UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 : i 
 
 TALES, 
 BY THE O HARA FAMILY. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. III. 

 
 TALES, 
 
 BY THE OHARA FAMILY; 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 CROHOORE OF THE BILL-HOOK. 
 THE FETCHES, AND JOHN DOE. 
 
 Quid? ille ubi est Milesius - !" 
 What has become of the Milesian? 
 
 Terence, Adelphi, Act IV. Scene I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR W. SIMPKIN AND R. MARSHALL, 
 
 STATIONERs'-HALL COURT, LUDG ATE-STREET. 
 
 1826. 
 
 
 : .
 
 J. MCreery, Tooks Court, 
 Chaucery-Laui, Loudon. 
 
 
 . . . • • • •
 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The old devotion to private skirmishing of the 
 Irish peasantry is well known. Skirmishing 
 would indeed be too mild a word to express 
 the ferocious encounters that often took place 
 among them — (we speak in the past tense, for, 
 from a series of wretchedness the spirit has of 
 late considerably decreased) — when parties, or, 
 as they are locally termed, factions of fifty or a 
 hundred, met, by appointment, to wage deter- 
 mined war ; when blood profusely flowed, and, 
 sometimes, lives were lost. 
 
 But apart from the more important instances 
 of the practice those pitched battles presented, 
 accident, and the simplest occurrences of their 
 
 vol. in. B 
 
 i 4 a \ h
 
 2 JOHN DOE. 
 
 lives ; pleasure, nival exercise, sport ; or even 
 the sober occupation of conveying a neighbour 
 to his last home, supplied, indifferently well, 
 opportunities for an Irish row. 
 
 On festival days, when they met at a " pat- 
 tern" (patron, perhaps) or merry-making, the 
 lively dance of the girls, and the galloping jig- 
 note of the bagpipes, usually gave place to the 
 clattering of alpeens, and the whoops of on- 
 slaught ; when one of them sold his pig, or, un- 
 der providence, his cow, at the fair, the kicking 
 up of a " scrimmage," or at least the plunging 
 head foremost into one, was as much matter of 
 course as the long draughts of ale or whiskey 
 that closed his mercantile transaction ; at the 
 village hurling-match, the " hurlet," or crooked 
 stick with which they struck the ball, often 
 changed its playful utility ; nay, at a funeral, 
 the body was scarce laid in the grave when the 
 voice of petty discord might be heard above the 
 grave's silence. 
 
 These contentions, like all great events, 
 generally arose from very trivial causes. A 
 drunken fellow, for instance, was in a strange 
 public house; he could not content himself with
 
 JOHN DOE. 3 
 
 the new faces near him, so struck at some three, 
 six, or ten, as it might "be, and in course, got 
 soundly drubbed ; on his return home he re- 
 lated his case of injury, exhibiting his closed 
 eye, battered mouth, or remnant of nose ; en- 
 listed all his relatives, " kith-and-kin ;" in fact, 
 all his neighbours who liked " a bit of diver- 
 sion," and they generally included the whole 
 male population able to bear arms ; at the head 
 of his faction he attended the next fair, or other 
 place of popular resort where he might expect 
 to meet his foes ; the noise of his muster went 
 abroad, or he sent a previous challenge ; the op- 
 posite party assembled in as much force as possi- 
 ble, never declining the encounter ; one or other 
 side was beaten, and tried to avenge its disgrace 
 on the first opportunity ; defeat again followed, 
 and again produced like efforts and results; and 
 thus the solemn feud ran through a number of 
 years and several generations. 
 
 A wicked, " devil-may-care" fellow, feverish 
 for sport, would, at fair, pattern, or funeral, 
 sometimes smite another without any provoca- 
 tion, merely to create a riot; the £tanders-by 
 would take different sides, as their taste or con-
 
 * JOHN DOE. 
 
 ncxions inclined them, and the fray thus com- 
 mencing between two individuals who owed each 
 other no ill-will, embroiled half the assembled 
 concourse. Nay, a youth, in despair that so fine 
 a multitude was likely to separate peaceably, 
 stripped off his heavy outside coat, and trailed 
 it through the puddle, daring any of the lookers 
 on to tread upon it ; his defiance was rarely in- 
 effectual ; he knocked down if possible the in- 
 vited offender ; a general battle ensued, that 
 soon spread like wild-fire, and every " alpeen" 
 was at work in senseless clatter and unimagin- 
 able hostility. 
 
 The occurrence of the word " alpeen," here 
 and elsewhere, seems to suggest a description of 
 the weapon of which it is the name, and this 
 can best be given in a piece of biographical 
 anecdote. 
 
 Jack Mullally still lives in fame, though his 
 valiant bones are dust. lie was the landlord of 
 a public-house in a mountain district ; a chival- 
 rous fellow, a lighter of wrongs, the leader of 
 a faction of desperate fighting-men, and like 
 Arthur, with his doughty knights, a match for 
 an) f< ur among them, though each a hero; and,
 
 JOHN DOE. 5 
 
 above all, the armourer of his department. In 
 Jack's chimney-corner hung bundles of sticks, 
 suspended there for the purpose of being dried 
 and seasoned ; and these were of two descrip- 
 tions of warlike weapons ; shortish oaken cud- 
 gels, to be used as quarter staves or, par excel- 
 lence, genuine shillelaghs ; and the alpeens 
 themselves, — long wattles with heavy knobs at 
 the ends, to be wielded with both hands, and 
 competent, under good guidance, to the felling 
 of a reasonable ox. 
 
 Jack and his subjects, Jack and his alpeens, 
 were rarely absent from any fair within twenty 
 miles, having always business on hands in the 
 way of their association. When a skirmish took 
 place, the side that could enlist in its interests 
 Jack, his alpeens, and his merry-men, was sure 
 of victory. The patriarch was generally to be 
 found seated by his kitchen fire ; business was 
 beneath him ; he left all that to the " van i thee ;" 
 and his hours lapsed, when matters of moment 
 did not warn him to the field, either in wetting 
 his sticks with a damp cloth, and then heating 
 them over the turf blaze, to give them the pro- 
 per curve ; or in teaching a pet starling to speak
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Irish, and whistle " Shaun Buoy ;" ov haply in 
 imbibing his own ale or whiskey, and smoking 
 his short black pipe, or doohdccn, as himself 
 termed it. And here he gave audience to the 
 numerous suitors and ambassadors who, day by 
 day, came to seek his aid, preparatory to a con- 
 certed engagement. His answer was never has- 
 tily rendered. lie promised, at all events, to 
 be, with his corps, at the appointed ground; 
 and then and there he would proclaim of which 
 side he was the ally. This precautionary course 
 became the more advisable as he was always sure 
 of a request from both factions; and time, fore- 
 thought, and inquiry, were necessary to ascer- 
 tain which side might prove the weakest ; for to 
 the weakest — (the most aggrieved formed no 
 part of his calculations) — Jack invariably ex- 
 tended his patronage. 
 
 The vanithee, good woman, when she heard 
 of an approaching fair, or other popular meet- 
 ing, immediately set about preparing plaisters 
 and ointments ; and this resulted from a thrifty 
 forecast; for were she to call in a doctor every 
 time her husband's head wanted piecing, it 
 would run away with the profits of her business.
 
 JOHN DOE. 7 
 
 Jack, indeed, never forgot his dignity so far as 
 to inform his wife that he intended being en- 
 gaged on such occasions ; but she always took 
 it for granted, and with the bustle of a good 
 housewife, set about her preparations accord- 
 ingly: till at length a breach happened in his 
 skull which set her art at defiance ; and ever 
 since she lives the sole proprietor of the public- 
 house where Jack once reigned in glory. The 
 poor widow has thriven since her husband's 
 death ; and is now rich, not having lately had 
 Jack's assistance in spending, (she never had it 
 in earning). She recounts his exploits with mo- 
 dest spirit ; and one blessing, at least, has re- 
 sulted from her former matronly care of the 
 good man ; she is the Lady Bountiful of her 
 district; a quack, it may be, yet, sufficiently 
 skilful for the uncomplicated ailments of her 
 country customers. 
 
 Such ordinary facts as we have here glanced 
 at, never fail to strike with astonishment, if they 
 do not greatly interest, the English visiter 
 to " the sister isle," when he is first made ac- 
 quainted with them. In both ways, perhaps, they 
 were regarded by two young English officers
 
 8 JOHN DOE. 
 
 quartered at a remote, though no very remote 
 period, in the inland town of Clonmel, before 
 whom a native acquaintance descanted with na- 
 tural ease on these traits of local character, as 
 he and his military friends sat over their even- 
 ing 'bottle. The bottle was emptied and the 
 Clonmel visiter gone, and lieutenants Howard 
 and Graham remained together, still occupied 
 with the new and extraordinary anecdotes they 
 had heard. They separated for the night, 
 and continued to recur with interest to the in- 
 formation of their friend. They were amazed, 
 if not shocked ; they could not understand 
 how the thing should happen. In a civilized 
 country, indeed, a motive to the cool, scientific 
 punishment that Spring and Neat, or Spring 
 and Langan bestow upon each other, was easily 
 comprehended ; but they stared with utter con- 
 sternation at the mystery of an Irish fight, be- 
 cause it was discussed with shillelaghs and al- 
 peens instead of fists and knuckles. 
 
 Next morning they met, after their early pa- 
 rade, at Graham's private lodgings ; for, at the 
 time we speak of, the officers of a regiment were 
 afforded, even in considerable towns in Ireland,
 
 JOHN DOE. 9 
 
 but scanty accommodation at barracks. It was 
 a hot, oppressive forenoon in the close of July, 
 promising a day of even more relaxing influ- 
 ence; and ten hours of sunlight were before them" 
 to be spent in one way or other. To the man of 
 business, or to the professional man in London, 
 to the needy author, the toiling lawyer, nay, 
 considering the various rounds of metropolitan 
 amusements, perhaps to the cornet of the guards 
 himself, this may seem no very embarrassing 
 prospect : but to the fashionable English lieu- 
 tenant, on country service in Ireland, it might 
 well appear an endless vista, beset with doubt 
 and fear, and all the little fiends of apathy and 
 idleness. 
 
 In their want of something to do, and while 
 they again recurred to the topics of the pre- 
 ceding night, the friends felt curious to behold, 
 as they had previously been surprised to hear 
 of, an Irish row ; and — 
 
 " Oh, for the fight of alpeens !" said Graham, 
 as he rose from breakfast, throwing up the win- 
 dow, and drawing one of those heavy sighs that 
 denote the mixed reign of heat and listlessness 
 
 b 3
 
 10 JOHN DOE. 
 
 — " for, Howard, what is to become of us this 
 ferocious clay ?*' 
 
 " There's nothing to be clone with the fish- 
 ing-rods," said Howard, " Isaac Walton himself 
 could not tempt to a bite any trout in his senses, 
 till evening at least; — and I am tired of the two 
 Misses OTlaherty." 
 
 " And I of the three Misses Nicholsons, and 
 the four Misses Pattensons," said Graham ; 
 their prattle and tattle, their tastes and their 
 raptures, are death to me : though here they 
 have all been escorted through the streets, and 
 on their public promenades, and to church, 
 mass, or meeting, by the poor ensigns of the 
 last score regiments epiartered in their nathr 
 town, saying the same fiddle-faddle things, and 
 exhibiting to each set, successively and in vain, 
 time immemorial, the same faces and fascina- 
 tions." 
 
 " Then their brothers and male cousins are 
 such sots, asses, or puppies/' said Howard, in 
 a complimentary strain, towards people who 
 thought themselves the apple of his eye. 
 
 " And their mothers and maiden aunts such 
 worriers," rejoined Graham, continuing the
 
 JOHN DOE. 11 
 
 same strain ; " and the girls themselves, too, 
 they walk so much and so fast, and while they 
 clack on so fast, and force one so here and 
 there, that a man had better be on a real forced 
 march at once, than by their sides in such wea- 
 ther. But, suppose billiards?" — 
 
 " Monstrous !" 
 
 " Then the racket-court ?" 
 
 " Terrible !" 
 
 " Then a cool hand at whist till mess-hour ?" 
 
 This proposal was also considered and de- 
 clined, and the friends having thus nearly ex- 
 hausted all the means of enjoyment supplied by 
 their situation and ruling tastes, remained for 
 some time hopelessly silent, picking crumbs of 
 bread off the breakfast-table, and gently filliping 
 them out at the open window ; until the en- 
 trance of their last night's guest gave a fresh 
 and pleasing turn to their ideas. Renewing 
 with him a conversation about Irish fights and 
 merry-makings, they were cheered to find that 
 a pattern was that day hoklen a few miles from 
 Clonmel, where they might hope to become ac- 
 quainted, at a civil distance, with the prowess 
 of the alpeen and shillelagh.
 
 12 JOHN DOE. 
 
 A proposal from Mr. Burke, their Clonmel 
 friend, to guide them to the spot, was imme- 
 diately accepted ; and though the sun grew 
 fierce in his strength, they resolved to proceed 
 on foot, for Mr. B. could lead by ;i short cut 
 through fields and meadows. The breeze of 
 the open country was reviving, and they would 
 saunter along, resting in the occasional shade, 
 and by the side of clear cool brooks : no hurry 
 Avas in the case ; indeed it were better to come 
 upon the scene of festivity towards evening; and 
 altogether every thing was now practicable and 
 delightful. So, after sinking the military charac- 
 ter in peaceful suits of clothes, a precaution 
 prudently hinted by Mr. Burke, and when each 
 aentleman had furnished himself with a re- 
 spectable shillelagh, the little expedition was 
 commenced forthwith.
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 After a pleasant saunter through an open, 
 interesting country, Howard and Graham, and 
 their friend, gained the spacious plain on which 
 the pattern was held. For some time they 
 rambled about amongst the people, looking on 
 at their diversions, or occasionally joining in 
 their mirth; and assuredly there was a sufficient 
 variety to engage attention. Some were em- 
 ployed at the wonders of the show-box, or lis- 
 tening with open mouths, and looks of respectful 
 amazement, to the oratory of its accomplished 
 exhibitor. Our gentlemen did not themselves 
 refuse an approving laugh to one turn of the 
 fellow's eloquence. He had in his hand the 
 knotted string, which guided the movements of 
 a picture of a certain battle, celebrated in the 
 annals of the Irish rebellion, for a triumph over 
 some regiments of Irish militia, by a mob of
 
 1 I JOHN DOE. 
 
 peasants, assisted by a part of the handful of 
 French who landed at Killala. 
 
 " Look to the right," said the showman, 
 and you shall sec the Wicklow militia scamper- 
 ing oft* the ground, my lord Monck at their 
 head, on the gallant occasion ; — and small blame 
 to his lordship, for the French are at his heels." 
 
 Passing from this group of rustic connois- 
 seurs, our visitors next noticed a •-warm of simple 
 clowns, who stood, all their faculties of acuteness 
 and comprehension brought to a focus, watch- 
 ing the coils of a strip of old hat, as the cunning 
 knave, who professed this species of gambling, 
 folded it up in good affectation of plain dealing; 
 and then, certain that they had kept an observ- 
 ant eye during the process, they proceeded, 
 with hope almost raised to certainty, to stick a 
 wooden peg in the proper loop ; a halfpenny 
 was paid for the venture, and if successful they 
 were to gain thrice the sum ; but, with all their 
 sagacity, bitter disappointment was sure to fol- 
 low. Many staked their money on the fasci- 
 nating evolutions of the wheel of fortune ; and 
 always with certain loss ; others threw a stick 
 at some wooden pins placed upright in the
 
 JOHN DOE. 15 
 
 ground, ever filled with honest surprise that 
 they could not hit any of them, though but a 
 few yards distant. There were beggars with 
 every boasted ailment under the sun, clamour- 
 ously insisting on the charity of " the good 
 christians ; " and ballad-singers with cracked 
 lungs, squeaking forth ditties of unique com- 
 position ; such as, — 
 
 " As I did ramble, 
 
 Down by a bramble," &c. 
 
 There were venders of cake-cheese, of apples, 
 and of gingerbread, all striving with incessant 
 uproar to attract custom ; but the principal diver- 
 sion, and that to which the greater number were 
 attached, was dancing on the green sod. As our 
 trio stood a little elevated above the concourse, 
 they counted ten pipers within ken, each sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of " boys and girls," foot- 
 ing it away with every mark of utter glee and 
 happiness. The manner in which a piper set 
 up his establishment was simple enough. If he 
 had a wife — " as which of them had not ?" — 
 she brought a stool, and, lacking of that conve- 
 nience, a stone served the purpose ; he seated
 
 If) JOHN DOE. 
 
 himself"; struck up a merry jig; one or two friends 
 patronised his muse, and presently he had a 
 group around him, and was prosperous. 
 
 By the way, an occurrence noticed by our 
 party on their walk to the pattern, should here 
 be mentioned. A few fields from the scene of 
 festivity they perceived a young fellow, rakishly 
 dressed in his holiday garb, stop, unconscious 
 of observance, before one of those tall stones, 
 occasionally to be met with in the country parts 
 of Ireland, but of which the use or meaning is 
 unknown to us, notwithstanding that we have 
 anxiously inquired after their tradition. The 
 athletic fellow held his hat in his hand, bowed 
 to the stone w ith all the air he could assume ; 
 bowed again and again ; then replaced his hat, 
 and began to dance rapidly before his stationary 
 partner. He kept his eye fixed on his feet, as 
 if to watch how they did their business ; and 
 ;.fter some time, and now seemingly pleased 
 with his performance, he took off his hat again; 
 in bowed profoundly to the stone, and with 
 an exulting shout scampered off to the pattern: 
 where he was soon recognised, using to a pretty 
 girl, as he took her out to dance, the same grace-
 
 JOHN DOE. 17 
 
 ful ceremonies he had before lavished on an ob- 
 ject not so sensible of his perfections. 
 
 " Tents," or booths, constructed in a very 
 primitive manner, were, to the number of forty 
 or fifty, erected along the field. Long, pliant 
 wattles, stuck in the ground at regular distances, 
 and running some thirty feet, then meeting at 
 top, and covered with blankets, sacks, or such 
 like awning, made up each tent. The descrip- 
 tion of the whole interior of one, will give a 
 proper idea of the rest. A long deal table, or ra- 
 ther succession of deal tables, were placed nearly 
 from end to end; forms were ranged at each 
 side ; and on these sat a mixed company of old 
 and young. Here a youthful fellow was placed 
 by a pretty girl, his arm round her neck, while 
 he whispered his best soft things, and she 
 smiled, and pouted, and coquetted ; opposite 
 sat two or three old men discoursing on the 
 weather, the crops, and the prices ; the young 
 folk no way bashful in their presence, and little 
 reason had they to be so; for the ancients 
 quaffed their liquor often and heartily, takino- 
 not the least notice of what passed at the other 
 side. Here too was a piper, and the dance
 
 18 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 went on as vigorously within as without The 
 landlord and landlady stationed near the en- 
 trance, were provided with a good store of ale 
 and whiskey, at the call of their customers, at- 
 tended by a wench as comely as possible, eter- 
 nally out of breath, running here and there, as 
 the incessant knocks of the empty quarts against 
 the table challenged her attention. It was her 
 business to see that the same quart did not 
 thump a second time, and to be prepared with 
 her best smile and ready joke, and perhaps 
 something else, ecpially ready and desirable, for 
 every customer who should choose to laugh or 
 bandy wit, or struggle for a stray favour, with 
 the decently-coy Hebe. 
 
