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When Ellen and her aunt visited their unfortunate
relative after his condemnation, they found
him in an apartment separate from the other prisoners.
He had requested that they would not be
present at his trial, lest the horror with which they
should hear his doom pronounced, should overpower
them, and their distress tend to weaken his
own fortitude. As they expected the result, they
were not surprised, when informed of it. But
when they visited him, the sad reality being now
before them, they gave way to all the softness and
affection of the female nature, and long and loudly
wept beside him.

While they were thus venting their grief, the
Recluse, and the poet, M`Nelvin, entered the prison.
They obtained this permission, by means of
M`Claverty, who, on this occasion, exerted himself
to procure for O'Halloran and his friends, every
possible indulgence, and it was by his management
that they now enjoyed the convenience of a separate
apartment.

After the first salutation, M`Nelvin became downcast
and silent. The Recluse spoke some words
of consolation; but his own agitation made him a
bad comforter, and he soon also became silent.
For some time the same gloom and silence

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pervaded the apartment, as if O'Halloran's soul had
already taken its flight. He was himself by far
the least agitated; and perceiving the faculties of his
visiters to be absorbed in sorrow; “My friends,”
said he, looking round with a cheerful countenance,
“the muteness of your grief shows its intensity.
But for my sake, I beg you will not give way to
such weakness, otherwise I may not be able to
support my own strength of mind. Indeed I cannot
bear to see my friends in such affliction. But
for what are you afflicted? Because one of your
friends, who has been upwards of half a century
in this world, is about to leave it for a better! Rather
rejoice with me, that I shall so soon be released
from all my sorrows and vexations. Is it the manner
of this release that effects you? God has willed
that it should take place in this manner; and will
you offend him by repining? And what, after all,
is there peculiarly distressing in this mode of
changing existence? As to its suddenness, an apoplexy
would be more so. As to the pain it inflicts
no man should regard that. It is soon over;
the torments of many diseases are far more excruciating,
and infinitely more tedious. As to ignominy,
there is none attending it, for this path to eternity,
has been trodden by many virtuous and great
men, whose memories are hallowed in the affections
of all the wise and good of their species. It
can be no disgrace for me, to tread the path that
was formerly trod by Sidney and Russell, and latterly
by Orr, and only yesterday by Porter and
M`Cracken. Our enemies may indeed cut short the
thread of our existence here, but they cannot deprive
us of the esteem of our friends and countrymen when
we are gone. These are comfortable considerations.
But they are not the only considerations
that support me under this dispensation. Here

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is my grand support,” said he, lifting a small
bible which lay on a table near him, and opening
it; “here is the support with which God himself
graciously furnished me, when a wanderer from
Donegore, and driven to the very verge of despair.
In the midst of my anguish, this consolatory passage
was opened to me, in an hospitable cottage,
and from that moment, my soul has never known
despondency, or distrusted its Creator.”

The Recluse now drew near him. “Forgive my
weakness,” said he; “my mind is agitated from
more causes than grief. Suspense tears it to
pieces; but I must not disturb your serenity by
communicating the cause of my anxiety.”

“What!” said O'Halloran, with some alarm;
“I trust you forebode no more misfortune to my
grandchild! Oh! Ellen, my child, your exposed
state alone causes me to feel uneasy. But to the
care of that God, in whom I trust, I commend you;
and you have near, dear, and vigilant friends, even
in this world. But oh! never forget to repose
your chief confidence in the protector you have
in heaven.”

The Recluse assured him that he knew of no
evil threatening Ellen; that his suspense was occasioned
by his entertaining hopes for him which he
feared were likely to be disappointed.

“If that be all,” replied O'Halloran, “you may
cast aside your suspense. My hopes are sure, and
will not deceive me, for they are fixed on Heaven.”

A messenger now entered from the commander
of the garrison, requesting to know if O'Halloran
desired the society of a clergyman; and if so,
to signify his commands on the subject, and they
should be attended to. The attendance of one of
his clerical fellow prisoners was requested, and obtained;
the other being appointed to attend young

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Nelson. The ladies, and O'Halloran's other friends;
now left him to the conversation of the clergyman,
and withdrew to the inn. The next morning, they
again visited him. He had enjoyed a good night's
sleep; was very much refreshed, and somewhat
more cheerful than on the preceding evening.

“Now my sister,” said he to Mrs. Brown, “I
do not wish you to accompany me to day. Let
me bid you and Ellen a last adieu. After the
pang of this separation, for I feel indeed a pang,”
and the tears started into his eyes, “all my earthly
cares will be over, and I shall have nothing to
do but to die.”

“We will accompany you part of the way,”
said they. “I would rather not,” he replied;
“your presence would remind me of earthly enjoyments;
and I wish nothing at that period to attract
my thoughts from Heaven.”

