie by which the government had yet any
hold on the affections of wavering thousands. The
shock which was given to the public mind is not
easy to be conceived—multitudes swore that oath
of vengeance, which was afterwards but too fatally
performed.
On the morning of the 14th of October, he was
taken from the jail. Although his long confinement
had diminished the glow of health which his
countenance had formerly worn, still it retained a
more than ordinary degree of comeliness. His person
was dignified and graceful, his stature being
fully six feet, and his whole deportment such as to
make a favourable and lasting impression on the
spectators. As to his private character, a very
candid writer of that day, who knew him well, observes
that among his neighbours he was universally
beloved, and in his domestic relations, as a
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husband, and a father, his affection and tenderness
may have been equalled, but never surpassed.
At one o'clock he arrived at the place of execution,
on the sea shore, about a mile to the south of
Carrickfergus, in a carriage, accompanied with two
clergymen, whom he had selected for the occasion.
He was escorted by a strong guard of horse, foot
and artillery, detached from various regiments lying
at Carrickfergus and Belfast.
At the fatal spot, he sung some verses of the 23d
and 35th Psalms. On the 4th verse of the former,
Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear no ill;
For thou art with me, &c.
he dwelt with particular emphasis; and also upon
the following passage of the 14th chapter of Corinthians.
“So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruptible,
and this mortality shall have put on
immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying,
Death is swallowed up in victory. O death
where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?”
He then addressed the by-standers, for several
minutes, and boldly and earnestly declared his innocence
and the falsehood of his accusers; after
which he shook hands with those friends who were
convenient to him, and ascended the scaffold with
a firm step. When the executioner had fixed the
rope about his neck, he, for the first time, exhibited
some symptoms of indignation, exclaiming, “I am
no traitor; I am persecuted for a persecuted country.
Great Jehovah receive my soul! I die in the
true faith of a presbyterian.”
He then gave the pre-concerted signal with his
handkerchief, and was launched into eternity.
Thus was accomplished a deed, the very mention
of which, to this day, makes the blood of indignation
boil in the hearts of thousands of Irishmen,
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even of those who are in reality friends to the constitution,
and to the general conduct of the government
as it has been administered since the Union.
Had the administration of that day, singled out
some restless, disorganizing and dangerous demagogue,
some profligate disseminator of the new-fangled
French doctrines of deism and equality, or
the perpetrator of some act of violence or fraud,
as the victim of its vengeful policy, the sensation of
wrath, the passion of revenge, which seized upon,
and maddened in the minds of the people, would
either never have existed, or had they existed, being
less defensible, would have evaporated whenever
the subsiding of the first incitement of vexation
and rage permitted the return of reflection.
But unfortunately Orr was not a character either
dissolute or dangerous, and consequently reflection
in the public mind, only gave permanence to those
revengeful passions to which exasperation had
given origin.
To show the impression of Orr's mind on the
subject of religion, a subject on which no man who
has sincere and solemn impressions, can be a bad
member of society, the reader is here presented
with a farewell letter, which he wrote to his wife
shortly before he left the jail for the last fatal
scene.
“Carrickfergus, Saturday morning, Oct. 14.
“MY DEAR WIFE.
“I now think it proper to mention the grounds
of my present encouragement, under the apprehension
of shortly appearing before my God and
Redeemer. First, my entire innocence of the crime
I am charged with. Secondly, a well-grounded
hope of meeting a merciful God. Thirdly, a firm
confidence that that God will be a husband to you,
and a father to our little children, whom I do
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recommend to his divine care and protection. And
my last request is, that you will bring them up in
the knowledge of that religion, which is the ground
of my present comfort, and the foundation of that
happiness, which, I trust, I shall enjoy on that day,
when we must all appear before the great Judge.
“Farewell, my dear wife! farewell.
“WILLIAM ORR.”
It will be readily supposed that the United chiefs,
who frequented the cave in which Edward Barrymore
was confined, partook largely of the public
excitement on this occasion. As their designs,
however, were far from being ripe for execution,
they had the prudence to suppress their feelings,
and to act with moderation; and were, also, at
considerable pains to restrain the popular fury
from breaking out prematurely into acts of violence.
In consequence of this solicitude to prevent
atrocities that would have been detrimental
to their cause, they preserved the jury that had
convicted Orr, from becoming victims to the fury
of some of the more daring and fanatical of their
party, who had denounced vengeance against
them.
One evening as Porter and Nelson were discoursing
on this subject in Edward's presence, in
such a manner as almost compelled him to express
his opinion, he remarked that it was neither his
province nor his inclination to defend the executive
authority on all occasions. “It is not necessary,”
said he, “that an adherent of our admirable
form of government, should defend the general
management of any particular administration, much
less approve of any isolated act of harshness or
cruelty. Still, however, before I can agree to consign
the present ministers altogether to infamy, I
must know the motives which induced them to
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permit this unhappy execution. False representations
of the case, may have been made to them.
They may have been persuaded that Orr was actually
guilty of seducing the soldier from his allegiance,
and therefore wished by a severe example to
deter others from such practices. But, gentlemen, be
my opinions on this subject what they may, I cannot
help expressing my sorrow for the calamities
which I perceive accumulating on the country, and
which it is my sincere conviction, have had their
origin in the unjustifiable and illegal attempts of secret
associations to overawe the established authorities
into measures, the beneficial tendency of
which is, to say the least of it, controvertible.”
“Sir,” said Nelson, “though we dislike your sentiments,
we cannot but admire the candour with
which you express them; nor can we be offended
at your freedom of speech, since an avowed antagonist
is a much safer companion than a treacherous
colleague.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the
entrance of O'Halloran, with a bundle of letters,
one of which he handed to Nelson, saying, “here
is bad news for you. They have done what I long
since predicted they would sometime do.”
The transaction to which he alluded, will be related
in the next chapter.
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CHAP. XIII.
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Meantime fell faction had arrayed her host,
And taught their angry tongues to rave and boast;
With madd'ning draughts inflamed the phrenzied brain,
Reason retired, and passion seized the rein;
In the dark alley, first her line she formed,
Already fancy saw the bulwark stormed,
From thence she led the armed to vulgar fight,
To crush that press so hateful to their sight;
Before the dome she ranged that savage crowd,
And urged them on with yells and curses loud.
William Liegh Pierce.
When Nelson had finished reading the letter
O'Halloran had given him, he exclaimed! “Yes,
our Star is, indeed, set; but I trust that the light it
has diffused through the country will not be so
easily extinguished. Since the press is not now
permitted to tell our injuries, we must speak them
with the trumpet; and since we cannot write for
the public good, nothing remains but to fight for it.”
“What new atrocity has taken place? if I may
be permitted to ask,” said the Reverend Mr. Porter,
who was at that moment preparing a communication
for “the Northern Star,” in continuation
of several ingenious letters, entitled, “Billy Bluff
and Squire Firebrand,” with which he had lately
amused and very much excited the minds of the
people of Ulster.
“You may throw your manuscript aside,” replied
Nelson,” till better times. Barber's infamous
dragoons have broken into my house, and destroyed
our press. There is a letter from Teeling who
witnessed the transaction. You may read it
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aloud. There will be no harm in Mr. Middleton
hearing of another piece of tyranny—a ferocious
outrage upon the liberty of the press, committed
by a government which some men would make us
believe is the grand protector of that liberty.”
“Gentlemen,” observed Edward, “I have said
before, that an attachment to our form of government
does not involve a necessity to defend every
act of its administration. Some administrations
may be very corrupt; nay, some acts of even a virtuous
administration may be very injudicious and improper.
But the constitution contains within itself
a healing principle, for all mistakes or abuses,
by lodging the legislative power with the representatives
of the people, and giving them authority to
impeach and punish a vicious ministry. The faults,
therefore, of our present ministers whatever they
may be, it is neither my province nor my wish to vindicate.—
With regard to the injury they may have
done Mr. Nelson, for I perceive that they are charged
with having made an attack upon his property,
I do not know the merits of the case. But since
you have drawn my attention to it, I shall listen to
the statement you have received, provided I shall
not be urged to give an opinion on it, should I wish
to be silent.”
He was informed that after hearing the particulars,
he might remain silent or not, as he thought
proper. The clergyman then read the letter aloud
as follows:
“Belfast, October — 1797.
“DEAR SIR,
“A dreadful scene of confusion and disaster has
taken place here this morning. The vengeance of
our tyrannic rulers has, at length, burst upon us,
and our printing establishment is totally destroyed.
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I will detail to you the facts, as concisely as the
nature of the affair will admit.
“At about ten o'clock this morning, while I was
sitting in the Star office, preparing some editorial
matter for our next publication, I was alarmed by
an unexpected noise of horses prancing, accompanied
by a loud confusion of human voices in the
yard below. Immediately one of the clerks rushed
into the office, and begged me to escape as fast as
possible, for the dragoons were swearing vengeance
against me. I had scarcely disappeared by the
back passage, before the office door was burst open,
and in my retreat I could hear them exclaiming,
“Damn the rascal! where is he? Ferret him out,
and send him to hell!”
“Every desk, draw, trunk and locker was broken
open; and all our papers, books, &c. either destroyed
or carried off. They beat and abused all
our clerks and workmen on whom they could lay
their hands. Fortunately, most of them escaped;
and I am happy to understand that none of those
who were seized are dangerously hurt. The windows
and doors of the house were soon broken,
and all our furniture, printing cases, presses, &c.
hewn in pieces, and thrown into the streets. Our
types are all ruined, and it is said, that several of
these Vandals proposed to set fire to the premises.
This was, however, opposed by some more moderate
than the rest, otherwise not only we, but numbers
of our neighbours, would have suffered an
immense destruction of property.
“It appears that the party who made the attack,
had just returned from a scouring expedition round
the country; and, it is said, that they made it in
revenge for some observations we had published
upon certain atrocities they had committed, and
without authority even from their officers, much
less from any civil magistrate. But the result will
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show whether there was any secret understanding
between them and the constituted authorities. It is
certain that it was nearly 12 o'clock before either
the magistrates or the officers could be prevailed
on to interfere, and long before that period, the
destruction of our printing establishment was completed.
“They then proceeded to the houses of several
of our friends, and broke their doors and windows,
or demolished their signboards; and, with the most
infuriated madness, stimulated by drunkenness,
they galloped through the principal streets, terrifying
even those most devoted to the interests of government.
At length the town sovereign and
several other magistrates, prevailed on colonel Barber
to order them into the barracks.
“Thus in the most licentious and illegal manner
has our establishment and property been destroyed;
and it is more than probable that not one of
the depredators will be called to an account for it.
It is indeed strongly suspected that the rioters
would not have committed such an open outrage
against the common laws of the land, unless they
had been previously assured that they had no punishment
to dread.
“I had some thoughts of lodging examinations
against one or two of them whom our chief clerk
can identify upon oath; but shall adopt no measure
of the kind until I hear from you.
“To comment to you on this worse than Gothic
outrage would be unnecessary; but I may express
my own feelings on the subject. They are partly
those of grief and resentment; and partly of
gratification. Why I should feel the former is obvious;
but why I should feel the latter may require
explanation. It arises from a conviction that this
act of violence will do more to render our oppressors
obnoxious to the intelligent part of the
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community than any they have yet committed. It will
prove the truth of what we have often advanced,
that under our present rulers the conductors of a free
press cannot perform their duty to the public without
danger; and that an editor who possesses sufficient
integrity to despise the bribes, and sufficient
intrepidity to defy the threats of the government,
will sooner or later feel the weight of its resentment;
and I rejoice, since we have been marked
out for vengeance, that it has been inflicted in this
violent and illegal manner, which will excite the public
sympathy towards us, and abhorrence towards
our enemies, rather than by the more formal mockery
of a law process, the issue of which, however
unjust, would not have been so apparently flagitious
to every part of the community.
“I transmit this letter with some other documents
I have just received from Dublin, by express.
Mrs. Nelson and family are well, and have
exerted more courage on this occasion than could
have been expected.
“Yours, &c.
“LUKE TEELING.”
“Concerning this outrage,” said Edward, “I
will give my opinion frankly and unsolicited. It is
an instance of military violence which no rational,
honest man can justify; and which it is the duty
of the government severely and promptly to punish.”
“I know the present government too well,” replied
Nelson, “to expect justice from it. Irishmen
have been often and long the deceived satellites of
Britain; but, thank God, our eyes are now opened.
Their professions can no longer deceive us; for
we know exactly the degree of credit to which
they are entitled. Now, if we want justice we
must take it. Of our power to do so, our
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oppressors will soon be convinced. They will, no doubt,
oppose us with fire and sword. The struggle will
be dreadful, for the hatred is deadly; but the issue
will be glorious. To prepare the minds of my
countrymen for the great crisis of their national
fate, I have already sacrificed my property; and
my life, which is all I can now give, is ready to be
yielded, whenever my country's benefit requires
it.”
“I am impatient for the day of action, that we
may rid this long suffering land of the tyrants,”
said O'Halloran. “Every day produces fresh
atrocities, and adds to our sufferings and their insolence.
Delay may increase their strength. It
can scarcely add to ours, for we are already, in
numbers, sufficiently strong. Why should we tamely
continue to suffer? Why not hasten the day of
our deliverance? The people are now animated
and zealous. Orr has not died in vain!”
“Mr. O'Halloran,” replied Porter, “prudence
requires that we should exercise patience a few
months longer. Although I acknowledge that delay
by giving the government time to prepare for
the struggle, which it now evidently expects, and,
perhaps, by exposing some of our plans to discovery,
may strengthen the hands of our adversaries,
yet, as our adherents, however zealous and numerous,
are not properly organized for insurrection,
and the foreign aid we are promised, is not expected
before spring, our wiser policy is to recommend
our friends to a temporary submission to
their misfortunes, rather than risk the ruin of their
cause by a premature effort.”
“Your reasoning may be correct,” said O'Halloran,
“but it is hard to remain inactive, and see
an unoffending populace becoming every day
more and more the victims of a wanton and cruel
tyranny.”
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“We may be active,” observed Nelson, “but
we must be cautious. Were we, at present, to make
the attempt, as we are not prepared to act in concert,
the chance would be much against us. The
day of retribution will come, and when we strike
the blow, if it should be slow, I should like it to be
sure.”
“I know you are right,” said O'Halloran. “My
feelings, not my judgment, would hurry me into
premature action. But it must not be. Necessity,
hard necessity, requires that we should, for another
season yet, submit to be slaves. But, I trust, that
it will make our deliverance the more certain and
effectual. In the meantime, Mr. Nelson, you will
accompany me to the castle. Mr. Porter will examine
these papers from the Directory, and tomorrow
we may consult about the reply.”
During the foregoing conversation, Edward's
mind, as will readily be supposed, was but ill at
case. He felt no inclination to engage in it, and
when O'Halloran and Nelson withdrew, he retired
to his closet, there to ruminate with a heavy heart,
on the rashness and misfortunes of these infatuated
men, and to deplore the folly of that misgovernment
which had driven them to the adoption of
their desperate schemes.
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CHAP. XIV.
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
Fair was the from that o'er him hung,
And fair the form that set him free;
The trembling whispers of her tongue,
Sweeter than Seraph's melody.
Hogg.
The rancour and hatred which Monsieur Monier
bore towards Edward, broke out in several instances
of spleen and ill nature, and tended not a little,
to make his imprisonment become daily more and
more irksome. He publicly declared his hatred
to the chiefs of the conspiracy, and insisted that
such an enemy to the rights of man, and the liberties
of his country, should not be permitted to live.
“If he were in France,” said he, “our sans-culottes
would soon have him to the guillotine; for
there we know how to get rid of the enemies of
the people.”
O'Halloran, and the other leaders, however, resisted
all his importunities, and he could procure none
of the lower orders to assassinate his rival, as their
chiefs were so averse to it. He, at length, fell upon
another scheme of getting him out of the way. A
brig freighted and cleared out of Belfast as if
bound for London, but in reality intended for some
French port, with dispatches from the United Irish
Directory, to the Republican Government, lay in
the adjoining harbour.
The insidious Frenchman meditated on having
Edward carried on board of her, and despatched
as a prisoner to France, where he could more
easily controul his fate. But even this, he could
not effect without the consent of the leaders. He,
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therefore, applied himself to Porter, who most usually
resided in the cave. This gentleman, conceiving
that the principal intention of Edward's imprisonment
would be answered by this means, and
his life at the same time secured from any sudden
impulse of resentment among his enemies, a circumstance
which, while he was in their custody,
could never be certain, consented, and, at last, prevailed
on O'Halloran also to consent.
The Frenchman having thus far succeeded, immediately
had the night fixed and the men selected
for carrying him on board. It happened, however,
that M`Nelvin, the poet, became accidentally acquainted
with this plot. It was on an afternoon,
towards the latter end of October, that he had
thrown himself down amidst a thicket, a few paces
from his arbour on the hill, with a small volume of
Shakspeare's plays in his hand. His mind was
absorbed in the romantic adventures of the Mid-Summer's
Night's Dream, when he was startled by
the sounds of voices approaching him. On looking
from his thicket, he perceived the Frenchman, and
Darragh, the man who had attempted Tom Mullin's
life, advancing slowly. He lay quiet. When
only a few yards from him, they stopped; but he
was closely concealed from their view.
“They have consented at last,” said the Frenchman,
“to let that fair-faced orangeman be sent
to France; but I wish to Jupiter, that he could be
put out of the way before he arrives there; for I
understand that one cannot now get whomsoever
one hates sent to the guillotine for the good of the
people, as it was in the glorious days of Robespierre,
when the Mountain party ruled. Our directors
are now become so puny-hearted, and so full
of sentiment, that they too make some fuss about a
man's life, although he should be denounced in the
name of the people. I am, when I think of it,
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somewhat afraid to trust him alive there. He
might get exchanged, come home, and then disclose
all. We must be more cautious than to let
him off alive, say what they will about it. I have
a purse of twenty guineas, and a captain's commission,
to bestow on the brave man who will kill this
damned heretic and lover of crowned heads.”