 Having walked every where their curiosity 
 directed, without observing any promise of an 
 Irish row, our amateurs were, in some disap- 
 pointment, about to return home, when their un- 
 conscious acquaintance, whom they had seen 
 bowing to the stone, made his appearance from 
 the aperture of a tent, his hat doffed, and lead- 
 ing by the hand a blooming lass : — it was evi- 
 dent he had seen the party of gentlemen from 
 within, and now stopping and scraping before
 
 JOHN DOE. 19 
 
 them — " Gintlemen," said he, " here's a merry 
 young girl wants a partner for a dance ;" his fair 
 charge whispered him, and he continued, ad- 
 dressing himself to Graham — " Will you, sir, 
 take a small dance wid the colleen dhass ?" 
 
 She sent, on her own part, a merry invitation 
 from her black eye, and Graham's Clonmel 
 friend, answered — " This gentleman never said 
 no to a pretty girl in his life. The girl curtsied, 
 still looking to Graham, who, of course, repaid 
 her with a bow; whereupon she offered her 
 hand, and rather led, than was led by Graham 
 into the tent, Howard, Burke, and the posture- 
 master following. 
 
 Here they found themselves in the presence 
 of fifty or sixty country people of both sexes 
 and all ages ; some singing; some spouting love; 
 some dancing; and some conversing vehemently, 
 and with, at least, spirited gesticulation; but 
 though thus separately engaged in the detail, 
 all were unanimous in one accompaniment, name- 
 ly, the consumption of ale or whiskey, more or 
 less ; their hearts wide open as their mouths and 
 eyes, and their animal spirits extatic from the 
 genial influence of the liquor.
 
 00 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 With officious eagerness, they made room for 
 the strangers, whose "health an' long life" was 
 immediately toasted round from mouth to mouth : 
 and according to the local usages of hospita- 
 lity, Graham, Howard, and Burke, had to pledge 
 every soul within view, each in his or her own 
 magnum. This was much more than an incon- 
 venience ; but the visitors had determined to 
 conform in every thing to the taste of their cir- 
 cle, and in the entire good-will of their neigh- 
 bours, they found the benefit of their policy ; 
 for when in turn they ordered some whiskey- 
 punch and pushed it round, they had enlisted, 
 for ever, the affection of every creature present. 
 "Arrah, thonomon-duoul,gintlimin,bud here's 
 your hearty welcome among us ; here's long life 
 an' glory to ye ; upon my sowl bud I loves the 
 likes o' ye in the bottom o' my heart, that 
 wouldn't be shy or afeard to sit down an' take a 
 drop, wid the country-boys ; ye desarve the 
 best in the tent, an' ye must have it as long as 
 Paddy Flinn has a laffina in the 'varsal world — 
 halloo, there !" and thump went the empty quart 
 agaiQBt the table; for Mr. Patrick Flinn, the 
 knight of the stone, had emptied the vessel at
 
 JOHN DOE. 21 
 
 one draught, out of the good-will he bore 
 them, and now pounded with a force that set 
 all the other vessels dancing, while the tent 
 echoed the sound. 
 
 During his delivery of this speech, Howard 
 had time more closely to observe the face and 
 probable character of their quondam acquaint- 
 ance. He seemed about twenty-three years of 
 age, tall, wiry, and athletic ; his features ex- 
 pressed rather shrewdness than openness ; the 
 eyes grey and small ; the nose aquiline, and the 
 mouth in a perpetual play of waggery and good 
 humour, which, perhaps, was as much a con- 
 venient affectation as a natural habit. His whole 
 manner and dress, too, appeared ostentatiously 
 disposed to claim notice for him as a queer, 
 scape-grace looking fellow. He now wore his 
 hat on one side ; and the collar of his shirt beinor 
 open, displayed a throat and neck red as scar- 
 let, and rough as a cow's tongue. 
 
 While Howard made his observations, he was 
 interrupted by a husky, gruff voice at his other 
 side, saying, " Here's tow'ds yere good healths, 
 gintlimin, an' that ye may thrive an' prosper,
 
 22 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 an' that I may live to see ye here again at the 
 patthern this day twelve-months, I pray Gor." 
 
 The voice that pronounced these words was not 
 in unison with them; and when Howard fixed his 
 eyes on the speaker, he felt, thai neither in per- 
 son nor feature did they find a correspondence. 
 The man was, in fact, of that outward descrip- 
 tion termed ill-looking. His face large and 
 gross, beamed with nothing kindly ; in stature 
 lie was short and broad, but of Herculean sym- 
 metry ; under a bushy black eyebrow lurked a 
 deep, and if not scowling, a watchful eye, and 
 the whole expression of his features was solem- 
 nity, of a disagreeable kind. At variance with 
 the general costume around, he wore an ample 
 sailor-like jacket, and a red handkerchief, that 
 coiled like a cable round his throat unconscious 
 of a shirt; in other respects his dress accorded 
 with the usual one; being composed of a name- 
 less-coloured shirt, breeches open at the knees, 
 pale blue stockings, ungartered, and part of an 
 old hat, tied with " suggans," or hay ropes, 
 about the small of each leg, and covering the 
 tops of his brogues. His age might be forty-five.
 
 JOHN DOE. Zo 
 
 But Howard was again diverted from his 
 studies by — " Musha, yere healths, an' kindly 
 welcome to the patthern a hinnies-ma-chree."— 
 addressed to him and Burke by a sedate old ma- 
 tron, whose clothing, being of the most costly 
 kind worn by the class to which she belonged, 
 shewed her to be " comfortable," and that she 
 could well afford to spend a little on such occa- 
 sions as the present. She had on the good 
 blue rug cloak, the falling hood, lined with pur- 
 ple satin, and the large silver hook-and-eye to 
 fasten it at her neck ; a flaming silk hand- 
 kerchief, tied on her head in the way peculiar 
 to her country, and the costly lace of her cap 
 peeping from under it ; and there was a cor- 
 diality, an earnestness of voice, and a moist be- 
 nevolence of smile, accompanying her words, that 
 formed a strong contrast to the last salutation. 
 
 " Healths a piece, genteels, all round — not 
 forgetting you, sir," added a rosy lass, with 
 a stammer, a smile, and a blush, and her eyes 
 half raised over the vessel, as in the last words 
 she addressed herself to Howard. And in this 
 strain arose the civilities of every individual in
 
 '21 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the. booth; the phrase ami sentiment varying 
 with the age or character of the speaker. 
 
 In the meantime, Howard and Burke were 
 lookers-on at the dance between Graham and 
 his partner. When the jig was first about to be 
 struck up, Graham, under the tutelage of Burke, 
 requested to know the tune the lady wished. 
 He was answered, according to invariable cus- 
 tom, with a set phrase — " what's your will, is my 
 pleasure, sir," — but here the fair one proved 
 over complaisant ; as, from his total ignorance of 
 native music, Graham could name no tune likely 
 to be understood. In this dilemma he had re- 
 course to the piper, who sat with his instru- 
 ment prepared, awaiting orders ; and in a whis- 
 per desired he would give his own favourite. 
 But before we proceed further, let us introduce 
 more particularly Mr. Thadeus Fitzgerald — or 
 — as he was called by his own friends — Thady 
 VVhigarald, the piper. 
 
 This popular votary of Apollo, was, if his phy- 
 siognomy furnished proof, as happy in playing 
 his pipes, as those they set a capering. He sat, 
 a good bulky personage, with a fat, pleasant orb
 
 JOHN DOE. 25 
 
 of countenance, which, while he tuned his 
 pipes, simpered like a joint of mutton in the 
 dinner-pot; and, when at work, his sightless 
 eyehalls kept rolling about, as his head went 
 backward and forward, and up and down, in 
 unison with his own beloved strains ; while every 
 other feature expressed correspondent applause 
 and ecstacy. His rusty, broad brimmed hat was 
 encircled by a small hay rope instead of the or- 
 dinary band, and in this his pipe was stuck ; 
 the leaf turned up all round ; so that if Thady 
 happened to be out in a shower, he must have a 
 rivulet running round his head. 
 
 His gray frieze coat and waistcoat were much 
 broken ; the knees of his breeches open as usual ; 
 and his stockings so peculiarly tied below the fat 
 knee, as to serve for convenient pockets. Into 
 one he slipped the halfpence, the result of his 
 professional skill; and from the other occasionally 
 extracted a quid of tobacco, which, with a dex- 
 terous jerk he deposited in his mouth, scarcely 
 ever allowing this digression materially to inter- 
 fere with the progress of his music. Thady was 
 facetious withal ; from time to time encouraging 
 the dancers, as good sportsmen cheer on their 
 
 vol. in. c
 
 '-<> JOHN DOE. 
 
 dogs. When he heard the feet beat loud time 
 to his jig, which in his estimation was the 
 beau ideal of dancing, — "whoo! success attend 
 you, my darlin'! — whoo! ma c<>lleen-bcg! that's 
 id, a-vieli ma-chree ! — whoo! whoo! that's your 
 sort, Shaumus!" — these and similar ejaculations 
 joyfully mingled with the notes of his instru- 
 ment. 
 
 To Graham's request for his own favourite 
 air, Thady replied — " Why, thin, agra, becase 
 your lavin' it to myself, I'll give you somethin' 
 that's good : so here goes in the name o' God ;" 
 and instantly he set his arm in motion to inflate 
 his bag, and then volunteering a prefatorial 
 shout, struck up a jig, the rapid canter of 
 which set Graham's extremities goinc at such a 
 rate, as quickly to put him in a violent heat, and 
 leave him panting for breath. Meanwhile, Gra- 
 ham's mountain-partner, possessing better lungs, 
 or being more of an adept at the exercise, seem- 
 ed little exhausted, and through common shame 
 and gallantry he rallied his own spirits, and re- 
 solved to dance the bottle out; but, notwith- 
 standing the encouraging shouts of Thady, (he 
 lively and really mirth-inspiring air, and the im-
 
 JOHN DOE. 27 
 
 portance which he could not fail but perceive 
 was attached to durability — for at different in- 
 tervals he was addressed by the spectators with 
 —"that's id, yoursowl! hould on as long as 
 Thady has a screech in chanther !" notwithstand- 
 ing all this, Graham was at last compelled to 
 make his bow, and retire to a seat, completely 
 blown and crest-fallen. 
 
 His partner, seemingly but just fresh for the 
 sport, looked triumphant, and still timing the 
 music, jigged towards Howard, with a rapid 
 courtsey and — " I dance to you, sir, i' you 
 plase." Refusal was out of the question ; and, 
 although he had his friend's fate before his eyes, 
 up sprang the desperate man she had pitched 
 upon. After some time Howard had the grati- 
 fication to observe that his blooming adversary 
 began in her turn to betray signs of fatigue ; 
 and he was about to congratulate himself on a 
 speedy victory, for he had fully entered into 
 the spirit of competition he observed so preva- 
 lent, when another damsel bounced up, flung 
 her mantle with a jolly air, cocked and secured 
 her coarse straw bonnet, assumed the place 
 
 c 2
 
 28 JOHN DOE. 
 
 of the first, and sot upon Howard with all 
 her might. This reinforcement soon decided 
 his fate. Burke took the hint from what had 
 been done by the second girl ; Mr. Patrick 
 Flinn relieved Burke ; other " country-boys" 
 took part with the strangers, for it had now 
 become a real contest between the sires ; and 
 the fun waxed uproarious. Thady blew with re- 
 doubled fury, and grew downright clamorous 
 in his cries of encouragement ; the excessive 
 effort creating excessive heat, our military in- 
 cognitos and friend indulged in frequent glasses 
 of punch to prevent bad consecpiences ; so that 
 in a little time they joined in the loud mirth of 
 their companions ; and unconsciously expressed 
 their delight in the same manner as those 
 around them. They turned their partners with 
 a shout, and became au fait at the Irish 
 screech. All in the tent felt flattored by the 
 jocularity and heartiness with which they en- 
 tered into the rustic mirth ; and they had to 
 undergo exclamations of good will, shakes of 
 the hand, and even hugs and kisses from old 
 and young. Every draught of ale and toss of
 
 JOHN DOE. 29 
 
 whiskey went down freighted with " health and 
 long life to the gintlemin, every inch o' them ;" 
 and all declared their readiness, nay, anxiety, 
 to die on the spot if it could be of the least 
 service.
 
 30 JOHN DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 nIowARD, sitting down to rest during the pro- 
 gress of the dance, found himself again by the 
 side of Paddy Flinn, who immediately addressed 
 him. 
 
 " Musha, then, beggin' your pardon, sir, a- 
 gra, will you taste a dhrop of ale frum a poor 
 boy ?" Howard tasted accordingly, and Paddy 
 then caught his hand in his immense fist, as 
 hard as his own plough-handle, with a pressure 
 that nearly caused the complimented person to 
 shriek out in pain ; and — 
 
 11 Sha-dhurth," * continued Flinn, " agra-ma- 
 chree ; upon my conscience, bud I'd bear to be 
 kilt stone-dead for you or any friend o' yours ; 
 shew me the man, standin' afore me, that 'ud 
 say black is the white o' your eye! — whoo!" — 
 
 We have no better translation for the screech. 
 • Your health.
 
 JOHN DOE. 31 
 
 — " Wlioo ! — ma-hurp on tluoul ! — bud I'd bat- 
 ther his sowl to smithereens '."—and, letting 
 Howard's hand go, he smote the table with such 
 might, at the same time emitting a tremendous 
 yell, that the quart from which he was drinking 
 jumped into his lap, and there emptied its con- 
 tents. Paddy took it up very leisurely, and look- 
 ing at it for a moment, while his face borrowed 
 an expression of unique waggery, and lost the 
 menacing appearance which a moment before it 
 had worn — 
 
 " Why, then, fire to your sowl," quoth Paddy, 
 apostrophising the vestal — " an' ill end to you, 
 for one quart, couldn't you be asy wid yourself, 
 an' not to go spill a body's dhrop o' liquor ? — 
 Where do you think I'm to make out the manes 
 o' fillin' you so often?" — he again thumped the 
 table with it, however, and the smiling tapster 
 appearing in a trice — " here, ma colleen dhass," 
 he continued, " an' give us a quart the next time 
 that won't be losin' the dhrink, agra." 
 
 " A pretty girl, Paddy," observed Howard. 
 
 " Arrah, then, isn't she, sir ? an' all o' them, 
 the craturs, considerin' sich as them that lives
 
 32 JOHN DOE. 
 
 on phatoes one an' twenty times in the week?"* 
 But, here a sudden stop was put to the dia- 
 logue; Howard, from what immediately follow- 
 ed, imagining the fellow had lost his wits. Paddy 
 prang up: gave his hat a violent shove, that 
 made it hang quite at one side of his head; 
 jumped across the table ; in his transit overset 
 two old men, who were talking Irish ; and, with- 
 out waiting to apologize for his rudeness, brush- 
 ed up to where the dance was going forward, 
 and bellowed out, as he flourished a stick he 
 had snatched in his progress — 
 
 " Shew me the mother's son o' you that 
 daare touch that! whoo ! — daare you touch 
 it?" — whisking round, and playing the stick 
 over the head of a young fellow near him. 
 
 " No ! — bud I'd sthrike the man that would ! 
 whoo !" was the answer. 
 
 Paddy, after waiting for some time, hallooing 
 and brandishing his weapon in defiance of the 
 whole world, stooped down and raised a hat 
 from the ground, which, with many professions 
 of esteem and love, he presented to Graham, 
 from whose head it had fallen in dancing, and 
 
 * i. e. Three times a day.
 
 JOHN DOE. 33 
 
 who, in the full fling of the sport, had scarcely 
 observed his loss. Paddy then moved quietly 
 back to his place ; but Howard shifted his quar- 
 ters, not choosing any longer the immediate 
 proximity of so turbulent a spirit. 
 
 Perhaps Howard had another reason for this 
 change of place. No intimate or cordial fel- 
 lowship seemed to exist between Flinn and the 
 short, dark man, we have before described as 
 attracting Howard's notice ; yet, on more than 
 one occasion, he thought he observed a pecu- 
 liar intelligence take place between them. It 
 was interchanged slightly indeed, by the ra- 
 pid elevation of an eye-brow, the compression 
 of the lips, a shrug, a faint smile, or even a 
 stare ; but these simple indications bespoke, in 
 Howard's mind, a closer acquaintance than it 
 was evident the parties wished to proclaim ; and 
 the mystery interested him. 
 
 Another circumstance too, assisted the inte- 
 rest. At the very upper part of the tent sat a 
 young man about twenty-four years of age, better 
 dressed and of better air than most around him. 
 From the moment our party came in he had 
 occupied the same place, sleeping, or appearing 
 
 c 3
 
 34 John DOE. 
 
 to sleep through all the uproar, and the only 
 person unconnected with it. He was booted 
 and spurred, and soiled with travel ; and heme, 
 perhaps, the weariness he could not, or would not 
 cast off. Once, however, he was perfectly awake 
 for a moment, and bending rather a stern eye 
 upon Paddy, as he sat conversing with our 
 friends, the young man called out, " Flinn !" in 
 a harsh and quick tone. The word seemed to 
 strike with equal effect upon Flinn and the 
 gruff-looking man, for both rose, when Flinn 
 said to the other with a wave of his hand — 
 " 'tisn't you, but me, Jack Mullins," and pro- 
 ceeded alone to wait on the young person who 
 had summoned him. 
 
 As they conversed rapidly and secretly to- 
 gether, Howard perceived, by the frequent re- 
 currence to him and Graham of the stranger's 
 keen blue eye, that he and his friend formed 
 the subject of their discourse. Displeased, if 
 not offended, his own brow and lip curled, and 
 he turned fully round in the direction where the 
 young man sat, and challenged his attention. 
 His remarkable manner was scarcely noticed by 
 the person to whom it was addressed, except
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 by a careless aversion of his glance, when, look- 
 ing once more to Howard, their eyes encounter- 
 ed for an instant. Immediately after Flinn re- 
 turned to his place, and the person with whom 
 he had conversed, turned his side to the com- 
 pany, crossed his legs, leaned his head on his 
 hand, and relapsed into sleep or apathy. 
 
