CHAP. XXIV.
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
Enough of this. To deal in wordy compliment
Is much against the plainness of my nature;
I judge you by myself, a clear true spirit,
And as such join you to my bosom—
Farewell, and be my friend.
Rowe.
The deceased Earl had never possessed any
children. His title, therefore, together with his
immense property, devolved on Edward, who in a
very short period, took occasion, in company with
nis mother and sister, to visit the North, and lay
them at the feet of Ellen.
“My lord!” said she, as he warmly pressed for
an immediate union, “it would be mere affectation
in me to deny what you already know, that my
heart pleads in your favour. But I am at my
father's disposal, and must request you to wait till
his consent be obtained in form.”
“Then, my love, you may name the happy day,”
he replied, “for before I left Dublin, I obtained Sir
Francis's promise that he would follow me here,
in a few days, to be present at our nuptials.”
“Then, my lord,” she answered, “when he
comes we may permit him to name it.”
When she had said this, her countenance changed,
she blushed deeply, and looking to the ground,
almost burst into tears.
“What is the matter, my Ellen?” enquired the
young Earl, who was himself considerably agitated.
“Oh!” said she, “the word has passed my lips.
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I have committed my liberty into your hands. I
cannot now recall it. The change is awful!”
“Surely, sweetest Ellen, you do not wish to recall
it.”
“No, my lord, otherwise I should not have
said it. I have said it deliberately, willingly, and
without scruple. But it brings to my mind the recollection
of the freedom I have hitherto enjoyed,
in parting with which I cannot help shedding a few
natural tears. Besides, I cannot without concern,
contemplate the high responsibility of the station
I am about to fill. Should I fail in any part of my
duty—”
“My Ellen!” he interrupted her, “my treasure,
be comforted. It is impossible that one of your
goodness of heart and understanding, can fail in
any duty. As to the station, you will adorn it.
You will be an example to our peeresses of all that
is virtuous, lovely, dignified, and wise. In the eyes
of your Edward, station cannot exalt you. He
found you among these rocks, on this romantic
shore, a jewel of perfection, valuable beyond all
price, and such a one as in his estimation, no
change of scene or circumstance, neither humiliation
nor exaltation, can alter. He will soon move
you to a more busy and brilliant sphere, where,
while every eye admires your lustre, and every
heart acknowledges your value, you will still be to
him, as you have been here, the pride, the delight
of his soul, the dearest part of himself.”
But it would be tedious to detail the whole of his
love conversation, which lasted nearly three hours,
as every one in the Castle, who knew they were
together, felt unwilling to disturb them; and Mrs.
Brown had the good nature to postpone making
tea for a whole hour after the usual time, rather
than interrupt their agreeable tete-a-tete. Tea was,
however, at length, got ready; and when the lovers
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were summoned to attend, they could scarcely be
convinced that the old lady had not prepared it
much earlier than usual. On their entering the
parlour, Edward's sister maliciously consulted her
watch.
“It is past seven o'clock,” said she.
“Past seven o'clock!” cried his lordship. “Why,
Charlotte, your watch must be wrong. I cannot
suppose it to be more than five.”
“That is owing to your having been in pleasant
company,” said she. “Time does not now lag with
your lordship, as it did at Barrymount one day,
when you insisted that it was two o'clock when it
was hardly past twelve; and in sheer pity, I had to
drive away in a chaise with you, to try to make it
move faster.”
“Ah! Charlotte, you may now laugh;—but, I
hope, I shall yet have my revenge, by observing
your little heart beating impatiently for the arrival
of an esteemed friend.”
“And a dearly beloved one too,” added she, with
emphasis.
“Yes, my sister,” said he, “and may he who
can excite similar emotions in your heart, be as
worthy of love, as the object who occasioned that
day's impatience in mine!”
“Amen,” she replied.
The tea-table was scarcely removed, when Miss
Barrymore, looking from a window, exclaimed,
“Why, my lord, I declare, yonder is the old beggar
woman you left an invalid on our hands, when
you set off so hastily from Dublin in June last.
His lordship looked out, and beheld Peg Dornan
advancing briskly up the avenue.
She had become perfectly convalescent, and
had returned from Dublin during the time that Edward
was employed in Cornwallis's army; and was
now a fund of great entertainment to the whole
neighbourhood, for several miles round, by her
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inexhaustible descriptions of the great city, and the
great folks in it.
