University of Virginia Library

6. CHAP. VI.

—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

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.”

“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.”

“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 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

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

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.”

“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.”

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

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

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,

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

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

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.

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,

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

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.