 Howard now took a seat beside Jack Mullins, 
 as he had heard Flinn call the surly fellow, 
 whose manner, during the whole evening, was 
 taciturn in the extreme ; for, since he drank the 
 stranger's health, upon their first appearance, 
 he had never spoken to those near him, nor, in- 
 deed, opened his lips, except to afford passage 
 to the inundations of ale, against the influence 
 of which he seemed completely proof, or to 
 send forth his tributary yell to the general mirth. 
 When Howard sat down by him, he turned 
 his face slowly round, then with a continued 
 dull stare moved his hand to a quart, and hold- 
 ing it before him, said, " sha dhurth, again, a- 
 vich ;" drank, and sunk into silence. 
 
 Howard, from a variety of motives, wishing 
 to draw him into dialogue, remarked, " My 
 friend Paddy is a queer fellow, I believe."
 
 36 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " You may say that, a-roon," observed Mul- 
 ling. 
 
 " Then you know him?" 
 
 " An;ui I" 
 
 Howard repeated the hypothetical question. 
 
 " Why, about as well as you know him, your- 
 self: an' sure that 's a raison for saying as much 
 of him as you do, a-vich." 
 
 " Och, we all knows poor Paddy well enough," 
 said a curious little old man, with a rusty buckle- 
 wig, who, sitting opposite, overheard the con- 
 versation, " he \s a boulamskcich iv a divil that 
 never minds nothin' bud his divarsion ; bud for 
 all that, he 's as good a boy as any in the place, 
 or the next place to id, by Gor," and the old 
 fellow's eyes twinkled, as he benevolently brought 
 forward the virtues of Paddy's character. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you say so," said Howard. 
 " I perceive he is over fond of his drop o' 
 drink, as he calls it, and that temperance is not 
 among his good rpialities ; but I suppose he is 
 an industrious lad ?" 
 
 " We never hard much to say fur him in the 
 regard o' that," replied the old man.
 
 JOHN DOE. 37 
 
 " Let me see, then ; he is a dutiful son, sup- 
 porting infirm parents perhaps ? " 
 
 A rude " ho ! ho !" here sounded from the 
 throat of Mullins ; but he corrected himself as 
 Howard turned round; and now presented a 
 face of impenetrable indifference. The old 
 commentator continued. 
 
 " Ulla-loo, a-vich-ma-chree, Paddy doesn't 
 live wid his father or mother ; he 's a stranger 
 among us, like ; a labourin' boy that goes the 
 country, doin' a start o' work for one body or 
 another, just whin he wants the price of a gal- 
 lon, comin' on a patthern, or a fair, or a thing 
 that-a-way. Bud fur all that, as I said afore, 
 he 's the best boy among us." 
 
 Howard, though easily comprehending that 
 the willing expositor knew less of Paddy than 
 Mullins, who professed to know nothing, was 
 inclined to another question — " The best boy ! 
 — I should like to know what you mean. Paddy 
 is good-natured, I suppose ; obliging, and wil- 
 ling to serve a friend or neighbour ?" 
 
 " Why, a hinny, Paddy 'ud be as dacent, an' 
 as willin' as another to do a dacent thing, bud 
 sorrow a much has the poor gor§oon in his 
 
 157031
 
 .38 
 
 JOHN DOK. 
 
 power, barrin the one thing, an' maybe he'd d<» 
 that as free fur fun as fur love; yes, mostha, 
 — he'd fight fur you till he was kilt, out-an- 
 out." 
 
 " Still you do not tell me how he is ' the 
 best boy.' " 
 
 " Muslia, God help you, an' beggin' your 
 pardon, sir, a-vich, but I did tell you; a bet- 
 ther boy nor my poor Pawdeen never walked a 
 fair ;" and he looked affectionately at Flinn, who 
 was, and for some time had been, dancing — 
 " divil a four o' the clanest boys in the country 
 bud he'd stretch wid his alpeen, afore you could 
 screech, a-hinny." 
 
 Their conversation was here interrupted by 
 the hero himself, who as he sat down at some 
 distance, commenced, in consecpaence of a ge- 
 neral request, to exhibit as a singer. He sung 
 in Irish, and Howard necessarily lost the literal 
 sense of his verses ; but the air to which they 
 ran had such a character of downright waggery, 
 as could not for a moment be mistaken. Paddy 
 prefaced each verse with a prose introduction 
 spoken in all the mock-seriousness of a finished 
 quiz ; and the effect produced by the whole on
 
 JOHN DOE. 39 
 
 the audience was most surprising. They seemed 
 frantic with delight; they jumped about, scream- 
 ed, howled, banged the table, and greeted the 
 close of every verse with a general shout of ex- 
 tatic approbation. What would an applause- 
 loving actor give for such an audience ! 
 
 Howard, wishing to fathom the taste of his 
 rustic friends, longed to be made acquainted 
 with the nature of the composition, and for this 
 purpose applied to a decent-looking man, who 
 seemed more orderly in his demeanor than the 
 others, and to whose opinion an universal re- 
 spect was paid whenever he deigned to deliver 
 himself, which was not often however. In fact 
 this was the mountain schoolmaster, and Howard 
 could not have applied to a better person. After 
 some preliminary remarks, composed of the big- 
 gest and most obsolete words the pedagogue 
 could recollect, he supplied a literal translation 
 of one verse, which ran as follows : 
 
 " Oh, whiskey, the delight and joy of my soul ! 
 You lay me stretched on the floor, 
 You deprive me of sense and knowledge, 
 And you fill me with a love of fighting ; 
 My coat you have often torn from my back ; 
 By you I lost my silken cravat ;
 
 10 JOHN DOE. 
 
 But all shall be forgotten and forgiven, 
 If you meet me alter mass next Sunday !" 
 
 The song passed away, and Howard again 
 sought to penetrate the rhinoceros kind of cau- 
 tion in which Mullins wrapped himself. 
 
 " An accomplished fellow every way," he 
 said, turning to his neighbour. 
 
 " Aye, faith," was the reply. 
 
 " I saw him speaking to that strange young 
 man, some time since," continued Howard. 
 
 " Did you?" said Mullins, unmoved. 
 
 " And therefore conclude they are acquaint- 
 ed ?"— 
 
 " Aye, in throth ?" — (asking rather than as- 
 M-nting.) 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Pray do you know that sleepy young man ?" 
 
 " Me ?— how could I ?" 
 
 " Why I thought when he spoke — " 
 
 " Harkee, a-vich," interrupted Mullins with, 
 for the first time, a slight approach to interest 
 — " 1 know little of any body, and don't care 
 how little any body knows of me: I never ax 
 questions, for fear I'd be tould lies. Bud," he 
 continued, changing his manner into an ailecta-
 
 JOHN DOE. 41 
 
 tion of communicativeness, as he perceived 
 Howard's displeasure — " sure we all know that 's 
 the farmer's son, that comes to hire us, now an' 
 thin, to dig the phatoes, or the likes o' that ; 
 an' sure Paddy Flinn, or any other labourin' 
 boy of his kind, may know as much of him as 
 another, an' no harm done." 
 
 Howard was here called on to take his place 
 in the everlascing dance, and rose accordingly. 
 The fame of the " gentlimin's" exploits had 
 gone abroad, and the boys and girls poured in 
 from the neighbouring booths, totally abandon- 
 ing the pipers without, to partake of the supe- 
 rior glee that was going on in the favoured tent. 
 The place became excessively heated by the 
 throng, and since dancing must be the order of 
 the evening, it was proposed by Howard and 
 his friends to substitute country-dances for jigs, 
 in order to do away with some of the monstrous 
 labour of the occupation. The novelty of the 
 thing made it highly acceptable, although, ex- 
 cept the strangers, there were not perhaps two 
 individuals present who understood the evolu- 
 tions of a figure. Immediate preparations were,
 
 I - JOHN DOE. 
 
 however, made for commencing. The gentle- 
 men chose their partners amongst the verj 
 
 prettiest lasses; took the upper places, in order 
 that the others might study the figure before 
 their turn came round ; and with an encouraging 
 whoop from Thady Whigarald, at the same 
 time that he struck up " Mrs. M'Cloud," — set 
 off in high spirits. 
 
 In a little time the lads and lasses began to 
 understand the dance, and then, wondering at 
 and delighted with their own cleverness, the 
 glee became deafening. Every soul in the 
 tent was infected with the devil of boisterous 
 enjoyment. The dancers shouted as they 
 bounded along ; the piper drowned his own mu- 
 sic in his own shouts ; children and old men 
 and women shouted as the performers whisked 
 by, and with gesticulation accompanied them in 
 their career; those who sat at the table beat 
 time with their fists ; so that the quarts, pints, 
 and tumblers went through the mazes of a 
 figure of their own ; and two urchins, bestriding 
 an empty barrel, and kicking with their heels, 
 provoking a sound that, while it assisted in the
 
 JOHN DOE. 43 
 
 chorus, told equally well for the pocket of the 
 landlord, and the guzzling capability of his 
 guests. 
 
 In the midst of the sport, Howard, who had 
 occasionally reconnoitred the upper part of the 
 tent, where the persevering sleeper sat, observed 
 that from time to time Mullins sidled his way in 
 that direction, and was now within a few yards 
 of the young man. Naturally of a romantic 
 disposition, this increasing puzzle had its effect 
 on Howard, and he brought his mind to consent 
 to a finesse, that under other circumstances he 
 should certainly have rejected, no matter how 
 urged on by curiosity or interest. Having 
 danced to the bottom with his partner, he 
 pleaded to her a slight illness, enjoining her not 
 to make any remark ; left the party, bearing a 
 glass of water in his hand, and stretched him- 
 self on a form nearly opposite Mullins, and 
 about equi-distant from him and the other per- 
 son, who still seemed wrapt in sleep. To a 
 gruff question from Mullins, he urged a bad 
 head and stomach, and much fatigue, and then 
 apparently composed himself to slumber, and
 
 I I JOHN DOE. 
 
 in ;i short time gave natural symptoms of deep 
 repose. 
 
 The ruse was successful. After a lapse of 
 about ten minutes, Howard could hear Mullins 
 move higher up on his seat, and then a quick 
 whisper from the other — " No — no — stay as 
 you are — no nearer — Do you think he sleeps?" 
 
 " Like a top" answered Mullins, in the same 
 whisper. 
 
 " But let us step out, if you like, for a 
 surety." 
 
 "Idiot!" — said the other — " how can you 
 propose thai ? Don't you fear we are watched?" 
 
 " Well, a-vich," answered Mullins, passively. 
 
 " Well or ill, listen to me. And don't turn 
 round so, and gape at me. I see you with my 
 side-sight. Turn off, and look away from me, 
 as I do from you — there, and now answer me 
 in that position: but no louder than I question 
 you. I have ridden hard at your appointment 
 up from the harbour ; and a damned fag it is to 
 one so long unused to it ; since I entered this 
 tent and saw you I have suffered hell's torments, 
 in not being able to ask you one question. Is 
 he at the pattern ?"
 
 JOHN DOE. 45 
 
 " I saw him on the road, an' he tould me he 
 was for comin' here, as a good place to hire his 
 men for the harvest." 
 
 " How long is this ago ?" 
 " About five hours agone, I think." 
 " Are you sure he is to come alone ?" 
 " Not the laste sure in the world ; but all the 
 other way. Didn't I tell you he guessed you 
 were somewhere in the country ? Didn't you 
 say, yourself, this moment, he may be on the 
 watch ? An' sure he wouldn't come here widout 
 a few alpeens, any way. The red divil himself 
 can call his faction about him, an' so can he" 
 " Well — how many of us are here ?" 
 " Only mysef, an' Flinn, an' six boys more ; 
 bud I often riz a good faction in a worse place out 
 o' nothin' at all bud good will for a scrimmage." 
 " You know you must not appear to him un- 
 less we are successful, out-and-out. The six 
 other lads are abroad ?" 
 
 " Yes ; here an' there, an' over-an'-hether : 
 and Flinn, you see, for all his caperin' an' his 
 divil's thricks, is watchin' the mouth o' the tent." 
 There was a pause, broken only by one or two
 
 4C) JOHN DOE. 
 
 impatient Bighs that came from tlie younger per- 
 son, who, again resumed, in a hasty whisper — 
 " Damnation ! — if this fellow is only giving us 
 the fox's sleep?" 
 
 " Avoch, don't fear him. 'Tisn't a soft 
 omadhaun like him could think of any sich 
 thing." 
 
 " But I saw him speaking to you?"' 
 " Well — an' if you did ? — Sure I knew how 
 to answer him : don't fear." 
 
 Another pause ensued, and the young man 
 once more led the conversation. 
 
 " Mullins, now listen attentively to me." 
 "Well, a-vich." 
 
 " ///* life must be spared on this occasion. 
 Let us first secure and get him down to the 
 harbour. That's all I want for the present." 
 
 " An' that's little enough. I remembered you 
 tould me so afore, an' sure I tould Flinn, too, 
 as you bid me. We'll all mind it." 
 
 " Again I warn you to keep out of his sight. 
 The moment the game is up, take to the road, 
 and wait for us a little way forward. If we fail, 
 your continuing to live on good terms with the
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 47 
 
 rascal is what we must mainly depend on for 
 success another time. D'you hear me ?" 
 
 " Avoch, to be sure I do." 
 
 " Then move down from me, now, as easily 
 as you can : I see another of these fools com- 
 
 ing. 
 
 Mullins obeyed this order as Graham advan- 
 ced in some anxiety to look after Howard. He 
 found his friend seemingly asleep on the forms, 
 and Howard allowed himself to be often called 
 and shaken before he would acknowledge the 
 restoration of his senses. At last jumping up he 
 declared his illness to be quite gone, and wishing 
 for a private word with Graham to communicate 
 the strange conversation he had heard, advan- 
 ced towards the dancers, first observing that the 
 young man had re-assumed his drowsy mask, 
 and that Mullins had slid a good distance off, 
 and was now looking at and cheering on the 
 crowd, with as much affectation of enjoyment as 
 his gross and lethargic features could assume. 
 
 *' The very devil's in that fellow," said Gra- 
 ham, pointing to Flinn as they approached the 
 revellers ; " he has been continually out of 
 place since you left us; jostling and plunging,
 
 48 JOHN DOF.. 
 
 and setting every one astray : expostulation was 
 thrown away upon him ; I endeavoured to give 
 him some directions, and he listened pretty 
 tamely for a moment, but as we spoke, the 
 precious piper emitted such a blast and shout, 
 as were too much for him ; oft' he went like 
 a shot, thump against another man's partner, 
 who had not time to get out of his way, and 
 brought her to the earth ; but without at all 
 ceasing the motion of his feet, Paddy instantly 
 caught her up, gave her a kiss, to which Pe- 
 truchio's in the church was mere billing and 
 cooing, and adding—" there a-lanna; sure I'll 
 kiss you an' cure you," on he went as if nothing- 
 had happened. 
 
 Howard now made an effort to move through 
 the crowd to the opening of the tent, beckoning 
 Burke, and leading Graham. Considerable 
 difficulty occurred in the very first step, as well 
 from thegoodnatnred ofticiousness of the people, 
 as from their number and bustle : but a moment 
 after, other circumstances completely foiled any 
 continued exertion. 
 
 Paddy Flinn was just about to lead down the 
 dance; the last couple had just finished; and
 
 JOHN DOE. 49 
 
 at the entreaty of his partner he seemed endea- 
 vouring to bring his mind to a focus, and try to 
 understand what he had to do, his face being 
 turned to the entrance of the tent ; when sud- 
 denly he sprang forward; snatched an alpeen 
 that lay quietly beside the piper ; and then, with 
 a tremendous yell, upsetting every person and 
 thing in his way, flourished the weapon, and 
 made a deadly blow at a gentlemanly-dressed 
 man who was just entering. The foremost of a 
 considerable body of peasants who came in with 
 this person, guarded off the blow, and in turn 
 struck at the aggressor. Their sticks crossed 
 and clattered ; but at last Paddy felled his man, 
 crying out at the same time, as the rest of the 
 hostile party pressed upon him — " Where are 
 ye, my boys, abroad ! — Come on, for the right 
 cause ! — Look afther Purcell ! — he's goin' to es- 
 cape !" — then, turning to the people in the tent 
 — " neighbours, neighbours ! — neighbours an' 
 all good christhens ! — stand up for honest men ! 
 — This is the divil's-bird, Purcell ! stand up for 
 the orphans he made ! for the widow he kilt ! 
 for the daughter he ruined, and the son that's 
 far away ! — whoo !" 
 
 VOL. III. D
 
 50 
 
 JOHN !)(>!.. 
 
 As he spoke, Howard looked with amazement 
 at the sudden and almost incredible change that 
 in a moment was presented in the face and 
 maimer of Flinn. His features lost every trait 
 of the levity and drollery that had hitherto ap- 
 peared to be their fixed character, and now bent 
 and Hashed with natural sternness and ferocity. 
 His figure became erect, firm, and well-set, all 
 previous jauntiness and swagger cast aside like 
 a disguise; and his whole mien was that of a 
 man made up to the accomplishment of a des- 
 perate purpose, and seemingly incapable of a 
 moment's trifling or good-humour. 
 
 The instant he concluded his speech, the 
 shout at the finale was echoed from abroad, and 
 some six or seven, evidently the friends he had 
 invoked, pressed upon the rear of Purcells 
 party, and gave the greater number of them 
 something to do, while Flinn, after levelling the 
 foremost of the van, for some time singly en- 
 gaged the remainder. And well did he uphold 
 the character given of him to Howard by the 
 little old man in the buckled wig ; for within a 
 few minutes he had stretched four additional 
 enemies by the side of the first victim to his in-
 
 JOHN DOE. 51 
 
 vincible arm and murderous alpeen. But pre- 
 sently he was saved the trouble as well as the glory 
 of a single stand against shameful odds. Every 
 male creature in the tent flew to arms, and the 
 greater proportion siding with Flinn, he became 
 the leader of the more numerous faction. 
 
 And now ensued a scene of truly astounding 
 and appalling uproar. The tables, on which the 
 landlord had disposed his good things, were 
 upset in an instant ; his jars and bottles went 
 smash, and rivulets of good ale and whiskey in- 
 undated the tent : bread and meat, and cheese, 
 were trodden under foot ; Thady Whigarald 
 was tumbled from his seat, his pipes crushed 
 to atoms, and the last desperate and expiring 
 sob of the wind-bag, and scream of the chanter, 
 mingled ludicrously enough with his own pa- 
 thetic lamentations for the loss of his darling in- 
 strument. The landlord uselessly endeavoured 
 to harangue the combatants ; in vain he pointed 
 out the utter ruin hurled upon him ; the girls 
 and old women screamed, and tried to escape 
 by the entrance ; but it was crowded with battle, 
 and all chance of retreat, except with danger to 
 limb and life, thereby rendered hopeless ; so 
 
 d 2
 
 52 JOHN DOE. 
 
 that after a time they flocked to the upper part 
 of the tent, keeping shrill and fearful chorus to 
 the war-whoops of the men of fight, the frantic 
 oratory of the landlord and landlady, the clash- 
 ing and clattering of alpeens, and the rapid 
 and too audible blows that resulted from them. 
 
