University of Virginia Library

1. O'HALLORAN;
OR,
The Insurgent Chief.

1. CHAP. I.

Thaunus the Druid.

Perhaps no where in the British Islands, will
the admirer of the grand and sublime, in the works
of nature, find more gratification than along the
northern shores of the county of Antrim. From
the Gabbon precipices, near the entrance of Larne
Harbour, to Port Rush, near Colerain, a long
range of rocky coast, extending upwards of fifty
miles, exhibits, in some places, the boldest promontories
jutting into the sea, and perforated with
numerous caverns, into many of which the raging
waters pour with reverberating noise. In other
places, small bays, occasioned by the mouths of
the rivers and rivulets that there seek a junction
with the ocean, interrupt the continuity of the
rocky chain, and by affording to the visiter the
view of towns and villages, surrounded by the fertility
of nature, and the conveniences of art, produce

a striking and pleasing contrast to the prevailing
wildness of the coast, and make its grandeur
still more grand.

The Giant's Causeway, which forms a part of
this wonderful coast, has long been an object of
astonishment, both to the philosopher and the
peasant. It is annually visited by travellers from
all countries, where science excites curiosity, and
the wonders of nature inspire admiration.

Edward Barrymore was in his twenty-second
year, and had just finished his education at Trinity
College, when he resolved to visit this interesting
coast, and examine with his own eyes, those immense
structures, of which he had heard so much,
and which, both as a man of science and of taste,
he was so well calculated to enjoy. It was in the
afternoon of a very fine day, in the month of May
1797, when he arrived at the promontory of Ballygally.
He alighted and sent forward his servant
with the horses to the next town, which was about
three miles distant, intending after he had explored
the cliffs, to follow along the beach on foot.

He descended the crags, and got to the beach,
when turning round a huge rock, he perceived an
elderly gentleman, with a young lady, advancing
along a sandy portion of the shore towards him.
Not wishing to be seen, and, at the same time,
struck with the appearance of the lady, he concealed
himself in such a manner, that he had a fair
view of them, without being himself noticed. They
advanced slowly until they came to the bottom of
the rock where he was stationed, when all at once
they disappeared; but not until they were so near,
that he heard the lady utter the following exclamation:
“Oh father, what miseries are in store for
thousands!” and, immediately he was startled with
a sound, as if part of the cliff on which he reclined
had broken off. Full of astonishment, he got down

to the bottom of the rock, but could perceive no
traces of the persons, who had just the moment before
excited so much of his attention. Their sudden
disappearance was to him quite unaccountable,
unless he should suppose, that they had found admission
into some cavity within the rock. He
viewed it at every accessible point, and minutely
examined every fracture and crevice, in the hope
of discovering some concealed entrance, but in
vain. He imagined, however, that he heard, as
from a distance, the sounds of footsteps and voices;
but they soon died away, and left nothing audible,
but the screaming of the sea-fowl, and the dashing
of the waves upon the shore.

Edward, however, determined to remain near
the spot until night, in hopes that something might
take place that would lead to an explanation of the
mystery. For this purpose, he chose a recess on
a level with the beach, under an over-arching ledge
of the precipice, by which he conceived the fair
vision, and her companion, if they were really
mortal, must return, as he knew that there was no
passing by the way he came, unless by clambering
up the rocks, a task which would be almost impracticable
for the lady.

Having a small volume of Dryden's Virgil in
his pocket, the loves of Æneas and Dido, soon engrossed
his attention, and the time unheedingly
stole away, until the shades of twilight aroused
him from his situation. The tide, which had been
advancing all the time, now rolled at his feet, and
rendered it impossible for him to retreat from his
recess without the greatest danger. He was a good
swimmer, but the shore was unknown to him, so
that he could not tell how far he might be from
any spot, where it would be possible to land. To
stay where he was, was evident destruction. The
tide encroached rapidly upon him, and he had no

alternative but to encounter the wave. He, accordingly,
plunged in, and endeavoured to gain
the mysterious rock, for the purpose of escaping
by the way he came. A current of water, however,
that issued, now that the tide was so far advanced,
between that and another rock farther out in the
sea, rendered his efforts unavailing, and becoming
exhausted, he expected nothing but immediate dissolution.
In this situation, he heard a scream, and
immediately a loud voice calling, “Swim a little
more to the right, and out to sea—I shall help
you!” He obeyed, and got out of the influence of
the current that had baffled him, but was on the
point of sinking with fatigue, when a powerful arm
seized him, and dragged him to the shore in a state
of insensibility.

