University of Virginia Library

3. CHAP. III.

—Scott.

After tea, Ellen, afraid of a renewal of the love
conversation, proposed to call up Mr. Arthur O'Neil,
the harper, who had, for several months past, generally
attended two evenings in the week, for the
purpose of instructing her on that instrument. Although
at that moment, perhaps, Edward would
have preferred an arrangement which would have
given him her company alone, he acceded to the
proposal. He was rejoiced at the opportunity of
seeing the only individual then living of that venerable
race, whose profession had once been so respectable
in Ireland; and he seized the occasion to
enlarge on a subject dear to the heart of Ellen, and
gratifying to his own, the praise of the bards of their
native country.

He was observing that no country had ever possessed
a race of men who so much excelled in all
the tenderness and pathos of music, or who had
produced strains of sentiment so much calculated to
affect the heart, when the old, blind musician appeared,
led by a boy whom he kept to attend him.
He was struck with his appearance. He looked
upon him as a remnant of antiquity; and was ready

not only to pay him respectful attention, but to yield
him all that veneration and homage which was once
yielded to the bards of Tara.

Indeed, the appearance of Arthur O'Neil, detached
from any consideration of his profession, was
sufficient to command an uncommon degree of respect.
He was nearly sixty years of age, and in
height about five feet ten inches, robust, but not
unwieldy in his person. His head was gray, and
somewhat bald towards the front, displaying the
wrinkles, but not the debility, of age, upon his high
and arching forehead. His nose was of the most
dignified Roman make; while his whole countenance,
which was oval, although somewhat weather-beaten,
exhibited a freshness, which indicated that
the possessor had long enjoyed a healthy and active
frame of body. His coat was of dark brown
cloth, made in the old fashion, wide in the skirts,
and without breasts. His waistcoat was a little
longer than usual, but had no affectation of singularity
in its construction. In short, the whole of his
apparel was characterized, not by its peculiarity,
but by its comfort, decency, and durability.

After an introduction to Edward, in which the
usual Irish salutation of “God bless you” was not
forgotten by the venerable minstrel, he adjusted
himself to his harp, and began the beautifully sweet
air of the “Blackbird.” When he had done, he
asked Ellen if she had committed to memory the
verses to that air, which he left with her on his last
visit. On her replying that she had fulfilled his
desire in this instance, he expressed a wish that she
should sing them, while he accompanied her voice
on the harp. She, at first, hesitated, but on Edward
joining in the request, she complied; and with a
voice sweet as a seraph's, at least so it sounded in
her lover's ears, she sung as follows:

“Ah! poor M`Nelwin,” exclaimed O'Neil when
she had finished, “how gratified he would be to
hear that sweet voice sing his verses! The poor

lad was afraid you would be displeased at his presumption
in sending them to you; but I knew you
were too good for that. He said you might think
that he wished to flatter you, but he declared every
sentiment of the piece to be the genuine dictate of
his heart, when he wrote it.”

“Mr. O'Neil,” she replied, “you may return the
young man my thanks for the compliment he has
paid me. Tell him that I respect his poetical talents,
and that I am proud of his favourable opinion; but
that I hope he will, for the future, select a more
worthy subject for his complimentary effusions,
than he has done on this occasion.”

“That, I believe, is impossible,” said O'Neil.

“It is—it is absolutely impossible,” thought Edward.
Then starting suddenly, as if he had just
awoke from a trance, “Miss O'Halloran! Mr.
O'Neil,” said he, scarcely knowing what he said, “I
beg pardon for not expressing my admiration sooner
of your performance. Either the musician, or the
poet, or the singer, or perhaps the combination of
the merits of the whole three, produced such an
extatic impression on my feelings, that I found it
impossible for some moments to collect my thoughts
sufficiently to thank you in a rational manner; and,
believe me, I can, with your poet, sincerely say, I
do not flatter.”

“Mr. Middleton,” said O'Neil, “your enthusiasm
of compliment is highly gratifying; but I make no
doubt that the sweet voice of the singer has had
the greatest share in exciting it.”

