University of Virginia Library

2. CHAP. II.

Burns.

On the fourth evening after his arrival at O'Halloran
Castle, our hero (for the reader will, by this
time, have perceived that Edward Barrymore is
that important personage) being considerably recovered,
took a walk in company with his host and
Ellen, along the beach, in order once more to view
the spot that had likely to have been so fatal to
him. Returning homewards, they took a path
along the edge of a rivulet, that led to a small
glen, not more than the fourth part of a mile from
the Castle. The ground was overspread with primroses,
violets and daisies; and the ash, elm, and
beech trees that skirted the banks of the stream,
were intermingled with abundance of willows,
sweetbriars, and honeysuckles, which had opened
their blossoms, and yielded a delightful fragrance;
while a thousand warblers from amidst their
branches, produced a melody, the sweetness of
which can only be known by those who are acquainted
with the music of the Irish groves, in the
spring and summer seasons of the year.

Struck with the beauty and romance of the
scene, Edward paused. “This, indeed, Mr. O'Halloran,”
exclaimed he, “is a delightful place.”

“Yes, Mr. Middleton,” (which was the name
Edward had assumed, being that of his maternal
relations) “our country is, indeed, a pleasant one.

Her soil is fertile, her sons are brave, her daughters
fair; but she is an oppressed country—she is a
betrayed country. Thousands of her sons have
sold themselves to strangers, whose delight is to
rule her, not with a sceptre of justice, but with a
rod of cruelty; and a country that has been blessed
by Heaven, is accursed by man.”

“My friend,” replied Edward, “I will not, I
cannot, altogether differ with you, in those sentiments;
for, I believe that the authorities of the
country, have not done as much as they could to
promote its prosperity. They have not attended
sufficiently to the encouragement of industry among
the poor, by directing their attention to internal
resources, and facilitating that spirit of enterprise
among the wealthy, which would not only discover
and establish sources of employment at home,
but greatly contribute to extend our commerce
abroad.”

Edward had scarcely finished this remark, when
the attention of the party was drawn to a man of
peculiar appearance, who advanced slowly towards
them. On coming forward, he took off a gray cap,
made of rabbits' skins, which had covered a head
the hair of which was as white as snow, and making
a respectful bow, asked God to bless them, and
was passing on, when Edward, who wished to
avoid renewing the political conversation, and
whose curiosity was really excited by the appearance
of the stranger, thanked him for his civility,
adding, “My good sir, perhaps you are like myself,
a stranger in this part of the country, and not
having the good fortune to meet such friends as I
have met with, may require some assistance from
those who may be willing to afford it.” So saying,
he held out a handful of silver to the stranger,
which, to his astonishment, he refused; but without
any air of offended pride.

“Although I am a forsaken old man,” said he,
“I cannot take your money. In this glen it would
do me no good. Mr. O'Halloran and my other
neighbours supply me with food, I get water from
that brook, and very little more clothing than I
have on me, will be sufficient to cover my carcass,
until the grave covers it.”

Edward was in the act of putting up his money,
when a coarse unhesitating voice called out briskly,
“Giff auld Saunders dinna tak' yere money, my
bonny young gentleman, ye need na' be at the
pains to pit it up; Peg Dornan winna refuse it.”

Edward turned round, and beheld a stout weather-beaten
woman, in the habit of a beggar, apparently
between forty and fifty years of age. She
made a low, unceremonious courtesy, and held out
her hand for the money. Edward hesitated; but
in the most unabashed manner, she continued—

“Giff ye dinna like to gie't, I'll no' be affronted;
but his honour there can tell you I'll no' drink it.”

“I cannot answer for that, Peg,” said O'Halloran,
“and you should be ashamed to ask any gentleman's
money in so rude a manner.”

“It's likely you may be richt,” said Peg, “ye
ken them things better than I do; but gin the gentleman
likes, he may either keep it or gie't; I'll no'
insist.”