 But the worst is to be told. Arms were 
 scarce ; and, woeful to relate, the frail tene- 
 ment that had hitherto afforded the combatants 
 shelter and merriment, was demolished in a 
 twinkling to supply the pressing want. The 
 wattles on which the awning was suspended, 
 were torn up, and the blankets and sacks that 
 had formed the roof, pulled down and trampled 
 to rags. Howard had, before now, seen a 
 battle " in the tented field ;" Graham had long 
 fondly imagined one, and both had speculated 
 even on an Irish row ; but such an exhibition as 
 the present, neither had ever yet beheld or con- 
 templated. 
 
 They, and their friend, endeavoured to make 
 peace, counting upon the previous devotion ex- 
 pressed to their sweet persons ; but such is the 
 fickleness of all human influence and popularity, 
 that broken pates were likely to be the only re-
 
 JOHN DOE. 53 
 
 suit of so ill-timed an assumption of superiority. 
 No one indeed struck at them ; but they were 
 shoved and shouldered aside, and sent helpless 
 and unnoticed through the tide of battle, like 
 bubbles dancing upon the war of ocean, or straws 
 or atoms whisked through the conflict of the 
 whirlwinds. Meantime the hand of chance 
 alone shielded them from the promiscuous blows 
 that were dealt around, and some of which they 
 would in all probability have shared, had not a 
 providential rescue occurred in their behalf. 
 
 An Amazonian maiden, to whom Graham had 
 been particularly " sweet," as she would herself 
 say, in the course of the evening, observed 
 his dangerous situation, and with the energy 
 and disinterestedness of a primitive heroine, 
 plunged forward to snatch him from it. Dash- 
 ing aside the waves of battle, she won her fear- 
 less way to Graham's side, clasped him in her 
 arms, and bearing him to the top of the tent, 
 set him down on his legs amid the peaceable co- 
 hort of women who had there taken up their 
 position. Some four or five, stimulated by her 
 example, made the same exertions, and with the 
 same success, in behalf of Howard and Burke ;
 
 54 
 
 JOHN !)<»[. 
 
 and our three friends being thus safely disen- 
 gaged, the treble files closed upon them, cla- 
 morously refusing to afford further opportunity 
 for peace-making. 
 
 One of the first observations which Howard 
 made, assured him that neither Mullins nor his 
 drowsy acquaintance remained where he had 
 left them. In fact they were no where to be 
 seen ; and as, so far as he could recollect, they 
 had not advanced to the belligerents, it was 
 plain they must have retired through the space 
 left after the demolition of the tent. Before 
 he had been spirited away from the immediate 
 scene of action, Howard could ascertain that 
 PurceU, as he had heard Flinn call the gentle- 
 man who served as a provocative to the engage- 
 ment, w r as also missing ; and the yelling excla- 
 mations which now broke from Paddy, proved 
 that he must have effectually baflled his foes, 
 and escaped, whole and uninjured, whatever 
 fate had been allotted for him. 
 
 We have taken up some time in describ- 
 ing a scene, and the rapid succession of events, 
 that in reality did not occupy above five mi- 
 nutes ; for counting from the moment that Flinn
 
 JOHN DOE. 55 
 
 gave his first blow, down to that during which 
 Howard made the observations just attributed 
 to him, not more time had certainly lapsed. 
 As he concluded his reflections, Flinn, with a 
 yell of mingled anguish and desperation, press- 
 ed his men through the opening of the tent, 
 to scour the plain abroad in search of the ab- 
 sconded foe. Purcell's party made feeble oppo- 
 sition to this movement, and presently the skele- 
 ton mouth of the booth, the only remnant of it 
 that had existence, disgorged the throng of 
 combatants, and our visitors were left, unmolest- 
 ed, with the crowd of women. These, too, soon 
 disappeared, following, with screams of appre- 
 hension and terror, the fate of their " kith-and- 
 kin," engaged in the sanguinary conflict; some 
 hasty and hearty kisses, and prayers for ever- 
 lasting long life and good health were, indeed, 
 bestowed on the " gintlimin," before this final 
 separation; but at last all withdrew; and How- 
 ard, Graham, and Burke, were left alone, in 
 the first twilight of a beautiful summer evening, 
 to seek their way back to Clonmel, and con- 
 gratulate themselves as well on their escape
 
 ^6 JOHN DOE. 
 
 from, as their introduction to, the novelties and 
 haps of an Irish skirmish. 
 
 They quickly struck out of the pattern-field, 
 choosing in the first instance a circuitous path, 
 rather than exposure to the continued tumult 
 that Flinn kept up all over the plain. They 
 could, however, observe at some distance, as 
 they retired, venders of all kinds of trumpery, 
 removing their stalls, and pipers' wives running 
 off with a stool under one arm, and a blind hus- 
 band under the other, in order to yield pru- 
 dent way to the approaching stream of comba- 
 tants. For a full half-hour, too, the shouts of 
 the field came on the evening breeze ; and they 
 had gained a near view of Clonmel before dis- 
 tance completely divided them from all echo of 
 the scene of struggle. 
 
 Howard, in talking over with his friends, the 
 conversation he had heard between Mullins 
 and the stranger, felt pleasure in expressing 
 his certainty that the proscribed victim had 
 escaped their vengeance. His curiosity indeed 
 continued excited to know the certain close of 
 the matter, as well as the provocations to hos-
 
 JOHN DOE. 57 
 
 tility, and all other circumstances of the case ; 
 but after some time he gave up the thought, 
 and was content to regard the whole as " a 
 mass of things" indistinctly seen, and never to 
 be discriminated. He was however mistaken 
 in the latter part of his conclusions. 
 
 d 3
 
 58 
 
 .ioiin oof- 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A few days before the occurrences detailed in 
 the last chapters, some of those rustic depre- 
 dations, so utterly disgraceful to the unhappy 
 country in which they take place, had been 
 committed in the neighbourhood of Clonmcl, 
 on a scale much inferior however to their late 
 magnitude and atrocity. Howard and Graham 
 had, among others, become acquainted with the 
 rumours of such events, previous to their sortie 
 to the pattern ; but as their scene was laid in 
 another and distant part of the county, and as 
 they had yet assumed no very formidable as- 
 pect, nor created much sensation, they Mere not 
 thought of sufficient consequence to interfere 
 with the day's enjoyment. 
 
 In about a week after the era of the pattern, 
 more alarming reports of continued outrage 
 spread through Clonmcl, and the public mind
 
 JOHN DOE. 59 
 
 became considerably agitated. Bodies of night- 
 ly depredators, or terrifiers at least, travers- 
 ed the county, attempting to enforce their own 
 wild views in their own manner. These bands 
 were, according to their private taste, vari- 
 ously designated ; and the terms shanavest or 
 caravat, invented by themselves, were adopted 
 by the community at large in reference to them. 
 Shanavest means " old waistcoat;" caravat, 
 " cravat ;" both words compounded of equal 
 portions of bad English and bad Irish, and in- 
 tended to describe the parts of dress by which 
 the association chose to be distinguished ; but 
 without dwelling on strange words, it will be 
 sufficient to say, that the spirit of these combi- 
 nations, one and all, was a resuscitation, in some 
 shape or other, of the old spirit of White-boy- 
 ism, concerning which we assure ourselves every 
 reader has, by this time, the proper ideas. 
 
 It appeared, that each body had a captain or 
 leader, with a mock name, which was conferred 
 at the pleasure of himself or his constituents, and 
 also acceded to by the public. In recurring to 
 these names a singular feature of Irish character 
 invites attention. The inheritor of misery and
 
 GO JOHN DOE. 
 
 neglect, and sufficiently proving, in the continu- 
 ance of all this turmoil, his too impatient sense 
 of so hard a lot, it is remarkable that in the very 
 act of proclaiming his real or imaginary wrongs, 
 and committing himself to the black passions 
 attendant on a course of ignorant self-assertion 
 and unbridled revenge, the Irish peasant should 
 evince a levity that can be supposed natural 
 only to a body of men associated in the spirit 
 of eccentric enjoyment. In fact, the president 
 of a club of " queer fellows," may receive or 
 assume such appellations as the most terrible 
 leaders of Irish depredation invent and promul- 
 gate for themselves ; and in the exercise of his 
 mock dignity, or while he quizzically enforces 
 his conventional pains and penalties, may affect 
 about the same character that the White-boy 
 captain puts on at the very moment that he 
 issues his ill-spelt manifestos of no sportive ten- 
 dency, and while he is prepared and determined 
 to exact the letter of their demands. 
 
 The local reformer of the mountain, the bog, or 
 the desert; the legislator for an almost unculti- 
 vated tract of impoverished country; the despe- 
 rate, neck-or-nothing leader of a throng of des-
 
 JOHN DOE. 61 
 
 perate and sanguinary men, disguises his identity 
 in a humourous ideal; writes his threatening no- 
 tices in the tone of an April-day hoax ; denoun- 
 ces a foe, as one friend might promise to another 
 a hit over the knuckles ; talks of a midnight visit 
 as the same friend might propose a pleasurable 
 surprise to that other ; and performs his whole 
 part as if he were tom-fool to a corps of Christ- 
 mas mummers. If this be the affectation of de- 
 moralized habits of thought and feeling, it is 
 hideous and demoniacal ; something in the na- 
 ture of the jeer and levity in which Goethe has 
 so shockingly well characterised his Mephisto- 
 pheles. But there is a bitter eccentricity often 
 resulting from a long-cherished sense of wretched- 
 ness ; a kind of stubborn braving of ill-fate, that 
 ostentatiously shews itself in outward lightness 
 and recklessness ; there is a mockery of the 
 heart by the heart itself; a humour, in fact, 
 which the inspired writings would seem beauti- 
 fully to describe, when they declare, " that even 
 in laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end 
 of that mirth is heaviness ;" there is this step 
 between our conjectured opinion and the miser- 
 able creatures it would make ten-fold more
 
 62 JOHN DOE. 
 
 miserable ; and, all national distinctions apart, 
 to leave us a better sympathy than such an 
 opinion could, with the common tendencies of 
 human nature. 
 
 Craving pardon, according to the established 
 custom of all ramblers, for this unintended di- 
 gression, we resume, by proceeding to notice 
 some of the names affected by these rustic Ly- 
 curguses. One called himself Captain Star- 
 light, perhaps ; another, Captain Moonshine ; a 
 third, Jack Thrustout ; a fourth, Richard Roe ; 
 and all who are familiar with rather recent Irish 
 affairs, will remember the doughty Captain 
 John Doe. 
 
 This cpaaint title, as well as two others above 
 mentioned, originated from the fictitious names 
 that the law, in its own roundabout and strange 
 mystification, inserts in ejectments served on 
 those whom it is gravely about to dispossess of 
 their tenements ; and it must have been curious 
 enough to observe the incipient Shanavests or 
 Caravats putting their heads together, spelling 
 over the jocose piece of parchment, and making 
 a variety of shrewd conjectures as to whom this 
 Richard Roe or John Doe could really be;
 
 JOHN DOE. 63 
 
 until, to their costs they found him a very for- 
 midable personage, and, by some crude asso- 
 ciation in the recesses of their own minds, 
 resolved, while they adopted his name, to be as 
 quizzical and as devastating as their merry pro- 
 totype, in his best day. 
 
 Our hero was, indeed, of sufficient character 
 to engage, almost as soon as he had announced 
 his political existence, the attention of his 
 Clonmel neighbours. Meetings were called to 
 arrange a plan of warfare against him ; and pro- 
 clamations of rewards to a large amount, issued 
 for his apprehension. In these official docu- 
 ments, his face, person, dress, and age, were, on 
 good authority, set forth ; and as the more 
 peaceable inhabitants, and the old ladies, ser- 
 vant wenches, and little boys of Clonmel, read 
 therein details of his swarthy complexion, stout 
 figure, forbidding features, and wild attire, all 
 belonging to a man of the stern age of forty- 
 five years, great was the reverential panic in- 
 spired, and universal the abhorring homage paid 
 to Captain John Doe's grim ascendancy. 
 
 From week to week, from month to month, 
 his fame spread proportionately with his ex-
 
 G4 joiin doe. 
 
 cesses ; and he at last approached pretty near 
 to Clonmel, and was said to hover about the 
 town, now at this side, and now at the other, 
 from the adjacent heights of Slievenamon and 
 the Galteigh mountains. Parties of military 
 accordingly marched, from time to time, against 
 him, but with no material success : and Captain 
 Doe's adroitness and uniform good fortune in 
 baffling a superior enemy, became as notorious 
 as his desperate resistance to, or triumph over, 
 an equal or inferior one. His hair-breadth 
 'scapes, his rapid movements, and the various 
 disguises he could at pleasure assume, were the 
 theme of every tongue, and, in the vulgar ap- 
 prehension, equalled, if they did not surpass, 
 the subtlety and wonderful finesse of the whole 
 corps of primitive Irish Ilapparees, with Red- 
 mond O'Hanlon at their head, and Cahier-na- 
 Choppell bringing up the reserve. 
 
 Seven months after the pattern day, that 
 is, in the end of the succeeding February, 
 Lieutenant Howard was ordered from the head- 
 quarters of his regiment at Clonmel to relieve, 
 with a considerable party, another detachment 
 which for some time had been harassing John Doe
 
 JOHN DOE. 65 
 
 among the mountains about thirteen Irish miles 
 distant. Howard set off in good spirits ; he 
 was heartily tired, as we have observed, of the 
 refinements of the town ; excited and pleased 
 with the prospect of seeing more of the interior 
 of the country, particularly on such a service ; 
 and, withal, confident in the strength of his 
 party, and vain, by anticipation, of the success 
 which others had missed, and of which he made 
 no question. He had but one regret in under- 
 taking his little campaign, and this grew out of 
 his separation from Graham, between whom 
 and Howard a sincere esteem had long been 
 cemented. To remove or alleviate this only 
 disagreeable feature, it was arranged between 
 the friends, that Graham should apply for an 
 occasional leave of absence, and visit Howard 
 for a day or two at a time. For the first leave 
 he was immediately to apply ; and in order that 
 Graham might promptly commence the desired 
 intercourse, Howard was to write him an inti- 
 mation of his quarters, as soon as he took 
 them up. 
 
 Three days after Howard's departure a let- 
 ter accordingly reached his friend, but without
 
 GG JOHN DOE. 
 
 proposing so immediate a meeting as had at 
 first been contemplated. Howard mentioned 
 in explanation, that he had scarcely gained his 
 field of action when the movements of Doe de- 
 manded his best measures ; that he had since 
 been marching and countermarching from point 
 to point ; that after twice eluding his very grasp, 
 Captain John had now escaped all observa- 
 tion ; and that he, Howard, necessarily pro- 
 posed to scour the country in search of him, 
 and could not, therefore, name any place, nor 
 indeed any day, for receiving Graham. He 
 would, however, write from time to time, and 
 anxiously hoped that the nature of his service 
 might afford him a speedy pause, and thereby 
 at once give opportunity for their seeing each 
 other. 
 
 All the occasional advices now came to Gra- 
 ham, dated from one spot, yet still declining to 
 see him, on the grounds that the writer could 
 not answer for his remaining one hour after 
 another where he was. Doe's hiding-place con- 
 tinued a mystery, although night by night, some 
 traces of him were left abroad ; Howard had as- 
 sumed his present quarters as the best point
 
 JOHN DOE. 67 
 
 from which to take general observations, and 
 originate at a moment's notice the most ef- 
 fectual sorties; and, while his sojourn in them 
 was daily uncertain, there still arose a daily ne- 
 cessity for remaining stationary, until circum- 
 stances, that an hour, indeed, might produce, 
 should call for a change of place and measures. 
 
 At last, Graham received a note dated from 
 new quarters, though only three miles from 
 the last, which, on the strong probability that 
 Howard should now, for a few days at least, oc- 
 cupy them, invited Graham to the long wished 
 for meeting. It further hinted, that Howard's 
 change of position was owing to a successful 
 manoeuvre against Doe, which, as he was there- 
 by hemmed in, embarrassed that formidable cap- 
 tain, and, no doubt, would end in his destruc- 
 tion. The writer addressed his note from a 
 miserable Irish cabin, where he at present 
 bivouacked, and to which his messenger would 
 conduct Graham. 
 
 Early on the following morning, by the light 
 of the moon, Graham, attended by the single 
 soldier, who had delivered Howard's letter, 
 commenced his journey. It was Sunday morn-
 
 68 JOHN DOE. 
 
 ing. The stars still twinkled joyously through- 
 out the deep blue sky, cleared by the influence 
 of a frosty atmosphere ; and those brilliant, 
 mysterious hosts of light might, to the rapt vi- 
 sion, seem shining forth in universal jubilee 
 that their nightly course was run, and the re- 
 lieving day in expected progress. As Graham 
 and his follower gained the broadway that led on 
 the outside of Clonmel, towards the recesses of 
 Slievenamon mountain, and as the crisp frost 
 crackled under his horse's step, he felt all the 
 buoyancy that to youthful hearts such a morn- 
 ing, enjoyed in bounding liberty, and the near 
 prospect of pleasure, never fails to communi- 
 cate. 
 
 His attendant, a staid old soldier of sixty, 
 systematic as a machine, grave as an owl, and 
 common-place as an old pinchbeck time-piece, 
 was, however, a considerable drag on his hap- 
 piness. This man rode a very indifferent hack ; 
 added to which, he had been some forty years 
 out of the saddle ; and from both circumstances 
 could neither keep up with Graham's spirited 
 animal, nor take much pleasure in the extra ef- 
 fort necessary in endeavouring to do so. Ac-
 
 JOHN DOE. 69 
 
 cordingly, it became his interest and policy to 
 curb by all prudent means Graham's uncalcu- 
 lating career ; and, for this purpose, he more 
 than once suggested to " his honor," aukwardly 
 essaying each time to carry one hand to his 
 cap, the propriety of pushing on abreast, that 
 his honor might have the immediate service of 
 an old soldier on a road by no means safe at 
 such an early hour in the morning. 
 
 " Why, Evans," said Graham, at last pulling 
 up, " I wonder what danger you can fear, man ; 
 Lieutenant Howard writes me word, and you 
 confirm it, that this Doe is surrounded, almost 
 taken prisoner, I may say ; besides, we are both 
 well armed." 
 
 " Please you honor," said Evans, slowly and 
 gravely, " Doe, what they improperly call cap- 
 tain, may be surrounded, or may not be sur- 
 rounded." 
 
