University of Virginia Library

15. CHAP. XV.

Simon Gurty.

The princely mansion of the ancient family of
O'Neil, at which Edward Barrymore had now arrived,
was then the pride of the surrounding country,
it being the most entire and perfect specimen
of the magnificence of ancient architecture to be
found in Ulster. It is now no more. The fury of
an accidental conflagration which took place in
1816, was sufficient, in a few hours, to convert into
ashes that proud and stately structure, which had
cost our ancestors the expenditure of many years
of great skill, care and industry to erect. Thus
adding another to those innumerable examples
with which both history and experience have made
us acquainted of the vanity of human calculations,
and the frailty of human works.

The pleasure felt by the noble owner of this
venerable edifice, as he gave the cordial welcome
of a friendly Irish heart to our hero who had been
so long and so mysteriously lost, is easy to be imagined.
He informed him of the anxiety of his
friends respecting him, and of the unpleasant adventure
that had befallen his servant. The former
he had anticipated, and it had given him considerable
uneasiness during his captivity. Of the latter
he had never heard; for while in confinement,
very little of what passed in the world, came to his
ears.

After such a tedious imprisonment, he now felt
how sweet it was to breathe unlimited air, how delicious
to be master of his own motions. A regard
for the safety of O'Halloran, prevented him
from acquainting lord O`Neil with what he had
suffered, and he merely stated in general terms,
that a variety of accidents had, during the whole
summer, conspired to detain him on the coast.

“That part of the country abounds with the disaffected,
I understand,” said his lordship.

“It also abounds with steady, peaceable and
loyal subjects,” replied Edward. “It is a very
interesting portion of the country.”

“What number of the military are, at present,
in Larne?” enquired the earl.

“I believe that it is thought unnecessary to keep
more than a single company of Fifeshire fencibles
there,” said Edward.

“If that be sufficient to preserve the peace there,
it is more than can be said of this neighbourhood,”
observed his lordship. “Here the presence of almost
a whole regiment is requisite. The times are
getting very awful. I begin to think that it would
have been as well to have spared Orr. The people
have been very much inflamed by that affair.
But this is not the worst. French principles, I understand,
have lately been every where disseminated
with fearful success, and I am sorry to be credibly informed,
that the mischievous writings of Paine are
now more read by the lower orders than the Bible
itself. I do indeed forebode very unhappy consequences
to result from this state of things. It behoves
all who have the preservation of social order, and
rational government at heart, to be vigilant and
active in restraining the excesses to which the misguided
populace threaten to run.”

A summons from the ladies to attend the tea-table
put an end to this conversation. Edward

passed a very agreeable evening in this refined
society, which greatly conduced to calm the perturbation
of his mind. Being in haste to return
home, that he might relieve the solicitude of his
friends, he, the next morning, continued his journey
to the residence of Sir Philip Martin, attended
by one of lord O'Neil's servants. He arrived there
on the following day, and was received with all
that cordiality and friendship he expected from a
worthy family, with the heir of which he had been
long and intimately acquainted. Here he met with
honest Tom Mullins, who was nearly broken-hearted
with vexation on his master's account—for
although he had no knowledge of what had really
happened, he could not get rid of a vague suspicion,
that the United Irishmen had done him harm. He
had been detained at Sir Philip Martin's during
the whole summer, at the suggestion of the Recluse,
who feared that if he returned to Dublin, he might
give such information to Edward's friends as would
direct their attention to O'Halloran's neighbourhood,
and, perhaps, bring that gentleman into
trouble.

Sir Philip conversed much concerning the Recluse.
He confessed that he was on the most confidential
footing with him; “and you, Mr. Barrymore,”
said he, “have the honour to be one of
his chief favourites. I have had frequent letters
from him of late, in each of which you are mentioned
in the most approving terms; and, let me
tell you, I conceive it no slight honour to have met
with such decided approbation from such a man.
I am acquainted with every incident of importance
that befel you, from your deliverance by O'Halloran,
till your imprisonment for being an obstinate
loyalist, a character which, I perceive, my old
true-hearted friend, does not much relish. However,
you and I shall not dispute on that subject.

I shall not, as my friend did, make an attempt to
convert you; although I cannot but wish that
during the approaching struggle, of which I suppose
you have been forwarned, the cause of the
people should possess the support of more such
men of talents and influence as you are, than I am
sorry to find it does; and, believe me, your misunderstanding
with the United Irishmen arose
chiefly from their solicitude to make such an acquisition
as you would be to their party. For this
purpose they sounded you, and in so doing gave
you more knowledge of their affairs than they afterwards
thought it consistent with their safety
you should possess. Hence they secured you.
How you got out of their strong hold, unless with
their permission, I cannot tell. I am glad, however,
that you are out, for I looked upon your confinement
as altogether a useless precaution against a
man of your humanity and honour. You see, I
know your character. Not only the Recluse, but
my son has been at pains to represent it in such a
favourable light, that I hesitate not to open my
mind to you at once without reserve.”