“You, too, can compliment as well as Mr. Middleton,”
said Ellen, “but if I may give an opinion,
I must ascribe a great deal of our friend's present
enthusiasm, to his patriotic delight in listening to
the strains of his country's favourite and venerated
instrument.”

“In our inquiry into the causes of our friend's

delight, we must not forget the poet,” replied O'Neil
in a lively manner. “If not the verses themselves,
at least their subject must have been in unison with
his feelings.”

“I believe you will allow me the right to settle
this controversy,” said Edward, willing to relieve
Ellen from the embarrassment into which the harper's
last observation had thrown her. “It would
be ungallant, as well as untrue, to deny the share
which the sweet songstress has had in administering
to the pleasure afforded me this evening. You
must, however, take to yourself, Mr. O`Neil, a due
portion of the merit. What Irish heart that reveres
the ancient music of his country, and is proud of
her former excellence in this most delightful of all
arts, but must feel an unusual glow of satisfaction,
on seeing for the first time, the only remaining
branch of that illustrious stock of bards to whom
her musical eminence is to be ascribed; and on
hearing for the first time, the inspiring tones of that
instrument, on which they awoke those soul-moving
numbers, that, at once, constituted the delight of
our ancestors, and their own immortality. The
recollections thus produced must, indeed, be thrilling!”

Edward made a pause. O'Neil sighed, and appeared
to be too much affected to reply. He, however,
poured forth the fervour of his soul upon his
harp; and pathetically swept the chords, accompanying
their tones with the following words of a
song written by his friend M`Nelvin.

When he had finished, he exclaimed with energy,
“Do not fear—I shall no more be the last of
Irish harpers, than M`Nelvin shall be the last of Irish
poets. Yes; gloomy as our present prospects now
are, a day shall yet dawn in which the bard and
the harp shall flourish together, and be cherished
in the hearts of Irishmen.” He then requested
Ellen to come forward, and receive a lesson.

She had scarcely seated herself to the harp, when
a servant entered with the following note, which he
delivered to Edward.

“The old man whom Mr. Middleton met in the
glen this evening, and to whom his benevolence
prompted him to offer charity, solicits the favour
of an interview. He shall wait for him at the
place where the late rencontre happened until 10
o'clock.”

Edward immediately obeyed the summons, telling
Ellen that he had occasion to go but a short distance,
and did not expect to be long absent.

On arriving at the place mentioned he found the
Recluse true to his appointment. “Follow me,”
said he to Edward; and he led the way up the glen
until they came to a place altogether overgrown

with trees, shrubs, and brambles, and various other
kinds of undergrowth. They then turned to the
left, and keeping close along the margin of the
stream, in a few minutes came to the bottom of a
precipice between thirty and forty feet high, which
formed one bank of the rivulet, a corresponding
precipice banking it on the other side. These
banks approached almost close to each other at the
upper termination of the glen, which was formed
by their gradually widening and diverging from each
side of the brook until they were lost in gentle
swellings on the sea shore. A small distance farther
up the brook than where these banks began to
leave it, a beautiful and romantic cascade was
formed by the water rushing over a breast of
rock nearly as high as the banks themselves, and
which formed their junction. But before coming
to this cascade, Edward and his conductor reached
the mouth of a cavern which the latter said was the
entrance of his abode.

When they entered a few yards, they were stopped
by what Edward supposed to be the solid rock
at the farthest extent of the cavern; but the recluse
taking a key from his pocket, soon opened a door
which the darkness had prevented him from seeing.

They now entered a large clean apartment with
a well baked earthern floor, at one side of which
blazed a large turf fire. It also contained several
chairs, a table, a large lumber chest, a few working
utensils, a large old fashioned bureau, and several
mats of straw heaped on each other for a bed,
and covered with bed clothes looking extremely
clean and comfortable.

“You are welcome to my habitation,” said the
old man.