 " I can't understand you, sir," answered Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 " Your honor won't think I mean but that 
 his honor, Lieutenant Howard, is very sure he is 
 surrounded," continued Evans, still more grave- 
 ly, and with an additional shade of visage that
 
 70 JOHN DOE. 
 
 might be called the shade mysterious ; " but, 
 after all his escapes from our hands, when the 
 oldest soldier didn't think it possible, and with 
 all his disguises and outlandish tricks that were 
 never equalled but in a play, played on the 
 stage, in a play-house, it is hard to say — that is, 
 to be very certain, that he is, at the present 
 time—" 
 
 The speaker here interrupted himself with a 
 " hush !" and stopt his horse to listen, as the 
 noise of another horse was distinctly heard ap- 
 proaching in a side direction towards the main 
 road, which still was Graham's route, but which 
 had recently lost much of its broad and level 
 character as it turned among the first outpost, 
 or introductory inequalities that flanked the 
 main base of Slievenamon. 
 
 Graham also paused to listen, and, as audi- 
 bly as his videt, heard the near approach of a 
 horseman down a wild and narrow bridle-road, 
 or, as it is there called, bosheen, about ten 
 yards to the right of the way. He immediately 
 took a pistol from his holster ; Evans unslung 
 his musket, Which had hitherto dangled most 
 awkwardly and inconveniently across his back;
 
 JOHN DOE. 71 
 
 and both halted and sat up in their saddles, ob- 
 serving profound silence, except that Evans 
 whispered to his officer a respectful hope, that 
 the horse he bestrode might stand fire better 
 than he knew how to trot. 
 
 In a moment they heard a noise accompany- 
 ing that of the horse's feet, namely, a lusty, 
 stentorian voice, sending forth, in measured and 
 prolonged notes, some kind of musical composi- 
 tion. But it was too deep and serious for a 
 song, unless a song of very severe and doleful 
 character. At first Evans, taking the latter 
 view of the case, thought he could recognize in 
 the strain a generic likeness to his crazed rend- 
 niscences of " The Death of Abercromby," 
 or some of its interminable similitudes ; but 
 having vainly cocked his ear, while he cocked 
 his musket, to catch a word of the old ditty; 
 in fact, having ascertained that the singer gave 
 utterance to a language that, whatever it was, 
 was not English, Evans instantly became as- 
 sured it must be Irish ; and also recollecting 
 that, among other curious things, Doe was 
 much in the habit of carolling aloud his own 
 rebellious songs, a conviction flashed upon him,
 
 72 JOHN DOE. 
 
 which he communicated in another whisper to 
 Graham, and both stood doubly prepared on 
 the defensive. 
 
 The appearance, almost immediately, of a 
 man, from the bosheen, was not calculated, all 
 circumstances of time, place, and prepossession 
 considered, to allay the nerves of our travellers. 
 He was well mounted on a strong, active, though 
 not handsome horse ; his figure seemed over- 
 large, enveloped from the chin to the boot- 
 heels, in a dark top-coat ; on his head appeared 
 a white mass of something, which the imperfect 
 light did not allow Graham to discriminate or 
 assign to any known class of head-gear ; and 
 upon this again was placed a hat, with a remark- 
 ably broad brim, and a low, round crown. As he 
 emerged on the main road, this apparition still 
 continued his voluminous chaunt, and was only 
 interrupted by the challenge — who goes there? 
 — stand !" — of Graham, and its instant echo by 
 the mechanical old soldier. 
 
 " Stand yourself, then," answered the stran- 
 ger, in an easy, unembarrassed, but by no means 
 hostile tone ; and continuing, rather jocosely, 
 he repeated an old school-boy rhyme —
 
 JOHN DOE. 73 
 
 " If you : re a man, stand ; 
 If you 're a woman, go ; 
 If you 're an evil spirit, sink down, low." 
 
 " Did you say ' fire,' sir ?" asked Evans, in 
 an aside to Graham, and levelling his piece. 
 
 " No !" said Graham, aloud — " hold ! — and 
 you, sir, I ask again, who or what are you? 
 friend or foe ?" 
 
 " A friend to all honest men, and a foe, when 
 I can help myself, to no man at all," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " That 's no answer," whispered Evans. 
 
 " You speak in untimely and silly riddles, 
 sir," said Graham — " advance and declare your- 
 self." 
 
 " Begging your pardon," continued the stran- 
 ger, still in a good-humoured tone, " I see no 
 prudent reason why I should advance at the in- 
 vitation of two persons armed and unknown to 
 me." 
 
 " We are the king's soldiers," said Evans, 
 rather precipitously. 
 
 " Silence, man," interrupted Graham — " I 
 am an officer in the king's service, sir, and my 
 attendant is a soldier." 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 74 JOHN DOE. 
 
 "O ho!" quoth the stranger — M an officer, 
 but no soldier." 
 
 "What, sir!" — exclaimed Graham, raising 
 his pistol, while Evans had recourse to his mus- 
 ket. 
 
 " Hold ! and for shame, gentlemen!" — cried 
 the other, seriouslv altering his tone — " what ! 
 — on a defenceless and peaceable poor man, 
 who has given you no provocation I — Upon my 
 life, now, but this is unceremonious treatment 
 just at the end of one of my own bosheens. In 
 the king's name, forbear — if indeed ye are the 
 king's soldiers, as you say, though I can disco- 
 ver no outward badges of it;" for Graham rode 
 in a plain dress, and Evans had disguised under 
 bis great coat all appearance of uniform, a fo- 
 raging cap alone intimating, to an experienced 
 eye, bis military character. 
 
 " I pledge my honor to the fact," continued 
 Graham, in answer to the stranger's last obser- 
 vation, as he lowered his hand and was imitated 
 by Evans, " and you will at least respect the 
 word of a gentleman." 
 
 " 'Tis my habit to do so, sir," said the strange 
 man ; " and in proof of what I say, I am willing
 
 JOHN DOE. 75 
 
 now to advance to you, if you also pledge your 
 honor not to be fingering your triggers, there." 
 
 " I do, sir — you may come on in perfect 
 safety ; but hold — I have also my terms to pro- 
 pose — are you armed ?" 
 
 " Me ? — God help me, what have I to do 
 with such matters ?" 
 
 " But how am I to be assured ?" 
 
 " Why I'll tell you, then," answered the 
 other, resuming his jocular tone — " you can 
 easily see by the moonlight, and indeed by the 
 morning, too, which is just breaking on us, 
 that in my two hands at least, I have neither 
 gun, blunderbuss, pistol, nor cutlass ; so I will 
 hold out both my arms in this manner" — 
 
 " Stop !" roared Evans, as he saw the arms 
 in motion, and suspecting a finesse, while he 
 again levelled his musket. 
 
 " Recover arms !" cried Graham, " and fall 
 back, Evans, and keep yourself quiet." 
 
 ' God bless you, sir, and do manage him 
 now," continued the stranger, as Evans obeyed 
 orders — " I will hold out my arms, I say, as 
 they are at present, and we '11 lave the rest to 
 
 e 2
 
 !6 
 
 JOHN DOF.. 
 
 my horse. Come, Podhereen, right about face, 
 and inarch." 
 
 The obedient animal moved accordingly, and 
 a few paces brought his master and Graham 
 face to face : " and now, sir," continued this 
 person, "I suppose you are satisfied, and 1 may 
 just lift the rein from the haste's neck, as be- 
 fore." 
 
 To this Graham assented, rather because he 
 saw no reasonable ground for refusal, than be- 
 cause he was perfectly satisfied : while Evans 
 from behind whispered, " Search him first, your 
 honor ; 'tis Doe, I '11 take my oath of it, in one 
 of his disguises ; look at him." 
 
 Graham did look, and, in truth, if his moral 
 certainty was not so strong as Evans's, he still 
 had misgivings in common with the crafty old 
 campaigner. The white protuberance on the 
 stranger's head he could now ascertain to be 
 some species of wig, bloated out over his ears, 
 and the back of his neck, to an immoderate com- 
 pass, and lying close to his forehead and the 
 side of his face in a rigid, unbroken line, while 
 it peaked down in the middle of the forehead,
 
 JOHN DOE. 77 
 
 much like, in this respect, the professional head- 
 disguise of the gentlemen of the long robe. The 
 broad-leafed, round-topped thing on the pinna- 
 cle of this, still seemed to be a hat ; and the 
 dark loose coat, with a small cape reaching be- 
 tween the shoulders, hid all detail of the figure. 
 By his face the stranger was between forty 
 and fifty ; exactly Doe's age ; and his heavy, 
 depressed eyebrows, broad-backed nose, well 
 defined and expressive mouth, together with 
 the self-assured twinkle of his eyes, that gleam- 
 ed on Graham like illuminated jets, and a cer- 
 tain mixed character of severity and humour 
 that ran through his whole visage, indicated a 
 person of no ordinary cast, at least. 
 
 And still Graham looked, at a loss what to 
 make of a costume so outre, and, to his experi- 
 ence, unprecedented : till at last the subject of 
 his admiration again broke silence. 
 
 " And I suppose I may go my road too, 
 without any further question, captain ?" 
 
 " May I ask which road you travel, sir ?" — 
 said Graham, with an obvious meaning. 
 
 " Hoot, toot, now," said the other, " that 's 
 too Irish a way of answering a gentleman's
 
 78 JOHN DOE. 
 
 question on the king's high-road. Danger has 
 often come of such odd answers. You see I 
 am unarmed, and I sec you have it in your 
 power, that is, if you liked it, to strip me of my 
 old wig and hat in a minute, and no friend of 
 mine the wiser. In fact, sir, you now give me 
 sufficient cause to look after my own personal 
 safety ; I have no wish to offend any gentleman, 
 but you must excuse me for saying I cannot be 
 quite sure who or what you are : you may be 
 Captain John as well as any other captain, for 
 aught I know." 
 
 This was said with much gravity ; and Gra- 
 ham hastened, in some simplicity, to make the 
 most solemn and earnest declarations of his loy- 
 alty and professional character and services. 
 
 " Well, sir," continued the stranger, who had 
 now turned the tables, and become catechist 
 accordingly, " all this may be very true, and 
 from your appearance and manner I am inclined 
 to think the best of you ; but if you are not he, 
 how can I be so sure of that suspicious-looking 
 person at your back ?" 
 
 Evans, shocked to the bottom of his soul, as 
 well as displeased that, under any circumstances,
 
 JOHN DOE. 79 
 
 he could be confounded with a rebel, traitor, 
 and desperado, shouted out at this observation, 
 and was with some difficulty restrained by Gra- 
 ham from taking instant vengeance for the in- 
 suit. When he was restored to order, Graham 
 assured the stranger, with emphasis equal to 
 what he had used on his own account, of 
 Evans's real character. 
 
 " Then pass on, gentlemen, and let me go 
 about my lawful business," continued the man, 
 drawing up at the road-side to allow them to 
 pass. Graham accordingly put his horse in 
 motion, and, followed by Evans, both, still hold- 
 ing their arms, trotted by. Graham and the 
 stranger touched hats to each other as they 
 parted, but Evans only bent, on his now detected 
 foe, a ferocious look, which was returned in a 
 burst of suppressed laughter. 
 
 " He 's either Doe or the devil, please your 
 honor," said Evans, when they had advanced a 
 little forward ; " and now, why does he follow 
 us ?" he continued, as with some difficulty turn- 
 ing round in the saddle he saw the stranger 
 trotting after them at about the distance of 
 thirty yards.
 
 80 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Never mind him, Evans," said Graham, 
 " if he keeps that fair distance, we can't hinder 
 a peaceable man from pursuing his journey." 
 
 " But who is that coming down the hill-side 
 before us ?" — asked Evans, pointing oft' the 
 road to where the moon threw a shadow over 
 the side of a declivity, which the day had not 
 sufficient influence to relieve or dissipate. 
 
 Graham looking in the direction to which 
 Evans's hand pointed, saw a form in rapid mo- 
 tion down the hill; and both, almost simultane- 
 ously, pealed out their usual " who's there? — 
 stand!" — but the form still continued to descend. 
 
 "Stand, on your life !" — repeated Graham; 
 but no notice was taken of his threat ; and at 
 this moment the horseman behind quickened 
 the pace of his horse, and approached much 
 nearer. 
 
 " We are surrounded, please your honor!" — 
 ?aid Evans. 
 
 "Fire, then!" — said Graham aloud, and con- 
 tinued in a lower tone, " I will turn round to 
 meet this other man." 
 
 " Nonsense !" — cried the stranger from be- 
 hind, who seemed to have heard Graham's
 
 JOHN DOE. 81 
 
 orders to Evans — "stop, man, stop! — don't 
 fire! — 'tis a harmless crature of my own!" — 
 but his words had little effect on Evans, the re- 
 port of whose piece was almost instantly heard, 
 succeeded by a loud bellow from the hill, and 
 then the form continued to tumble down more 
 rapidly than before, now evidently impelled by 
 its own gravity, till at last it splashed through 
 the thin ice into a little stream of water at the 
 side of the road. 
 
 " There ;" continued the stranger, who had 
 by this time come up ; " now you have done it, 
 and a brilliant affair it is for the king's men to 
 boast of." 
 
 "What do you mean, fellow?" — said Gra- 
 ham, confronting him ; " stand off, or take the 
 consequences." 
 
 " Ulla-loo ! — I'm not another calf to be treat- 
 ed in such a manner," replied the stranger ; " I 
 tell you I'm no mark for such doughty knights ; 
 but stop — here's a second foe breaking the 
 fence at the top of the hill — make ready — pre- 
 sent — fire !" — 
 
 " 'Twas a poor calf, of a certain, please your 
 honor," interrupted Evans, who had now re- 
 
 e 3
 
 82 JOHN DOE. 
 
 turned from an investigation :it the spot where 
 
 the enemy remained stationary. 
 
 " A poor calf!" — retorted the horseman — 
 '* 'twas as thriving a calf as was ever seen at 
 this side of the country ; and of all creatures in 
 the world the very one I had my eye on for my 
 next Christmas beef: and I must say, gentle- 
 men, that if ye are what ye pretend to be, I 
 take it rather ill of the king to train up his 
 soldiers in hostility to any poor man's meat ; I 
 thought he had some other employment for 
 them." 
 
 Evans's antipathy, now increased by a sense 
 of shame, and a growing apprehension of 
 the stranger's ridicule, turned off in dogged 
 dudgeon, while Graham said — " this is all ex- 
 tremely ridiculous, sir, but, perhaps, mostly 
 owing to your own strange and unsatisfactory 
 conduct; and as to the loss you have sustained, 
 if indeed the animal was yours, or, whether it 
 was or not, here is pecuniary recompence ; and 
 so, good morning to you." 
 
 " Stop a moment, sir," answered the horse- 
 man, " I have no claim on your money, 'twas 
 an accident, and must be arranged as such : you
 
 JOHN DOE. 83 
 
 will put it up, if you please ;" with a wave of 
 his hand, an inclination of his head, and altoge- 
 ther the assumption, for the first time, of an 
 air, voice, and manner, that was impressive, if 
 not gentlemanly and commanding. Graham 
 mechanically complied with the felt influence of 
 this change of character, and returned the mo- 
 ney to his purse. The stranger continued. 
 
 " With respect to the other part of your im- 
 plied terms, sir, it must be ' good morning,' or 
 ' well met,' just as you insist on it." 
 
 " Good morning, then, if you please, sir," 
 answered Graham, and slightly bowing, again 
 set off with Evans. Yet, he was scarcely two 
 minutes on his way, when he felt a kind of re- 
 gret at having so cavalierly rejected the stran- 
 ger's half approach to fellowship. In the im- 
 proved light of the gradually expanding morn- 
 ing this person's face became more distinct, and 
 more pleasingly distinct during the last words he 
 had spoken. Graham now thought over, more 
 argumentatively, the easy self-assertion with 
 which he had refused the money, and recol- 
 lected, that the language adopted in his expla- 
 nation was much more that of a gentleman than
 
 84 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the idiomatic turn of his previous discourse, 
 while it also had less of the brogue of his coun- 
 try. In fact, Graham felt half sorry, and half 
 curious ; and was getting deeper into the feel- 
 ing, when the object of it again diverted from 
 himself this dawn of favourable impression. 
 
 The noise of his horse's feet, in rapid mo- 
 tion, first awakened Graham from his reverie ; 
 and looking behind them, our travellers saw 
 the stranger nearer than they had reckoned, 
 holding out one arm, and crying, "halt! — 
 halt !" 
 
 Evans concluded that they were now in rea- 
 lity to be attacked; and Graham, impatient of 
 so incorrigible an intruder, mended his pace to 
 avoid him. 
 
 " Will your honor please to leave me be- 
 hind ?" asked Evans, thumping his spurless 
 heels against the sides of his hack, and applying 
 the butt of his musket for a common purpose, 
 as he vainly endeavoured to keep up with Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 " Halt, I say! — your purse! — your purse!" 
 cried the horseman, still closing them. 
 
 " I'll shoot you as dead as Abercromby first,
 
 JOHN DOE. 85 
 
 shiver my limbs — if I don't !" roared Evans, fac- 
 ing round. 
 
 " Why, you stupid and provoking fellow," 
 said the pursuer, slackening his speed, " won't 
 you let me give your master his own?" 
 
 " Fall back, Evans," said Graham, advanc- 
 ing. 
 
 " Your purse, sir," continued the stranger, 
 extending his arm ; " it fell from you on the spot 
 where we last halted ; and, again, good morn- 
 ing to you, sir." 
 
 " I'm much obliged," said Graham, taking 
 it, " and now that we can all see each other bet- 
 ter, suppose, sir, if our routes agree, that we 
 push on together ?" 
 
 " My way does not hold, for more than a 
 hundred yards farther, along this main road," 
 answered the stranger, carelessly ; " I must then 
 turn off to the left." 
 
 " Please your honor, that 's exactly our 
 route," whispered Evans. 
 
 " Then we are to be together, sir, if you have 
 no objection," resumed Graham. 
 
 ft None in the world," was the reply ; and 
 much to the astonishment of Evans, Graham
 
 SO JOHN DOE. 
 
 fell into line with the itranger, leaving the 
 galled, and jaded, and fretted orderly to follow- 
 as he might. 
 
 The day was now almost fully u]>. and the 
 thick vapour that had slept out the night on 
 the bosom of Slievenamon, whitened in the re- 
 turning light, and lazily obeying the summons 
 of the breeze, began to crawl towards the peak 
 of the mountain, and there once more deposite 
 itself, as if to take another slothful nap. Gra- 
 ham remarked on the picturesque effect : and 
 his companion replied, " yes, it was odd enough 
 that ould Slievenamon should put on his night- 
 cap just as all the rest of the world was throw- 
 ing off that appendage." 
 
 Graham, too proper and systematic in the 
 succession of his ideas to like this trope, did 
 not notice it, but proceeded with a little vanity 
 of his travelled lore, to allude to the superiority 
 of Italian, over our island scenery. 
 