“Jack Lafferty, and I,” replied Darragh, “will
do it. But not for your money. We'll do it for the
good of the cause. When is he to go on board?”
“There are six men appointed to convey him on
board to-morrow night,” answered the Frenchman.
“To-morrow all the country will gather to dig
Robbin M`Brim's potatoes,” said Darragh. “Robbin
has been in jail these three months. He is a
true fellow. He would not tell who put him up,
all that they could do with him, although they
swore they would hang him, like Orr. Long life
to him! say I. We have shorn his corn already,
and will dig his potatoes in rank and file to-morrow,
in spite of either orangemen or government. I'll
see Lafferty at the digging, and I will take care to
get the king's man snug from telling before the brig
sails. Who guards the cave to-morrow?”
The Frenchman answered, that he understood
that Porter intended to go in disguise with the
other leaders to the potato digging; and that a
man, called Anthony Allen, was selected to guard
the cave during their absence.
This discovery concerned the peace of Ellen
Hamilton too much to be neglected by M`Nelvin.
To save Edward, therefore, from impending danger,
became now the great object of his solicitude.
At first he knew not how to act; but, as he had, for
several years past, been accustomed in all his perplexities
to seek advice from one whose counsel
had never deceived him, namely, the Recluse, he
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now sought him, It was soon agreed that, as this
was a case which justified a disregard of the punctilios
of custom, or the fastidiousness of delicacy,
they should, at once, make the affair known to her
whom it most nearly concerned. Accordingly
M`Nelvin hastened to the castle, from whence he
brought Ellen, without loss of time, to the glen.
The Recluse with as much caution and tenderness
as possible, disclosed to her Edward's danger. For
some minutes she remained the picture of surprise
and horror, but said nothing; and so much did her
emotions seem to have overcome her, that her
friends began to repent having made the disclosure.
At length tears came to her relief; and she
found utterance.
“I feared, I feared that it would come to this at
last!” she exclaimed. “Unfortunate young man!
O my friends, what can be done for him? He must
not, surely he must not die!”
“Can we with any prospect of success inform
your grandfather of what is meditated against
him?” inquired the Recluse.
“I fear not,” she replied, “he is so much devoted
to the will, and what he conceives to be the
interest, of these conspirators, that to save his own
life, he would scarcely risk a contention with them.—
But he must be saved. Oh! Father of mercies,
assist me! I shall deliver him out of that den of
tygers, or I shall perish with him. It is no time
now to act the woman. Pardon me, my friends, I
am resolved. I shall penetrate into their inmost
recesses. I shall find him. If they have even hearts
of stone, I shall melt them, or if they be too obdurate,
my hands shall give him weapons; we shall
clear the way, or we shall die together.”
Her frenzy startled, and confounded her auditors;
but it suggested an idea to M`Nelvin, which
he immediately communicated; and which by
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infusing hope into Ellen's mind, greatly calmed her
agitation.
“To-morrow,” said he, “I have learned, that
the cave will be deserted by its usual inmates who
are to attend the potato digging; and that Anthony
Allen is appointed to remain sentinel over Mr.
Middleton. He will not refuse Miss O'Halloran
admittance. She may then inform the prisoner of
his danger, and if we can contrive to draw Allen's
attention for sometime, from the door of the cave,
he may escape disguised in apparel similar to her's,
which she can provide for the occasion.”
“I shall try it,” said Ellen. “The case is desperate—
I must bring my mind to make a desperate
effort. Timidity, delicacy, shame, must give way
to his safety.”
After some deliberation, the Recluse approved
of the project, as the only plausible means of rescuing
his friend from the destruction that threatened
him. How to manage Allen, so as to prevent
him from recognising the prisoner, when he should
pass from the cave, was now the difficulty. Neither
the Recluse nor M`Nelvin were much trusted by
the United Irishmen. They had both refused to
take the oaths of fidelity to their party. But this
was ascribed to a scrupulosity of conscience, with
regard to swearing, and not to any disapprobation
of the cause. On the contrary, they were considered
well disposed to it; but as neither of them
could give much efficient aid in a military view,
the one being decrepid from age, and the other
from accident, they were not much pressed on the
subject. Still, as they did not belong to the body,
they were not trusted by it.
In this dilemma, they directed their views to
Jemmy Hunter, who had served Edward so efficiently
on a former occasion. Ellen now returned
home to prepare the dress which was to be
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Edward's disguise. M`Nelvin left her at the castle
gate, and went in search of Hunter. This young
man, had been, for some weeks, a bridegroom, and
as merry as a lark in a May morning; for his
Peggy, who had long charmed him with her smiles
and her blushes, had, at length, blessed him with
her hand and her heart, and a happier couple
could not have been found in the whole province.
M`Nelvin found the young bridegroom working
in a garden adjoining his dwelling house, with a
heart in a humour to be pleased with every thing,
and at that moment, full of the high delight he anticipated
from marching with the large concourse
of potato-diggers that were to assemble the next
day. He was singing,
“And a digging we will hie,
And a digging we will hie,
And we'll dig the fields of each brave man,
Who in jail for truth doth lie.”
M`Nelvin informed him that the Recluse had
business with him, which could only be communicated
in the cavern.
“Come in awee, an' tak' a dram,” said Jemmy,
“an' I'll gang wi' you directly. Peggy, my love,
here's the poet come to see you. Gie us a drap o'
the best Innishowen, for its the native, an' pys nae
taxe to support the redcoats, an' the guagers.”
Peggy, with all the graceful gentility of nature,
produced the cheering pitcher, but as the poet was
in haste, he begged Jemmy to go with him without
delay, his business being important. He promised
the fair bride, however, that some evening soon he
would make amends for the shortness of his present
visit.
At Saunders's cave, Hunter was made acquainted
with the whole affair, and was asked if he thought
he could occupy Allen's attention in such a manner,
that when the prisoner would pass out, he
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might be prevented from so closely observing him
as to endanger detection. He readily undertook
to do so. “And, by heavens, if he does detect
him,” said he, “I'll pinion him wi' sitch a grip that
he'll no' e'en stir, till Mr. Middleton be clear oot
o' his reach. It will be doing mare guid, I think,
to my neighbour than going to dig Rabbin M`Brim's
potatoes. Damn the butchers, but we maun save
the lad. He was a guid frien' to Peggy, and she
aye thinks weel o' him, an' I'll no' forget him in
his pinch.”
The morning rose that ushered in the potato
digging-day, in which numerous throngs of lads
and lasses dressed in their best attire, with light
and merry hearts came from all parts of the adjacent
country, into the town of Larne; the lads to
march to the work of charity and benevolence,
the lasses to witness the procession, and reward
their lovers as they passed them with their smiles.
During this year, frequent assemblages of the
people took place in different parts of the country
to work the land, or gather in the harvest, of those
who for their obnoxious politics had become inmates
of the jails, or were otherwise prevented
from attending to their domestic concerns. On
the occasion to which we now particularly refer,
upwards of five thousand men marched, in rank
and file, carrying no other weapons than spades
and baskets to the scene of their industry, and in
the course of a few hours performed an immense
quantity of labour, in raising and housing the potatoes
of their proscribed confederate.
These assemblages for rural industry, were contrived
by the leaders of the conspiracy, in order
to display the popularity of their cause, and thereby
encourage their friends to perseverance, and
prevent the lukewarm and timid from defection.
Great care was taken that their proceedings should
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be conducted in a peaceable and orderly manner,
so that no pretence should be given for magisterial
interference; and, it is astonishing how well they
succeeded, considering the unruly and heterogeneous
multitude they had to manage. But zeal for
the cause, and a general conviction that its character
and success depended on the propriety with
which these public bodies conducted themselves,
had the effect of preventing every kind of tumult,
and these assemblages generally dispersed with as
much sobriety and decorum as a congregation
withdraws from church.
“It was in the afternoon of that day, when all
the conspirators except the sentinel had left the
cave, that, with an agitated and fearful heart, as if
she were approaching some crisis of her fate,
Ellen, in company with Hunter, hastened to the
prison of her lover, with a resolution to effect his
deliverance, or die with him. Often, however, the
feelings of the woman would obtrude upon her,
and for a moment damp the determination of the
lover. But the recollection of Edward's danger
still prevailed, and enabled her to persist.
Without hesitation she and her attendant were
admitted by Allen. The granddaughter of O'Halloran
could not be suspected, and Hunter had been
long the particular friend of Allen. Besides, ever
since his life had been in jeopardy at Antrim, the
particulars of which story were widely circulated,
he had became highly popular with his party. He
remained on the outside, to converse with Allen,
whilst Ellen advanced. She had now, however,
to experience the greatest struggle with her delicacy
that she had yet encountered, as she recollected
that she was thus voluntarily seeking the
presence of a young man in absolute solitude, who
had professed himself her lover. Thrice after admittance,
she hesitated on her step as if to argue
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the propriety of proceeding or returning. But her
resolution carried her forward, and she appeared
in Edward's presence lovely and blushing, but disconcerted
and speechless with the conflict of terror,
shame and solicitude which agitated her bosom.
He was, at the first view, so struck with
astonishment that he could scarcely believe the
vision to be real.
“What happiness!” he exclaimed, “Has an angel
in the dearest of all created forms, come to visit
me in my prison?”
She sunk upon a chair, and almost fainted. He
ran to support her, but she soon recovered her self-possession
sufficiently to account for her appearance,
by relating the danger she had discovered
him to be in, and the means she had provided for
his escape. It is needless to repeat the expressions
of gratitude and rapture in which Edward
now indulged. She, however, soon reminded him
that there was no time for conversation, and that
if he meant to escape, he must haste and depart.—
She now supplied him with an exact duplicate of
the clothes she then wore, and in a few minutes, he
was disguised.
“Let me,” said he, “before I part from my
guardian angel, kneel with her one precious minute
before the throne of Heaven, that I may implore
blessings upon her head.”
They both kneeled; and he fervently caught
her hand in his while he uttered the following
prayer.
“Almighty Protector of innocence, and searcher
of hearts, on my knees, I implore thee to be a
shield to one of the fairest and purest of thy creatures.
Thou knowest the alarming dangers, in
the midst of which I am about to leave her; but
thou art sufficient to deliver her from them.
Without that assurance, O God, how could I
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support that separation which is now become inevitable.
O grant, that we may again meet under more
benign circumstances, and that we may then never
part until thy last summons shall call us to immortality.
Preserve her for me in my absence, faithful,
lovely and innocent as she now is; and hear me,
while I vow eternal fidelity to her—May this heart
which now beats for her alone, beat no more, ere
it shall know another earthly love; and may this
hand become enfeebled and withered, ere it shall
grasp in the holy ordinance of wedlock, any hand
but the dear one which it now holds!”
He then imprinted on her hand a fervent kiss,
and bidding her adieu, rushed toward the door.
Allen mistaking him for Miss O'Halloran was for
running to assist him in getting out; but Hunter,
who by this time had enticed him to the bottom of
the rock, desired him to remain where he was, as
he knew the young lady disliked to be disturbed
with such attentions. He added, that though he
had conveyed her here, he knew that she wished
to return home by herself, and as his friend Allen
was alone here to day, he believed he should stay
a few hours to keep him company. “Why, Allen,
man,” said he, “you should think o' gettin' married.
I'm tauld that Jenny Davis is amaist wud
aboot you; an' she's a nice lass; an' her father can
gie her twa hunner pun' ony day. Lord, man, I
was never sae happy, as I hae been these four
weeks past, wi' Peggy. Ye ken I wad tak' naething
wi' her, though her father says we'll fare naething
the war o' that, or a' be owre.”
Allen confessed that he had a hankering after
Jenny; but feared that she liked Tam Mathewson
better than him.
By this time, Edward had ascended the hill that
overlooked his late prison; and in a few minutes
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more, he found himself safe in the Recluse's habitation.
His disguise was soon thrown aside.
“All has succeeded; Heaven be praised!” exclaimed
the old man. “M`Nelvin waits at the top
of the glen with your horse. Haste, fly, leave this
distracted place, for there is no safety here; and
God be with you!”
“I go, Farewell, Father! We shall yet meet
again. Till then, under heaven, I charge you with
the care of the angel who has delivered me.”
“Adieu, my son. No earthly consideration shall
prevent me from attending to that charge. Yonder
is your horse.”
Edward sprang forward, and seized M`Nelvin
by the hand.
“Farewell!” said he. “Be still Miss O'Halloran's
friend; I shall ever be yours.”
He spurred his steed, and in three hours more
found himself at the hospitable gate of Shane's
Castle.
-- --
CHAP. XV.
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
* * * * * * Say to them thus—
Good sirs, be not alarmed at my escape;
Though I dislike your projects, plots and treasons,
And would resign my life to disappoint them,
I'll not expose you, for it might be thought
I bore mean malice.
Simon Gurty.
The princely mansion of the ancient family of
O'Neil, at which Edward Barrymore had now arrived,
was then the pride of the surrounding country,
it being the most entire and perfect specimen
of the magnificence of ancient architecture to be
found in Ulster. It is now no more. The fury of
an accidental conflagration which took place in
1816, was sufficient, in a few hours, to convert into
ashes that proud and stately structure, which had
cost our ancestors the expenditure of many years
of great skill, care and industry to erect. Thus
adding another to those innumerable examples
with which both history and experience have made
us acquainted of the vanity of human calculations,
and the frailty of human works.
The pleasure felt by the noble owner of this
venerable edifice, as he gave the cordial welcome
of a friendly Irish heart to our hero who had been
so long and so mysteriously lost, is easy to be imagined.
He informed him of the anxiety of his
friends respecting him, and of the unpleasant adventure
that had befallen his servant. The former
he had anticipated, and it had given him considerable
uneasiness during his captivity. Of the latter
he had never heard; for while in confinement,
very little of what passed in the world, came to his
ears.
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After such a tedious imprisonment, he now felt
how sweet it was to breathe unlimited air, how delicious
to be master of his own motions. A regard
for the safety of O'Halloran, prevented him
from acquainting lord O`Neil with what he had
suffered, and he merely stated in general terms,
that a variety of accidents had, during the whole
summer, conspired to detain him on the coast.
“That part of the country abounds with the disaffected,
I understand,” said his lordship.
“It also abounds with steady, peaceable and
loyal subjects,” replied Edward. “It is a very
interesting portion of the country.”
“What number of the military are, at present,
in Larne?” enquired the earl.
“I believe that it is thought unnecessary to keep
more than a single company of Fifeshire fencibles
there,” said Edward.
“If that be sufficient to preserve the peace there,
it is more than can be said of this neighbourhood,”
observed his lordship. “Here the presence of almost
a whole regiment is requisite. The times are
getting very awful. I begin to think that it would
have been as well to have spared Orr. The people
have been very much inflamed by that affair.
But this is not the worst. French principles, I understand,
have lately been every where disseminated
with fearful success, and I am sorry to be credibly informed,
that the mischievous writings of Paine are
now more read by the lower orders than the Bible
itself. I do indeed forebode very unhappy consequences
to result from this state of things. It behoves
all who have the preservation of social order, and
rational government at heart, to be vigilant and
active in restraining the excesses to which the misguided
populace threaten to run.”
A summons from the ladies to attend the tea-table
put an end to this conversation. Edward
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passed a very agreeable evening in this refined
society, which greatly conduced to calm the perturbation
of his mind. Being in haste to return
home, that he might relieve the solicitude of his
friends, he, the next morning, continued his journey
to the residence of Sir Philip Martin, attended
by one of lord O'Neil's servants. He arrived there
on the following day, and was received with all
that cordiality and friendship he expected from a
worthy family, with the heir of which he had been
long and intimately acquainted. Here he met with
honest Tom Mullins, who was nearly broken-hearted
with vexation on his master's account—for
although he had no knowledge of what had really
happened, he could not get rid of a vague suspicion,
that the United Irishmen had done him harm. He
had been detained at Sir Philip Martin's during
the whole summer, at the suggestion of the Recluse,
who feared that if he returned to Dublin, he might
give such information to Edward's friends as would
direct their attention to O'Halloran's neighbourhood,
and, perhaps, bring that gentleman into
trouble.
Sir Philip conversed much concerning the Recluse.
He confessed that he was on the most confidential
footing with him; “and you, Mr. Barrymore,”
said he, “have the honour to be one of
his chief favourites. I have had frequent letters
from him of late, in each of which you are mentioned
in the most approving terms; and, let me
tell you, I conceive it no slight honour to have met
with such decided approbation from such a man.
I am acquainted with every incident of importance
that befel you, from your deliverance by O'Halloran,
till your imprisonment for being an obstinate
loyalist, a character which, I perceive, my old
true-hearted friend, does not much relish. However,
you and I shall not dispute on that subject.
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I shall not, as my friend did, make an attempt to
convert you; although I cannot but wish that
during the approaching struggle, of which I suppose
you have been forwarned, the cause of the
people should possess the support of more such
men of talents and influence as you are, than I am
sorry to find it does; and, believe me, your misunderstanding
with the United Irishmen arose
chiefly from their solicitude to make such an acquisition
as you would be to their party. For this
purpose they sounded you, and in so doing gave
you more knowledge of their affairs than they afterwards
thought it consistent with their safety
you should possess. Hence they secured you.
How you got out of their strong hold, unless with
their permission, I cannot tell. I am glad, however,
that you are out, for I looked upon your confinement
as altogether a useless precaution against a
man of your humanity and honour. You see, I
know your character. Not only the Recluse, but
my son has been at pains to represent it in such a
favourable light, that I hesitate not to open my
mind to you at once without reserve.”