“Well, then, Henry!” said Mrs. Brown, “farewell!
In Heaven I hope, soon to meet you.”

“Farewell! my sister. We shall meet there;”
and he embraced her. “Now, thou daughter of
my only child!” continued he, turning to Ellen,
“the only offspring I leave in this world; thou hast
long been the darling of my heart and the object
of my care, farewell! I resign thee to the care of
the Almighty. May his blessing forever rest on
thee!” He then gave her a parting embrace, and
her aunt and she, were led out of the room by Mr.
Wilson and the Recluse.

It was about eight o'clock; and they had scarcely
reached the inn, when the sound of military
music drew their attention. They looked from the
windows and beheld a regiment of infantry marching
from the castle towards the jail. Their hearts
sank within them; for this was the commencement
of the procession to the fatal spot.

The regiment halted; and was drawn up before
the jail. In a few minutes, they saw Nelson

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brought out, on a common farming car, surrounded
by soldiers. His coffin was behind him, and a
man who, as they were informed, was the executioner,
sat on the other side of the vehicle. It
stopped a few minutes in the middle of the street;
when one of the clergymen before mentioned,
placed himself along side of Nelson, with a bible in
his hand. In a short time, another vehicle of the
same sort, appeared. It contained O'Halloran, his
coffin, and his clerical attendant. The ladies saw
but one glimpse of it; for they could look no more.
Their hearts became faint, their vision indistinct,
and their heads swam dizzily, as they were removed
from the appalling view.

The heavy monotonous sound of the muffled
drums, now beating time to the music of a dead
march, informed them that the procession was departing
on its fatal errand; and when the ladies
had recovered sufficiently to look into the street,
all was there as still and quiet as if nothing of importance
had taken place. The procession having
taken the road to Ballycarry, Mr. Wilson, and the
ladies, attended by their servants and Jemmy
Hunter, set off on another road, to avoid passing it,
towards Larne.

The military with their prisoners, halted about
half a mile to the south of Ballycarry, (at the
northern end of which village, stood the cabin in
which Nelson's mother resided,) to give the soldiers
time to form their ranks for marching through the
village. The slow pace, the dead music, and the
solemn beat, was again heard, and continued until
the car on which Nelson was seated, came opposite
his mother's door. The whole then stopped, and
Nelson's mother suddenly fainted in the arms of
her son.

The executioner selected an ash tree, which
grew near the end of the house, for the gallows.

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The car was soon drawn forward under the spreading
branches of that tree, on which Nelson had
often ascended in pastime, with all the sprightly
playfulness and innocence of childhood. After the
affecting ceremony of bidding farewell to several
of his friends and playmates, who were permitted
to approach him, the clergyman commenced divine
worship by singing the forty-third psalm, in which
Nelson and several of the by-standers joined. The
clergyman then addressed the throne of heaven in
a style so fervent and pathetic as to draw tears
from the eyes of all present, not excepting the
rough soldiers themselves. When he had finished,
he asked the youthful victim, if he had any thing
to communicate to the people, concerning his death.
He replied that he had nothing more to say, than that
he died innocent; for he had never murdered, nor
intended to murder any one—that on the day of
the rising, he had gone with a message to some of
Sir Geoffrey's men, who were United Irishmen, to
call them out; but that he had no arms with him,
nor had he threatened any of them. That he was
willing and ready to die; since he was sure that
as he died innocent, he would go to heaven.

The executioner now adjusted the rope, and
asked him if he was ready. He replied that he
only wished to see his mother once more, and then
he would be ready. His mother was supported
forward to him, for her distress rendered her unable
to support herself.

“Oh! my William! my lovely child!” exclaimclaimed
she—“They murder thee,” she would
have continued; but grief choaked her further
utterance.

“Mother!” said he, stooping to catch her in his
arms, “wont you kiss me, and bless me before I
die?” She raised her eyes, swimming in tears, and
with an almost convulsive effort, clasped him to

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her bosom. “May the God of heaven bless thee,
my dear son!” she cried; “thou wilt soon be with
thy father, and I will soon follow thee.”

“Amen,” replied the victim, and giving a sign to
the executioner, his mother was removed, and the
work of death proceeded on. It was soon finished
amidst the agonizing horror, but profound silence
of the assembled multitude. His body was then
cut down, deposited in the coffin, and delivered, a
melancholy, heart-rending present, to his disconsolate
mother.

Long, long will the maidens of the surrounding
country, pause to drop a tear, as they pass the spot
where the remains of this youthful martyr are deposited;
and with swelling bosoms, adopt the language
of Ireland's sweetest melodist, when they
pathetically express their sorrows for his cruel
fate.

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