 " Superiority is a general word,*' said the tra- 
 veller, " in the way you use it. I presume you 
 do not mean mere height, as applied to such 
 mountain scenery as surrounds us ; in other re- 
 spects, the Italian landscape, principally owing
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 87 
 
 of course to the influence of atmosphere, is 
 more beautiful than the English one; and from 
 the scarcity of trees in Ireland, much more so 
 than the Irish one ; but among the mist and 
 shadow of our island hills, as you call them, 
 particularly "in Kerry, I have always felt a ful- 
 ler sense of the sublime, at least, than I ever 
 did in the presence of continental scenery, either 
 in Italy or in Spain ; Switzerland alone, to my 
 eye, first equals us, and then surpasses us." 
 
 This speech gave intimation of rather more 
 acquaintance with the distinctions, in a know- 
 ledge of which Graham took it for granted he 
 might shine, than it seemed practicable to turn 
 to advantage ; so he avoided the general sub- 
 ject, and taking up only a minor division of it, 
 protested he could not understand why — unless 
 it was attributable to the indolence of its people 
 — Ireland should be so " shamefully deficient 
 in trees." 
 
 " Indeed !" — his companion replied, in an in- 
 definite tone ; then, after a pause, added, that 
 " he thought so too :" — but Graham did not 
 notice — it was intended he should not — the scru- 
 tinizing, and, afterwards, rather contemptuous
 
 S8 JOHN DOE. 
 
 look, and, finally, the severe waggery of face, 
 that filled up the seeming hiatus. 
 
 So, having to his own mind hit on a fruitful 
 theme, Graham diverged into all the ramifica- 
 tions of Irish indolence ; obstinacy was his next 
 word ; Irish indolence and obstinacy ; they 
 would neither do nor learn how to do, any 
 thing, he said ; they would not even submit to 
 be educated, out of the very ignorance and 
 bad spirit that produced all this White-boyism. 
 There was a national establishment, he was well 
 assured, in Dublin, with ample means, that pro- 
 posed the blessings of education on the most 
 liberal plan; yet the very ministers of the religion 
 of the country would not suffer their ragged and 
 benighted flock to take advantage of so desir- 
 able an opportunity ; the bigotted rustic pastors 
 actually forbade all parents to send their chil- 
 dren to the schools of this institution. 
 
 " Yes," the stranger said, " the parish priests, 
 the bigotted parish priests ; and all because a 
 eertain course of reading was prescribed in these 
 schools." 
 
 " Precisely, sir," continued Graham. 
 
 " The bigotry of the priests is intolerable,"
 
 JOHN DOE. 89 
 
 said the stranger, " and only equalled by its 
 implacability ; nothing can bring them to consent 
 to the proposed terms, because, forsooth, they 
 plead a conscientious scruple ; because they say 
 their approval would be a breach of their reli- 
 gious duty ; as if we had any thing to do 
 with the private conscience and creed of such 
 people." 
 
 " Or as if the body of respectable gentlemen 
 who framed the regulation, should accede, by 
 rescinding their law, to the superstitious preju- 
 dices of such people," echoed Graham. 
 
 " Very true, sir ; the Medes and Persians, I 
 am given to understand, never repealed a law, 
 and why should the gentlemen you speak of? 
 Besides, there is so little necessity for the con- 
 cession ; the liberal and wise association can so 
 easily accomplish their professed object with- 
 out it." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, there we differ : the ob- 
 ject proposed is the education of the poor of 
 this country, and I cannot exactly see how they 
 are to be educated, if — as is on all hands unde- 
 niable — the parish priests have sufficient influ-
 
 90 
 
 JOHN UOE. 
 
 ence to keep them, now and for ever, out of the 
 school-houses." 
 
 " Oh, sir, nothing can be easier. But first 
 let me see that we understand each other. You 
 and I, suppose, are now riding to the same 
 point; well, a pit, an inundation, or a fallen 
 mountain, occurs a little way on, rendering im- 
 passable the road we had conceived to be per- 
 fectly easy, so that we cannot gain our journey's 
 end by this road. If you please, the place we 
 want to reach shall stand for the education of 
 the poor Irish, the object professed ; toe may 
 personify the educating society, taking our own 
 road, and the bigotted priests are represented 
 by the monstrous impediment. Well, sir; we 
 reach that insurmountable obstacle to our pro- 
 gress ; and now, would it not be most humiliat- 
 ing, and inconsistent, and all that is unworthy, 
 if we did not instantly stop, and declare we 
 would not proceed a foot farther, by any other 
 road, till our favourite one, that never can be 
 cleared, is cleared for us ; so far 1 understand 
 you, sir." 
 
 " Then I protest you have an advantage I do 
 not possess over you, sir," said Graham.
 
 JOHN DOE. 91 
 
 " All will be distinct in a moment," resumed his 
 companion. "I say we are both exactly of opinion 
 that the society should not, with ample means 
 and professions, take a single step towards their 
 end, unless by their own blockaded way ; that, 
 in dignified consistency, they should not vouch- 
 safe to teach one chattering urchin how to read 
 or write, or cast up accounts, unless they can 
 at the same time teach him theology ; in other 
 words, till they see the mountain shoved aside, 
 or the deluge drained, or the bottomless pit 
 filled up : in other words again, till the bigotted 
 popish priests consent to sacrifice their con- 
 science, whatever it may be ; though, meantime, 
 the swarming population remain innocent of any 
 essential difference between B, and a bull's foot, 
 or between A, and the gable-end of a cabin. 
 We are agreed, I say, sir ?" 
 
 " Upon my word, whatever may be your real 
 drift, I must admit you have substantially de- 
 fined, though in your own strange way, the 
 very thing I but just now endeavoured to dis- 
 tinguish. And I must repeat, from what we 
 have both said, that the main object of the so- 
 ciety still seems shut out from attainment. This
 
 02 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 however was what you appeared to deny, I 
 think; I should be glad to hear your remedy." 
 
 " We eonie to it at once, sir ; by no means 
 look out for another road, but try to get rid of 
 the irremovable barrier." 
 
 " I protest, sir, you rather puzzle me." 
 
 " That 's the way, sir," continued the stranger, 
 running on in his wonted delight and bitterness, 
 " no time can be lost, nor no common sense and 
 consistency compromised in the hopeful experi- 
 ment ; — that 's the way." 
 
 " What, sir ? what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Convert the parish priests ; there is nothing 
 easier." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, but I begin to fear you 
 trifle with me," said Graham, mortified and 
 displeased, at having so long exhibited for the 
 amusement of so strange a person. 
 
 " I should be sorry, young gentleman, to say 
 any thing to offend you ; I am sure I have not 
 intended to do so; — but farewell, Lieutenant 
 Graham; present my compliments to your friend, 
 Lieutenant Howard, and tell him he shall soon 
 hear more of me ; farewell ! my road lies up 
 against, or rather round about the breast of
 
 JOHN DOE. 93 
 
 this hill ; you will find your quarters two miles 
 on — a good morning, sir:" and without more 
 pause he turned off the bye-road they had long 
 since pursued into a ragged and narrow path, 
 strewed with stones and rock ; and, after a few 
 words of encouragement to Podhereen, his ath- 
 letic horse disappeared among the curves and 
 bends of encircling hills and inequalities. 
 
 Graham stared almost in consternation when 
 he heard the stranger mention Howard's and his 
 name ; and his rapid disappearance along so 
 wild a path, together with what Graham now 
 regarded as the uncommon assurance of his 
 late manner, induced, more than ever, serious 
 apprehensions as to his identity, in the forma- 
 tion of which he was abundantly assisted by 
 Evans. Both seemed to think it was their 
 policy to push forward to Howard's quarters in 
 all possible speed ; and even Graham allowed 
 the suspicion of an ambuscade, by some secret 
 pass, to shadow his mind. Evans accordingly 
 put his hack to the utmost stretch, requiring 
 but little occasional accommodation from his 
 officer, now to keep him in view. 
 
 They gained however a near prospect of
 
 1)4- JOIJN D()L. 
 
 Howard's mountain quarters, without any fur- 
 ther adventure. An untenanted cabin served 
 for Howard's bivouac. It was I milt in a deso- 
 late little valley, fronting the road over which 
 Graham travelled, but considerably below it- 
 level, having one knoll of mountain at one side, 
 another at the other, with an open back ground 
 of flat, and apparently marshy country. Be- 
 fore the door of the cabin, Graham recognized 
 his friend, surrounded by the few soldiers who 
 formed his immediate body-guard, and who, with 
 the exception of a sentinel, seemed employed 
 in furbishing their arms and accoutrement- : 
 about a quarter of a mile in the open ground, 
 the main force of his party was also discernible 
 in a line round the marsh, standing to their arms, 
 Howard almost at the same time saw his 
 friend's approach; hastened to meet him ; and 
 and then led, laughing at his own means for 
 hospitality, into the cabin ; where, however, a 
 good, ordinary breakfast was prepared, and a 
 bright furze-fire blazing in the ample chimney.
 
 JOHN DOE. 95 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 During breakfast Graham did not fail to men- 
 tion to Howard his adventures on the road ; and 
 the individual, who, for a great part of the 
 journey, had been his almost self-elected com- 
 panion, became an object of equal interest to 
 Howard as to himself. The fact of his seem- 
 ing to know Graham's person, and the purpose 
 of his route, and his parting allusion to Howard, 
 which the friends now construed into a threat, 
 won on their apprehension ; and notwithstand- 
 ing Howard's strong assurances that he could 
 not be the man they almost feared to think he 
 was, conjecture was still busy, and doubt upper- 
 most. 
 
 After some time spent in discussing the matter, 
 Howard recollected an engagement of impor- 
 tance which he wished to keep. It was to meet, 
 at the Roman Catholic place of worship of the 
 mountain district, a protestant clergyman, who
 
 96 joiin doe. 
 
 was also a county magistrate, and with him a 
 
 Roman Catholic priest of eminence, from whom 
 they expected an address to the rude congre- 
 gation, on their secret associations. This latter 
 gentleman, Howard had already met, he said, 
 at the house of a Roman Catholic proprietor in 
 the neighbourhood, where he had passed the 
 last fortnight previous to the change to his pre- 
 sent quarters. He proceeded to speak of him 
 as a man who had gained much character by 
 liis writings and preachings to the common 
 people; — "Here," continued Howard, "are some 
 of his pamphlets to the White-boys, which 
 you will read and judge of for yourself; but 
 I have to add of my good friend father O'Clery, 
 that he is the friend of Flood, Grattan, Curran, 
 Lord Avonmore, and the other Irish talents, 
 who have unanimously elected him a member of 
 their festive body, quaintly denominated " The 
 Monks of St. Patrick," and that he has offici- 
 ally received notice of the gratitude of govern- 
 ment for his most useful as well as talented ex- 
 ertions. 
 
 " The second fact I have mentioned re- 
 minds me," pursued Howard, " of the facetious
 
 JOHN DOE. y< 
 
 social character of O'Clery. Indeed I have 
 scarcely ever met a person of a rarer vein : na- 
 ture seems to have stamped him a wit and a 
 satirist, but he contrives with peculiar good- 
 humour to exercise her gifts most generally in a 
 harmless way. Then every thing about him is, 
 to me, eccentric ; his swollen old fashioned 
 white wig; his curious round hat; and he rides 
 a robust horse, that he calls Podhereen, or 
 1 Beads,' I think—" 
 
 " That he calls what ?" cried Graham. 
 
 " 'Tis a curious name,'' answered Howard, 
 " like every thing else in this curious country, 
 and I do not wonder at your admiration ; I am 
 right ; Podhereen is the title borne by his horsey 
 which as I have translated it, means 'beads,' 
 and hence the point of so calling a priest's horse, 
 perhaps from the circumstance of the rider of- 
 ten saying his rosary on the animal, as he jcr.r- 
 neys from place to place." 
 
 " If Podhereen be indeed the creature's 
 name," resumed Graham, " and if such a hat 
 and wig, and manner, as you describe, belong to 
 O'Clery, then have I been an ass, and the priest 
 knows it, too, Howard." 
 
 VOL. III. F
 
 98 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " What !" cried Howard — " but I have it ! I 
 have it ! — O'Clery was this morning to have 
 ridden from a friend's house near Clonmel, to 
 keep the appointment at the chapel, to which 
 his protestant fellow-labourer, with whom he 
 lives in some amity, invited ; and as I live by 
 the sword, you met him on the road, and lo, 
 your Captain John !" 
 
 " Nothing is more evident, I fear," replied 
 Graham. 
 
 " About two miles from where we sit," con- 
 tinued Howard, " a straggling path diverges 
 among the hills towards the friend's residence, 
 where I have met him, and where he had en- 
 gaged to breakfast, and lo, again, your mys- 
 terious disappearance ! — he knew you were com. 
 ing hither, — I am to see him at the chapel, — 
 and again ami again, lo, lo !" — 
 
 " All too true, Howard," resumed Graham, 
 and the worst is, I was goose enough to read 
 him a lecture on the bigotry of popish priests, 
 in which the old Jesuit seemed to join, till he 
 had meshed me in a confusion of I know not 
 what ideas ; but from all you say of the man's 
 satirical turn, I now elearly understand how I 
 have been bamboozled."
 
 JOHN DOL. 
 
 "Exquisite!" cried Howard — " O'Clery will 
 live on this for ever and a day !— but come, you 
 must see him in his true character ; the hour of 
 appointment is at hand, and we can scarcely be 
 in time at the chapel." 
 
 The friends accordingly pi'oceeded across 
 two or three uncultivated fields, to the moun- 
 tain chapel of the district. It was visible from 
 a distance ; a low, almost squalid-looking build- 
 ing, contrived, according to universal usage, in 
 something of the shape of a cross, with small 
 narrow windows, many of which were broken ; 
 and thatched with straw, that in some places 
 was decayed and blackened by the weather. 
 No "venerable yews" shaded this less than 
 humble conventicle ; in fact not a single tree 
 was in sight ; and no inclosiire ran round it ; 
 even the burial ground was exposed to all in- 
 truders. 
 
 " Can this be a christian place of worship ?" 
 said Graham, as they approached — " I rather 
 thought we were going to yonder smart-looking 
 building, with blue slates and a steeple, at the 
 brow of the hill." 
 
 " To say the truth," replied Howard, " being 
 
 f °2
 
 100 jons doe.- 
 
 good and loyal protectants, that should bo our 
 destination ; for it is a protectant church, where 
 the beneficed clergyman reads prayers, as Swift 
 often did, to one old lady who lives near, and, — 
 if the roads be good, — to two. Sometimes, in- 
 deed, as was also occasionally the case with the 
 humorist I have mentioned, the clergyman's 
 clerk represents, in a large and cold church, the 
 imaginary congregation of the parish. Nay, 
 O'Clery gravely asserts that, upon a particular 
 occasion, even this parliamentary kind of repre- 
 sentation ceased : his story is, that the old clerk 
 died of a pleurisy, caught during a winter's at- 
 tendance in the damp and deserted building, 
 and that for three months, as there was no 
 second protestant of his rank in the parish, his 
 office remained vacant. Some bungling endea- 
 vour at a schismatic substitute was, however, 
 made ; a young popish peasant, attracted by the 
 salary, promised to attend ; but as the fear of a 
 long penance, and, I believe, everlasting dam- 
 nation to boot, forbade him to be present at he- 
 retical ceremonies, he contrived to reconcile his 
 conscience to his interests in the following man- 
 ner. During service the fellow walked outside of
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 101 
 
 the church, spelling the tomb-stones, or whist- 
 ling an Irish ditty ; it was conceded that when 
 the clergyman came to any part that required 
 the response of a clerk, he should ejaculate, 
 " hem !" — and at this signal the young man ran 
 to the church-door, thrust in his head, and 
 having roared out — " Amen !" — returned to his 
 private amusements, and so got through the 
 service." 
 
 After a laugh at this conceit, Graham won- 
 dered how a clergyman could be well paid for 
 having nothing to do ; in fact, the question was by 
 whom, when he had no congregation. Howard 
 answered, by the Roman Catholic landlords, 
 farmers, and peasantry of the country ; and 
 Graham thought that odd, when, he observed, 
 it was evident those persons could not afford, 
 for the purposes of their own worship, a better 
 edifice than the one now in view. 
 
 This conversation brought them to the en- 
 trance of the chapel, and Graham, from what he 
 there saw, thought the matter still more odd. 
 The body of the building was stuffed with 
 people ; and outside the door, hundreds conti- 
 nued to kneel in the open air many yards along 
 the wet and miry approach to the chapel.
 
 102 JOHN DOE. 
 
 1 Tom the profound silence that reigned within 
 and without, interrupted only by the monoto- 
 nous voice of the priest, it was evident that 
 prayers, or, technically speaking, mass had 
 commenced: and whether habit or piety pro- 
 duced the effect, our gentlemen could not avoid 
 noticing how deeply attentive the outside con- 
 gregation appeared to be. The old women 
 and old men of the crowd held in their hands 
 long black beads, or rosaries, to which, as they 
 slid down every bead, their lips moved in seem- 
 ingly fervent prayer; a few young persons of 
 both sexes had books ; some girls again had ro- 
 saries ; and even those who knelt unsupplied 
 with any such clue to devotion, kept up the 
 general appearance of an attentive feeling. 
 
 As Howard saw no means of entering the 
 chapel through the crowd without disturbing 
 their good order, and as he knew of no other 
 entrance but by this principal one, the strangers 
 remained for some time disagreeably situated, 
 particularly when in a few moments they began 
 to attract the notice of the people, and fear, if 
 not consternation, seemed the result of the dis- 
 covery. After standing still for about five mi- 
 nutes, with their heads uncovered, through a
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 103 
 
 wish to conciliate the favourable opinion of those 
 around, Graham pressed his friend's arm, and 
 pointed to a side-face in the rustic assembly. 
 There was no mistaking it, although several 
 months had elapsed since the gentlemen had 
 before seen it; its proprietor was the bowing 
 knight, Mr. Patrick Flinn. 
 
 " I caught him watching us," whispered Gra- 
 ham, " but when my eye met his, he turned 
 round with an affectation of unconsciousness, 
 and assumed the deep abstraction of visage, and 
 that rapid movement of the lips, you now per- 
 
 • >» 
 ceive. 
 
 Immediately after, Flinn again looked to- 
 wards his old friends, and, as if acting on a se- 
 cond thought, bounced up at once, and with his 
 old scrape and bow, and peculiar swagger, ap- 
 proached, and in an anxious whisper addressed 
 them. 
 
 " Musha, long life an' honor to ye, gintlemin, 
 and praise be to God for the day I see ye agin, an 
 won't ye come round to the sacristy where father 
 O'Clary, an' the ministher, good loock to him, 
 an' Mr. Grace, your ould friend, Captain How- 
 ard, is waitin' fur you."
 
 104 JOHN DOE. 
 
 After duo recognition, Paddy's offer was ac- 
 cepted, and Howard and Graham accompanied 
 him round to the back of the chapel, where, by 
 a small private door, he introduced them to 
 what he had called the sacristy; and then, with 
 repeated conge, and fervent prayers for their 
 worldly and immortal happiness, disappeared ; 
 Howard not a little surprised at the intimate 
 knowledge of his arrangements and acquain- 
 tances that Flinn's speech seemed to imply. 
 