Edward expressed his grateful sense of the testimony
his friends had given of him, and hoped
that Sir Philip would never have cause to think
him unworthy of it, or to repent the candour with
which he had disclosed his political sentiments.
As to the mode of his escape from captivity, he did
not then feel free to disclose it; but, he hoped, the
time would come, when it would be his pride to relate
it to his friends.—Sir Philip expressed his acquiescence;
and the subject of politics was dropped.
Charles Martin, Edward's fellow-student, and
bosom-friend, had been absent with his sisters, two
pretty and amiable girls, on a visit to a house of a
neighbouring gentleman. They, however, returned
early in the evening, and great was the joy of
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Edward and his friend on meeting. Sir Philip
had not acquainted his son with Edward's imprisonment;
for their political principles being somewhat
different, he was unwilling to prejudice the
cause of the United Irishmen, by informing him of
any thing that would lessen them in his esteem.
Hence, when during a solitary walk, which the
young friends took through Sir Philip's shrubberies,
in order to relate to each other their adventures
since they last parted, Charles was astonished
and grieved at the extraordinary and perilous
nature of those which had befallen Edward.
“I fear,” said he, “that the machinations of these
men against you are not over. What a pity that
their connexions are so extended that we cannot
bring them to justice, without involving those we
love in their punishment. I agree with you, that
all the circumstances considered, it is better to be
silent on the subject. If you insist on immediately
departing for Dublin, as your friends are so
anxious concerning you, I cannot object, although I
hoped to enjoy your company for several weeks
here. But we shall not part so soon. I will accompany
you if you will wait but a couple of days,
that I may make arrangements for the journey.”
This being agreed to, and Edward having one
day's rest on his hands, wrote to the Recluse an
account of his safety and welfare, and requesting
speedy intelligence concerning Ellen and the conduct
of the United Irishmen on discovering his escape.
At length, the two friends, well armed and well
attended, set out for the capital, where they arrived
on the third day without encountering any accident.
Edward was now once more amongst his relations,
and the friends of his youth, an inhabitant of
the metropolis of his country. But his heart and
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his affections were in a remote province. It was
in vain that the ladies of Dublin assumed their
most interesting and fascinating looks in his presence;
in vain were the various pleasures of that
captivating city spread before him, and offered to
his acceptance. His Ellen was afar off, and, perhaps
in danger, and how could he be happy? It
came into his mind, that some of the most unprincipled
of the conspirators might be so revengeful
and unmanly, as to resent upon her, the part she
had taken in his rescue. This idea rendered him
miserable. He wrote a second time to the Recluse,
conjuring him to lose no time in acquainting
him with the treatment that Ellen had received
from her grandfather and his confederates, after
his departure. It was, however, only the next day
after forwarding this letter that his mind was set
at ease on this subject, by receiving one from the
old man in reply to that which he had written at
Sir Philip Martin's. He was informed, that the
United men kept the circumstance of his escape
very quiet, that the whole blame was thrown on
Jemmy Hunter, who was very willing to bear it.
The old man added, that he even believed that
O'Halloran was secretly rejoiced at it. “He, indeed,”
said he, “pretty sternly and closely interrogated
Ellen, as to her motives for assisting in the
affair, and when she candidly told him of the plot
that was laid for his destruction, he affected not to
credit it. But, he said, that it was on the whole,
perhaps, as well that you were out of their power,
and that he had never approved of the scheme of
sending you to France. He also mentioned, that
if he could persuade his coadjutors that they had
no reason to dread your informing on them, he
should entirely approve of what she had done.
She took this opportunity to acquaint him with the
whole of the Frenchman's villany towards
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[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
herself. (Here the Recluse related the incidents of
Monier's attack upon her, of which Edward was
ignorant, but of which the reader has been already
informed.) This, at length, aroused his indignation
against the foreigner; and he that evening communicated
the whole to Porter, Nelson, and another of
the leaders named M`Cracken. They all joined
in reprobating such conduct, and agreed to induce
him to leave the country, by persuading him that
the government had become apprised of his residence
and employment, and that his safety depended
on his returning to France, in the vessel
which was about to sail with their despatches for
his government.—And the country has, in consequence,
got rid of a mischievous visiter * * *.”
Edward resolved immediately to allay the fears
of the United party, respecting the knowledge he
had obtained of their measures. He, therefore,
wrote a long letter to O'Halloran, in which he disclaimed
any feelings of resentment on account of
his confinement, which he altogether ascribed to
the motives that had been assigned, the imperious
nature of which on their minds he could duly appreciate.
He concluded this letter by informing O'Halloran,
that as his motives for concealing his real
name and character no longer existed, he would
now confess that he was the apparent representative
of a family, sufficiently high in office and in
influence, to procure for any of his party, who
wished to return to their duty, forgiveness of the
past, provided they would give security for the future.
He would, therefore, assume his real name,
which a desire to enjoy the esteem of some who had
suddenly become extremely dear to him, but whose
suspicion and dislike, he believed, a knowledge of
that name would have excited, had induced him
for a time to conceal. “I the more readily,” said
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he, “give you my name on this occasion, as I flatter
myself that it will confirm your reliance on my
promise of secrecy respecting your affairs, by
showing you that on the fulfilment of that promise,
I stake the honour of a house that has never yet
acted dishonourably, the house of Barrymore.”
Having thus replaced Edward Barrymore, after
his perilous journey to the North, in safety among
his friends, we may leave him there unnoticed, for
some months, as nothing remarkable happened to
him during that period, and turn our attention to
what, in the meantime, befel the beauteous and
tender mistress of his affections.
The sentinel at the cave deceived by the disguise
of Edward, and amazed by the artifices of
Jemmy Hunter, did not, for several hours, discover
that his prisoner had escaped. The first intimation
he had of it, was by Hunter roundly saying,
“I think Miss O'Halloran will noo be tired
waitin'; I maun see her hame.”
“Why, she's gane lang since,” said the sentinel.
“Maybe sae, an' maybe no'. I'll see wha's within,
however,” replied Hunter.
Accordingly in he and the sentinel went; when
to the astonishment and confusion of the latter,
Miss O'Halloran appeared in her own identical
person.
“An' wha went oot in your likeness?” inquired
the wondering sentinel at the trembling girl. “She
made no reply, but held down her head to conceal
her shame; for she had really become innocently
ashamed, while the big tears stood ready to burst
from her eyes.
“Never mind,” said Hunter, intercedingly, “the
fault was a' mine. Ye ken, Allen, I wad na let you
rin after the gentleman, when he gat oot, or ye
might hae broucht him back to his prison.”
“The gentleman!” exclaimed Allen. “I hope
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the gentleman's no' fled. Our officers will think I
hae betrayed them. Some o' them may be for
takin' my life. Ye ken some that wad na stap at
that, if they thought I did it willingly. I should
hae done my duty better.”
“Fear naething,” said his companion. “Jemmy
Hunter will stan' by you, through thick an' thin,
an' tak' a' the blame, as he deserves to do, on him.
In the meantime, his honour's daughter here, ye
ken, canna be in the fault. I maun just see her
hame; an' I'll be back in a crack to stan' between
you an' danger.”
“Mr. Allen,” said Ellen, who had considerably
recovered from her confusion, “I shall stay here,
and confess the share I have had in your prisoner's
escape, rather than that you should be subjected
to any trouble on its account.”
“No, my lady,” said the gallant Allen, “you can
tell the truth as weel in the castle as here. Since
he is gane, it canna be helpit noo. It's useless
to fret; an' Jemmy here is willing to bear the blame
o't; an' I dinna mislippen Jemmy makin' his word
guid at a' risks. So, I dinna like, my lady, to see
you sae vexed aboot it. When you gang hame, your
aunt Brown will gie you mair comfort than I can.
Jemmy, you can gae wi' her; but see that you be
back in time to clear me frae the blame?”
Jemmy promised he would; and in company
with his fair charge, he set off for the castle.
“Do you think he is safe?” muttered Ellen, almost
unconsciously, as they went along.
“He is, I'll swear it to you,” was her companion's
reply.
“Thank heaven! she ejaculated. “But alas!
what have I done? what will they say of me?”
“Never mind that,” replied her comforter, “you
hae saved a gentleman's life, an' God will bless you
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[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
for it as lang as you live; and I hope, that he
winna forget me either, for helpin' in it.”
“You have a good heart, James,” said she, “and
I trust, that you will indeed be blessed for what
you have done this day.”
“Thank you, thank you, lady,” said he, his heart
swelling within him at the praise she had so fervently
bestowed upon him. “You'll mak' me
prood o' this day as lang as I live.”
Having conducted her to the castle, he left her,
and returned with a light and satisfied heart to the
cave. When O'Halloran, Porter, Nelson, M`Cracken
and their confederates returned in the evening
from the potato-digging, they were, at first, much
surprised and chagrined at what had taken place.
“If the fellow dont inform on us,” said Nelson,
after his first excitement had somewhat abated,
“the matter will not indeed much grieve me; for
I believe we could never have prevailed on him
to join us.”
“Though we should, perhaps, have less cause for
alarm,” said O'Halloran, if he were still in our
power, “yet I am almost persuaded that he has
too much honour to be an informer.”
“I agree with you,” said Porter, “and when I
reflect on the whole tenor of his conduct, while in
confinement, I own that I see no great cause for
apprehension.”
“I am glad gentlemen,” said M`Cracken, “that
you console yourselves so easily; and, since the
misfortune cannot now be remedied, I must acknowledge
that philosophy to be the soundest,
which enables us with the least difficulty to bear
it.”
Thus these active chiefs made a virtue of necessity;
and in place of repining at any
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accident which would have tended to dishearten their
followers, they put a good countenance upon
every disaster; and, casting irremediable events
as much as possible from their thoughts, proceeded
to make the best of the advantages they still possessed.
-- --
CHAP. XVI.
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When we think of that Island, old Nature's delight,
Where first she displayed all her charms to our sight,
Where oft we enjoyed every pleasure in store,
Of friendship and love, and whiskey galore;
Oh, sure! oh sure! that patriot glow,
Our fathers felt so long ago,
Must o'er our ardent bosoms sway,
And bid us rejoice in Patrick's Day.
Irish Soothsayer.
Although Ellen was treated with indulgence on
the occasion just related, it was not long till she
suffered persecution enough of another kind. A
certain Sir Geoffrey Carebrow, a very formal
bachelor, of great property, who had lately come,
after several year's absence, to reside on an estate
which he possessed in the neighbourhood, having
met with her at a public ball which was given in
Larne, during the Christmas holidays, became
violently enamoured of her. He was a man, who,
from his youth, was noted for a union of two passions
seldom found united in the same person, a
love of women and a love of money. Although he
possessed estates which yielded him upwards of
fifteen thousand a year, with nearly a hundred
and fifty thousand pounds in the national funds,
he had hitherto been deterred from wedlock on
account of the expense of supporting a wife and
rearing a family. He fancied he could gratify his
amorous propensities at a much cheaper rate by
constantly keeping an obliging housekeeper, and
two or three good-natured servant girls. For the
offspring thus produced, he could with far less
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expense provide, than for legitimate children, as
neither their expectations nor their claims would
be so high; and, as to a wife, he sagaciously concluded,
that there was no comparison between
the freedoms she would naturally take with both
his credit and his purse, and the trifling gratuities
he might voluntarily bestow on a menial girl. Thus
he had hitherto lived in the indulgence of both
lewdness and avarice, until his thousands and his
bastards had become equally numerous.
At the ball we have mentioned, the exquisite
beauty and bewitching sweetness of Ellen's countenance,
together with the graceful symmetry of her
form, and the inimitable easiness of her motions,
as she threaded the mazy dance, struck on his luxurious
fancy with a force altogether irresistible,
and he immediately centred all his wishes and
happiness in the enjoyment of such charms.
To effect this, he discovered to be no easy matter.
A little reflection convinced him that illicit
gratification was out of the question. Her principles
were unassailable by either flattery or bribery;
and as to stratagem or force, if he should by
such means succeed in overcoming her virtue, the
whole of that numerous party whom he knew to
be devoted to her grandfather, (for he had lately
become acquainted with some of the secrets of the
United Irishmen,) would mark him for vengeance,
and his life would inevitably pay the penalty of
such an offence. There remained, therefore, no
other means of possessing her than by breaking
through his long formed resolution against matrimony,
and making her the partner of his fortune.
This was a horrible alternative; but he felt that
he could not be happy without her, and he resolved
to adopt it. He accordingly took the earliest
opportunity of making known to her his wishes.
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She at once gave him an unequivocal and decided
denial. In vain did he make her the most splendid
offers; in vain did he enlarge on his immense
wealth, and on the violence and sincerity of his
passion, which he asserted would never permit him
to know happiness without her. She was inexorable.
He next had recourse to her grandfather; and
soon gained his favour, by suddenly becoming
a warm friend to the United cause. As he had
been hitherto considered, not indeed a royalist,
but a very lukewarm favourer of the popular party,
O'Halloran looked on his accession as a matter
of great importance. At this juncture it
was in reality so. By order of the Dublin Directory,
a certain quantity of arms and ammunition was
to be provided by the Northern conspirators, before
the middle of March ensuing. To raise money
for this purpose was no easy matter. The greater
number of the zealous leaders were men of broken
fortunes; and the voluntary contributions of the
lower orders, came in so slowly, and in such small
sums, as to be of little or no service.
Great was the anxiety that our Northern chiefs
felt on this occasion; and frequent were the consultations
they held on the subject. O'Halloran
had already expended within the last fifteen months,
about thirty thousand pounds on account of the
confederacy; a great portion of which had gone
to relieve the distresses of those whom the government
had harrassed on account of their obnoxious
principles. Upwards of sixty thousand pounds
were wanted on the present occasion. To raise
this sum was beyond his power, without mortgaging
his estate, and perhaps paying an exorbitant interest.
This, however, he resolved to do, rather
than permit the cause to suffer. To Sir Geoffrey
Carebrow, he, therefore, applied, as at this crisis he
was almost the only monied man connected with
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the party. A mortgage for sixty thousand pounds
was immediately executed, of which forty thousand
were paid down, at an interest, secretly agreed
upon, of ten per cent.; the remaining sum being
promised in six weeks. The parties to this bargain
also entered into a secret stipulation that both the
principal and the interest of this mortgage should
be at the control of Ellen Hamilton, when she
should become the wife of Sir Geoffrey Carebrow.
With the money thus procured, a vessel was despatched
to Scotland, from whence she returned in
a few weeks, with the requisite supply of warlike
stores for the conspirators.
In the meantime, Sir Geoffrey did not fail to use
the advantage which he had thus obtained over
O'Halloran, in prosecuting his suit for Ellen. His
vehement professions of patriotism blinded O'Halloran
to his other faults; and he looked with respect
upon a character whom had he known better
he would have detested. But being himself the
very reverse of a hypocrite, he was the less likely
to suspect hypocrisy in others. Hence he firmly
believed Carebrow's patriotism to be sincere. For
the same reason he was convinced, that his attachment
to Ellen was not only genuine, but ardent
and disinterested; and being unquestionably a man
of great wealth, he conceived that he consulted
both her interest and happiness by ordering her
to receive his addresses and to look on him as her
future husband. This was a source of great affliction
to this dutiful and affectionate girl. She
now felt herself for the first time obliged to disobey
him who was her only parent, and whose directions
she had hitherto considered as an unerring
rule of conduct.
Things were in this state, when that great national
day which warms and elevates every Irish
heart, the day consecrated to Erin's tutelary saint,
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arrived, and was celebrated at O'Halloran Castle
by a splendid entertainment, somewhat in the character
of the political dinners which the Inns and
the Outs have so frequently given in the metropolis
of the British empire.
On this occasion all the Northern leaders of the
conspiracy who could conveniently attend were
present. The room was fancifully decorated with
national emblems and various transparencies, denoting
but not plainly expressing the sentiments
and views of the company. The figure of a harp
without the crown, over which was displayed in
large letters, the word Independence, and under-neath
Erin-go-bragh, ornamented the centre of the
walls, on the opposite sides of the room. On each
of the two other walls was seen a figure of St.
Patrick, in his ecclesiastical robes, baptizing the
monarch of Ireland, who held in his hand a branch
of Shamrock, over which was the inscription
“Three in One;” while over their heads were exhibited
the following words, “Be free in Christ;”
and at the bottom of the piece, “Love one another.”
In the centre of the room, equally distant
from two splendid chandeliers, which shed their
brilliant illumination all around, was suspended a
large transparent square, on each side of which
the following distich appeared in gilt letters:
Unite, and the freedom of Erin restore,
And tyrants, like serpents, shall die on her shore.
The reader, if he has any thing of a tolerable
imagination, will easily conceive the nature of the
toasts that were given in this assembly; but as
he will readily suppose that the greater number of
them were not exactly what many would consider
of the most orthodox description, I beg permission to
omit them here, with the exception of the first;
“The memory of St. Patrick,” which was legiti
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mate enough had it not been the first, and the
last; “The downfall of Tyrants,” which was undoubtedly
a very good toast, if the company could
only have agreed with their neighbours in the application
of the last word.
After supper the natural buoyancy of Irish
spirits found vent in a ball, which was graced by
as many beautiful female countenances as the same
number of the sex ever exhibited. It was opened
by the accomplished and enthusiastic Rober Emmet,
then on a tour through the North, and Ellen,
who decorated by her grandfather's desire, in the
most tasteful manner for the occasion, tript the
mazy round with a liveliness and grace which delighted
every one who beheld her.
Sir Geoffrey who was too unwieldy for dancing,
had his fondness for her so excited, that he kept
dangling about her and watching her motions in
the most disagreeable and troublesome manner.
