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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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CHAP. VII.

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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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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.

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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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