She was soon heard addressing one of the servants.
“I'm tauld he's come,” said she, “an' I'll wait
here till I see him, for I hae na cast an ee on him
syne the day he left me in sic a hurry, in his father's
hoose, a perfect cripple, wi' my twa shanks
as thick as butter-firkins, an' my feet blistered like
broiled herrin's. An' the bit lassie, his sister—Gude
bless her bonnie face. She gied me baith wine an'
plenty o' sweetmeats every day, whilk was a great
comfort to a puir body in a muckle wild toon sae
far frae hame.”
“Old Peg has a good heart,” said Edward. “I
must go to speak with her.”
O'Halloran went with him.
“Fare fa' you!” quoth she, making a low courtesy
as soon as she saw them. “I may be owre
bauld; but I wished to see his honour, wha, they
tell me, is noo a young lord, yince mair.”
“Well, Peg, how have you been, since we parted?”
asked his lordship.
“Weel enough for a poor body like me; but I'm
still better noo since I see you whare you oucht to
be; an' since I hear you're sune gaun to get wha'
I aye thoucht you should get.”
“Peg!” replied Edward, “you have rendered
us many and great services. I shall have a little
cottage built for you, in which you can spend your
old days in comfort.”
“I thank you, kindly,” she said, “but you need
na be at the pains. His honour there, my auld
master an' frien', has already gi'en me a snug yin;
an' he lets me besides hae a hantel o' siller every
week; indeed mair than I ken weel what to do wi',
for I can neither wear it, nor eat it; an' ye ken it
wad na be richt to drink it. But, gin it wad na be
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makin' owre free, I would like to see the bonny
bairn your sister, wha was sae kind to me when I
was a bedrill in Dublin.”
At that instant Miss Barrymore made her appearance.
“My bonnie lady,” said Peg, courtesying to her,
“I was unco troublesome to you up the country,
an' I just wanted to thank you, noo when I'm won
back to my ain country.”
“I'm glad to see you so stout, Peg!” said the
young lady.
“If it would na affront you,” returned Peg,
abruptly, “to tak' a gift frae an auld beggar wife,
I would fain gie you a pretty thing I fan' among
the stanes near the Point Rock, yestreen, as I was
saunterin' alang gathering limpits.”
While saying this, she unfolded a piece of old
rag, and presented to view a handsome gold broach,
set with diamonds, of great value. Edward instantly
recognised it as one that he had lost when
struggling with the waves on the evening which had
so nearly proved fatal to him. His sister also
knew it to be his.
“Why, Peg, you have been fortunate yesterday,”
said his lordship. “That broach was once
mine. It was valued at two hundred guineas, and
you are entitled to that sum. How will you dispose
of it?”
“Dispose of it! In trowth, I'll no dispose of it
at all,” she replied; “for I'll no hae't at all. Gin
the breest-pin be yours, you maun get it. But I
thoucht to pay the debt I owed to this bonnie
lassie, wi' it.”
“She shall have it since you desire it,” said his
lordship, “but you must also derive some benefit
from your good fortune in finding it. Mention any
thing I can do for you.”
“Weel, since I think o't, maybe you'll no'
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object to tak' Jock Dornan, my poor gomerill sin—
but he's a sturdy chiel—into your service; an'
try to mak' a man o' him, whilk is mair than ever
his mither could.”
“It shall be so,” said his lordship; “and he
shall be amply provided for. And now, Charlotte,
you may take the broach, as a present, from Peg.”
“I shall,” she said, “but Peg must receive from
me in return, a new bonnet and a new cloak every
year.”
“Whate'er you like!” replied Peg.” I'll refuse
naething o' that sort. But I'll awa an' sen' Jock
Dornan to you in the mornin'. Guid een, an' the
blessing o' an auld woman be wi' you a'.”
When she was gone, O'Halloran informed his
lordship that after her return from Dublin, in consequence
of her active instrumentality in saving
his life, he felt himself bound to provide for her
future comfort; and had bestowed her a cottage,
and settled on her a weekly allowance during her
life, which, considering her careless and wandering
disposition, he observed was a more effectual
way of rewarding her, than by the actual donation
of a more considerable sum of money, or a larger
piece of property.”
Edward being desirous to see M`Nelvin, O'Halloran
and he walked to Jemmy Hunter's with the
expectation of finding him there. It was a fine
moonlight evening, about the middle of October.