Edward now saw something so amusingly independent
about Peg, that he immediately handed
her the money, enjoining her not to make a bad
use of it. She made another courtesy, and told him,
she would buy herself a new bonnet, and wear it
on Sundays, for his sake, though he might never
see her again. “But gin ye should na,” she continued,
“bonny Ellen will, an' surely that will gie
you pleasure.” She then stalked away, with such
a solidity of step, and length of stride, as gave Edward
the idea of a female Hercules.

“This Peg Dornan,” said O'Halloran, “is one
of the most forward beggars in this part of the
country, whereas our friend Saunders here, is one
of the most modest pensioners that ever lived on
the public bounty.”

The old man's face seemed to redden a little at
this remark; and again wishing God to bless them,
he bade them good evening, and ascending the glen
a little further, disappeared among the bushes.

Old Saunders, as he was called in the neighbourhood
of O'Halloran Castle, appeared to Edward
to be about sixty years of age. His beard
was of a flaxen white, and about an inch in length.
His eyes were of a dark blue colour, possessing
a greater degree of liveliness than might have
been expected from his advanced age. His height
in the prime of life, might have been nearly six
feet, but as he now bent forward very much when
he walked, it did not seem more than about five
feet eight inches. His gait, bent as he was, was
evidently firmer and indicated more strength than
could have been expected from his age. He wore
a dark brown great coat, which looked as if it had
done the service of half a century. His cap of
rabbit skins we have already noticed. His waistcoat
had nothing peculiar, except its being made
in the old fashion, with the pockets inserted into
large lappets, that hung half way down his thighs.
It was variegated in its appearance, owing to some
heterogeneous patches with which it was here and
there ornamented; but the ground work seemed to
have been gray cloth, similar to that which formed
the great coat. His breeches were of dark velvet,
but were now pretty much party-coloured, in
the same manner, and from the same cause, as the
waistcoat. They were bound at the knees by a
huge pair of buckles, that might have belonged to
some cavalier in the days of Charles the Second.

As to his boots, they exhibited nothing singular,
except their uncommon strength and size, and the
sameness of colour which existed between the tops
and the legs. There only remains to be mentioned,
a belt which he wore round his waist, and which,
at a distance, resembled a military sash, with a
sheath at each side for a dirk or a pistol; but
which, on a nearer approach, discovered itself to
be a more harmless appendage—it being nothing
more than a common horse girth, with a buckle and
a large loose-hanging strap at the one side, and
containing at the other, a pouch for holding any
little donation that the country people forced upon
him. For it was remarkable of old Saunders, that
he never carried a bag on his shoulder like another
beggar. As he was a good scholar, he was fond
of voluntarily teaching the children of those who
were charitable to him; so that there was scarcely
a family in the parish to which he did not, in this
way, give value for what he received from it.

When he left our party, as before stated, to an
inquiry of Edward, O'Halloran replied, that the
old man's habitation was in the side of a hill, at the
upper extremity of the glen, and only a short distance
off. “It is about five years,” he continued,
“since he came to this part of the country. As I
found him to be a sensible man, and even somewhat
of a literary disposition, I, at one time, prevailed
on him to open a regular school; but being
rather of a melancholy temper, and fond of solitude,
he in a few months, gave up that employment, and
retired to this glen, where he now leads altogether
the life of a hermit. He has become much esteemed
in the neighbourhood, having rendered himself
very useful to the people, by occasionally teaching
their children, and advising them in their perplexities.
So that a number of them are as punctual
in sending to his habitation their weekly donations,

as if he had a legal claim upon them. I have myself
wished to enjoy more of his society than he
appears inclined to permit; and when curiosity has
at any time, prompted me to make any inquiries
into the history of his life, I have been always
checked by the reserve he has ever shown on that
subject, although he is communicative enough on
every other. After sunset he never admits any one
into his dwelling, otherwise we might visit him, and
you would be sure of a kindly reception.”