Even the youth who was her partner, and whose
heart was at that time engaged to another, could
not escape his jealousy. He perceived it, and declined
dancing as soon as decency permitted.
When Ellen was seated, Sir Geoffrey placed himself
by her side, and exceedingly annoyed her
with his importunities; but she bore them with a
patience which displayed her good nature to so
much advantage, that it excited almost as much
admiration as her personal charms.
When the dance terminated, a new species of
patriotic entertainment was exhibited. It had been
invented by the Rev. Mr. Porter, expressly for
the occasion, and approved of by the other leaders,
as an excitement to the patriotic ingenuity of the
company.
A splendid seat, approachable by steps, resembling
a throne, was prepared for one of the ladies,
who should be chosen to personate the genius of
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Ireland, in whose presence each gentleman who
joined in the amusement, should stand and deliver
some national sentiment. The person who, in her
opinion, should deliver the most striking, tasteful
and patriotic sentiment, she was to crown with a
wreath of artificial Shamrock, and pronounce him
the victor in this species of intellectual contest.
Ellen was unanimously chosen to represent her
Country's Genius. She ascended the throne, with
a wreath in one hand, and a small parchment tablet
in the other. When seated, she assumed a
peculiar dignity of manner, such as the imagination
of Shakspeare might have conceived the genius of
nature's sweetest island to possess; and addressed
the company in the following words:
“I invite every Irishman who hears me, to come
forward, and in the presence of his country's genius
express, in one sentence, the patriotic feelings
of his soul; and on the brows of him who shall excel
all his competitors, in the force, fervour and
elegance of his sentiment, so expressed, I shall bind
this wreath, the emblem of his country's faith, and
the reward of his merit.—But first, I require that
every candidate for this reward shall inscribe his
name on this tablet.”
The following names were immediately inscribed;
Samuel Nelson, Robert Emmet, Henry
M`Cracken, Henry O`Halloran, Luke Teeling,
James Porter, Geoffrey Carebrow and Thomas
Russel.
After counting the names, “eight patriots,” said
she, “are enrolled as candidates for this prize. If
there be any other present who wishes to contend
for it, let him come forward, now or never.”
One of the musicians, who appeared to be unknown
to the company, habited in the costume
of ancient minstrelsy, with a long flowing green
robe bound round his waist with a sash of the same
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colour, and having a hood of green velvet so constructed
as to conceal his countenance from observation,
now modestly advanced, and making a
graceful bow to the fair genius, inscribed his name,
Patrick Fitzgerald.
The Genius then called over the names, and invited
Samuel Nelson, the first on the list, to deliver
his sentiment.
“Fair Genius,” said he, “it is my opinion that
the man who will not cheerfully sacrifice both life
and property, to rescue his country from a foreign
yoke, is unworthy to be called her son.”
Emmet then advanced. “Genius of Erin,” said
he, “I consider the man who has an opportunity,
to sacrifice both life and property for the independence
and freedom of his country, to be born to a
happy destiny, for he is born to immortal fame.”
M`Cracken then came forward. “Genius,” said
he, “may the oppressors of thy beloved Island be
like the serpents they so much resemble, unable to
exist on her soil.”
O'Halloran next advanced. “Genius,” said he,
“may the coward heart that will not resist tyranny
even unto death, never know the joys of
freedom, nor ever be found in an Irishman's bosom.”
Teeling next addressed her. “Genius of this
venerated country!” said he, “in striking for her
liberty, may the soul of him who dies be rewarded
by the applause of angels, and of him who survives
by the long enjoyment of a nation's blessing.”
Porter advanced and exclaimed—“Genius of a
once blessed and sanctified, but now unhappy and
polluted country! when the crisis of her fate arrives,
may Heaven supply her sons with strength
to avenge her wrongs, and restore her ancient happiness
and glory, and with wisdom to frame and
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adopt such regulations as will preserve them to all
posterity.”
Sir Geoffrey next approached. “Charming Genius
of a charming country!” said he, “may he who
will not fight in her cause, never enjoy the fruits of
her soil, nor the smiles of her daughters.”
Russel now came forward and said, “Genius of
my native country! may we soon see the day when
our enemies shall be compelled to confess her sons to
be invincible, her cause to be just, and their own
disgrace and punishment to be merited.”
The minstrel Fitzgerald was now called. He
advanced modestly, but with dignity, and all-peculiarly
as he was attired, the elegance of his figure
struck the beholders, and many of the fair ladies
wished in vain for a view of that countenance
which he kept so carefully concealed.
“Lovely Genius of a beloved country!” said
he, “O! may that God who alone can rescue her
from misery, grant her a speedy and permanent
deliverance, and render her children happy and
worthy of happiness.”
“Nothing more can be wished, nor better wished,
for our dear but suffering country,” said the
Genius. “To thee, then, pious minstrel, I award
the wreath thou hast justly won, by the noble simplicity,
the affecting piety, and the fervid patriotism
of thy sentiment. Sentiments have been
given to-night of high merit in these respects, but
thine hath surpassed them all.”
She then crowned him with the wreath as he
voluntarily kneeled before her.
“Genius,” said he, still retaining his humble
posture. “This to me is a happy night; it shall
long be a proud one. I have fervently prayed to
my Creator in behalf of my country, in the presence
of thee, my beloved, and by thy hands is my
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fervency thus rewarded. This sacred prize I shall
ever preserve for thy sake.”
He hastily arose, leaving Ellen in extreme agitation,
bowed to the wondering company, and disappeared
before any of them could sufficiently recover
from their astonishment, to ask him for a
gratification of that curiosity concerning him which
had become visible in every countenance.
“Who is he? Does any one know him?” exclaimed
several of the gentlemen.
“He is a noble, an elegant young man,” thought
all the ladies.
“He is an audacious intruder,” cried Sir Geoffrey;
“an impertinent puppy! What arrogance
and impudence, to make love in this public manner
to Miss O'Halloran! But I'll chastise the rascal.”
With difficulty he was prevented from immediately
rushing after the object of his rage in order
to attempt putting his threats into execution.
Although none of the gentlemen openly objected
to Ellen's disposal of the wreath, several of
them considered her as having displayed an erroneous
judgment, in giving the preference to a sentiment,
the patriotism of which was, in their opinion,
at least ambiguous. Nay, some of them, among
whom was O'Halloran himself, thought that they
could perceive in it, an implied censure on their
confederacy. It called upon heaven to deliver the
country from its calamities; but it did not discriminate
the party from which these calamities had
sprung. Nay it even insinuated that the people
were in the fault; for while it prayed for their
happiness, it took care to express a wish for their
amendment, that they might deserve it.
“Had it mentioned our oppressors,” said O'Halloran,
“and prayed either for their conversion or
destruction, we should then have known the side
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to which this successful youth belongs. By not
doing so, he has plainly declared himself, if not
altogether our enemy, at least not very heartily
our friend.”
But no one complained in Ellen's hearing of her
decision. By previous arrangement her judgment
was to be absolute and final on the subject; and
although among themselves, the gentlemen might
animadvert on its correctness, they were aware
that it would be both illiberal and unjust openly to
blame her for exercising a prerogative with which
they themselves had invested her, and which not
one of them doubted that she had exercised conscientiously.
-- --
CHAP. XVII.
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
A wolf rapacious, rough and bold,
Whose nightly plunders thinned the fold
Contemplating his ill-spent life,
And cloy'd with thefts, would take a wife.
The loathing lamb with horror hears,
And wearies out her dam with prayers;
But all in vain, the dam best knew
What inexperienced girls should do.
Mrs. Moore's Fables.
The jealousy which Sir Geoffrey had conceived
against the minstrel, who had so boldly, in his
hearing, and in his presence, made love, as he
imagined, to his intended wife, and who had received
such an unequivocal and public proof of
her favour, boiled furiously within his breast, and
although he had, with great effort, suppressed it, so
far as not to throw the company into absolute confusion,
yet he determined to spare no pains in
finding the minstrel, and making him feel his vengeance.
When the company had dispersed, he demanded
an interview with Ellen; for he could
brook no delay in ascertaining whether she knew
the youth she had so openly and so flatteringly
signalized, and whether her doing so had not arisen
from a softer feeling than a preference of his sentiment.
To obtain this interview for him, O'Halloran
had to interfere with his authority, and she
stipulated that it should be in his presence.
She positively denied any knowledge of the minstrel,
or that she had been influenced in his favour
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by any concealed sentiment whatever. Sir Geoffrey
now urged the violence of his passion, which
he confessed occasioned him to be jealous of every
thing she seemed to approve, while he himself
was an object of her dislike.
“Lovely girl,” said he, “in the presence of
your grandfather, only allay my apprehension of
losing you, by promising to become my wife, and
I shall be happy.”
She replied not. Her grandfather urged her to
speak.
“My dear Ellen,” said he, “consult your own
welfare and mine, by accepting a man who loves
you so sincerely, and who has abundantly the
power of promoting your felicity. You know not
how soon the arm of oppression, or the accidents
of war, may deprive you of my protection; and,
oh! think how it would relieve the pangs of my
last hour to reflect, that you had a sure and just
claim to that of a friend I so much value as Sir
Geoffrey.”
“Best and tenderest of parents,” she replied,
“since I must once more speak on this unhappy subject—
O! do not attribute my refusal of a man I cannot
love, to any undutiful feeling towards you. If my
prayers can have any effect with Heaven, you
shall long live to be my protector; but if a dispensation
should take place, on which I tremble to
reflect, if you should be prematurely and violently
taken from me, I shall not long need a protector,
for I feel, that in such a case, thy grave would soon
be mine. Do not, do not, I conjure you, by the memory
of the saint who gave me birth, do not compel
me to do an act which would terminate all my happiness
in this world.”
“Ellen,” said O'Halloran, “you are obstinate;
but you do not know Sir Geoffrey sufficiently, or
you would not scruple to become his wife. Reflect
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on his power, his wealth, his patriotism, his friendship
for me, his love for you; and you cannot but
be convinced that in accepting him for your husband,
you accept a man worthy of you, and provide
a permanent asylum against misfortune and
sorrow. But if any absurd or romantic feeling
renders you perverse on this matter, depend on it
I shall consult your interest better than to indulge
that feeling. It is my duty to do so. Eight days
you shall have to reflect on the subject, at the end
of which time, I shall expect your compliance with
our wishes. If still obstinate, I shall find means to
make you comply. But I trust that your own good
sense will be sufficient, and render it unnecessary
for me to have recourse to such means.”
The harshness and cool determined tone with
which this was uttered overpowered her, for she
saw that her grandfather's resolution to sacrifice
her to the man she detested, was unalterably fixed;
and that the sacrifice must be soon made. She
burst into tears; but remained silent.
“I shall urge you no more at present,” said
O'Halloran, rising to depart, “but remember my
will, and your own interest.”
“Cruel girl,” said Sir Geoffrey, before he left
the room, “why require such exercise of authority
to compel you to be my wife, the wife of one who
bears for you such unbounded love. But at the
expiration of the time fixed by your grandfather,
I hope your sentiments will be more favourable.”
He then seized her hand to kiss it on departing,
which she resisted.
“Leave me, sir,” said she, “nor make me more
wretched, and yourself more hated.”
“Then adieu, my fair one. In another week this
cruelty will be useless,” he replied.
When they had retired, she threw herself on her
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knees, and thus besought the Almighty Protector
of innocence.
“Father of the fatherless, I implore thee, for pity
in my present distress. O! deliver me from this
calamity. Open the eyes of my revered and beloved
grandfather, to see the gulf of wretchedness into
which his mistaken affection would plunge me.—
But if thou hast destined me to this lot, if I do
wrong in opposing his desires, show me my error,
and grant me fortitude and resignation to submit.
In resisting the will of my earthly parent, I
would not resist thine, my Heavenly father! Forgive
me, therefore, if, in the weakness of my nature,
I should resist. Thou hast fixed my affections on an
object, whom surely it cannot be a crime to love,
since it is no crime to love excellence. To him I
have secretly dedicated my heart. O save me from
the guilt of giving my hand to another. Alas! I am,
perhaps, guilty of loving an earthly being too much,
for my heart has cherished his image so fondly,
that it has almost encroached on that adoration
which is alone due to thee. But for mercy-sake do
thou overlook my frailty, and let my Redeemer's
merits plead in my behalf.”
Thus did this pious young lady fly for relief in
the moments of affliction to the consolations of religion,
and found it. Her mind became considerably
calmed, although not sufficiently so to permit
her to enjoy the salutary repose, which her agitated
frame much needed, of “Nature's sweet restorer,
balmy sleep.” During the course of the
night, the distracting idea of becoming the wife of
a man whom she could not esteem, perpetually obtruded
itself on her imagination; but as she could
see no earthly means of avoiding it, without absolutely
rebelling against the authority of her grandfather,
which her habits of duty and her feelings
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of affection towards him, who except on this occasion,
had always treated her with extreme tenderness
and affection, altogether forbade, she resolved
with as much fortitude as she could command, to
submit to her uncontrollable destiny. The struggle,
however, which took place in her mind while
forming this resolution, was too great for her harrassed
frame, and her aunt on visiting her in the
morning, found her in a high fever.
“My dear child,” said that affectionate relative,
“what is the matter? what has occasioned this?”
“Best of my friends,” she replied, “my only
mother, do not grieve for me. My grandfather
has desired me in eight days to prepare my mind
for becoming Sir Geoffrey's wife. I have had a
hard struggle to do so. But the worst is now over.
I will yield to his wishes. It is my duty, although
death itself should be the consequence. I feel I
shall not survive it; for O my stubborn heart has
become the property of another, and I cannot, cannot
help it.”
“My dearest Ellen be comforted,” said Mrs.
Brown, “your grandfather will not, cannot persist
in such harshness. I know your happiness to be
dearer to him than his own. He will withdraw
this cruel mandate. I will reason with him, I will
remonstrate with him, I will show him the cruelty
of his conduct, the absurdity of consulting your
welfare by breaking your heart.”
“Kindest of relatives,” replied Ellen, “while
thus sympathising with me, your tenderness soothes
my spirits. I shall soon get better. But I do not
expect you will succeed in changing my grandfather's
resolution. No, I know he will persevere.
He thinks it his duty, and to that he will cause
every other consideration to yield.”
“But dearest, patient, suffering girl,” said her
aunt, “it is my duty to open his eyes to your true
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interest. I shall this very hour let him know the
worthlessness of the man's character, who has deluded
him into the unfortunate opinion that he
would make you a good husband. I know more
of that man's demerits than even you do, and I
earnestly dissuade you from consenting to become
his wife.”
“Only make my refusal consistent with what I
owe to my grandfather,” replied Ellen, “and I
shall bless you, for you will save me from destruction.”
Mrs. Brown went in search of O'Halloran, whom
she found writing in his study. He laid down his
pen when she entered.
“Sister,” said he, “I want to disburden my mind
to you on a subject, on which I know you will feel
strongly interested. Sir Geoffrey Carebrow, who
has essentially promoted the interests of our cause
in this part of the country, by the pecuniary aid
which he so promptly afforded us, has laid me under
such obligations, that I can refuse him nothing
in my power honourably to grant. You know he
has long solicited the hand of my granddaughter;
but owing to some unfortunate predilection which,
I believe, she entertains for Mr. Barrymore, she
obstinately refuses him. He has been so extremely
urgent of late, that last night I was induced to
lay my injunctions on her to prepare her mind in
eight days to receive him. I know if she consents,
which her sense of duty towards me, I expect will
induce her to do, that she will offer some violence
to her own feelings. But as this violence will only
last while her prepossession in favour of Barrymore
remains; and which can only be until she becomes
better acquainted with Sir Geoffrey's worth, I think
her permanent interests will be consulted by bringing
about this union. On leaving her last night, I assure
you, I felt extremely grieved at being obliged to
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address her in such an authoritative manner. But I
perceived that nothing short of an exertion of authority
would do. It was painful; but I did exert
it; and must continue to do so, until this union, on
which I have so fully set my heart, is accomplished.”
“And why, my brother,” asked Mrs. Brown,
“have you so fully set your heart on this union?”
“I have strong reasons for doing so,” replied her
brother. “Ellen's own ultimate advantage is one,
and you will readily suppose, not a slight one
with me. Sir Geoffrey loves her to distraction;
and will, I am persuaded, make her a good husband.
I am bound to him by strong gratitude for
the pecuniary assistance already mentioned; for
had we not, at that time, received it, we should not
have been in that state of preparation, in which we
now are for taking the field, whenever the French
auxiliaries arrive, who are expected in April or
May next. He has shown his disinterestedness in
this case; or rather he has shown a noble union of
love and patriotism, by stipulating to place the
mortgage deed, by which the money has been secured,
at her disposal, as her own property, whenever
she shall become his wife. This is equivolent
to bestowing the money on the cause of the
people; for the lands so mortgaged, I intended
solely for her use at any rate. Hence on reasoning
with myself, to ascertain my proper course of
action, I concluded, that my duty to Sir Geoffrey,
the benefactor of our country, had superior claims
on my regard, than my inclination, which, I confess,
would induce me to indulge my daughter's
wishes, or, as I should rather say, prejudices on
this subject.”
“My brother,” said Mrs. Brown, “I make no
doubt that you have reasoned correctly enough on
this subject, from what you know of this man's
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character; and that your decision has been conscientious,
I am perfectly convinced, for your decisions
have never been otherwise. But, I believe,
that if you thoroughly knew this man, your determination
would be very different, you would never
resolve to force your dear and only child, who has
ever been so obedient and affectionate to you, into
the possession of a sensualist and a miser, a libertine
in morals, a sceptic in religion, and of late, a hypocrite
in politics; whose ruling passions are lust
and avarice.—His passion for our child has of late
obtained the mastery over even his cherished avarice,
and the seeming readiness with which he assisted
your cause, was nothing but a bribe to secure
your support to his wishes. As to the condition
which he has admitted into the deeds, I can
see no real generosity in it. It was, I believe, only
a lure to gain, if possible, the good opinion of Ellen,
and, perhaps, also to acquire a stronger hold on
your esteem. He loses nothing by it; he secures
your estate at all events; and he thought he might
as well, at the same time, by an appearance of liberality,
secure the good-will of his intended wife.
