University of Virginia Library

4. CHAP. IV.

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

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.

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

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 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

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.”

“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

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

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:—

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

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

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 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

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

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.