The grain harvest was all gathered in; and the
country people had been busied during the day in
raising and securing the potatoes, and as our
friends went along, they passed many car-loads of
this wholesome and agreeable root, so precious to
the Irish, on their way to the farm-houses. The
peasantry were cheerful and civil, and seemed to
have completely recovered their spirits after the
late disastrous events.
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On arriving at Jemmy Hunter's, all was quiet
around the dwelling house, for it was now dark,
and candles were lighted within. After the capture
of the French, Jemmy, whose habits of life
were not formed for dependence on the great, and
whose domestic attachments were too strong to
permit his long continuance from his family, relinquished
his situation under Sir Francis Hamilton,
and returned home.
On Barrymore and O'Halloran approaching close
to the house, the cheering sounds of rustic mirth
and happiness saluted their ears. “Come here,”
said O'Halloran, who had advanced to the unscreened
window of the apartment in which the
contented group were sitting round a large blazing
turf fire, “Come here, my lord, and behold a true
specimen of the winter-night enjoyments of our
Northern peasantry.”
Barrymore looked, and his heart swelled with joy
to behold a number of as healthy, honest and happy
human countenances, as any family group in
Christendom could exhibit. Between the window
and the fire-place, sat four women, busily employed
at the spinning wheel, the chief engine of the
Northern Irish industry and prosperity. These
were Jemmy Hunter's mother, his two sisters,
and his wife. On the other side of the hearth,
in a large arm chair, sat William Caldwell, who,
from the staff in his hand, and the great coat
that hung loosely on his shoulders, appeared to
have just come on an evening visit to his son-in-law.
M`Nelvin, Jemmy Hunter, and a decent
looking young man whom Barrymore did not know,
but who, it will be no harm to suppose, was a
suitor to one of the Miss Hunters, sat in front of
the hearth; while on a long bench between the
hearth and a stone wall, which ran across the
apartment, sat two ruddy faced youths, younger
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brothers to Jemmy, one of whom had the housedog,
which was of the large black species, called
in that part of the country, the “Collie,” between
his knees.
To some remark of M`Nelvin, which Edward did
not hear, old Caldwell replied, “I'm very happy
at the turn things hae ta'en; an' I'm sure a' the
country will be rejoiced at it, for he's a guid
youth.”
“Father,” said Jemmy, “Peggy can sing you
yin o' the best sangs ye hae heard this lang time;
an' its a new yin. She gat it frae M`Nelvin here. I
listened to her singing it last nicht, till I amaist
grat, it touched me sae much. Come, Peggy, let
your father hear it; it will do his heart guid.”
After some little hesitation, Peggy complied, and
sang as follows:
A BALLAD.
Oh! thousands shall mourn, and thousands shall fall,
And ruin shall light upon castle and hall;
And our chieftain shall forfeit his bonnie estate,
And be sentenced to die at his own castle gate;
And the Flower of the North, her sire shall wail,
And the Pride of the South shall hear the tale,
And, with speed, shall hasten our chief to free,
For the sake of the Flower of the North country.
“I fear not death,” our brave chieftain said,
“But my daughter is fair, and I fear for the maid:
To be friendless and lovely, are evils in store,
To work her misfortune, when I am no more.”
Then burst from her bosom the heart-breaking sighs,
And the tears fall fast from her lovely black eyes;
As she said to her father, “O grieve not for me,
For, to peace, in the grave, I shall soon follow thee!”
The guards move slow, for their errand is death,
While the foes of our chieftain are foaming with wrath;
But the noble youth follows on mercy's swift wings,
And life and estate to our chieftain he brings.
Now the land rejoices, our bosoms beat high,
And maids and their lovers sing songs of joy;
For the Pride of the South soon married shall be,
To Ellen, the Flower of the North country.
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“Why, M`Nelvin!” said Jemmy, clapping the
poet on the knee, when the song was ended, “you
deserve a fairin' for making it. I wonder man hoo
you can gar the words clink sae?”
But before the poet could reply, a rapping at
the door drew the attention of the party.
“Come in, frien's!” cried Jemmy, rising at the
same time, to open the door. The next moment
Edward and O'Halloran advanced, and saluted the
company. They all rose. The women made courtesies,
and the men bows.