Edward expressed his grateful sense of the testimony
his friends had given of him, and hoped
that Sir Philip would never have cause to think
him unworthy of it, or to repent the candour with
which he had disclosed his political sentiments.
As to the mode of his escape from captivity, he did
not then feel free to disclose it; but, he hoped, the
time would come, when it would be his pride to relate
it to his friends.—Sir Philip expressed his acquiescence;
and the subject of politics was dropped.

Charles Martin, Edward's fellow-student, and
bosom-friend, had been absent with his sisters, two
pretty and amiable girls, on a visit to a house of a
neighbouring gentleman. They, however, returned
early in the evening, and great was the joy of

Edward and his friend on meeting. Sir Philip
had not acquainted his son with Edward's imprisonment;
for their political principles being somewhat
different, he was unwilling to prejudice the
cause of the United Irishmen, by informing him of
any thing that would lessen them in his esteem.
Hence, when during a solitary walk, which the
young friends took through Sir Philip's shrubberies,
in order to relate to each other their adventures
since they last parted, Charles was astonished
and grieved at the extraordinary and perilous
nature of those which had befallen Edward.

“I fear,” said he, “that the machinations of these
men against you are not over. What a pity that
their connexions are so extended that we cannot
bring them to justice, without involving those we
love in their punishment. I agree with you, that
all the circumstances considered, it is better to be
silent on the subject. If you insist on immediately
departing for Dublin, as your friends are so
anxious concerning you, I cannot object, although I
hoped to enjoy your company for several weeks
here. But we shall not part so soon. I will accompany
you if you will wait but a couple of days,
that I may make arrangements for the journey.”
This being agreed to, and Edward having one
day's rest on his hands, wrote to the Recluse an
account of his safety and welfare, and requesting
speedy intelligence concerning Ellen and the conduct
of the United Irishmen on discovering his escape.

At length, the two friends, well armed and well
attended, set out for the capital, where they arrived
on the third day without encountering any accident.

Edward was now once more amongst his relations,
and the friends of his youth, an inhabitant of
the metropolis of his country. But his heart and

his affections were in a remote province. It was
in vain that the ladies of Dublin assumed their
most interesting and fascinating looks in his presence;
in vain were the various pleasures of that
captivating city spread before him, and offered to
his acceptance. His Ellen was afar off, and, perhaps
in danger, and how could he be happy? It
came into his mind, that some of the most unprincipled
of the conspirators might be so revengeful
and unmanly, as to resent upon her, the part she
had taken in his rescue. This idea rendered him
miserable. He wrote a second time to the Recluse,
conjuring him to lose no time in acquainting
him with the treatment that Ellen had received
from her grandfather and his confederates, after
his departure. It was, however, only the next day
after forwarding this letter that his mind was set
at ease on this subject, by receiving one from the
old man in reply to that which he had written at
Sir Philip Martin's. He was informed, that the
United men kept the circumstance of his escape
very quiet, that the whole blame was thrown on
Jemmy Hunter, who was very willing to bear it.
The old man added, that he even believed that
O'Halloran was secretly rejoiced at it. “He, indeed,”
said he, “pretty sternly and closely interrogated
Ellen, as to her motives for assisting in the
affair, and when she candidly told him of the plot
that was laid for his destruction, he affected not to
credit it. But, he said, that it was on the whole,
perhaps, as well that you were out of their power,
and that he had never approved of the scheme of
sending you to France. He also mentioned, that
if he could persuade his coadjutors that they had
no reason to dread your informing on them, he
should entirely approve of what she had done.
She took this opportunity to acquaint him with the
whole of the Frenchman's villany towards herself.
(Here the Recluse related the incidents of
Monier's attack upon her, of which Edward was
ignorant, but of which the reader has been already
informed.) This, at length, aroused his indignation
against the foreigner; and he that evening communicated
the whole to Porter, Nelson, and another of
the leaders named M`Cracken. They all joined
in reprobating such conduct, and agreed to induce
him to leave the country, by persuading him that
the government had become apprised of his residence
and employment, and that his safety depended
on his returning to France, in the vessel
which was about to sail with their despatches for
his government.—And the country has, in consequence,
got rid of a mischievous visiter * * *.”

Edward resolved immediately to allay the fears
of the United party, respecting the knowledge he
had obtained of their measures. He, therefore,
wrote a long letter to O'Halloran, in which he disclaimed
any feelings of resentment on account of
his confinement, which he altogether ascribed to
the motives that had been assigned, the imperious
nature of which on their minds he could duly appreciate.

He concluded this letter by informing O'Halloran,
that as his motives for concealing his real
name and character no longer existed, he would
now confess that he was the apparent representative
of a family, sufficiently high in office and in
influence, to procure for any of his party, who
wished to return to their duty, forgiveness of the
past, provided they would give security for the future.
He would, therefore, assume his real name,
which a desire to enjoy the esteem of some who had
suddenly become extremely dear to him, but whose
suspicion and dislike, he believed, a knowledge of
that name would have excited, had induced him
for a time to conceal. “I the more readily,” said

he, “give you my name on this occasion, as I flatter
myself that it will confirm your reliance on my
promise of secrecy respecting your affairs, by
showing you that on the fulfilment of that promise,
I stake the honour of a house that has never yet
acted dishonourably, the house of Barrymore.”