“Why really” replied Edward, “you have a
more comfortable dwelling beneath the surface of
the earth than many I have seen above it.”

“As to that, you have as yet only seen one portion
of my abode. I shall now introduce you to
another, and you will be aware of the progress you
have already made in my estimation, and the confidence
I repose in you, when I tell you that you
are the second individual living to whom I have ever
opened its door.”

He then approached what Edward supposed to
be the large bureau, and touching a concealed spring
in one side of it, it flew open and displayed to view
a handsome parlour, lighted with two wax candles,
having a boarded floor, and plastered and ceiled in
the neatest manner. Edward's astonishment was
still more increased, when advancing, he perceived
at the farther end a large and elegant assortment of
books, arranged along shelves which seemed to
have been erected in a temporary manner for the
purpose of containing them.

“The surprise I perceive in your countenance,”
said the old man, “is natural. But sit down, and I
shall, in part, account for what you see, by stating
that I am not the person which to the world I appear
to be. I have met with misfortunes, Mr. Barrymore!
Do not startle. I know your name, and
about five years ago received some civilities from
you at Trinity College. You were then, to be
sure, less firmly made than at present; but I think
I cannot be mistaken as to your identity with the
individual to whom I allude.”

Edward acknowledged the identity, and confided
to the old man his motives for concealing his real
name from O'Halloran's family. The old man approved
of them.

“You have entrusted me with a secret which I
shall keep,” said he. “I shall now entrust you
with one of more importance. Indeed it was for
this purpose I requested this interview. Your's is
one only of a temporary nature, mine involves very

serious interests. It is calculated to affect no less
than the life of a man whom we both highly esteem.
But it is from a regard to that life, that I entrust
you with it. By enlisting your family influence in
favour of this person, I foresee that it will be one
day in your power to contribute to his safety. To
him you owe the preservation of your life. To him
you are therefore bound by gratitude. I shall commit
the secret of his offences to your bosom, honour
will, therefore, bind you not to betray him,
and I know you possess honour. But there is, as
I before suspected, and as you have just now confessed,
another circumstance, a tie which binds you
to his interests, if not of a stronger, at least of a
more endearing nature than either gratitude or honour—I
mean love; for the filial affection of his
granddaughter, I am convinced, is so strong that she
would never survive his public execution. Ah!
sir, I tremble for that young lady, when I think of
the danger into which the ardent but mistaken patriotism
of O'Halloran is likely to involve him. I
have endeavoured for several months past, to prepare
her mind for whatever calamities may overtake
her, by lessons of fortitude. But I still dread
the consequences of her grandfather's imprudence.
I wanted a coadjutor to assist in delivering him, if
possible, when the day of calamity shall come.
For I clearly perceive that such a day is fast approaching—how
far it is distant I cannot tell—but
come it will. On such a day I shall have a recourse
to you. I know your power is great and
your heart is willing. I thank that Providence
which threw you in my way before the cloud had
burst; and I look upon it as a favourable omen,
which bids me hope that Ellen Hamilton and Henry
O'Halloran, the two dearest objects I have on
the earth, shall survive the fury of that storm under
which thousands are doomed to fall.”

Edward was affected with the Recluse's fervency.
He assured him that he would, at any time,
be ready to undertake any thing that should contribute
to the safety of O'Halloran, and the happiness
of Ellen. He hoped, however, that whatever were
the circumstances which occasioned such an alarm
in his mind, they would not entail the misfortunes
he apprehended. That if he would inform him
of the particulars he should be the better prepared
to act on any emergency, and he might rely upon
his honour, without taking into view the high interest
he felt and ever must feel for the welfare of
O'Halloran and his granddaughter, as a sufficient
pledge of secrecy, so long as secrecy should be
attended with any advantage to either of them.”