“Ah! how are you, M`Nelvin!” cried Edward,
ardently shaking the poet by the hand. “Your
friend, Sir Francis, sent his kind respects to you.
I expect him to follow me here in a few days.”
“My lord, I am really rejoiced to see you,” replied
the bard. “I need not say that the present
prospects of both you and that best of my friends,
afford me much happiness.”
Edward now turned to salute William Caldwell
and the rest of the company. “Mr. Caldwell,”
said he, “it gives me true pleasure to witness your
good fortune, in being surrounded by such an
amiable and happy group of relatives.”
“We maun thank your lordship for some o' our
happiness,” replied the old man. “What you
did for his honour there, will no' sune be forgotten
amang us.”
By this time Peggy had her neat little parlour
lighted; and, with all the winning sweetness of
rural modesty, invited her guests to step ben to it,
as she said, “it was a decenter place for the like
o' them than the kitchen,” the apartment in which
they had met.
A pitcher of warm whiskey punch soon diffused
its inspiring fumes through the room.
“How did you like the city, Jemmy?” asked
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Lord Barrymore. “You seemed very anxious to
leave it.”
“I liked it weel enough; an' had it no' been for
twa folk, an' there is yin o' them,” said he, pointing
to his blushing Peggy, “an' the ither is in the
craddle yonder, I wadna hae left Sir Francis sae
sune.—Peggy, bring here the wean, till his lordship
sees it. It's a bonnie bit thing, an' I hae ca'd it for
you, my lord.”
His spouse, now, with an almost trembling fondness,
produced the young Hunter to view.
“Eddy, Eddy!” cried its father, catching its
little hand, “look up, my boy, an' see your namesake.”
His lordship took the child in his arms. “It is
a fine boy, Jemmy,” said he; “its features are
extremely like your own. I do not wonder that
you were impatient to return to objects so attractive
as such a wife and such a son. I thought, my
friend, to add to your happiness for the many great
services you have rendered me, but I find it impossible;
for these treasures make you happier than
man can make you. Yet you will permit me to
make my little namesake a present, in token of my
esteem for his parents, and my affection for himself.”
He then returned the child to its mother, and requested
some writing materials, with which being
supplied, he drew forth a valuable gold watch, and
cutting a piece of paper into a circular form, so as
to fit the inside of the watch, he wrote on it as
follows:
“Oct. 17, 1798. The gift of Edward, earl of Barrymore,
to Edward Hunter. The earl hereby binds
himself and his heirs forever, to pay annually fifty
pounds sterling to the said Edward Hunter and his
heirs.”
He enclosed the paper within the watch, and
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handing it to Peggy, “Receive this in trust for your
child,” said he; “it is but a small recompense for
the numerous and important services his father has
rendered to me, and those dear to me.”
When Jemmy understood the nature of the gift,
“Na, na,” said he, “we'll no' hae't: it is owre
muckle, my lord. It was na for ony such thing
that I helped you in your pinches. It was for mere
frien'ship; an' I would hae done the same for ony
frien' in the country.”
“This disinterestedness,” observed his lordship,
“makes you still the more entitled to recompense.
But if you will not receive this gift, as a reward,
you will gratify me by receiving it as a token of
friendship, for I am proud of being capable of exciting
such friendship as you have shown for me.
Besides, Jemmy, it is scarcely in your power to refuse
it, for it is not to you, but to your son, my young
namesake here, that I give it.”
“Weel, weel, gin it maun be sae, let it be sae,”
replied Jemmy. “But I think the young rascal
has got owre mony presents already; for Miss
O'Halloran has gien him hale trunkfu's o' cleas an'
ither things, mair, I believe, than we ken weel hoo
to use. An' I'll no' hide it, though it is a secret she
does na hersel' ken; it was mair to please her than
to compliment ony body else, that we ca'd him
Edward.”
“Candidly confessed!” cried lord Barrymore,
much pleased with Jemmy's simplicity; but, at
the same time, more delighted with the idea that
Ellen had displayed such attention to a child that
was named after himself.
“I canna weel tell what to think o' ye, gentlemen,”
remarked Jemmy. “Ye seem to care naething
o' the warld's gear. His honour, there, Mr.
O'Halloran, has gien me the farm rent free forever;
an' would insist on me that it was paying a debt he
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owed me, whereas I only did for either o' you, what
yae neighbour should be aye ready to do for anither.