Hence, he has merely exhibited the shadow without
the least substance of generosity. Ah! Sir, I
and many others know this man too well, to believe
that there is the smallest particle of generosity in
his disposition; and as to patriotism, he is as destitute
of such a noble feeling, as I am of the power
of necromancy. In lending you this money, he
has taken care to have it not only well secured,
but to earn by it yearly four per cent. more than
he could have done had he lent it any where else.
This, one should think, savours more of avarice
than of either generosity or patriotism.”
“In requiring ten per cent.” replied O'Halloran,
warmly, “Sir Geoffrey committed no crime.
Your rigid sticklers for the ancient and corrupt
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laws of Britain, may call him a usurer, but men of
rational philosophical understandings, will never
place a maximum on the value of money more
than on other commodities. Sir Geoffrey has had
the greatness of mind to act in defiance of antiquated
rules and customs; but he has asked no more
for the use of his money, than I think him entitled
to considering the risk he runs on account of the
hazardous complexion of the times, and considering
also the great service his promptitude has rendered
the cause of the country. I am sorry to see
that more minds than Ellen's have imbibed an unwarrantable
prejudice against my friend. He is
called a libertine, because, until he met with a female
with whom he thought he could live happy,
he did not choose to marry; and no doubt evil and
lying reports to the disadvantage of his chastity,
may have been circulated; and because he possesses
an immense fortune, and will not spend it
in frivolity, or live in imitation of aristocratical
splendour and extravagance, but prefers patriarchal
plainness and republican simplicity, he is
called a miser. Such may be the opinion of an
unthinking and unjust world. But it is not from
such a criterion that I estimate men's characters.
I am in the habit, Mrs. Brown, of examining and
judging for myself; ay, and of determining for
myself too, and my determination on this affair is
already fixed. Ellen is my child—and me she
must obey, until Sir Geoffrey Carebrow obtains a
prior right to her obedience.”
Here Mrs. Brown burst into tears. “I weep”
said she, when she had some what recovered from
her emotion, “for your delusion. But, ah! I weep
more for the misery, which, I perceive, awaits
your unfortunate child—O my brother, reflect”—
“I will hear no more,” said O'Halloran, “lest
you stagger my resolution, which, as it is founded
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on reason, I am determined shall never be shakes
by feeling.”
He then hastily left the room, evidently as
much agitated as Mrs. Brown herself. The allotted
eight days elapsed, and Ellen consented to
become a victim; “for,” said she, “I will die before
I disobey him.” Oh! my grandfather, did
you know what I this moment, suffer, you would
have compassion on me!”
She was able to speak no more: she had
fainted. In great consternation, O'Halloran and
Sir Geoffrey called for assistance; for they had
been both present urging her to compliance. She
soon recovered, and on seeing her restored, the
strength of her grandfather's determination, which
her swoon had somewhat shaken, was also restored,
and the day was appointed for the marriage.
The agitation of Ellen's mind now greatly subsided.
She had nothing more for which to hope,
and she awaited the awful hour in the calm silence
of despair. Her aunt was her only comforter;
but she also stood in need of comfort. At her request,
Miss Agnew was invited to the castle, to
encourage and support her afflicted friend, through
the horrors of the approaching ceremony.
On understanding the circumstances of the case,
all the sprightliness of this lively young woman
forsook her; and, although she would not desert
her friend, she determined to partake of no festivity
on the occasion.
“It will be a wedding” said she to O'Halloran,
“that ought to be solemnized as a funeral, with
the emblems of grief, for it will be death to the
happiness of the loveliest maiden in the land.”
“I trust not,” he replied; “the consciousness
of doing her duty, will of itself be a source of
happiness, and her husband's worth, tenderness
and affectionate assiduities, will soon obliterate
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this unreasonable, girlish prejudice against him,
which occasions her present distress. We shall
yet see her the happy, loving wife of a worthy man.”
“In that case, she will not be the wife of this
man,” retorted Miss Agnew, with something of her
usual keenness and levity, mingled with bitterness
and grief.
-- --
CHAP. XVIII.
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
Then in that hour remorse he felt,
And his heart told him he had dealt
Unkindly with his child:
A father may a while refuse;
But who can for another choose.
Would'st thou, presumptuous as thou art,
O'er nature play the tyrant's part,
And with the hand compel the heart!
Oh! rather, rather hope to bind
The ocean wave the mountain wind;
Or fix the feet upon the ground,
To stop the planet rolling round.
Byron.
On the second day previous to that appointed
for the marriage, the Recluse came to the castle,
and requested an interview with Ellen. He was
admitted into her chamber, for she was too unwell
to leave it. She was alone. He was shocked at
the alteration which a few weeks had made in her
appearance. She who so lately was blooming in
the luxuriance of health and beauty, now appeared
before him the image of death, pale and emaciated,
and sunk in almost speechless sorrow. His
heart smote him.
“I have neglected thee too long, suffering innocence,”
said he; “but if heaven permits thee to
live, it is not yet too late to save thee from misery.”
“Father, what wouldst thou say?” she asked,
scarcely understanding him.
“My child, if this dreaded marriage be the
cause of thy affliction, I will deliver thee from it,”
he replied.
“Ah! thou canst not,” said she, “unless my
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grandfather withdraws his injunctions, for I will
obey him.”
“Thy grandfather will never enjoin thee to be
wretched,” said he.
“Alas! sir, he does enjoin it.”
“Then, disobey him,” exclaimed the Recluse,
with energy, “O thou best of daughters, and the
sin be on my head!”
“What sayest thou?” cried she, starting, “Wouldst
thou counsel me to disobedience?”
“I would, and will save thee from ruin,” he replied.
“Yea, at the foot of the altar, if I found
thee there, I would snatch thee from the contaminating
touch of the viper who has deluded thy
grandfather, and would make thee his own to make
thee wretched. No, never shall that saint who bore
thee, sweet, suffering maiden, accuse thy father of
standing by in heedless apathy, to see thee immolated!
That father, thy own father, my child, has
the first claim on thy obedience; and he forbids
thee as thou wouldst value his blessing, to become
the wife of Sir Geoffrey Carebrow.”
“What! Oh sir,” she cried, “does my father
live? Does he know of my misfortunes? Am I, indeed,
so happy?”
“He lives,” said the Recluse. “He knows of thy
sufferings; and no danger will prevent him from
rescuing, and protecting thee. For what other end
does he, can he live?”
“Oh! sir, where, when shall I see him? Where
shall I fly to him? Only let me embrace him, and
I will bless thee.”
“Yes; beloved of my heart,” he returned.
“Daughter of my Eliza! thou shalt embrace him.
The terrors of law shall no longer prevent it. Behold
thy father in this disguise! I once saved thee
from insult; I shall now snatch thee from wretchedness.
Embrace me, my only child!”
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“Oh father,” cried she, straining him to her
bosom; “Why did I not know thee sooner. O God!
thou art merciful—my father lives! Now let me
die in his arms, since I have indeed seen him. I
am no longer an orphan.”
Here her head sunk on his breast; for the
shock of her joy was almost too powerful for her
debilitated frame.
“God preserve thee, child of my love! Darling
of my heart,” he cried, alarmed at the changing
hue of her countenance. “Am I to loose thee, in
the moment thou hast found me? Art thou to be
unhappy both in joy and in sorrow?”
A gush of tears from his eyes fell upon her
countenance. But in the agitation of joy, although
the first shock may resemble that of grief, yet the
difference of its effects on the frame, is soon apparent.
In place of exhausting it soon invigorates.
The rays of delight soon sparkled from her dark
eyes; and the flush of joy again beamed on her
countenance.
“It is enough,” cried she. “Kind heaven! I
thank thee. I cannot now be unhappy. Take me
with thee, my father. Let me live alone under thy
protection.”
He now explained to her the necessity for his
remaining concealed, on account of a sentence of
outlawry under which he lay, for having killed
Sir Nicholas Carebrow, the elder brother of this
Sir Geoffrey, in a duel.
“He persecuted thy mother,” said he, “with a
disgusting and criminal passion, as his brother, almost
his equal in wickedness, has persecuted thee.
To avenge an insulted, virtuous and tenderly beloved
wife, I fought him, and his death was the expiation
of his offence. His friends raised a prosecution
against me. I was obliged to fly. By their
influence, I have been outlawed, and if this true
heir to his brother's wickedness, as well as his
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title and estates, should discover that it was your
father that thwarted his designs on you, he would
prosecute me with the relentless rancour of disappointed
passion. I should have either to leave
the country and once more deprive you of my
protection, or become the victim of his revenge.”
“Oh! my father,” said she, “I will save thee.
I will have thee restored to me. I will deliver myself
to him; I will become his—Oh! can I, can I
name it?—yet it is for a father's safety—I will become
his wife, on condition that he shall cancel this
prosecution, and procures a reversal of the outlawry.”
“No, my child! You shall not make such a sacrifice.
None of my blood, I trust, shall ever be
allied to such a wicked and unprincipled family.
Should such a misfortune take place, all my satisfaction
in this world would be at an end. Better
I should die than see such a day! In my present
concealment, I am safe, and in residing so near
you, I am happy. I would have discovered myself
to you sooner; but I found you happy in the
love and under protection of your grandfather;
and I did not wish to disturb your tranquillity, by
apprising you of my danger in residing here.”
“Father! be it as you will. Wisdom speaks
from your lips. Instruct me in your wishes. It is
my duty, and it shall be my study not to controvert,
but to obey. Even though my venerated but mistaken
grandfather should force me to the altar, I
will there perish, ere the irrevocable vow which
consigns me to your enemy, shall pass my lips.”
“Blessed girl, image of thy sainted mother!
your grandfather will not urge you. I shall, this
evening, send you a letter inclosing one to him,
which by showing him that there is still in existence,
one who has superior claims to your obedience,
and who forbids your compliance in this
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affair, will make it his duty to relinquish his authority;
and, you know, the moment your grandfather
perceives his duty, that he will perform it. In the
meantime, adieu, my daughter! Be comforted. I
am safe, and thou shalt be protected. May the
blessing of heaven be ever thine!” and straining
her to his paternal bosom, he left her in a transport
of joy and gratitude to God for her deliverance.
On her knees she addressed the Author of
all good, and poured forth the fulness of her delighted
and grateful heart for this signal instance
of his merciful interposition in her favour.
When her aunt and Miss Agnew visited her,
they were surprised to find her so cheerful.
“Dear Ellen,” asked her aunt “are you really
become satisfied, for you appear as if you were,
with this match?”
“This match shall never take place,” she replied,
“it is this which causes my satisfaction.”
“Indeed!” said Miss Agnew—“Has your grandfather
at last relented. The first time I find him
dozing in his elbow chair I shall kiss him for his
goodness.”
“I thought” said Mrs. Brown, “that obstinate
as he appeared, he could not carry his cruelty so
far.”
“My dear friends,” said Ellen, interrupting her
aunt, “you mistake. He has not yet relented, but
he will relent. I dare not at present tell you more.
To-morrow, perhaps to-night, I may be free to tell
you all. In the meantime, be assured that this
hateful marriage will not take place, neither shall I
have any occasion to infringe upon my duty to my
grandfather.”
“Heaven be praised for such an escape!” cried
Miss Agnew. “We shall again be as merry as
crickets; and laugh at the old curmudgeon of a
disappointed knight. What had an old half rotten
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fellow of fifty, to do with a fresh blooming damsel
of nineteen? It was truly abominable.”
The buoyancy of this young lady's spirits now
burst forth unrestrained, as if to make amends for
their late depression; and she had wrought her
companions into such a state of good humour,
when O'Halloran entered towards the evening,
that he was both surprised and delighted.
“You are, at last, reconciled, my dear Ellen?”
said he “to this indispensable measure?”
“Obedience to your commands, shall always
yield me pleasure,” she replied.
Before he could answer, a servant entered with
a letter for Ellen, which, he said, a stranger had
just brought to the castle.
On opening it, she found one enclosed for O'Halloran.
“I expected this,” said she, as she handed
it to him, “only within these few hours. I believe it
will reveal to you the cause of my present satisfaction.
I have received intelligence that my father
lives and prohibits my marriage with Sir Geoffrey
Carebrow.”
O'Halloran broke the seal and read as follows:
“Worthy and revered father of my Eliza,
Nothing short of parental regard for my daughter's
happiness, induces me to address you at present,
or to interfere with an arrangement which I
understand you have made, no doubt from the best
of motives, for settling her in the marriage state.
“It is said, that contrary to her inclinations, you
have urged her, and obtained her consent, to become
the wife of Sir Geoffrey Carebrow. By the
authority of a father, I have commanded her never
to receive the hand of that man, whom I know to
be the worthless inheritor of all his brother's
baseness and wickedness. I am sorry to learn
that with a view to the accomplishment of his desires
with respect to my daughter, he has, by a
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feigned patriotism, succeeded in impressing you
with a favourable opinion of his character. But
on the word of whom you never knew to utter a
falsehood, I assure you that his patriotism is hypocricy,
and his pecuniary accommodations to your
cause, artifice.
“It is not from any want of confidence in either
your honour or your friendship, that I refrain from
discovering to you at present my place of residence;
it is from a fear that such a disclosure
might involve us into a correspondence, which, by
some accident, might be the means of making me
known to my enemies; and after my present interference,
which I do not wish concealed from Sir
Geoffrey, you will perceive that there will be an
increased necessity for precaution on my part; for
should lie now discover me, he would be goaded
on by the implacable rancour of revenge for the
disappointment I have occasioned him, to bring
down, without mercy, that penalty which the law
now holds suspended over me for his brother's
death. A time may come, and I hope it is at no
great distance, when I shall with safety be publicly
acknowledged by my friends. Till then, cherish
my daughter as you have hitherto cherished
her. But withdraw, I conjure you, as you value
her, or your own peace of mind, that command, in
obedience to which she has consented to marry a
man she detests, and who deserves her detestation.
“Should you persist in urging her to this match,
which I cannot believe you will, by that prior authority
which nature has given me over her, I
command her to disobey you. I peremptorily
enjoin her, as she values a father's love, never in
wedlock to bestow herself on Sir Geoffrey Carebrow.
“Receive my thanks for the tenderness with
which, until this occasion, you have ever treated
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my child, and assure yourself that I am as heretofore,
your dutiful and affectionate
“FRANCIS HAMILTON.”
When O'Halloran had finished reading this letter,
silence for a few minutes ensued. The ladies
were struck dumb with amazement. At length he
approached Ellen. “My child,” said he, “I rejoice
that your father still lives. He was a worthy
man, notwithstanding his unhappy duel. His
interference on this occasion is, perhaps, fortunate.
At all events it relieves me from any responsibility
as to the result. I shall inform Sir
Geoffrey, that I no longer possess the requisite authority
to constrain your acceptance of him. I see
you are all gratified. I confess that I am not much
displeased myself, at the turn this affair has taken.
He then withdrew.
The reader need not be detained with an account
of the felicitations which Ellen received
from her female confidents on this occasion. Any
sensible good hearted aunt can easily imagine how
Mrs. Brown expressed herself, and any lively good
natured young maiden, may do the same with respect
to Miss Agnew. It may be recorded, however,
that this young lady observed, that she never
saw O'Halloran smile so bewitchingly as when he
left the room.
“Where he only thirty or forty years younger,”
said she, “I should certainly fall in love with him
for that sweet smile. As it is, however, I shall
certainly have the kiss that I threatened to steal
from him, the first time I should find him asleep
in his elbow chair.”
Immediately on leaving the ladies, O'Halloran
despatched a messenger to Sir Geoffrey, requesting
his attendance at the castle as early as convenient
the next morning. On his arrival he acquainted
him with what had taken place.
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“I thought it right,” he observed, “to lose no
time in giving you this information, that you might
be occasioned no disappointment in your arrangement
for the solemnity, that I could prevent.”
With eyes flashing fire, Sir Geoffrey started to
his feet. “Then you withdraw all controul over
your granddaughter in this case?” he demanded.
“I do”—was the laconic and firm reply.—“And
Francis Hamilton, my brother's murderer, is now
in the country,” exclaimed the rejected knight,
“and has caused this; but I shall find him, and
dreadful will be my revenge.”
O'Halloran was thunder-struck at such a manifestation
of malignity in the man he had lately so
much esteemed. He fixed his eyes steadfastly on
Carebrow, and with inexpressible dignity, calmly
said, “Is this the disinterested affection you professed
to bear for my granddaughter? You would
show your love for her by the destruction of her
father?
Sir Geoffrey resumed his seat. He remained a
few moments absorbed in reflection. He saw that
O'Halloran was not a man to be frightened; and
concluded that he would play a surer game by
pretending to submit calmly to his misfortune.
“I am wrong,” said he, “my friend. Excuse
the impetuosity of my feelings. They are agonized
by the intelligence you have given me. The
warmth of my expression was occasioned by the
madness of my disappointed love. But I submit.
My anger was but momentary. From this instant,
I shall cast the remembrance of the whole affair
from my mind. But there is one piece of information,”
said he, somewhat sarcastically, “which, in
my turn, I will lose no time in communicating, lest
you, in some of your arrangements, should also be
disappointed. I find it inconvenient to pay you the
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remaining twenty thousand pounds contracted for
in the mortgage.”