“I am satisfied on that head,” said the Recluse,
“your political principles, opposed, as I know
them to be, to those of O'Halloran, will not, I am
persuaded, prevail with you to break through the
various ties of honour, gratitude, and love, which
bind you to the interests of this worthy but mistaken
old man. Yet I cannot but think that your
conscience will scruple at enlisting your services
in behalf of a man, whom, when you are informed
of the whole of his conduct, (and of the whole
of it you must be informed before you can be sensible
of the extent of his danger,) you will be inclined
to look upon as a traitor to his country, and
to that constitution of government, which, from
your youth, you have been taught to venerate and
consider as the most excellent that ever was
framed for the benefit of society.”

“I indeed acknowledge my admiration of the
excellencies of the British constitution,” replied
Edward. “At the same time, I am sensible that it
contains a great many imperfections; and, in various
minor points, should be an advocate for its
amendment. But, whatever may be my opinions on

this subject, depend upon it they never can alter
my affection for the interesting family to whom I
owe so much. Still, I hope, that Mr. O'Halloran
has not acted so as to deserve the severe epithet
of traitor, which you have applied to him.”

“Would to God!” said the Recluse, “that I were
unjust in applying that epithet to him. But, I
greatly fear, that when you hear the particulars,
you will be but too much convinced that the laws
of this country would make the same application.
Against that statute which defines treason to be the
abetting and encouraging the enemies of the country,
it is but too true that with many others of
the society with which he is connected, he has
offended. That it does not amount to treason to be
a United Irishman, I am aware; and if my friend
were only such, I should neither feel the uneasiness,
nor give you trouble concerning him, which
I now do.”

“I am ignorant,” said Edward, “of the designs of
the United Irishmen. But I am aware that their
association has occasioned a great deal of disturbance
in the country; although I am also aware
that the severe measures resorted to by the present
administration to suppress this association,
may have provoked many of the atrocities that
have been committed. As, however, you are better
acquainted with their proceedings and intentions,
I shall be glad of your information; but of
this you may be satisfied, that nothing you can tell
me of a mere political nature, shall lessen my
esteem for our friend, or alter my resolution to
serve him, if ever Providence shall so order it that
I may have the power.”

“This,” said the Recluse, “is the point I wished
to gain. I shall not, therefore, hesitate to communicate
all I know concerning O'Halloran's connexion
with this association. Among the United

Irishmen there are numbers of virtuous characters,
and, at the commencement of the society, it was
joined by men of the purest patriotic and constitutional
principles. The avowed object of its
founders, was only to unite all classes of Irishmen,
without regard to religious distinction, in exertions
to obtain those rights, and the redress of those
grievances which the volunteers had failed to obtain.
The three leading objects with them, are the
same for which many of our best and most enlightened
statesmen, both in and out of parliament,
have long contended; namely, a reform in the representation
of the commons, emancipation of the
catholics, and a melioration of the tythe system.
These are just and constitutional demands for the
people to make; and had the government granted
them to the solicitations of the volunteers, we
should never have heard of United Irishmen. But
the administration became jealous of that gallant
army of patriots; and as soon as they no longer
needed their aid, not only stopped short in their
reluctant concessions to their just demands, but in
defiance of the wishes of the nation, occasioned
their disorganization.

“Some of the leaders of the volunteers, and
other men of restless and active dispositions, and
many, no doubt, from the purest motives, determined
to persist in urging their claims; and, since
they were forbidden to arm as a public body, they
resolved to arm as a secret society. The plan they
adopted was originally suggested by Theobald
Wolfe Tone, whom I have frequently seen in this
part of the country, on his visits to ascertain the
progress of the association, and to give instructions
respecting the management and regulation of its
concerns. Mr. O'Halloran, who had been a leader
among the volunteers, became active in recruiting
for the new establishment, which, at its origin, was

hardly considered in any other light than as a substitute
for that which had been so arbitrarily and
unwisely suppressed.