When Edward recovered, he found himself in
bed, in a small apartment belonging to a respectable
farm house. The mysterious gentleman was
employed rubbing his breast with warm spirits,
while his fair companion sprinkled hartshorn drops
over his brows and temples, and occasionally applied
them to his nostrils. An elderly peasant woman
was also busy rubbing his feet and legs with
warm flannels.

“Oh, father! thank heaven! he breathes,” were
the first sounds heard by Edward, on his recovery.
“God be praised! then all is well,” was the reply.
He lifted his head to look at his preservers, and to
thank them, but his voice faultered, and he could
only press the hand of the young lady, in token of
gratitude. A lovely blush suffused her countenance,
but she spoke not; while her father exhorted Edward
to remain silent, as perhaps exertion, in his
present exhausted state, might be attended with
bad consequences. Edward obeyed, for his mind
was so distracted with the hurry and variety of his
reflections, and the strangeness and intensity of his

emotions, that he knew not what remarks to make,
or if he knew them, he could not find suitable expressions
to convey them. He was glad, therefore,
to conceal his confusion in silence.

He was not long in this confused state of agitation,
approaching almost to delirium, until a doctor,
for whom the old gentleman had sent immediately
on getting him ashore, arrived from Larne, the
adjoining town. After extracting some blood, and
administering a composing draught, he ordered the
room to be kept quiet, so that the patient might
have an opportunity in silence and repose, to recover
from his fatigue and agitation; then giving a
few other necessary directions, and assuring the
by-standers, that all danger was over, he took his
leave, promising to return the next morning. The
old gentleman and his daughter, then wished Edward
a good night, and retired.

Left to himself, he gave a range to his imagination,
on the strange occurrences of the day. His
fair attendant still seemed to bend over him, as
she did when he first opened his eyes from his
trance; and the fervour of her joyful exclamation,
at his recovery, still seemed to reverberate in his
ears. His exhaustion, however, and the influence
of the medicine he had taken, soon interfered with
these waking dreams, and he fell into a refreshing
sleep, which continued till midnight. When he
awoke he found that he had been attended by two
decent-looking elderly people, a man and woman,
who appeared to have been reading a newspaper.
Not perceiving when he awoke, they continued the
conversation which had been excited by the newspaper.

“An' they are raising a subscription for the benefit
of Orr's family, an' I this day put my name
down for half a guinea, for you know, my dear,
that what is gi'en to the persecuted, in a guid cause,

is never lost; besides, I would not let it be said,
that William Caldwell, refused to help a man who
was suffering for his country.”

“Ah, my dear, you did well to gie the money,
but I wish these things may come to a good end.
There's sea mony sodgers in the country, and sea
mony informers, and sae mony kingsmen, that I'm
feared the poor United Irishmen will never do ony
guid. Not but I wish God may bless the cause, for
if they get leave to gae on, they will persecute and
kill a great mony more of us, for no crime at all,
as they did poor Murphy, an' the four militia men
at Blarismoor. But though I love Mr. O'Halloran,
I wish he could not have persuaded you to join the
United Irishmen, for I fear this work will bring
trouble on us all.”

“I could not help it. He argued that it was my
duty; told me how poor Ireland was enslaved—
an' when he mentioned the sufferings of Orr, an'
the killing of Murphy and the militia men, I felt
my blood get warm, and I tauld him, I would tak'
the oath, let what like come o't!”