Having thus replaced Edward Barrymore, after
his perilous journey to the North, in safety among
his friends, we may leave him there unnoticed, for
some months, as nothing remarkable happened to
him during that period, and turn our attention to
what, in the meantime, befel the beauteous and
tender mistress of his affections.

The sentinel at the cave deceived by the disguise
of Edward, and amazed by the artifices of
Jemmy Hunter, did not, for several hours, discover
that his prisoner had escaped. The first intimation
he had of it, was by Hunter roundly saying,

“I think Miss O'Halloran will noo be tired
waitin'; I maun see her hame.”

“Why, she's gane lang since,” said the sentinel.

“Maybe sae, an' maybe no'. I'll see wha's within,
however,” replied Hunter.

Accordingly in he and the sentinel went; when
to the astonishment and confusion of the latter,
Miss O'Halloran appeared in her own identical
person.

“An' wha went oot in your likeness?” inquired
the wondering sentinel at the trembling girl. “She
made no reply, but held down her head to conceal
her shame; for she had really become innocently
ashamed, while the big tears stood ready to burst
from her eyes.

“Never mind,” said Hunter, intercedingly, “the
fault was a' mine. Ye ken, Allen, I wad na let you
rin after the gentleman, when he gat oot, or ye
might hae broucht him back to his prison.”

“The gentleman!” exclaimed Allen. “I hope

the gentleman's no' fled. Our officers will think I
hae betrayed them. Some o' them may be for
takin' my life. Ye ken some that wad na stap at
that, if they thought I did it willingly. I should
hae done my duty better.”

“Fear naething,” said his companion. “Jemmy
Hunter will stan' by you, through thick an' thin,
an' tak' a' the blame, as he deserves to do, on him.
In the meantime, his honour's daughter here, ye
ken, canna be in the fault. I maun just see her
hame; an' I'll be back in a crack to stan' between
you an' danger.”

“Mr. Allen,” said Ellen, who had considerably
recovered from her confusion, “I shall stay here,
and confess the share I have had in your prisoner's
escape, rather than that you should be subjected
to any trouble on its account.”

“No, my lady,” said the gallant Allen, “you can
tell the truth as weel in the castle as here. Since
he is gane, it canna be helpit noo. It's useless
to fret; an' Jemmy here is willing to bear the blame
o't; an' I dinna mislippen Jemmy makin' his word
guid at a' risks. So, I dinna like, my lady, to see
you sae vexed aboot it. When you gang hame, your
aunt Brown will gie you mair comfort than I can.
Jemmy, you can gae wi' her; but see that you be
back in time to clear me frae the blame?”

Jemmy promised he would; and in company
with his fair charge, he set off for the castle.

“Do you think he is safe?” muttered Ellen, almost
unconsciously, as they went along.

“He is, I'll swear it to you,” was her companion's
reply.

“Thank heaven! she ejaculated. “But alas!
what have I done? what will they say of me?”

“Never mind that,” replied her comforter, “you
hae saved a gentleman's life, an' God will bless you

for it as lang as you live; and I hope, that he
winna forget me either, for helpin' in it.”

“You have a good heart, James,” said she, “and
I trust, that you will indeed be blessed for what
you have done this day.”

“Thank you, thank you, lady,” said he, his heart
swelling within him at the praise she had so fervently
bestowed upon him. “You'll mak' me
prood o' this day as lang as I live.”

Having conducted her to the castle, he left her,
and returned with a light and satisfied heart to the
cave. When O'Halloran, Porter, Nelson, M`Cracken
and their confederates returned in the evening
from the potato-digging, they were, at first, much
surprised and chagrined at what had taken place.

“If the fellow dont inform on us,” said Nelson,
after his first excitement had somewhat abated,
“the matter will not indeed much grieve me; for
I believe we could never have prevailed on him
to join us.”

“Though we should, perhaps, have less cause for
alarm,” said O'Halloran, if he were still in our
power, “yet I am almost persuaded that he has
too much honour to be an informer.”

“I agree with you,” said Porter, “and when I
reflect on the whole tenor of his conduct, while in
confinement, I own that I see no great cause for
apprehension.”

“I am glad gentlemen,” said M`Cracken, “that
you console yourselves so easily; and, since the
misfortune cannot now be remedied, I must acknowledge
that philosophy to be the soundest,
which enables us with the least difficulty to bear
it.”

Thus these active chiefs made a virtue of necessity;
and in place of repining at any accident

which would have tended to dishearten their
followers, they put a good countenance upon
every disaster; and, casting irremediable events
as much as possible from their thoughts, proceeded
to make the best of the advantages they still possessed.