But let us hae anither glass. Wi' your leave, I'll
drink lang life to you, Mr. O'Halloran; an' lang
life to your lordship, an' may ye sune be married
to her ye like best!”
Having thanked Jemmy for his good wishes, and
emptied their glasses to a toast expressive of theirs
for him and his interesting family, O'Halloran and
lord Barrymore arose, and, accompanied by M`Nelvin
and Jemmy, proceeded towards the castle.
On their way, the poet and his lordship having
fallen somewhat behind their companions, “Mr.
M`Nelvin,” said the latter, “the obligations I lie
under to you, for your ardent and effective services
in the behalf of me, and those I love, demand my
sincere acknowledgments, and embolden me to
make a request, your compliance with which will
afford me much satisfaction, as it will give me an
opportunity of making some return for the numerous
favours you have conferred on me.”
“Any service I have rendered your lordship,”
replied M`Nelvin, “brought with it its own reward,
in the gratification I experienced in the performance;
and if there be any I can yet render you, let
me know it, and, with the same zeal and pleasure,
it shall be done.”
“In the county of Cavan,” said his lordship, “I
have an estate, the manager of which died a few
months ago. I should like you to fill his place, for
I want it filled with a man in whose honesty to
myself, and attention to the comforts and happiness
of my tenantry, I can confide. The compensation
of the late agent was £500 per annum; yours
shall be £300.”
“I see, my lord, your motive for this generous
offer,” returned M`Nelvin. “You wish to make me
independent as to worldly matters; and your
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friendship and delicacy have suggested this method. I
thank you, sincerely do I thank you. But, my lord,
my affections are rooted to this part of the country.
The neighbourhood for about ten miles round us,
is all the world to me. It is all I ever enjoyed or
ever wish to enjoy. In an adjoining valley I had
my birth; amidst these hills I was educated; every
thing that has interested me from the days of childhood
to this very hour, has appeared within these
limits; and, if I were to remove from them, I should
remove from that portion of the world, which could
alone yield me enjoyment by interesting my affections.
On your estate, I should feel as if I were
exiled from my native land; and although it would
yield me pleasure to afford you any assistance in
my power in managing your affairs, yet, as I know
that your lordship can sustain no injury by my
present refusal, there being numerous individuals
who would be thankful for such an employment,
better qualified both from experience and disposition
to fulfil its duties than I am, I decline your
friendly offer, with the less reluctance. My lord,
while I refuse your kindness in this instance, I
trust that you are too fully aware of the nature of
my motives for so doing, to take them amiss. Indeed,
I assure your lordship, that the governorship
of the richest of his majesty's colonies, would not
tempt me to forego the pleasure of every day beholding
my native hills and vallies; the pleasure of
wandering, in my hours of meditation, along those
streamlets, or concealing myself amidst those well
known groves and glens; or of enjoying in my hours
of sociability, the cheerful hospitality, and kindly,
though rustic conversation, of those beloved friends
and neighbours, to whom I have been long accustomed
and endeared.”
“Is there no other way, my romantic friend,”
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inquired his lordship, “by which I can manifest my
gratitude for what you have done for me?”
“There is no other way,” replied the poet,
“than by continuing to favour me with your good
opinion. As to pecuniary matters, they are of little
or no consideration with me. I need but little, and
that little I can easily earn. To possess more,
might only produce cares and perplexities with
which I wish not to be encumbered. My days may
be few or many, as Providence shall please to order,
but they shall be spent in the indulgence of
affections which wealth cannot excite, and in the
enjoyment of those luxuries of mind it cannot
purchase.”
“Happy M`Nelvin,” exclaimed his lordship,
“since you have thus the making of your own happiness,
independent of the frowns or the smiles of
a fickle world! I shall not urge you further on this
subject. But assure yourself of my lasting friendship
and gratitude; and of my sincere wish that you
may long live to enjoy the intellectual blessings of
which you are enamoured, amidst the interesting
scenery of your native vales, and in possession of
the esteem and admiration of their honest inhabitants.”
Having now arrived at the avenue to the Castle,
they separated, and the poet returned with Hunter
to the rural dwelling of the latter, which had of
late become his favourite place of residence.
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McHenry, James, 1785-1845 [1824], O'Halloran, or, The insurgent chief. An Irish historical tale of 1798, volume 2 (H. C. Carey & I. Lea, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf270v2].