Here Edward not wishing longer to act the
mean character of a listener, especially to such
discourse, made a noise, as if he had just awoke
from sleep. He asked what hour of the night it
was. The woman told him; when having enquired
how he felt, she requested permission to bring him
some wine and toast, which she said the doctor
had allowed him to take, as soon as he wished for
refreshment. “The wine,” she remarked, “must
be very good, for it was sent from the castle by
Mr. O'Halloran, God bless him, just of the kind he
kept for his own use. Oh! Sir! how fortunate it
was, that he and Miss Ellen were at the Point,
when you were a drowning, otherwise you would
hae been drowned altogether, for he jumped into
the sea, and saved you, just when you were sinking

the third and last time? And then, Miss Ellen,
how she attended to you till you recovered! God
bless her every day she rises, for she's as good as
an angel, and as beautiful too.—But I was forbidden
to speak owre muckle to you, for fear I should
disturb you; but you look sae weel, that I'm thinking
my talk doesn't hurt you.”

Edward assured her that he was delighted with
her communications, and begged to know whether
Mr. O'Halloran lived far off, and whether he
might not have an opportunity of thanking him the
next day in person, for the important service he
had rendered him?

“Oh! that you will,” she replied, “for he lives
only about a mile off, and I'm sure he will be here
in the mornin', for he will not be easy till he sees
himsel' that you are gaun to lieve an' be weel.”

“And the young lady,” said Edward, “does she
live with him? Is she his daughter?”

“She is his grand-daughter; but he still calls
her his own child, for since that jewel o' a woman,
her mother, died she is now all that he has.”

“Jenet!” cried the husband, “you disturb the
gentleman owre much wi' your cracks. You had
better let him sleep. The doctor said sleep would
be good for him. Come awa', we'll send Peggy to
tend him.”

“Aye, aye,” said the wife, “Peggy is a tidy
lass, an' winna mak' sitch a clatter as I hae done.
Poor thing! she's amaist owre shy, to speak much.
Guid night! or, rather guid mornin', sir; sleep
sound, an' whatever you want just ask it frae Peggy,
an' you'll get it at yince.”

They both left the room, and Edward had just
begun a train of reflections on the strange incidents
of the preceding day, when the door gently opened,
and a pretty modest-looking peasant girl, apparently
about seventeen years of age, entered the

apartment without noise. As Edward lay quiet,
treading on tip-toe, she slowly approached the bed
in order to ascertain if he were asleep. Presuming
that he was, for he purposely feigned to be so, she
was about retiring in the same slow and noiseless
manner, when wishing to detain her, that he might
get some more information concerning O'Halloran
and his lovely grand-daughter, he asked, in a tone
as if he had just awoke, if any one was there?

“Yes, sir,” was the reply, “my mother sent me
to see if you wanted ony thing.”

“My pretty girl, I want nothing but to enquire
in whose house I am, and by what strange accident
I have been brought here?”

“The house is my father's, William Caldwell's,
and you were brought here carried by Mr. O'Halloran,
our landlord at the castle, quite dead, for he
found you drowning, in the sea, at the Point Rock.”

“And are you acquainted, Miss Caldwell, with
the young lady his grand-daughter?”

“With Miss Ellen? yes, I am sir, right well, for
she has no pride at all. She sends for me often
to walk with her from one house to another, when
she visits the poor sick people of the neighbourhood,
and carries things for their use; and, we
often go together to the top of the hill, when it is
a clear day, where we can see Scotland and the
ships passing back and forwards. For, she says,
it is a beautiful sight, and takes great delight in
looking at it.”

“And, my dear girl, does she ever speak of her
parents? Do you know any thing of them?”

“I remember her mother. She died about seven
or eight years ago, when I was a very little girl.
Miss Ellen was then very little also; for she is not
quite two years older than myself. She often talks
about her parents, and laments their misfortunes
so much, that it makes her rather pensive in her

disposition, though she is generally one of the
merriest and liveliest young ladies you ever knew.
Her father, it is said, fled the country for fear of
being punished for killing some lieutenant in the
army, in a duel, when she was but an infant.”

“Have they never heard of him since?”

“Not that we poor country folk know of.”

“Did you ever hear his name?”

“Yes; his name was Hamilton, and she should
be called Miss Hamilton, but her grandfather will
let her be called nothing but Miss O'Halloran.”

“Has she any brothers or sisters?”

“No; her father and mother did not live long
together. They never had any children but herself.—But,
sir, the doctor told us not to fatigue you
by talking to you, too much. Would it not be better
to leave you to your sleep? for you must be
very weak and distressed after being drowned. If
you want any thing, tell me, for I ought not to stay
longer with you, unless to attend you.”