 According to the usage of his superiors, Flinn 
 was correct in the name he had given to the 
 small apartment into which the visitors now en- 
 tered ; as, even on the dwindled and sometimes 
 wretched scale that the Roman Catholic reli- 
 gion is practised in Ireland, its professors fondly 
 continue some shadow of its various primitive 
 accompaniments, of which the names, whether 
 as applying to buildings, or parts of buildings, 
 to persons, ceremonies, or the materials for ce- 
 remonies, had a different import in the olden 
 time. 
 
 The sacristy, then, was at the back of the al- 
 tar : the place where the priest put on his vest- 
 ments previous to his appearing before the mul-
 
 JOHN DOE. 105 
 
 titude to celebrate mass. Here, too, was a con- 
 fessional chair ; and the sacristy was also occa- 
 sionally appropriated to the better order of pa- 
 rishioners, who might choose to hear mass dis- 
 tinct from the pressure of the crowd. The floor 
 was earthen, the walls white-washed, and per- 
 piring with chill rather than heat ; and altoge- 
 ther presented an aspect of little comfort. 
 
 At the very moment our friends entered, Mr* 
 O'Clery, attended by the parish minister, issued 
 from the sacristy by another door, that led into 
 a round, railed space before the altar, called the 
 sanctuary. Mr. Grace, the gentleman at whose 
 house O'Clery had breakfasted, and the com- 
 mon friend of Howard, was about to follow, 
 when, recognizing Howard, he turned back, 
 and, in profound silence, led him and Graham 
 after the clergyman. Graham remarked that as 
 Howard passed out, he bowed with a very ami- 
 able smile to a young lady who stood veiled at 
 the door, and who, amid much abstraction and 
 decent piety of manner, graciously returned his 
 salute. 
 
 From the sanctuary, where seats were pro- 
 vided for them, the visitors saw with amaze the 
 
 f 3
 
 106 
 
 JOHN L.OL. 
 
 immense surface of head in the body of the 
 chapel, undulating like a sea, and thick and 
 wedged as paving stones in the streets of a city. 
 Some incidental pause had occurred in the ser- 
 vice, which afforded proper time for the delivery 
 of an exhortation; and of this the human mas- 
 seemed aware, for there now arose an universal 
 pressure forward, attended with the scraping 
 and clattering noise of hundreds of hob-nailed 
 brogues against the clay-floor of the chapel ; 
 and, simultaneously, an uproarious coughing, and 
 blowing of noses, and hawking, and hemming, 
 and sneezing; by which, as matter of course, an 
 Irish congregation prepares and becomes quali- 
 fied for a decorous attention to the harangue of 
 its preacher. 
 
 Mr. O'Clery was not of the parish to which 
 on this day he devoted his eloquence, having 
 only been invited thither, as Howard informed 
 Graham, in consequence of his established cha- 
 racter. Mass had been celebrated by the true 
 parish priest, who now stood with O'Clery on 
 the altar, while the protestant clergyman re- 
 mained on the side steps ; and before the hono- 
 rary preacher could begin, the bona-fide occu-
 
 JOHN DOE. 107 
 
 pant thought it necessary to address his pari- 
 shioners. 
 
 And he did so, good man, in a strain, and on 
 a subject, and with a manner, little eloquent. 
 Advising them that Mr. Clery was to follow in 
 reference to their wicked associations, he con- 
 tented himself with reprobating their general in- 
 correctness in the payment of his Christmas 
 " dues." He protested that he had not re- 
 ceived a pound of their money since Easter, 
 and how did they think he was to live, and keep 
 the poor horse, that, morning, noon, and night, 
 was on the road in their service ? " There again, 
 his horse ; Mickle Delany had promised to send 
 him in a grain of oats ; and Tom Heffernan, a 
 bundle of hay ; and Jack Hoolachun, a whisp of 
 straw ; but, nor oats, hay, nor straw, had he 
 ever seen since. The very chapel above their 
 heads, and above his head, they would not 
 cover ; he had kept his bed for a week with the 
 rheumatism, imbibed from the droppings of the 
 roof, as he said mass on the last rainy Sunday. 
 And what did they intend at all ? Was it their 
 wish to remain in their ignorance, and their sins, 
 and their wickedness, like a drove of bastes,
 
 108 JOHN DOE. 
 
 without priest to give thein the word of God, or 
 to christen for tin in, or to marry for them, or 
 to confess them of their abominations, and then 
 to go, head foremost, out of the darkness of 
 their life in this world, into the eternal shadow 
 of the next (" 
 
 This and much more the afflicted and really 
 worthy man addressed to the gaping throng, 
 who, whenever he gained a climax of denuncia- 
 tions, sent up such a wail of singular pathos, as 
 to the uninitiated ear might promise a speedy 
 arrangement of the last Christmas " dues;" 
 though we have never heard that, eventually, it 
 was of much benefit either to their own souls, 
 or to the bodies of the complainant and horse. 
 
 At last Mr. O'Clery began his exhortation in 
 a style and manner very different indeed. In 
 setting out, he addressed himself at once to the 
 hearts of his hearers, ingeniously and success- 
 fully endeavouring to insinuate himself into their 
 affections and confidence. He called them his 
 dear, though unhappy children, grafting, as he 
 went along, his disapprobation of their crimes 
 upon his sympathy with their misfortunes, and 
 winning them, by a mutual sympathy, to become
 
 JOHN DOE. 109 
 
 the judges and denouncers of their own ex- 
 cesses. When he had sufficiently prepared his 
 opportunity, the reverend gentleman did not 
 withhold the broadest statement of the atroci- 
 ties that had been committed ; but still he kept 
 his kind tone and manner, dwelling rather in 
 sorrow than in anger upon the national dis- 
 grace, and, to him, the personal anguish of such 
 a statement. Presently he argued with his au- 
 dience upon the utter uselessness of their pro- 
 jects and acts; when disciplined forces were 
 brought against them; when they were not 
 countenanced by a single individual of their own 
 religion, who from station and education might 
 afford them counsel ; when the wisest heads in 
 the country were leagued against them; and 
 when they had the experience of the utter 
 failure of all their previous attempts. After 
 thus disheartening them, the preacher next ra- 
 pidly recurred to the moral delinquency of their 
 deeds, and now, for the first time, got in a view 
 of their illegality; strengthening himself by 
 giving the religion they professed as the rule of 
 civil obedience, and fully defining the duties
 
 110 JOHN DOE. 
 
 that, according to it, tlicy owed to their king 
 and country, and the deadly sin that followed a 
 breach of those duties. And here, at last 
 throwing aside the olive branch, and arraying 
 himself in all the sternness and terror of eccle- 
 siastical power and authority, he called on the 
 thunders of the church to assist the voice of 
 the law, and uttered the deep threats at which 
 the Irish peasant has been in the habit of trem- 
 bling, though recent events prove to us a grow- 
 ing indifference towards them. An evident 
 awe resulted from this; and the speaker has- 
 tened to complete his impression by once more 
 touching the human feelings. As Irishmen, 
 as Christians, as fathers, brothers, sons, and 
 husbands, he invoked them to adopt the course 
 that would save their country from opprobrium; 
 their little children, their aged parents, their 
 fond wives, from the ruin, and shame, and sor- 
 row, that must follow a perseverance in crime; 
 and themselves from shameful death here, and 
 judgment hereafter : and, in conclusion, the 
 preacher, in his own name and in the name of all 
 their priests, invoked them, with tears upon his
 
 JOHN DOE. 1 1 1 
 
 cheeks ; and then falling on his knees prayed a 
 merciful God to give strength to his supplica- 
 tions ! 
 
 The final effect was decisive. For some 
 time an intense silence waited on Mr. O'Clery's 
 peroration; but as he rose to -a climax, the 
 weeping wail of women bore testimony to its 
 natural influence ; some even shrieked in anti- 
 cipated agony ; while in the pause they left, sobs, 
 " not loud but deep," intimated the laborious 
 working of grief and repentance in harder 
 hearts ; many a rough cheek, which since child- 
 hood had been dry, now ran tears respondent 
 to those shed by the reverend preacher ; and 
 when he suddenly knelt, one mighty burst at- 
 tended his unexpected movement ; every knee 
 simultaneously sought the ground ; and, for a 
 minute after, clasped hands and up-turned eyes 
 proclaimed the continuous sentiment and con- 
 viction.* 
 
 Indeed, to those who have never been pre- 
 sent at such a scene as we describe, and who 
 are unacquainted with the Irish character, this 
 
 * The sketch of a usual scene.
 
 112 JOHN DOE. 
 
 attempt to convey a true picture, will, perhaps, 
 appear exaggerated. Howard and Graham, 
 taken by surprise, acknowledged, however, its 
 immediate influence, for they found themselves 
 kneeling at the close, along with every other 
 individual of the congregation. The Protestant 
 clergyman, too, did not withhold, under a dis- 
 senting roof, the natural testimony that was 
 only an admission of the great and general sway 
 of those broad principles, which, in common 
 with the preacher, he devoutly advocated. 
 
 And it was now his turn to say a few sen- 
 tences to the people. He was handed up to 
 the altar by the two Roman Catholic priests, 
 and began, his eyes still moist, and his voice 
 affected, to state, that it was under their permis- 
 sion he had ventured out of his place to speak 
 a friendly word to his, as well as their common 
 flock. After the powerful appeal that had been 
 delivered, he would not, he said, hazard a sin- 
 gle general observation ; and all he had to pro- 
 pose was peace and good-will, and, so far as in 
 him lay, the measures to attain both. He then 
 alluded to the difficult question of tithes ; volun- 
 teering concessions, and suggesting arrange-
 
 JOHN DOE. 11 
 
 a 
 
 ments, by which he hoped, in his own person at 
 least, to alleviate the hardship he was aware ex- 
 isted; and promising for himself, to the ut- 
 most extent of his influence, not only pardon, 
 but protection to such as would speedily give up 
 their wicked courses, and conform to the advice 
 and precepts they had just heard. 
 
 His address seemed to produce, if not so 
 powerful an effect as the last, certainly one more 
 pleasing ; and the mass was resumed under every 
 appearance and hope of good results. 
 
 When it had concluded, and while the peo- 
 ple were pouring out of the chapel, Howard 
 and Graham gained the sacristy, where the one 
 friend presented the other to Mr. O'Clery, and 
 Mr. and Miss Grace ; which lady, Graham re- 
 cognised to be the same to whom Howard had 
 bowed in his way to the sanctuary. O'Clery, 
 even so soon after an occasion and exertion that 
 had intensely affected himself, let fly at Graham 
 a few significant glances of his deep, black eye, 
 while his lip curved in a provoking smile ; he 
 shook him heartily by the hand, however, and 
 hoped for the pleasure of his acquaintance. 
 
 An invitation to dinner by Mr. Grace was de-
 
 1 14 JOHN DOE. 
 
 clined by Howard, and by his friend of course, 
 on the plea of attending to his present position; 
 and while O'Clery and the Protestant clergy- 
 man, accepting it, accompanied .Mr. and Miss 
 Grace to their house, the military gentlemen 
 sought their Irish cabin and casual camp-mess, 
 loud in approbation of the eloquence they had 
 heard.
 
 JOHN DOE. 115 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 
 Well, your prophecy holds," said Graham 
 to his friend after dinner, as he sipped a glass of 
 genuine pottheen punch : " I begin to like your 
 smoky beverage better than I thought it possi- 
 ble." 
 
 " 'Tis the only thing I can offer you in my 
 wild quarters ; and though, being both smoky 
 and illicit, it goes against your palate and my 
 conscience, yet, necessity you know, Gra- 
 ham " 
 
 " Has little to do with squeamish tastes or 
 the parish gauger. Pottheen you call it ?" 
 
 " Pottheen ; derivative, pot ; which utensil, 
 with a crooked tin tube, forms, I can learn, the 
 whole distilling apparatus. The natives, who 
 ever mix up with aberrations of this kind a 
 quaint and singular humour, further term it 
 mountain dew," in joint allusion, I believe, to
 
 1 1(5 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the situations, ami witching time ot nigfit, in 
 which it is generally manufactured." 
 
 " Well, 1 low aid, I have now, for the lirst 
 time, opportunity to inquire after your roman- 
 tic campaign here. You are sure he is com- 
 pletely hemmed in ?" 
 
 " I am positive from the intelligence of my 
 spies, that, at this moment, the formidable Doe 
 and part of his gang, surprised in their retreat 
 homeward, as usual, after a mighty depreda- 
 tion, lie, at some concealed point, within a cir- 
 cle of three or four miles I have formed round 
 them. We repeatedly started and chased him 
 during the course of yesterday; towards even- 
 ing, however, he eluded us ; but ever since, the 
 men stand to their arms, where, at a distance, 
 you have seen them; they and I certain that he 
 is within their lines, and that, if he does not 
 appear, he must starve within them." 
 
 " Why not close in, and take him at once ?" 
 " You are unaccpiainted with the nature of 
 the ground, lie has retreated among the re- 
 cesses of a bog, the area of which is some miles, 
 and where regular soldiers, ignorant of the no- 
 vel impediments and ambuscades of the place,
 
 JOHN DOE. 117 
 
 cannot follow him: it would be madness, in- 
 deed almost sure destruction, if they did. You 
 have yet only the aspect of the situation, soften- 
 ed by distance ; but it in reality abounds in al- 
 ternate pools of deep water and marshy spots of 
 soil; while here and there huge clamps, as they 
 are called, of turf, create frequent hiding-holes, 
 and, of course, dangerous impediments. No; 
 the advantage is mine, and I must not hastily 
 forfeit it ; he shall, as I have said, creep out to 
 us, or rot where he is ; the men are content to 
 watch him, as on the edges of the bog, all round, 
 they have, in turn, their occasional bivouacs, 
 like myself, and are in no want of rashers." 
 
 " Are you aware of the number of the ene- 
 my c — 
 
 " I believe they are rather numerous ; and, 
 what is more, brave and desperate." 
 
 Then all is not yet certain ; for instead of 
 crawling out to be hanged, they may break out 
 and escape, if they do not absolutely annoy you." 
 
 " It is possible ; though, from our at least 
 equal numbers and commanding discipline, not 
 probable."
 
 118 JOHN DOE 
 
 " You have often seen this bravo?" 
 
 " Never ; that pleasure is in reserve for me ; 
 but I have often heard from him." 
 
 " Indeed! in what way?" 
 
 " In the shape of sundry written threats to 
 draw oft" my men, and go quietly about my bu- 
 siness, if I valued life or health." 
 
 " How did these notices reach you? by what 
 hand?" 
 
 " I do not know. Sometimes, in the morn- 
 ing, I found them on my pillow; sometimes 
 nailed to the very door of my bivouac, nay, I 
 got one of them dangling at my sword-guard." 
 
 " In good earnest, now, what is the treason 
 of these silly, as well as desperate men ?" — 
 
 " If by treason you mean disloyalty to the 
 person of our gracious king, I believe they are 
 not guilty of that specific crime." 
 
 " No!" 
 
 " No. I have assured myself that their vices 
 do not involve the most distant aim at the throne. 
 On the contrary, I believe they indulge a kind 
 of wayward love and reverence for their present 
 good sovereign; and as to the church, they 
 take, in the way of resistance to tithes, or rates,
 
 JOHN DOE. 119 
 
 or dues, almost as much liberty with their own 
 as with ours." 
 
 " You surprise me. What is their object, 
 then ? M 
 
 " They state it to be the lowering of rack- 
 rents and tithes. This Captain Doe professes 
 not to allow any person to set or take land or 
 pay tithes, but at his own terms; and upon any 
 that transgress his orders, he wreaks, when he 
 can, summary, and often horrible vengeance." 
 
 " Is the grievance real or imaginary?" — 
 
 " That is a question, Graham, that, if you 
 had my duty to perform, you would scarcely 
 wish to discuss. At all events, I believe we 
 could not, as Englishmen, understand its naked 
 merits ; the great relative differences between 
 landlord and tenant, and pastor and flock, in 
 each country, must incapacitate our judgments 
 till we are better informed." 
 
 " Be it so then. Of what rank and educa- 
 tion may this Doe be ?" 
 
 " His excellency either does not know how to 
 write, or else takes a new secretary at every 
 turn; for no two of the state papers he has done
 
 120 JOHN DOE. 
 
 me the honor to address to me, were written 
 alike." 
 
 " Have you any of these precious documents 
 to shew ?" 
 
 Howard searched his pockets, and while 
 thus employed — " by the way, Howard," conti- 
 nued Graham, " that was a pretty little papist 
 you smirked at to-day in the chapel: — was she 
 not?"— 
 
 " I think I have some of these papers," said 
 Howard, most properly replying to the first 
 question, first — " yes, here is one, predicting 
 my annihilation in two short days if I do not 
 forthwith return to head -quarters;" and he 
 looked towards the fire, his face emulating the 
 colour of his jacket. 
 
 " And not a word about the little devotee ? — 
 Well ; monopolize as you like. But let us see 
 this other matter. — Hollo!" — continued Gra- 
 ham, reading — " what the deuce is all this ?" — 
 and now he read aloud. 
 
 " Captain John Doe presents his compliment^ 
 to Lieut. Howard," — " oh thou particular fel- 
 low!" (an interpolation by Graham;) "to Lieut. 
 Howard, sending this private note to warn him,
 
 JOHN DOE. 121 
 
 that at the same time that he would do well to 
 draw off his men, Lieut. Howard might also 
 
 find it for the best to give up " 
 
 " Stop, Graham," interrupted Howard — "I've 
 made a mistake." — 
 
 " To give up," continued Graham, still read- 
 ing out — " all pretensions " 
 
 " I say 'tis a mistake — that's the wrong note 
 — give it me;" and Howard rose and advanced, 
 but the other, anticipating him, also started up, 
 and holding Howard off with one hand, kept 
 the note in the other, and went on. 
 
 " To give up all pretensions to the rich at- 
 torney's daughter, — 'ha! ha! — sly boots! — 
 love and war ? — eh V '' 
 
 " This is unlucky — ill-timed, I meant," mum- 
 bled Howard. 
 
 " For, by the moon and stars, he reigns 
 under" — pursued Graham, still from the paper 
 — " Captain John swears he can never permit 
 purty Mary Grace" — what ! — the little idolator? 
 — " purty Mary Grace to be carried off from a 
 gossip of his own, by an English red-coat. — 
 Signed — Doe," — and countersigned too ! — 
 " Lieutenant Starlight — Serjeant Moonshine." 
 
 VOL. III. G
 
 VZ2 JOHN DOF.. 
 