“That is unfortunate,” replied O'Halloran, “for
there is now little time to raise it elsewhere.”
“The cause must then do without it,” said the
other.
“It will greatly cripple our exertions;” continued
O'Halloran; “besides the sum being secured in
the mortgage, you should in honour exert yourself
to procure it, or else allow that instrument to be
altered.”
“As to that,” said Sir Geoffrey, “the less that is
either said or written on such dangerous matters,
in these troublesome times, the better. The mortgage
cannot be altered. But do not think that I
intend to defraud you. Only, now that I think of
it, our communications this evening have been mutually
disagreeable. We had better, therefore,
end the conference. Good night; and recollect
that by withholding my bride, you have lost only
twenty thousand pounds.”
The man's real character now stared O'Halloran
full in the face. He scorned to detain him, or
reason with him. He, therefore, let him go without
interruption, rejoiced that the good fortune of
his beloved grandchild, had preserved her from
becoming the wife of such a man.
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CHAP. XIX.
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
Lady there's danger in the way,
A villain wants thee for his prey;
His hireling ruffians skulking lie,
Watching the time with thee to fly;
To him they've sworn to seize thy charms,
And force thee to his loathsome arms.
But go, nor fear what they can do,
A faithful knight is near thee too.
Thaunus the Druid.
When O'Halloran informed the other chiefs of
the conspiracy, of Sir Geoffrey's threat, they agreed
to make no noise about it, least by irritating a person
so unprincipled, he might be induced to inform
against them to the government.
To discover on the United Irishmen, was, indeed,
the first impulse that actuated this man's mind on
his rupture with O'Halloran, but he was prevented
by his cowardice—the fate of M`Bride terrified
him. Besides he was not sure (for he was a man
of no political sagacity) which of the two parties
might in the end prevail. He was, therefore, unwilling
to provoke either. With respect to Ellen,
his passion was not in the least diminished. He
was so far from relinquishing his views upon her,
that it now became his chief study, how to effect
by fraud or violence, what he could not by fair
and friendly means.
It was supposed, by Ellen's friends, that amusement
and change of scene would contribute to remove
from her mind the impression of her late sufferings,
and hasten the restoration of her health
and spirits. She was, therefore, prevailed on to
accompany Miss Agnew on a visit to the residence
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of her father. It was in the afternoon of a beautiful
day in April, when they set out in a one horse
chair. The whispering wind waved gently over
hill and valley with a balmy, genial softness, which
rendered the atmosphere delightful; while the
sun diffused a kindly fertilizing warmth into the
bosom of the joyous earth, which produced a luxuriant,
beauteous and fragrant vegetation all over
its surface. The fields, the groves and the hedgerows
were bursting into life; and all nature was
assuming her gay and green attire, while animation,
joy and gratitude, inspired the harmonious
effusions of the feathered race; and seemed to
awaken corresponding emotions in the hearts of
the country people, as they alternately whistled
and sang at their rural employments.
The season and the scenery recalled to Ellen's
memory, some simple verses she had lately received
of M`Nelvin's composition; and as they rode
along a fine road at an easy rate, she indulged the
curiosity of her companion by repeating them.
A SONG FOR SPRING.
TUNE—Gramachree.
See, Mary dear, how mild the eve;
No storms molest the plain:
At length stern winter calmly yields
To spring's propitious reign.
To mark the year's reviving sweets,
We'll to you upland rove;—
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
Freed from its chains, behold the brook
Winds briskly through the vale;
Upon its banks, the tender grass
Yields balm to every gale:
The daisy, primrose, violet, there
Are richly interwove;
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
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The flocks and herds, that graze the mead,
And sip the falling dew:
Touch'd with the vernal influence sweet,
Instinctive sports pursue:
Gay chirls the plover, hoarse and loud,
And softly cooes the dove;
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
The blackbird, thrush and linnet tribes,
In yonder grove convene,
And in glad concert join their notes,
To celebrate the scene:
Their little love-sick cares and joys,
Harmonious raptures move;
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
This morn, dear Mary, had you heard
The lark ascending sing;
The distant sun-gilt hills rejoiced,
And blushed the face of spring;
Your heart with mine, had softly beat,
And kind emotions strove:
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
With careful steps, and hopeful heart,
As o'er the earth he past,
The farmer blithe, his golden grain,
Into its bosom cast;
While slow, before the crashing team,
The whistling plough-boy drove:
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
Then, as the briary bush I leaped,
A thrush out, shuddering, flew;
I spied her eggs, and half-resolved
To bear the prize to you;
But no; the cruel gift, I cried,
Her heart will scorn to prove:
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
Of youngest ivy then a wreath,
For your fair brows I twined;
With loveliest flowers adorned it round,
And softest foliage lined;
A purer emblem of the vows,
I made in yonder grove:
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Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
'Tis in the woodbine thicket hid,
Where love you first confessed;
'Twas such a beauteous night as this,
In nature's gladness dressed;
Come, there I'll fit it to your brows,
While passing swains approve:
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
There oft of old, Hiberman hards
Have sat, and sweetly sung;
Oft to th' inspiring charms of Spring,
Their magic harps they strung:
They swept the chords with pathos strong,
Descended from above:
Hail Spring! fair queen of tender joys,
And meekly-smiling love.
Ellen had scarcely finished the recital of these
verses, when, in a lonely part of the road, adjoining
a wood, a stranger on horseback overtook
them, and addressed them in a vulgar tone, and
with a face of great affrontery.
“A bonnie day, ladies! Do you gang far this
way?” “Only a few miles,” was the reply of
Miss Agnew; and for a short space all were again
silent. At length another unknown horseman rode
forward and exclaimed,
“Damn you, Jack, why dont you stop the driver?
We have no time to lose.”
Jack now drew a pistol from his pocket, and
presenting it at the driver, ordered him to stop.
He was obeyed.
“Miss O'Halloran,” said the man who last came
forward, “my employer desires the pleasure of
your company to night; but being afraid that you
would not come willingly, he ordered us to bring
you by force. You will be pleased to get behind
me, and let that other lady proceed by herself.—
Confound your screaming!—Gag them, Jack, or
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they'll alarm the whole country. Tear them from
each other.”
This was scarcely uttered when he was levelled
to the ground by a tremendous blow of a large
stick, which resounded from his head with a noise
that startled the terrified ladies. Jack immediately
discharged his pistol at the assailant; but the ball
missed its object; and had he not instantly put
spurs to his horse, he would have been the next
moment as low as his companion.
“Let him go,” cried the victor, turning to the
affrighted ladies. “He will not molest you again
this evening.”
“Ellen now recovered sufficiently from her terror
to recognise the Green Minstrel in her deliverer.”
“Fair lady!” said he, addressing her, and holding
the shamrock wreath in his hand, “behold a
man who has sworn eternal servitude to you. On
the night you decorated his brow with this badge
of your favour, he pledged himself to watch over
and guard you, with all the zeal and assiduity of
devoted knighthood; and this day has afforded
him the first opportunity of proving his fidelity.”
“Tell me, tell me, kind and noble youth,” said
she, “to whom I am so much indebted?”
“My fair mistress,” replied the youth, “indulge
my wish for concealment for some time.
You shall know me at a more convenient season.
Beware of Carebrow. 'Tis his villany has occasioned
this scene; but I shall watch him. Meantime
drive on, and fear nothing. Should you again
be attacked, I shall not be far off. Adieu!” and
he hastily disappeared in the adjoining wood.
Having only about two miles further to ride, by
a pretty smart application of his whip, which the
driver now thought proper to make, they soon
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arrived at the residence of John Agnew, Esq. the
father of Ellen's companion.
When this outrage was communicated to the
united chiefs, not one of them doubted but that Sir
Geoffrey was its author. They indeed soon had
reason to withdraw all their confidence from him;
for they received intelligence that he had made
great professions of loyalty at a late public dinner
given by the friends of government in Belfast;
that he had, since his dispute with O'Halloran,
purchased a large amount of government debentures,
and was in daily expectation of being put
into the commission of the peace. At the latter
end of April, therefore, they held a consultation
concerning him, at which it was resolved to seize
his person, and confine him in their cave, before
he should have time to do them mischief by the
disclosures which they doubted not he would willingly
make to the government.
While the chiefs were assembled at this consultation,
they received despatches from Dublin,
by express, containing news of a most disastrous
description, which rendered it necessary for
them, and for all the United Societies in the kingdom,
to adopt measures of the most decisive nature.
They were informed that, in consequence of one
Reynolds having betrayed them, the most active
members of their National Directory had been
seized and imprisoned by the government; that
Lord Edward Fitgerald, their leader, had been
so severely wounded in the attempt to arrest him
that he had since died—that Oliver Bond, Henry
and John Sheares, Thomas Addis Emmet, and Dr.
M`Nevin were committed to close confinement, until
the formation of a special commission to try
them for high treason, should be completed. They
were, therefore, urged to make a grand effort either
to rescue these leaders, or to seize a number of
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the government party as hostages for their safety.
As this could not be done, however, without an
absolute insurrection, they were exhorted to be
ready for that measure by the beginning of June,
the trial of the captured chiefs not being expected
to come on before the middle of that month.
Samuel Nelson, who was now in Dublin, and at
the death of lord Fitzgerald, had been appointed
to the chief management of their affairs, informed
them that he should immediately despatch a messenger
to France, to hasten the arrival of the promised
succours; and that for the purpose of rendering
the rising as simultaneous as possible in all
parts of the country, he had directed it to take
place every where on the third day after information
should be received of the stoppage of the
different mail coaches proceeding from the metropolis,
which should be the signal of an attack
having been made there.
All was now bustle and activity among the conspirators.
Messengers were sent to every influential
United Irishman in the country. Nightly
assemblages for drilling the peasantry in the art of
war, were held more extensively and frequently;
and every smith who had joined the confederacy,
became busily employed in the manufacture of
pikes, and in the repairing of muskets and other
kinds of warlike instruments. So high indeed did the
excitement for insurrection become at this period,
that even many of the softer sex employed themselves
in casting bullets, preparing cartridges, and
making cockades and insurrectionary banners.
The immediate object of O'Halloran, was to
collect an additional supply of gunpowder, an article
in which his district was deficient. The
greater portion of what had been purchased by
Sir Geoffrey's money, having been distributed
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throughout the adjoining counties. This distribution
had been readily yielded to by O'Halloran's
immediate colleagues, in reliance on being able, on
account of their proximity to the sea, to procure
an abundant and timely supply for themselves,
with the sum which Sir Geoffrey, according to his
contract, had yet to furnish them.
Sore with their disappointment, they now breathed
vengeance on the defaulter; and had he fallen
into the hands of M`Cauley, Kelly, Darragh,
or any other of the more desperate of the party,
his life would have paid the forfeit of his delinquency.
He, however, having lately become a magistrate,
and knowing that for that reason as well as
several others of a more heinous nature, he had
become obnoxious to his former friends, he confined
himself as much as possible to his seat at
Carebrow-hall, which he had the precaution to
keep well guarded, by supplying his domestics
with arms, and ordering them every night to hold
alternate watch, for fear of a surprise.
One evening he would have been destroyed by
Darragh and Kelly, who were indefatigable in
watching for an opportunity for that purpose, contrary
to the desire of their leaders, who did not
at this crisis, wish the attention of the government
to be excited by any such outrage.
He was returning home from Carrickfergus, attended
by two servants, (for he never at this time
ventured abroad without such attendance,) when
coming to the border of his demesne, he ordered
them to catch a favourite colt, which had broken
out of an enclosure, and was playing at large on
the high road. They obeyed, and he rode alone
towards the house.
Darragh and Kelly were lying in wait for him
in the shrubbery that skirted the public avenue,
which led to the house. They were perceived by
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a lad about fourteen years of age, named Nelson,
who knew their design; but who, on account of
Carebrow having arbitrarily turned his mother,
who was a widow, and her family, of which he was
the eldest, out of their little holding, at the most
inclement season of the preceding winter, hated
him. Persuaded now that vengeance would be inflicted
on the oppressor, in the excitement of the
moment, he called prematurely from a tree on
which he was stationed; “There, Darragh! there
comes the tyrant. Now have at him.”
Carebrow both heard and saw Nelson, and instantly
took the alarm. He put spurs to his horse,
which darting over a low clipt hedge into an open
lawn, carried him at full flight towards the house.
Darragh and Kelly being only armed with pistols
and bayonets, conceived it imprudent to fire, as
there would be little chance of hitting him, and the
report would alarm his servants, and render their
escape difficult. They fled immediately without
making any further attempt upon him, but heartily
cursing Nelson for giving him the alarm. It was,
indeed, as we shall afterwards have occasion to
narrate, an unfortunate incident for Nelson, resulting
to him in a most melancholy catastrophe.
As will be readily supposed, wrath and revenge
were highly inflamed in the mind of Sir Geoffrey
on this occasion; but their effects with respect to
the United Irishmen were suppressed by the force
of his terrors; and although he was now in the
commission of the peace, and might have issued
warrants for their apprehension and imprisonment,
he feared their party too much to give them such
provocation. He knew not but that they might
in the end, overthrow their opponents, and in that
case, he wished still to keep a door open for reconciliation
with them. He, therefore, although
he knew the Darragh whom Nelson addressed
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when he gave him the alarm, dared not add to the
irritation of the conspirators, by having him, or
any other of their associates, apprehended. If the
government should maintain its authority, this forbearance
not being publicly known, would not injure
him in its estimation; while, in the event of
the United Irishmen being successful, it might be
pleaded as a merit by which he might hope to regain
their favour, at least their forgiveness.
This unsteady vacillating conduct, this endeavouring
to stand well with both parties, was adopted
by a numerous portion of the Irish population
at this period. Some from mere timidity were entirely
neutral; others from a mixture of ambition
and cowardice, wished to be considered friendly
by both parties, and accordingly, in a covert manner,
occasionally lent assistance to both. So that,
in the vulgar phrase, possessing two strings to their
bow, which ever party prevailed, they were sure to
be gainers.
Sir Geoffrey, however, had offended the conspirators
too deeply to be forgiven on account of
mere forbearance towards them. But he was not
altogether certain of this. He knew that they
were dissatisfied and enraged at his conduct; but
he did not believe that they were irreconcilably
so. He, therefore, conceived it to be his interest,
while he acted so as to merit the favour of the
government, to give the opposite party no cause to
think him their decided enemy.
His ungovernable passion for Ellen alone interfered
with this wise resolution. He could not be
happy without the enjoyment of those beauties, on
which he had so long feasted his imagination. The
cup of bliss had approached too near his lips, and
had been too suddenly and unexpectedly dashed
from them, to be easily forgotten and relinquished.
He was resolved, therefore, to make another effort
to possess it.
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He knew that he was suspected for the outrage
that had already been committed on her, and that
consequently, the eyes of her numerous friends and
connexions would be immediately directed towards
him, if she were subjected to another. He felt,
however, that at all hazards, he must possess her;
but to succeed, and to succeed with safety, required
that the attempt should be conducted, not
only with great dexterity, but with great privacy.
That he was foiled in his last attempt, he attributed
to its having been so publicly made, in the
face of day, and on the open road.
“She shall be mine,” said he to himself, “if
there be power in gold to hire assistants, and
strength in steel to render them successful!”
He had several conferences with one Philip
Berwick, his game-keeper, who had often procured
handsome young women for his service. It was
this man and Tim Rodgers, another of his domestics,
who had been his instrument in the former
attempt to seize Ellen, and who for a handsome
reward, notwithstanding his disaster in that affair,
(for it was he who had fallen under the stroke of
the Green Minstrel,) was ready to renew the under-taking
in what ever way he should be directed.
At length their conferences resulted in the adoption
of the following plan. One of Sir Geoffrey's
tenants, whose rent he attempted to raise, had a
few months before, relinquished his farm, which, as
nobody else thought it worth the sum he demanded
for it, was now unoccupied. On this place there
was a tolerably comfortable dwelling house, in a
very retired situation, to which it was determined
forcibly to bring Ellen, as it was believed that she
could be there effectually concealed, until circumstances
should permit Sir Geoffrey to carry her to
an estate which he possessed in Gloucestershire,
in England.
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CHAP. XX.
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
Teeming with forms his terror grew;
Heedful he watched, for well he knew
That in that dark and devious dell
Some ling'ring ghosts and spirits dwell,
So as he trow'd, so it befel.
Hogg.
Ellen was still on her visit at Mr. Agnew's, and
had recovered all her usual bloom of health and
serenity of mind. She, indeed, still felt some apprehension,
lest the continuance of Sir Geoffrey's
passion should find out some means of disturbing
her repose; but as her friends were numerous and
vigilant, she confided in their zeal and ability to
protect her, and did not permit this apprehension
to repress the natural cheerfulness of her temper,
or damp the joy she experienced from the discovery
of her father, from her own deliverance from
the persecutions of her tormentor, and her rescue
from the violence of his menials. The brave author
of this rescue, her Green Minstrel, her Shamrock
Knight, was never absent from her thoughts.
“Ah!” said she to Miss Agnew, “if this young
man were to reveal himself, I fear that my Edward
would possess only the first share in my affections.
I do not know how it is; but I almost
feel as if I had two hearts, one to bestow on each
of these objects, for (I am, indeed, ashamed to confess
it,) this noble youth intrudes himself on my
mind almost as often and as intensely as he to
whom my first affections have been pledged, and
to whom they must be forever faithful. O! would
to Heaven, that he were Edward, or Edward he!”
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“You have started an odd notion into my mind,”
said her companion, “that they are, indeed, the
same person. If they are not, they must be twins;
for now when I think of them, I protest that you
two stars do not more resemble each other.”