This impatience in Peggy, arose from the manner
in which Edward had almost unconsciously
caught her hand, and pressed it rather warmly, as
he listened to her account of Ellen's parentage.
Peggy's cheeks displayed a blush, which plainly
discovered that she felt the indelicacy of her situation
with a young man, who in place of being as
she expected, half dead with drowning, seemed
quite alive to all the impulses of gallantry and
feeling. He checked himself, however, and bade
her good-bye, thanked her for the information she
had given him, and the attention she had manifested
to his comforts.

The alarm that Peggy felt was quite natural,
and, to handsome young women who have been in
similar situations with handsome young men, any
explanation of it would be unnecessary. Even
Edward felt that her withdrawing had relieved

him from an impending danger. For whether it
was occasioned by the sweetness of her looks, or
the interest he took in her communications, he felt,
as he pressed her hand, a warmer tide of blood
than usual, flowing from his heart, which was not
cooled for some minutes after her leaving the room,
when the idea of the fair Ellen, excited a flow of
affections, more congenial to his principles, and
more agreeable to his feelings, because more capable
of being approved of by his reason.

The various agitations of his mind, together with
the still fatigued state of his body, however, soon
again found relief in sleep, from which he did not
awake until the arrival of the doctor, accompanied
by O'Halloran and his granddaughter in the
morning. The doctor found him rather exhausted,
with a slight degree of fever, which, although
chiefly caused by the state of his mind, was readily
enough accounted for by the preceding day's
accident. He was assured, however, that the only
inconvenience that could result, would be a few
days confinement. O'Halloran was desirous that
he should be conveyed to the castle until his recovery;
which, after the adjusting of some preliminaries,
such as apologies and expressions of
gratitude on the part of Edward, and assurances
that he considered it nothing but his duty, on the
part of his deliverer, was at last effected. The
doctor then having given some directions for his
management, took his leave, carrying a letter to
Tom Mullins, Edward's servant, whom it was expected
he should find at the Antrim Arms, in the
town of Larne. In this letter he informed Tom of
the accident he had met with, and instructed him
to continue at the inn until further orders, without
communicating to any one his master's real name
or quality, as he had important reasons for wishing

to remain unknown in this part of the country for
some time.

Edward Barrymore, was of a very conspicuous
family, distinguished alike for its rank, wealth, and
devoted attachment to those political principles,
which had set the family of Brunswick upon the
British throne. With respect to England, their
politics were exactly those professed and acted
upon by the whigs of the country. Hence they
were in favour of extending every kind of indulgence
to the dissenters, and had opposed the
American war, and lord North's administration. In
Ireland, however, where their principal property
and influence lay, they supported every high-handed
measure of the government, and were rigid
sticklers for the protestant ascendancy. Whatever
were their motives for such difference in their political
conduct with respect to the two countries, it
is certain that they acted only as many other great
Irish families at that time did. Their avowed
reasons were, that it would not be safe to allow the
mass of the Irish community the same political
privileges, that might with advantage be allowed
the English, because the former were chiefly
catholics, professors of a religion which, they insisted,
inculcated direct hostility to the establishments
of both church and state, in either country.

Those sentiments, while they made the family of
Barrymore high in favour with the ruling powers,
caused them to be looked upon as no better than
tories, by those protestants, whose views with respect
to their catholic fellow-subjects were more
liberal. By the catholics, they were held in utter
detestation, as their natural enemies, and as the
supporters of a tyrannic system of government,
which had deprived their ancestors and themselves
of some of the most valuable privileges of the constitution.

At the period at which our history commences,
Edward's paternal uncle, the earl of Barrymore,
was a member of the Irish privy council; and, his
father, who was a member of the house of commons,
had distinguished himself by his strenuous
opposition to some measures, which had recently
been introduced into parliament for the relief of
the catholics.

In consequence of these circumstances, Edward
supposed, that if he made himself known, he should
be no welcome guest in the house of O'Halloran,
whose political principles, he had reason to believe,
were in direct opposition to those of his family;
and, as he could not venture to incur the dislike of
the lovely Ellen, or her venerable grandfather
who had saved his life, he determined on concealment.