“Unfortunately the French revolutionists began
at this time successfully to propagate their disorganizing
doctrines throughout all Europe. Numbers
of their emissaries were scattered over Ireland,
and, in consequence of their exertions, a
spirit of innovation upon every kind of ancient
establishment spread itself rapidly among the people.
This was, however, somewhat checked by
the seeming spirit of conciliation which the ministry
of Britain manifested in sending the earl Fitzwilliam,
a man who was known to be friendly to
the popular wishes, as viceroy to the country.

Happy it would have been for the people, and
happy also for the government, had he been permitted
to remain at the head of our affairs. The
United Irish Association would, of itself, have desolved
by being gratified in the principal of its
wishes. But, unfortunately, it was not the design
of Mr. Pitt and his colleagues that the people should
be gratified. Accordingly the popular viceroy was
withdrawn. He left Ireland in tears, which I am
afraid will never be dried until they be changed
for blood.

His successor, lord Camden, you are aware, has
adopted a different system of government. Instead
of a redress of grievances being granted, oppression
is increased, under the plea of suppressing treason,
until numbers have actually been irritated into treason,
who would otherwise have remained peaceable
and loyal; and the red arm of vengeance has
been bared to inflict punishment for crimes that
would never have been committed, had not the
same arm been previously employed in oppression.
To Camden's ill-fated and ill-managed administration,
the whole of the evils that now overspread

the land are to be attributed. By passing the impolitic
law of the last session, called the Insurrection
Act, which has for a season, surrendered the
liberties of the people into the hands of an executive
that has shown itself so ill disposed to make a
proper use of such a trust, the parliament has
sharpened the sword of oppression, and given a
cruel sanction to the military outrages that are now
committing throughout the country. That act has
permitted the ordinary forms of judicature to be
superseded by tribunals, unknown to the constitution,
and military courts are now busied, in many
places, in hurling the vengeance of power wherever
disaffection is suspected, or even wherever it is
convenient for interested malice that it should be
suspected.

“The captivity and sufferings of William Orr, a
respectable man of this county, who, under the
operation of that unfortunate act, has been, since
September last, immured in prison, among many
other instances of misgovernment, have contributed
much to excite the present incalculable and fearful
degree of irritation which has seized the minds of
the people of this province. Immense numbers of
every class view the present state of things with
horror, and the legislature having legalized the
oppression under their labour, they also view them
without any hope of deliverance, except by an exertion
of their own strength. Hence thousands who
before the existence of the Insurrection act resisted
every solicitation to join the united ranks, are now
voluntarily coming forward to enrol themselves
upon their lists, and to take the oaths of fidelity to
their cause. Ambitious men, in the interests of
France, have taken advantage of this enthusiasm
among the people, and have, of late, been too successful
in infusing principles absolutely treasonable
into the minds of many.

“Among the most zealous for revenge upon the
oppressors of the country, we may consider our
friend, Mr. O'Halloran. Excited by the integrity
of his nature to a hatred of every species of injustice,
and being fearless and persevering in whatever
cause he embarks, he has taken a lead in the
existing conspiracy, not, like many others, from
selfish views, but from the purest motives—from
his ideas of duty, and from his feelings of benevolence
and patriotism.

“Many, however, on the contrary, of the ablest
men who were conspicuous at the commencement
of the confederacy, have become dissatisfied at the
lengths to which matters have latterly been driven,
and are now either altogether inactive, or have
thrown their weight into the scale of government.
But encouraged by the great accession they have
received in point of numbers from the lower orders,
the more zealous leaders, instead of being discouraged
by this defection of the more moderate from
their cause, have become bolder in their measures,
and have not stopped short of treason in their views.
They avow, unreservedly, their intention, with the
assistance of France, to establish a republican
form of government in this country, altogether unconnected
with Britain; and these imprudent men
now regulate the whole concerns of the united confederacy.
The lower orders look up to them as
the only true patriots, and brand those who wish
to restrain them in their mad career, with the
name of apostates; and it has unfortunately happened
in this, as in all other cases of national excitement,
that the most violent have become the
most popular.”

“Is there any system of insurrection yet organized?”
enquired Edward.