This conversation took place one evening about
the beginning of May, as these two young ladies
walked together to visit a poor, sick man, who lived
in the neighbourhood. The cause of this man's
sickness being somewhat singular, and connected
with the state of the times, and the popular superstitions
of the country, it may be here related.
On the day previous to the visit just mentioned,
Andrew Ramsey, the name of the sick man, had
been on some business at a small village in the
neighbourhood of Carebrow-hall. He had spent
the afternoon in the enjoyment of the bottle, with
some free-hearted convivial acquaintances he had
met with in a Shabeen house, near the village, and
who being, like himself, a United Irishman, were
of course, deeply versed in the politics of the times,
and fond of talking on the subject.
Here it was, that Andrew was first told of the
intended rising in June, and was desired to hold
himself in readiness to take the field with his companions.
As Andrew was not one of the most
courageous of men, this news together with the accompanying
requisition, struck, like a leaden bolt,
upon his spirits, and it was with great difficulty
that he kept them from betraying his fears, by the
inspiring force of the potent liquor that he now
copiously drank.
The shades of evening were fast gathering, and
the time approached when Andrew must part with
his cup and his company. With a doleful countenance
he shook his comrades severally by the
hand.
“Farewell, friends!” said he, “it's likely to be
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a serious time in the lan'. I wish God may preserve
us through the strife. We should be a' busy
praying an' preparing against the warst.”
“By G—d! man, I doobt you'll greet aboot it.
Fight first, an' gin you like, pray next,” said an'
irreverend fellow of the name of Steele, who had
lately become a convert to the age of reason system,
and had thrown off all the shackles of religion,
as unworthy of a citizen patriot and a free
born philosopher.
“Ye're prophane, man,” replied Andrew, “nac
guid can come o' ye, unless ye mend; but for that, I
doubt Tam Paine, an' the devil, Gude forgie me for
naming them, hae been owre busy wi' ye.”
Several of the company laughed at Andrew's
seriouness and alarm; and the more to intimidate
him, as he left the house, Steele called after him,
“Ye maun rin fast, Andy, when ye pass the Saut-Hole,
or some ghaist will catch you there. Ye
ken its the devil's haunt.”
Andrew was on foot. He blessed himself and
walked onwards, endeavouring to divert his fears
by occasionally whistling Patrick's Day, or humming
one of the songs of Paddy's Resource. But
still the terrors of the times and the awfulness of
the place he was approaching, could not be driven
from his recollection.
“There will be unco doings, I'll warrant,”
thought he. “Oh! gin yin kend wha would be slain,
an' wha would be spared, in the struggle, it would
be a satisfaction. Gin we had but a guid prophet
noo, like Jeremiah, to tell us the warst!—But
Gude bless us, there's the Saut-Hole! an' the trees
growin' in it, an' roon' it, whare, they say, Sir
Geoffrey ravished the bonnie lass that was found
dead there sax years syne. It might na' be true,
for it was a lie-like story. But preserve us! what's
that amang the trees! Our father!—our father!—
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Ah! I canna pray. It is the White Woman hersel',
that haunts here. I'm gane! I'm gane!”
He staggered some paces back, with his eyes
fixed on the apparition; and then stood stock-still,
unable either to speak or to move. The vision
seemed to rise from the haunted hole, and advance
slowly from among the trees towards him. It every
now and then uttered a deep sigh, and a hollow
groan. Its form was that of a handsome woman,
clothed in a winding sheet of the purest white.
Her jaws were tied with a fillet, and her countenance
had the pale inanimate look of a corpse.
Andrew's hair now stiffened, and stood upright
on his head; his teeth chattered, his knees bent under
him, and his arms fell flat and useless by his
sides; while his whole frame shook convulsively
as the awful figure drew near and passed him.
“It will surely leave me,” thought he. But it returned,
and repassed him several times in the same
manner. At length it stood right before him, and
gave a fearful mean. “It wants me to speak,”
thought he. Twice he tried, but tried in vain.
The third time he was more successful.
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost, are you flesh or spirit?” said he.
“Thou hast invoked me by a name which compels
me to answer,” replied the vision. “I am the
ghost of Elizabeth Robbins, whom the wicked master
of these domains unfortunately met and forced
to his loathed embraces, in yonder hollow. There
was the scene of my death. I was resolved not to
survive the loss of my purity, and with this knife
(said she, holding up the appearance of one in her
bloody hand,) as soon as the savage left me, I
pierced myself to the heart. Unfit for Heaven,
and yet not doomed to hell, I am permitted to wander
on the earth, and am directed to show the
evils that are coming on the country, to the first
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mortal that should invoke me by the great and
mysterious name you have pronounced.”
She here paused a moment, but soon resumed—
“Well may the swain shudder, and the maiden
mourn, for wickedness has overspread the land,
and its punishment shall fall heavily on the people.
Ah! I see the noblest in the country die on the
field, and the bravest hang on the gibbet! Neighbours
raise the steel of animosity and death against
each other; friends are now each others murderers—
brother rushes against brother, and father
and son bury the weapon of destruction in each
others bosoms! Mourn, ye virgins! your fathers
are captives, your brothers are slain, and your
lovers are scourged, and hanged, and quartered!
And ye too, ye wives, and ye widows, as well as
maidens, lament; for while your purity is ravished
by beastly force, the heads of those who would
have defended or avenged you, are withering on
high in the public places.—Ah! there are now numerous
and fair villages in the land, of which,
yon moon, ere she twice attains her zenith of full
grandeur in the heavens, shall see only the smoking
ruins! She will see our hills, and our plains,
and our streets, and our high-ways red with the
blood of men! She will behold the withering
features of the dead, and the writhing agonies of
the dying!—Hark! I hear the groans of thousands
in their last struggles with the pangs of death!
Weep ye widows, and ye orphans!—ah! ye fill the
land! Weep, for thyself, Andrew Ramsay! for thou
shalt see misery: Go thy way now, and tremble,
and tell the multitude to tremble also, for they
would not repent!”
With an awful shriek, she flew over the tops of
the trees, and disappeared like a cloud expanding
along the distant verge of the horizon. Andrew
continued for some minutes, gazing, breathless and
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stupified, after her. The cold sweat fell in large
drops from his brows, which on the return of his
faculties, he mistook for blood; and he supposed
himself undone. By degrees the spasm of his
muscles relaxed, and voluntary motion being thus
restored, he flew on the wings of terror to the nearest
habitation. The family were in bed.
“Ah! Brice Lee! Brice Lee!” cried he, “for
the love of Heaven, let in a miserable frien' that
is frightened to death.”
The door was soon opened, but the unfortunate
Andrew had fainted on the threshold. By the
attention of the family, he was soon restored to
sensation, and, at different intervals, gave them the
foregoing account. In the morning, intelligence
of his situation was sent to his friends, and he was
carried home during the course of the day.
When Ellen and her friend visited him in the
evening, as before stated, he was in the delirium of
a high fever. They were both shocked at the recital
of the story, and endeavoured to give the
family what consolation they could. Ellen expressed
her opinion that they had no cause to anticipate
any particular calamity, on account of the
prediction that had been given. “For,” she observed,
“even supposing the apparition to have
been supernatural, and commissioned by Heaven
to reveal the secrets of futurity, it had not foretold
that Andrew should feel misery; it only said that
he should see it. But even putting the worst construction
on the prophecy, it might be considered
as fulfilled in his present sufferings; and that
whenever he should recover from the effects of his
fright, all would, no doubt, be well again with the
family.”
Her attempts at consolation were, however, in
vain; and she left the house with a sorrowful heart,
at having witnessed such an example of the deplorable
effects of superstition on the human mind.
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“Do you not believe this story of the ghost?”
asked Miss Agnew, as they walked-homeward.
“No,” replied Ellen.
“And how do you account for this man's illness?”
was again asked.
“Without having recourse to any thing supernatural
in the case,” she replied, “I can account
for it in two ways, either of which, to me, would be
satisfactory. But, surely, Maria, you do not believe
that this man really saw a spirit.”
“I confess,” replied Maria, “from every thing
I see and hear I cannot get over such a belief. I
cannot, on any other supposition, account for this
man's illness. But let me hear how you account
for it?”
“My first method of doing so,” said Ellen,” is
this, I can easily conceive that the intimidated and
intoxicated imagination of this poor man, after what
had passed in the Shabeen house, was sufficient to
conjure up at the dubious hour of darkness, all the
frightful appearances which he describes as having
beheld; and that such an appearance thus conjured
up, might have occasioned all the disordered
ideas to pass through his mind, relative to a
subject which had just occupied it so intensely,
that he ascribes to the revelation of the vision.
This is my first method. My second is still an
easier, more simple, and, under all the circumstances
of the present case, perhaps a more satisfactory
way of accounting for it. It is only by supposing
it altogether a trick of Steele, or some other of his
party. If you are acquainted with this person,
and are really very anxious to be satisfied on the
subject, I will pledge my reputation for sagacity,
that by managing him properly, you will be able to
obtain as satisfactory an explanation of the matter
as you can desire.”
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CHAP. XXI.
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
And is it come to this at last?
And is thy lot, fair maiden cast,
That thou must foul pollution bear,
And sink and die in deep despair?
Shall villains, in their guilt, succeed
To make an angel's bosom bleed?
May Heaven avert the dreadful day,
For Heaven is stronger still than they.
Thaunus the-Druid.
On hearing the latter mode by which Ellen accounted
for the vision of Andrew Ramsay, Miss
Agnew acknowledged its plausibility.
“I did not think of that,” said she; “but I believe
it may have been the case; for I have often
heard of such tricks being practised on weak minded
people, by mischievous wags. I shall make my
brother question Steele on the subject.”
“But, my dear Maria,” observed Ellen, “there
is a piece of intelligence connected with this story,
which excites horrible ideas in my mind. Tell
me, did you ever before hear that Sir Geoffrey was
blamed with the death of that unfortunate girl?”
“I have heard it whispered,” returned Maria;
“but there being no proof of it, every one was
afraid, at the time of the shocking event, to mention
it publicly; and I had supposed that the suspicion
itself had dropped from the minds of the
people.”
“It is a dreadful tale, Maria. I remember the report
of her death; and have often wondered that it's
perpetrator has never been discovered.”
“I believe,” said Maria, “that there were no
other grounds for suspecting Sir Geoffrey, than
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that he had, for sometime previous, paid unusual
attention to the young woman, who is said to have
been remarkably handsome, and that immediately
after the occurrence, he withdrew from the country,
and ever since continued, until the beginning
of last winter, to reside abroad. But these grounds,
you know, were not sufficient to warrant magisterial
interference, especially with a person of his
great wealth and consequence in society.”
“Thank heaven! I have escaped uniting myself
to such a man,” ejaculated Ellen.
At that moment, a man in a gig approached them
at full gallop, followed by another on horseback.
The ladies stood still to let the travellers pass; but
the former stopped the gig suddenly on coming towards
them.
“Fortune favours us!” cried he. “Let us seize
her at once, and be off!”
So saying he sprang out; and with the assistance
of the horseman, hastily secured Ellen in the gig,
when gagging her with a large handkerchief, he
turned his horse, and drove away at full speed.
Miss Agnew in a state of terror and distraction,
fled and screamed for assistance; but before she
could make herself properly understood by those
who flocked to her aid, her friend was far off.
Sir Geoffrey was suspected for this outrage; and
a pursuit commenced in the direction of his residence;
but without success. The ruffians had taken
an unfrequented road which led them directly to
the untenanted house on his estate before mentioned.
The villain in the gig did not speak a word
to his captive, either by way of threat or conciliation,
until they arrived there.
“You are safe now, madam,” was his first observation;
“and, thank heaven, we are safe too.”
A light was soon struck, and a fire kindled, when
Ellen, for the first time, recognised the two men to
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be the very, same that had before attempted to
seize her.
“I am at length undone!” cried she, the gag
being now taken out of her mouth. “For God's
sake, have mercy on me! Deliver me to my grandfather,
and you shall be rewarded to your utmost
desire.”
“We know better, ma'am,” replied one of the
fellows. “We shall be better rewarded by keeping
you. You may as well be quiet. Here nobody
can hear your noise, and come to your rescue, as
that damned rascal in green did the other week.
My master will use you like the apple of his eye;
for he is over head and ears in love with you; and
you may live like a queen, if you only take care
to please him. To be sure he's a little stingy with
his purse; but, I think, if you manage him well,
that you may make your own of him.”
To these remarks Ellen considered it useless to
reply. She laid her head on a table that was
near her, and relieved her bursting heart with a
flood of tears, that fortunately came to her relief. On
looking up after some time, she perceived that one
of the men had left her; but the other sat between
her and the door, and coldly remarked that, as
she must be fatigued, she was perhaps disposed to
go to bed.
“There is a bed in this closet,” said he, as he
opened a door that led into a small apartment.
“It is a comfortable one, and expressly prepared
in expectation of your using if.”
She meditated for some time in silence. At
length, under the impression that she would be
freed from the observation of her jailor, she thought
proper to retire.
“Wont you have a light? ma'am,” asked the
man. “No,” said she, and she closed the door of
her apartment without waiting for more questions.
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She threw herself on her knees, and addressed
her supplications to that God who had more
than once vouchsafed her deliverance from similar
distresses.
“I throw myself again into thy presence,” said
she, “and thou art as mighty to save as ever. Add
to those gracious favours thou hast already bestowed
upon me, one more instance of thy goodness;
save me once more from the power of this man,
who has so long hunted after my ruin. Shouldst
thou deny me the means of escape, Oh! enlighten
the mind of my persecutor to see the enormity
of the crime he would commit: awaken his conscience,
inspire him with repentance for his past
offences, and restrain him from becoming guilty
of additional injury to a helpless maiden. But
shouldst thou in thy providence think fit to inflict
upon me still severer trials than I have yet sustained,
Oh! at least, preserve me from pollution
and infamy, for into thy gracious keeping I commit
all my safety.”
In a somewhat calmer state of mind, she threw
herself on the bed, and with a trembling frame
and agitated heart, passed a sleepless night. The
morning only brought an increase of her sorrow,
for it brought the detestable Sir Geoffrey himself.
“Sweetest of thy sex,” said he, “behold in this
reluctantly adopted and disagreeable measure, the
violence of my passion. I cannot live without you.
Be mine; make me happy as your husband; accept
of me on any conditions you may prescribe.
My fortune, my life—all are yours, only give me
yourself in exchange.”
“Son of iniquity; barbarous, wicked man, I
know you now too well ever to link my fate with
yours. Had I known you sooner, you should never
have received even the reluctant civilities that
were once extorted from me.”
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“My wish must be gratified!” he exclaimed.
“Either voluntarily make me happy, or know,
that force will compel you. I will give you till this
evening to decide.”
“Infamous man! do you insult me, by calculating
on my deliberate acquiescence in guilt? for
guilt it would be, knowing you as I now do, to accept
your proposals. I am aware that you have a villanous
conscience, capable enough of perpetraling
your threats; but think you that there is not a
God who can blast you ere your crimes be accomplished!”
“Sorceress!” cried he, “you hate me, and defy
me; but your beauty has enchanted my senses.
I am mad with love! I will not postpone my
bliss. The delay I proposed was unwise. Accident
might once more rob me of my treasure; but now,
bewitching, lovely girl, you shall bless me in spite
of accident!”
So saying, he clasped her in his arms with a
force and vehemence that made her tremble, and
she screamed hopelessly but instinctively for help.
“It is in vain for you to resist,” said he, loosening
her for a moment. “My mind is too fiercely
bent on you, to leave you without being satisfied.
Your strength is useless, for if aid be necessary to
force you, I have it at hand. As to screams, in
this remote place, thank my stars, they will meet
no ear but such as will listen to me alone.” He
again attempted to seize her; but with a desperate
effort she sprang from him.
“O God,” she exclaimed, “if man cannot hear
me, thou canst! Save me! Save me from the murderer
of Robbins.”
“What meanest thou by that name?” said he,
for a moment struck almost motionless by the
sound.
“To awaken thy guilty conscience,” she replied,
“and prevent thee from being twice a murderer.”
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“Girl, 'tis false,” he cried, in great agitation.
“Thou art a fiend; but thou art a beautiful one,
and thy charms shall now recompense me for this
pang.”
In saying this, with the fury of a tyger, he darted
upon her, and threw her on the bed.
At that moment a confusion of voices were heard
out side of the house, and instantaneously, the
shock of a door bursting from its bolts, which was
immediately followed by the discharge of a pistol
in the outer room.
“Ah! villain is it you! Receive this! Where
is the lady!” was exclaimed by a voice familiar to
Ellen.
“She maun be in that room, gin she's on earth,”
was replied by a coarse female voice, and the
next moment the door was laid on the floor with a
dreadful crash; and the Green Minstrel appeared.
“Horrible monster!” cried he, seizing Sir Geoffrey
by the throat, “have you ruined that angel?”
“Mercy! murder! I have not injured her,”
stammered the terrified and half strangled knight.
“It is well for you. This hour would else have
been your last,” replied the Minstrel, and he dashed
him to the floor with a force that made the
house shake. Then turning to Ellen, “sweet maid,
are you safe?” he inquired.
“Thank Heaven, I am. My deliverer again!
How providential was this?” she replied.
“Thank Heaven! indeed,” said he, and he
pressed her hand to his lips.
At that instant she screamed, and casting her
arms about him, with a sudden effort, moved him
from his position, and received the point of a dirk
in her neck. It would have entered deep enough
to have terminated both her sorrows and her life,
had not the timely interference of Peg Dornan
arrested the blow.
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“The curse o' God on ye for a murderer!” exclaimed
Peg, “you thoucht to kill the bonniest lad,
an' ye hae killed the bonniest lass in the land.”