“Mr. Middleton,” said Ellen, “must not think
that it is from any surly humour, that our Recluse
keeps his cell sacred from visiters after sunset.
Although we have found him often pensive, I believe
surliness forms no part of his character;
much less can he be suspected of any superstitious
whim in this part of his conduct, as I have found
him more liberal than most men in such matters.
I believe that it is from a mere wish to enjoy his
own meditations uninterrupted, that he has adopted
this rule; for without it, such an enjoyment would
be impossible, on account of the social temper of
his neighbours, and the esteem in which they hold
him. Indeed, it is my opinion, that, if he would
permit it, his cell would every night be made the
scene of boisterous conviviality.”

Conversing in this manner, they had nearly
reached the outer gate of the castle, when a horseman
overtook them at full speed, and delivering a
packet to O'Halloran, rode off again without saying
a word. As soon as they entered, O'Halloran
hastily broke the seal, and evidently with some
emotion, glanced over the contents. He then suddenly
told Ellen that he must be absent for a few
hours, and desiring that a light and some refreshments
should be left in his library to await his return,
he bade Edward good night, and hastily
withdrew.

On finding himself alone, with a lovely young
woman, of whose influence over his heart, Edward
was, by this time, fully aware, he felt embarrassed;
and although he had abundance to say, he found
himself utterly destitute of expression. Silence for
a few moments ensued. At length he made an effort,
and approaching Ellen, remarked—

“It is a remarkable circumstance, Miss O'Halloran,
that when the emotions of the heart are most
acute, the capability of expressing them, is the
most difficult.”

“Sir,” said Ellen, hesitatingly, “your observation,
I believe, is just. Moderate emotions may be
expressed without effort, but strong and extraordinary
feelings, require language correspondently
strong to do them justice.”

“And, therefore,” resumed Edward, “not at all
times to be commanded. How well Miss O'Halloran,
have you accounted for the difficulty of
speech, under which I now labour? My sensations
since I first saw you, have been of that extraordinary
character, of which common language can
convey but a feeble idea.”

“Mr. Middleton,” she replied, “the extraordinary
and almost fatal circumstances, under which
your acquaintance with my grandfather commenced,
being still recent, may very well account for
the extraordinary feelings you mention. You are
still feeble from your late accident. Neither your
strength of body, nor tone of mind, is yet recovered;
and, consequently, occurrences seem strange,
and make an impression on you, that, in other circumstances,
you would have scarcely noticed.”

“I cannot, Miss O'Halloran, attribute my present
agitation, in the slightest degree, to this cause.
I scarcely feel the worse for the accident, and am
persuaded that I should in a short time forget it
altogether, were it not for the feelings of gratitude

and admiration for your grandfather and yourself,
that it has excited, and, which, believe me, it shall
be the study of my life never to forget. Oh! how
happy I should be, if I only enjoyed the confidence,
the favourable opinion of persons, to whom I am
so much indebted, and who shall be for ever so
dear to me!”

“That favourable opinion,” she observed, “we
are never in the habit of withholding from those
we think deserving of it. Hitherto our impressions
concerning you, are, I believe, as much in your
favour as you could wish, and until you do something
to forfeit our esteem, of which I am not
afraid, I can almost assure you, that you shall enjoy
it.”

Edward was about thanking her for her kind
sentiments, and vowing never to forfeit them, by
any voluntary thought, word, or action of his life,
when he was prevented by a servant entering with
the tea equipage. During the time they sat at
table, although not an expression was uttered by
either of them in the presence of the servant, that
might not have been dictated by mere politeness,
yet, if any disinterested person of discernment
could have seen them, he would have been convinced
that their thoughts ran more upon each
other, than upon the whole world besides. Many
a stolen glance they mutually detected, and many
a tender thought was only half expressed, lest it
should be expressed with all the tenderness with
which it was conceived. On the part of Edward
this embarrassment only occasioned a few blunders,
which he got over pretty well, as there was
no one present who laughed at them; but on the
part of Ellen, the detected glances, and little slips
of the tongue, occasioned blushes, which were only
rendered more apparently lovely and interesting,
by her attempts to conceal them.