“There is no time, I believe, yet fixed upon for
taking the field; but they have given up all idea

of again applying to government for a redress of
grievances, and appear resolved to trust to arms
alone for the success of their cause. Still I am of
opinion that conciliatory measures on the part of
the government, and granting them their just and
constitutional demands, would so separate the members
of the confederacy, as to check the progress
of the threatened rebellion, and render the machinations
of the more violent and fanatical abortive.
But I have so little faith in the government adopting
these healing measures, that I expect nothing
else than a state of things to take place, more disasterous
and unfortunate for the country, than any
she has ever yet experienced. The government is
obstinate, it is oppressive; the people are inflamed,
and imprudent, and under the management of ambitious,
rash, and desperate men. O! my friend,
what misery awaits our unfortunate country?”

Edward felt the full force of the old man's sorrow.
His heart bled at the prospect thus opened
before him of the calamities that were about to
overspread the land of his nativity; the land of
his affections; the abode of all that was dear to
his feelings and pleasing to his hopes, and he heaved
a sigh as he confessed that he could see no means
by which the threatened misfortunes might be
averted.

The Recluse now gave him an account of numerous
instances of misrule and oppression committed
by the government, and of the violent measures
frequently resorted to by the United Irishmen in
retaliation throughout the northern parts of the
country. At length Edward took leave of the old
man, with a promise not to depart from the neighbourhood
until he should have another interview
with him on the subject.

On his way to the castle, his heart, distracted
with sorrow and with love, became overpowered

with his emotions, and before he knocked for admittance
at the gate, which, at that hour of the night,
was always closed, he retired into a little arbour
behind the porter's lodge, to give vent to his feelings.
He had scarcely entered, when a coarse
voice called out “Wha comes there?” which he
immediately conjectured to be the voice of Peg
Dornan.

“Is this you, Peg?” was the reply.

She started to her feet, muttering, “In the name
o' Gude! what brings you here at this hoor of the
nicht? Surely you ha' na been out exercising wi'
the crappies. Poor lads! they maun aye tak' the
dark covering o' the nicht to be drilled, for fear o'
the blackguard informers, or the king's red-coats,
that would shoot them or hang them without mercy.
The deil tak' them!”

“Is this where you make your bed at nights,
Peg?” said Edward.

“Sometimes, sir; ony place does Peg Dornan.”

At this moment they heard the sound of voices
approaching.

“It's his honour,” said Peg, looking out at the
entrance of the arbour, “an' anither I dinna ken,
gaun to the castle. Na doubt they're talking politics.
I ne'er fash my head wi' sic things, except
to sing a crappy sang noo an' then, an' to wish Gude
to bless the cause, be it richt or wrang.”

The speakers were now so near that Edward
could distinctly hear O'Halloran saying to his companion
“We have now upwards of a hundred thousand
men sworn to us in this province, and, I think,
we might have things prepared for a general rising
as soon as your government can effect the landing
of ten thousand troops on any part of the coast.
My last letters from the Dublin Directory inform
me, that in the various part of the kingdom there
are upwards of three hundred thousand United

Irishmen and Defenders ready to take the field at
the first signal!” To this the other answered—“Our
government has the interests of your country much
at heart, and if our transports can only escape the
fleets of Britain, the number of troops promised
you may rely on receiving at the stipulated time.”

The sounds now died away, and the encreasing
distance of the speakers prevented Edward from
hearing more. The fact that French aid in order
to assist in separating Ireland from England, was
negociated for by the leaders of the United Association,
was now to him no longer questionable; and
that the only parent of his Ellen, the preserver of
his life, was deeply implicated in this traitorous and
dangerous measure, sunk heavily to his heart, and
impressed him with such a degree of vexation and
sorrow, as he had never before experienced.

“I will not disturb you longer, Peg,” said he,
“when I stumbled in here, I did not expect that
the place was previously occupied.”

“Guid nicht!” she cried, “and Gude be wi' you;
an' thank ye for the money—I had na' sae muckle
this twal month before.”