The Minstrel turned round, and beheld the dirk in
Sir Geoffrey's hand, with Peg Dornan struggling
to force it from him. He also perceived it stained
with the blood of his beloved. “Infernal fiend!”
cried he, wresting the weapon from him; and again
dashing him to the floor, he held him firmly there
with his foot fixed on his neck. Jemmy Hunter at
that moment entered. He had been employed in
binding the legs and arms of Tim Rogers, Sir
Geoffrey's servant, whom the Minstrel had knocked
down in the outer chamber, on the firing of the
pistol. Hunter performed the operation with great
coolness and dexterity, remarking, “I wish, frien',
I was tying this rape aboot your neck, to gie you
the weicht o' your damned carcass at its end.”
Ellen had swooned; and while Peg was running
for some water to sprinkle on her face, the Minstrel
who believed her to be really dead, leaned
over her with tears gushing from his eyes.
“Purest, loveliest of created beings,” cried he,
“thou art gone to a world more worthy of thee.
Thou hast left thy lover. But, O! thou wert
snatched from him too soon. Thou wert the delight
of mine eyes, the hope, the joy of my heart—
this widowed heart, that shall now never more know
peace.—Unmanly monster!” he exclaimed, turning
towards Sir Geoffrey; “couldst thou not have
aimed better, and slain me as was thy design; and
not have destroyed such innocence, such virtue,
such loveliness!—but thy barbarous hand has left
to me a living, lingering death. Ah! yet take the
weapon, if thou hast any mercy in thee, and end
my sorrows.”
“Dinna lay in sae much to heart,” said Hunter.
“You should na vex yoursel' sae. It's no'
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reasonable to greet like a woman, (the tears at the
same time swelling in his own eyes,) though it's a
sair an' sorrowfu' sight—for she was a weel-fared,
guid young lady. But ye maunna talk o' deeing.
Ye maun leeve to bring this wicked limb o' hell to
the hemp rape for this wark.”
Peg Dornan had now returned, and was bathing
Ellen's temples and cheeks with some spirits which
she had found in the outer room, when she opened
her eyes and began again to respire. The Minstrel,
who had watched her with the anxiety of despair,
gave a shout of joy.
“My love!” said he, “speak to me. Do not
you know your Edward, your Middleton, your
Barrymore, your Minstrel? Live, my love, and
never will I leave thy side till this execrable
wretch be secured beyond the power of injuring
you more.”
She held out her hand to him. “I am happy,”
said she, “to see you living. Ah! I thought the
steel had entered your body. But heaven has been
more merciful. You are indeed my Edward, my
Minstrel, my preserver. None else can ever be
my love.”
Edward kissed her hand fervently. Now indeed,
he felt happiness. What a contrast! He who had
the moment before been sunk into the lowest depths
of misery, would not now have exchanged feelings
with the proudest monarch in christendom.
The agitation of our lovers soon began to subside.
Ellen's wound was dressed. It was found
to penetrate very little deeper than the skin, for
the timely interference of Peg Dornan, had given
such an oblique direction to the stroke, that it had
inflicted only a superficial injury, which threatened
no ill consequences. Her swoon had been occasioned
solely from the supposition that Edward
was murdered.
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Peg Dornan had by this time discovered some
wine and other articles of refreshment in the house,
of which Ellen partook, and in a short time her
strength was sufficiently restored to admit of her
being removed.
Edward had been slightly wounded in the thigh
by the contents of the pistol, which Berwick had
fired at him on entering the house, having grazed
along the flesh, and torn part of it away. During
the hurry and excitement of the preceding scene,
he had paid no attention to the wound. He now,
however, found it necessary to have it dressed,
which was soon accomplished, and he was prepared
to escort Ellen to her grandfather's, where she
wished to be taken.
They were now under some embarrassment how
to dispose of their prisoners. Hunter would have
carried them to a magistrate for the purpose of having
them committed to jail. But Sir Geoffrey threatened
that if they did so, he would bring immediate
destruction on O'Halloran, by disclosing his treasonable
practices to the government; and Edward
considering that he had not actually accomplished
any crime for which he could be capitally punished,
thought it better not to take this course. At the
same time, he conceived it unsafe to permit him to
remain at large, for then would not only O'Halloran
be in danger from his disclosures, but Ellen
might again suffer from his violence.
While they were in this perplexity, the Recluse
and M`Nelvin arrived. They had heard of Ellen's
seizure, and suspecting Sir Geoffrey to be
its author, had hastened to Carebrow-hall. M`Nelvin
alone entered the house, and discovered from
one of the servants where Sir Geoffrey had gone
that morning. “I wonder what the devil he is going
to do there?” observed the servant, “for it's
a waste farm.”
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M`Nelvin made no answer; but joining the Recluse,
they hastened as fast as possible to the
place, and arrived just at the point of time we
have mentioned.
They were of opinion, that it would be proper
to effect the removal of the captives without delay,
lest some of Sir Geoffrey's domestics might arrive,
and occasion them trouble, nay, perhaps, effect
his rescue. It was therefore determined to deliver
him, and his fellow culprit, into the hands of O'Halloran,
to be dealt with as the leaders of the United
Irishmen should think proper. They now proceeded
by a private road to Mr. Agnew's, from
whence, as soon as night came, their prisoners
could be conveyed without risk or difficulty to
their destination.
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CHAP. XXII.
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
With many a vow and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging oft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder.
Burns.
As the party proceeded to Mr. Agnew's, the
lovers found an opportunity to ride at some distance
from the rest of the company and enjoy the
luxury of a private conversation. Ellen expressed
some inquietude, lest Edward should, even under
the disguise of a minstrel, be recognized by
the United Irishmen, and involved into fresh troubles.
“I keep so close,” said he, “that except when the
necessity of serving you requires it, I never leave my
concealment, and, on such occasions, this habit has
hitherto been an effectual disguise; and you will
acknowledge that my general hiding-place is well
chosen, both in point of security and enjoyment,
when I inform you that it is the Recluse's cavern.”
“That cavern is, indeed, an endeared spot to
me,” said she, and she coloured as she spoke;
“since it is the asylum of my two best and dearest
friends.”
“Ah! my heart's best treasure, sweet endearing
girl!” exclaimed Edward, “how happy you make
me in accounting me one of that sacred number!”
“Permit me,” said she, wishing to stop his raptures,
and to give a different direction to the conversation,
“permit me to inquire how you discovered
me this morning, in so obscure and unsuspicious a
place; and also how you appeared so fortunately
to rescue me on a former occasion?”
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“My love,” said he, “I shall explain the whole
mystery. You know that after my escape from
the United Irishmen, I kept up a constant correspondence
with the Recluse, by whom I was informed
of every thing that happened to you. When
he mentioned the persecution you suffered from
the addresses of Sir Geoffrey, and that your grandfather
exerted his authority over you in his favour,
I anticipated some misfortune, and resolved to visit
your neighbourhood, to watch over your safety,
and rescue you from any calamity that might befall
you. To effect this, it was necessary, for obvious
reasons, to disguise myself. After my return home,
I had employed one of Arthur O'Neil's pupils, to
give me instructions on the harp; for I had imbibed
your taste for that instrument; and having become
a tolerable performer, I adopted the habit and profession
of a minstrel. I arrived at the Recluse's
cavern in the beginning of March; and by M`Nelvin's
management I was admitted to perform as a
harper in the castle, at the celebration of St. Patrick's
Day, on which occasion you so signalized
me, by bestowing on me the contested prize, as to
excite the envy of my competitors.
“The jealousy of Sir Geoffrey, on that occasion,
I made no doubt, was the cause of his urging you
so instantaneously to accept his proposals; and
I determined, at all risks, to rescue you from his
power. But when I heard that you had consented
to become his wife, I thought it improper to interfere,
and I became almost distracted with intensity
of grief; and, I assure you, that had you then married
him, I should have fled my country never to
see it more.
“It was then that the Recluse, in pity to my sufferings,
revealed to me his relationship to you,
and the other particulars of his life; and gave me
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assurances that, as he knew your consent had proceeded
from a deference to parental authority, he
would interfere with an authority of that description,
which you would esteem more imperative
than that of your grandfather. The happy consequence
of his interference, I shall never forget.
He ran some risk on the occasion; but his affection
for you, and his knowledge of Sir Geoffrey's character,
constrained him to overlook all hazards.
“Aware that your tormentor would adopt other
methods of possessing you, I determined to keep a
close watch on his motions. For this purpose, I
had recourse to Peg Dornan, whose profession as
a beggar would procure her constant and unsuspected
admission to his house. Of her zeal in
your cause, I was aware, and of her prudence in
such matters, I had before ample demonstration.
She readily undertook the office assigned her, and
has discharged it with fidelity and success.
“It was she who informed me that Berwick and
Rodgers, had engaged to be the instruments of Sir
Geoffrey's villany. I observed them several times
suspiciously lurking in your neighbourhood, as if
watching an opportunity to seize you. In all your
walks and journeys, I, therefore, determined to
hover near you, that in case of any attack, I might
be at hand for your defence.
“Accordingly, when you set off for Mr. Agnew's,
I followed you. It was fortunate I did so.—But
you know the result. Before Berwick recovered
from the effects of the blow, you had resumed your
journey, in safety from his pursuit. He did not,
however, attempt to pursue; for I watched until he
had re-mounted, and set off in a different direction.
“Since your visit to Mr. Agnew's, that I might
be convenient to you, I have resided about half a
mile distant, at the house of an old widow, a strenuous
friend to the United Irishmen, who has
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carefully and kindly concealed me, under the persuasion
that I am proscribed by the government, and
hiding from its power.
“Conceiving, that if Sir Geoffrey renewed his attempt
to seize you, he would do it in a more formidable
manner than before, I thought it prudent
to provide an assistant, in whose courage and
fidelity I could depend. You will readily agree,
that I could not have found one better qualified in
these respects, than our honest farmer, James Hunter.
He engaged ardently in the affair, and without
hesitation took lodging beneath the same roof
with me, under a similar plea. Peg Dornan, who,
of course, knew where to find us, came to us this
morning breathless, and in great agitation.
“Come oot,” said she, “till I tell you!” I accompanied
her out of doors.
“They hae ta'en her, at last,” she resumed, “I
ca'ed at Mr. Agnew's before I cam' here, an' the
servants are pursuing, yin, yin way, an' yin
anither; but nane o' them the richt way; I ken
that. Miss Agnew has had a'e fit o' the mither after
anither, till she's amaist dead. Ye maun ken that
I was sleeping in Sir Geoffrey's kitchen-neuk when
Rodgers cam' hame in the night time. The master
met him in the hall, for, I trow, he had no' been
in bed; an' neither o' them saw me, though I was
within twa yards o' them.
“Have you got her to Gorman's house?” said
the master.
“We have, your honour; and a right speedy
scamper we had of it,” said Rodgers, “she made
such a screaming; but Berwick soon gagged her.
But her comrade, Agnew's daughter, ran and terrified
the neighbours so much, that, late as it was,
I feared we would have been catched, before we
got to Gorman's. But the horses were guid, your
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honour; and she is now as snug for you, as if she
were lodged in your own bed room.”
“I immediately summoned Hunter. Our horses
were soon prepared, for we kept them in an adjoining
field, ready for any emergency. As Peg
alone knew Gorman's place, it was necessary to
take her along as a guide. She was accordingly
mounted behind Hunter; and we set off at full
speed. Thank Providence, our haste was not in
vain. You are safe once more; and I trust your
friends, in whose hands your infamous persecutor
now is, will take care that he shall not again have
the power to injure you.”
When he had ended his recital, “Ah! generous
Barrymore,” she exclaimed, “what do I not owe
you for so much kindness?”
“You owe me nothing,” he replied. “Ah! yes;”
he continued, “I do ask for the vastness of my
love, not for my services, the most valued, the
most precious reward this world can afford me; I
ask thyself?”
The burning blush that now glowed on the countenance
of Ellen was beautiful beyond the power
of genius to portray. It was like the living saffron
that irradiates the face of heaven, when the sun
gilds with his golden beams, the bosom of a snowy
cloud; and the look of gladness that sparkled in
her bright rolling eyes, was like the agitated reflection
of the same luminary when it glitters from
a liquid mirror.
She replied not. Their arrival at Mr. Agnew's
prevented her; but to the penetrating eye of Edward,
her look had spoken a reply a thousand
times more satisfactory than could have been conveyed
in the strongest language.
For reasons well known to his friends, Edward
now disappeared. He returned to his hospitable
widow, and conferring on her an unexpected
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reward, told her that he must, with his companion,
seek a new residence for a few weeks. When
night came he assisted his friends to convey the
culprits to O'Halloran Castle, and then retired with
the Recluse to his subterraneous dwelling.
Sir Geoffrey, and his worthy compeer, the game-keeper,
were soon secured in the conspirator's
strong hold, within the Point rock; but met with
very different treatment from what Edward had
received, when confined in the same place the
preceding year. The chiefs of the conspiracy,
besides their displeasure at his conduct to Ellen,
detested him as an apostate, one whose fraudulent
behaviour towards them had thrown their affairs
into considerable embarrassment, and whose fears
alone had prevented him from absolutely betraying
them to their enemies. They, therefore, on first
receiving him, secured him in a dark apartment,
chained to the rock, where he had only straw for
a bed, and was fed on bread and water. His
servant was treated more leniently, as being only
an instrument in the hands of the superior criminal.
At length Sir Geoffrey consented to purchase
greater indulgence, by giving O'Halloran an order
on his Dublin banker, for the twenty thousand
pounds of which he had attempted to defraud him.
Edward having thus secured the object of his
affections from the further aggressions of her tormentor,
thought of returning to Dublin. As he
had lately held no conversation with any of the
conspirators on political subjects, he neither knew,
nor wished to know, the posture of their affairs.
The safety and welfare of Ellen was the great object
that had occupied his mind. He was however
far from viewing the threatening aspect of the
times with indifference; but he did not conceive
the stability of the constitution to be really in
danger from the present conspiracy. Had he
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[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
thought so, its preservation would undoubtedly
have enlisted all his energy and feelings, and
been viewed as possessing a paramount claim over
every other consideration, to his services. The
threatened insurrection, if it did take place, as its
materials were so very discordant and scattered,
and the great majority of the influential men of the
kingdom, its opponents, he believed, would be
neither very extensive nor of long duration. It
might bring destruction on a few of its leaders and
their most zealous followers; but he had no power
to prevent this; he could only deplore it.
In the event of an actual rebellion, the preservation
of O'Halloran would be the chief object of
his solicitude. He believed, however, that by ingratiating
himself with the executive authorities of
the day, he might acquire sufficient influence to
protect this enthusiastic old man, should he fall
into the hands of the government. Hence he
thought it necessary to return to the capital; which
he did with the less reluctance, as he knew that he
left Ellen under the protection of the watchful eye
of her father, the affectionate sagacity of M`Nelvin,
and the energetic and faithful arm of Jemmy
Hunter. Of every important occurrence, he also
knew that he should receive the earliest intelligence,
and could act accordingly.
During the parting interview he had with Ellen
in her father's cave and presence, while under the
influence of the warm feelings the occasion excited,
he solicited strongly for an immediate marriage.
“I am at my own disposal,” said he, “independent
as far as a competence of worldly wealth
can make me so, in my own right; so that, without
reference to either the pleasure or the displeasure
of my father or my uncle, I think I may
be justified in taking this step.”
Ellen declared that in the present critical state of
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[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
her grandfather's affairs, she could not consent to
such a measure without his approbation, “and you
are aware,” said she, “that to obtain that, the obstacles
are insurmountable.”
Her father also declared that he would not consent
to a private union, which, however, fair and
valid, would carry with it something of a clandestine
and improper air, and which might, from that
very circumstance alone, be displeasing to Edward's
relations. “No,” said he, “my young, but
too ardent friend, let the crisis of the times be past,
let the fate of this conspiracy be decided, and when
the storm which it raises is blown over, and the
affairs of our country again become calm and settled,
I shall promote your views of domestic felicity;
and publicly, perhaps, (for Providence may
by that time restore me to society) have the pleasure,
with the approbation of your friends, of bestowing
my daughter on you, and giving you both,
at the moment of the ceremony, a father's benediction.”
Edward acquiesced, having first obtained from
Ellen an assurance that she would comply with his
wishes, whenever such a period as that to which
her father alluded, should arrive. “But, ah! surely,”
said she, “this is not a time to indulge our
selfish wishes; this is no time for the mirth, or joy,
or pageantry of a marriage, when our country is
in sorrow, when she is about to be agonized at
every pore; and, perhaps, rent in pieces by a
dreadful convulsion. Ah! my Edward, I fear we
have numerous scenes of sorrow to witness, perhaps
to endure, before we can experience joy.
Let us prepare our minds for the worst; but amidst
our misfortunes, whatever they may be, let us be
faithful to each other; for be assured, that whether
in prosperity or adversity, I shall be faithful to
you.”
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“My only love!” replied Edward, touched to
the heart by her fervency, “that God who loves
purity, will avert from thee the calamities thy toe
timid mind forebodes; and as to the fidelity of my
heart's affections, the moment of its first wandering
from thee, shall be that of its last pulsation. No;
Ellen, I have rivetted thy image, I have rivetted
thy virtues and thy loveliness, too strongly here,
in my heart, ever to displace them, and they never
shall be displaced.” He warmly caught her hand,
and kissed it. “God preserve thee, my espoused,”
he exclaimed, “for whatever man may say or do,
thou art mine in the ordination of Heaven. God
preserve thee, until I see thee again!” and he rushed
from her in violent agitation, and departed.
END OF VOLUME 1.
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McHenry, James, 1785-1845 [1824], O'Halloran, or, The insurgent chief. An Irish historical tale of 1798, volume 1 (H. C. Carey & I. Lea, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf270v1].
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