 — Why, Howard, how close and prudent you 
 would be! — pretty Mary — no — purty Mary 
 Grace, the rich attorney's daughter; ha! ha! 
 ha !"— 
 
 " Nay, Graham," said Howard, resuming his 
 seat, and the least in the world sulky — " since 
 you have at your pleasure possessed yourself of 
 my secret — though I own I was just debating 
 how I should best escape your cursed laugh in 
 breaking it to you — but since you have it, there 
 is no need of that laugh, Graham. I'm not so 
 ashamed of the matter." 
 
 " What ! — matrimony in good earnest?"— and 
 Graham also sat down, returning the note. 
 
 " Really," answered Howard : " a pretty girl, 
 as Rock himself has defined her " 
 
 " Purl i/, purty — no perversion of text." 
 
 " A handsome girl, an amiable and sensible 
 one, and live thousand, Graham. Laugh if you 
 like ; but you know the proverb." 
 
 " Aye, they laugh that win. By Jove, hero 
 of ours, let me congratulate you, rather. When 
 did all this happen ? how could it ? — or you 
 have made quick work — why, you are not yet a 
 month on the service."
 
 JOHN DOE. 123 
 
 " What need of a century I — I had a pleasant 
 billet at her father's house for a fortnight." 
 
 "Ah! necessity for remaining stationary — yet 
 could not appoint to meet his friend, as he might 
 be obliged to change quarters at a moment's 
 notice — and so forth," said Graham, alluding 
 to the notes he had received from Howard, and 
 of which we have before spoken. " But what 
 will you do with the holy father ? — purchase his 
 dispensation ? that will cost a world of money." 
 
 " Give him one, rather ; that is, dispense with 
 him; for I cannot see how he comes into the 
 matter. You know, Graham, I have ever said 
 I should not trouble myself about my wife's re- 
 ligion ; enough for me, if she has the spirit of 
 anv ; and such I believe to be the case in the 
 present instance." 
 
 " And of the disapprobation of his high 
 mightiness, Captain John ?" 
 
 " Oh, let to-morrow or the next day settle 
 that." 
 
 " Well — a bumper to your success in the 
 rival fields of Venus and Bellona. — And now, 
 Howard, 'tis time I were on the road." 
 
 g2
 
 124 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " What ! abandon us so soon ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, after all our disappointments in 
 
 meeting, when, each time I was prepared for ;i 
 long visit, I could not, on the present occasion, 
 get leave of absence longer than to-night; I must 
 present myself in Clonmel to-morrow ; but the 
 next time shall be an age." 
 
 " Then you will have to travel all night ?" — 
 
 " Yes ; but with old Tom Evans I shall not 
 mind it." 
 
 " Take him ; though, indeed, I intended him 
 for my own body-guard on a march I propose 
 to steal across the country this evening." 
 
 " Humph — -purty .Mary Grace?" 
 
 " Perhaps you guess it. But no matter about 
 Evans. The certainty I have that Doe is out 
 of the way enables me to go alone, except, it 
 may be, with a peasant for my guide, as my path 
 is a cross one, almost unknown to me." 
 
 "How far?" asked Graham. 
 
 " Not more than three miles — Irish ones 
 though." 
 
 " Oh, doubtless you may venture it. Come." 
 " With you. But— Graham— " 
 " Well ? well ?"—
 
 JOHN DOE. 125 
 
 " No need of remembering my little affair at 
 garrison, you know." 
 
 " Pretty Mary and the rich attorney ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Graham, I must insist " 
 
 "Ha! ha! — fear nothing; — I'm prudent:" 
 and the friends, after mutual farewells, separated 
 on their different routes ; Howard and his guide 
 towards Mr. Grace's house, and Graham — with 
 Evans, grumbling in every aching joint of his 
 body, at being again, and so soon called upon 
 to shake for thirteen miles, say sixteen English, 
 in an uneasy saddle — towards Clonmel. 
 
 We are here obliged to close a very short 
 chapter, in order to afford proper scope for the 
 events now to be detailed.
 
 126 JOHN DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A iter conducting his old acquaintances to the 
 sacristy, at the chapel, Flinn returned to his 
 place among the kneeling crowd ; and watching 
 his time, till the service allowed, according to 
 established form, general liberty to stand, he 
 then pushed on into the body of the chapel 
 and heard attentively the separate exhortations 
 of his parish priest and the Rev. Mr. O'Clery, 
 together with the few words spoken by the 
 protestant clergyman. 
 
 AYlien all was over, Flinn left the chapel with 
 the rest of the people, but dallied near the place 
 till he thought he might proceed, without their 
 observation, to keep an appointment with a par- 
 ticular friend. With his hands plunged into 
 his breeches' pockets, his hat, hanging as usual, 
 on one side of his head, and while he whistled 
 a lively air, Flinn then turned down a bye-path,
 
 JOHN DOE. 127 
 
 which led from the chapel over a considerable 
 declivity, towards a wretched little thatched hut 
 called " the forge." It was, in fact, the smithy 
 of the district, erected distinct and far from any 
 neighbouring dwelling-house, and exclusively 
 devoted by the proprietor, whose residence was 
 a cabin at some distance, to the purposes of his 
 trade : so that on a Sunday he made no use, 
 and claimed no right of possession over it ; and 
 apprehending that little seduction to theft was 
 held forth by the massive anvil or gigantic and 
 shattered bellows, the only available property 
 left during the sabbath on the premises, he 
 had never gone to the expense of a door for 
 the hovel, and it consequently gave an open, 
 and so far as in it lay, a hearty welcome, one 
 day in each week, to all chance comers. And, 
 the year round, the forge had — we are com- 
 pelled in shame and sorrow to admit — almost 
 systematically upon that day, its particular visi- 
 tors. — Some of the very lowest order of Irish 
 peasants are passionately attached to card-play- 
 ing, rather, it would seem, for the sake of the 
 amusement than in a gambling view ; and of all 
 convenient places in a neighbourhood, the snug
 
 K\S JOHN DOE. 
 
 corner of a field, or the depths of a sand-pit not 
 excepted, though both haunts are often resort- 
 ed to for the same purposes, none surpass in 
 attraction the deserted and isolated forge- 
 To the adjacent forge, then, our friend Paddy 
 Flinn directed his steps. As lie advanced he 
 met in succession two or three little boys, whom 
 the party engaged in forbidden pastime had 
 sent out and stationed as scouts, to give them 
 timely notice of the probable visitation of their 
 really good and zealous parish priest, from whom 
 they had vainly heard repeated prohibitions 
 against such breaches of the Sabbath, and who, 
 failing in words, had often surprised them with 
 his more convincing cudgel or horsewhip, while 
 they were engaged in the very fascinations of 
 their game. The little urchins rapidly inquired 
 of Flinn, as soon as he appeared, the destination 
 of their dreaded pastor, and having ascertained, 
 that from his being gone to dine with Mr. 
 Grace, no visit might this day be apprehended 
 from him, they immediately abandoned their 
 disagreeable posts, and separated to seek some 
 more genial occupation. 
 
 As Flinn, pursuing his path, entered the
 
 JOHN DOE. 129 
 
 forge, he found Jack Mullins, the friend he had 
 appointed to meet, deeply absorbed with three 
 others in the climax of a long contested game. 
 The anvil substituted a card table for this 
 rustic party, who sat round it on large stones 
 piled one over another. They used cards, 
 which might baffle the discriminating facultie s 
 of more accomplished gamesters, as long finger- 
 ing, and the hue and shape thereby left on each, 
 confounded, to the uninitiated eye, all distinc- 
 tions of number, colour, and suit. Habit is 
 every thing, however ; and the present propri- 
 etors of these mysterious symbols appeared to 
 recognize their fifty-two subtle sub-divisions, 
 with as much ease, as, in a more fashionable 
 hell, gamblers of a higher order distinguish the 
 differences of an untouched pack : though ru- 
 mour adds that their means for arriving at such 
 conclusions, were not derived from much posi- 
 tive evidence of the marks originally stamped on 
 the pasteboard, but rather from subsidiary hie- 
 roglyphics that had gradually succeeded to the 
 original signs, and as gradually become acknow- 
 ledged, from month to month, nay, from year to 
 
 g 3
 
 130 JOHN DO! 
 
 year, by the persevering and watchful observers. 
 
 No notice was taken of Flinn's entrance, if 
 we except a slight raising of the eyes, and an ac- 
 company ing noise, like a grunt, directed to him 
 by Mullins, and meant, we presume, for avowed 
 recognition. The men pursued the critical turn 
 of their game with all the gout and abstraction 
 of their caste, and with all the attendant symp- 
 toms of deep study, that is to say, bent brows, 
 protrusions and compressions of the lips, and oc- 
 casional long pauses and unmeaning stares at 
 the wall, or out at the door. Flinn, too, after 
 his first unnoticed salutation, kept silence for 
 some time, standing behind Mullins, and watch- 
 ing his play and hand. At last the interregnum 
 of a deal allowed him a few words : and, 
 
 " Well," he said, " I was at mass, boys." 
 
 " An' you're all the better o' that, ain't you?" 
 said Mullins. 
 
 " To be sure I am, you gallows-bird, you,"' 
 answered Flinn, " an' wouldn't any thing, not 
 to talk o' that, be better nor the prayers you 
 get out o' the devil's horn-buke you hould in 
 your hand, there ?"
 
 JOHN DOE. 131 
 
 "Well, a-vich," said Mullins, dealing the cards. 
 
 " What do you call well ?" resumed Flinn : 
 " I don't know what's well or ill, mysef ; but I 
 know the day that's in it is the day o' days ; fur 
 sayin' nothing o' the strange priest's sarment, 
 little did any of us think we'd live to see a Sasse- 
 nach ministher prachin' to us off o' the same altar 
 wid our own soggarth, an' two red-coats kneelin' 
 down by his side to pray the blessin' o' God on 
 us, poor divils that we are, along wid father 
 O'Clery, good loock to every inch iv him." 
 
 " They'd do any thing to sell us, betuxt 
 era," said Mullins ; " an' what rhaumaush did 
 you hear from father O'Clery ?" 
 
 " It was no rhaumaush,* you hell-hound," an- 
 swered Flinn, " bud plenty o' good sense an' 
 love fur us, an' the right thing afther all, an' I'll 
 stand by it." 
 
 " You'll stand by the gallows," said Mullins, 
 in a jeering tone and manner. 
 
 " To see you swinging on it," retorted Flinn, 
 " when you'll be afther walkin' in sarch of it, 
 an' your own coffin followin' you, two or three 
 * Nonsense. 
 
 \
 
 132 JOHN DOE. 
 
 miles of ;i market day; 1 often tould you not to 
 fear the wather, Jack. Bud the short an' the 
 long is this; father O'Clery said nothin' bud 
 God's truth this blessed day ; there wasn't a 
 dry eye in the place ; an' if you can do any good, 
 Jack, by spakin 1 to any friend o' yours, or the 
 likes o' that, it's nothing but what 'ud become 
 you well ; and so I'll tell the farmer's son, him- 
 ef, when I see him next." 
 
 " Let us play our play, a-hager," said Mul- 
 lins, " an' don't be botherin' plain people wid 
 what they know little about. Come. Now all 
 the loock is. his that has the five fingers."* 
 
 " Aye, you'll play your own play, Jack ; an' 
 maybe you'll have the loock o' the five fingers, 
 too ; the skibbeeah's, I mane, while he 'a takin' 
 ■ your measure fur the hemp cravat ;" observed 
 Flinn, as the gamblers now resumed their pur- 
 suit — " bud stop, fur I think you'd betther," he 
 continued in an under-tone, " an' just turn 
 round till you see who's lookin' at you" — and 
 with these words Flinn escaped from the forge, 
 hastily pointing to an orifice, meant for the double 
 * Five of trumps.
 
 JOHN DOE. 133 
 
 uses of window and chimney, which was situated 
 in the wall of the hovel behind Mullins's back. 
 
 The men with whom Mullins was playing, 
 first took advantage of Flinn's hint, and fixing 
 their terrified eyes on this opening, saw it almost 
 entirely filled by the round, red face, and fat 
 shoulders of their parish priest, who, notwith- 
 standing other engagements, could not conscien- 
 tiously overlook, on this particular Sunday, the 
 chances of the notorious forge, and had accord- 
 ingly paid it a speculative visit. 
 
 " Ho-ho ! ye Sabbath-breakers !" roared the 
 worthy man, precipitating himself into the forge, 
 and, whip in hand, falling with might and main, 
 on the backs of his profane parishioners — " Have 
 I found ye again ! have I found ye again ! — at 
 the old work! — at the old work!" — Each ite- 
 rated sentence was accompaniment to a repeated 
 lash, and Mullins's three gaming friends quickly, 
 and with loud screams, escaped through the open 
 door-way, while the priest turned round upon 
 a whole nest of old and young, who, we forgot 
 to premise, sat on the hobs of the forge fire, or 
 on the ground, anxious spectators of the ambi-
 
 184 JOHN DOE. 
 
 tioned game. Among these the zealous pastor 
 also made terrific use of his heavy horsewhip ; 
 ami it was ludicrous to hear the cries and shouts 
 of tall, raw-boned fellows, of from six to seven 
 feet high, as they quailed or jumped beneath 
 the hand of a little round man, whose entire 
 physical strength was not equal to that contain- 
 ed in one of their fingers, or, at least, and to 
 illustrate less poetically, who by the merest 
 show of resistance, might have escaped his fla- 
 gellation. But as the beasts of the forest all 
 tremble at the lion's roar, so do the Greater 
 portion of Irish peasants shrink at the voice of 
 their priest : we have seen a mob of some hun- 
 dreds, even in the excitement of mutual passion 
 and conflict, fly, forgetful of every thing but 
 the moral terror of his presence, as the waters 
 divide and splash, when a heavy stone is drop- 
 ped into them ; and on the present occasion the 
 flock of idlers in the forge bore similar testi- 
 mony of a similar influence. In fact the place 
 was in a few minutes cleared of all except the 
 clergyman and Mullins ; for Mullins would not 
 run as the others did, but now stood doggedly,
 
 JOHN DOE. 135 
 
 and as well as he could, indifferently, his side 
 turned to the parish priest, and his eyes fixed 
 on the landscape abroad. 
 
 " And do you face me, you unfortunate sin- 
 ner?" said the priest, screaming at Mullins 
 when he discovered him — " but I '11 convert 
 you — you as well as the rest — if there 's virtue 
 in whalebone and whip-cord, I '11 convert you, 
 one after the other," and he wound a good lash 
 at Mullins. 
 
 " Nonsense, soggarth, nonsense ! ' ejaculated 
 the suffering party when he had felt the smart 
 of the whip — " an' don't be doin' that agin, I 
 advise you." 
 
 " I see you, now, an' I know you, now," said 
 the reverend operator, somewhat daunted by 
 the bad expression of the man's face — " you are 
 one of those that have brought sin and trouble 
 into my poor parish — you, and your crony, the 
 jig -dancer" — (Mr. Flinn, we presume, was 
 meant) " but I disown ye — I renounce ye — ye 
 are two diseased sheep among my innocent 
 flock — and two strangers that 'tis hard to speak 
 about."
 
 130 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Tlicn don 't spake about us at all, plase 
 your reverance," said Mullins, " an' if we're 
 strangers, let us alone." 
 
 " Go, man, go," resumed the clergyman, — 
 " I know you not — and all I have t<» say is this 
 — come in next Saturday to your Easter-duty, 
 and show your bad face at mass next Sunday, 
 and behave yourself like a Christian creature in 
 my parish ; or, — if you don't — lave my parish* 
 — I won't give you my curse upon it — that 's an 
 awful thing to do — but I '11 mark you, you Sab- 
 bath-breaker — I'll mark you!" And the virtu- 
 ous, though, as we have seen in the chapel, 
 scarcely accomplished pastor, hastily left the 
 hovel, Mullins uttering an avoch ! as they 
 parted. 
 
 lie stood a few minutes after the clergyman's 
 exit, apparently in deep thought, then suddenly 
 turned to leave the hovel, when he was met at 
 the threshold by Flinn. 
 
 " Come wid me up by the side of this brook, " 
 said Flinn, rapidly walking in the direction he 
 pointed out, — "an' let us get among the hills 
 before we spake any thing more about it."
 
 JOHN DOE. 137 
 
 They accordingly continued their way until 
 they had got into the solitude of a wild little 
 valley, and here Flinn again paused and ad- 
 dressed his companion. " What are you goin 
 to do wid Purcell ?" he suddenly asked, staring 
 Mullins full in the face. 
 
 " Bad end to him, how do I know ?" said 
 Mullins, " only he axed me, yesterday evenin' 
 afther my work was done, an' I said yes, becase 
 it was as good as to say no." 
 
 " You wouldn't, you curse-o-God-limb," re- 
 sumed the other, " you wouldn't be after sellin' 
 the pass * in that way, on whatever poor fellows 
 you know any thing about — would you ?" 
 
 " Ho, ho ! — who are you spakin' to ?" replied 
 Mullins. 
 
 " I don't well know, may be," said Flinn — 
 " bud I know, an' I think you know, too, there 
 would be neither honor nor glory, gain nor 
 
 * " Selling the pass," a generally diffused proverb through 
 Ireland, is perhaps derived from the circumstance of an officer 
 of James's army at the siege of Limerick, in 1690, having dis- 
 closed to Ginkle, William's general, a favourable part of the 
 Shannon, by means of which Jinkle put an end by treaty to the 
 long-contested siege of the city.
 
 138 JOHN DOE. 
 
 savin', in tellin your thoughts to such a hound 
 as Purcell, for all his magistrates' warrants an' 
 the like: though I say agin, Jack, the strange 
 priest tould us enough to-day to make us do our 
 best in the fair cause." 
 
 " Hould your tongue," said Mullins, " I 
 know nothin' at all iv id. Don't be botherin' me 
 fur ever. What can you do bud spake, spake, 
 spake? — If you could do any thing else the 
 evenin' o' the patthern, I wouldn't have the 
 trouble o' meetin' this black protestan' this bles- 
 sed an' holy night : an' others 'ud be saved trou- 
 ble, too." 
 
 " 'Twas none o' my fault, Jack ; I done my 
 best, if ever I done it ; while you had only to 
 look on wid your sailor's noose in your pocket ; 
 that, I say over an' over, you '11 be matched at, 
 at last. Bud how does Purcell trate you?" 
 
 " Well enough, considerin' the likes of him ; 
 an' the likes o' me, too, that only works whin 
 the fit is on me ; yet he's always soft wid me — 
 may be too soft, fur all we know ; — bud make 
 off wid yourself — I see him just turnin' in to the 
 glin — bad loock to him, an' how 'ticlar he is»
 
 JOHN DOE. 139 
 
 an the evenin only fallin' — here, you scape- 
 grace, get behind this big stone, an' lie quiet if 
 you can, an' say your prayers if you remember 
 any o' them : I'll soon send him off." 
 
 Flinn obeyed the instructions of his compa- 
 nion, completely hiding himself behind a tall 
 rock that sloped from the path against some ad- 
 joining masses of stone that skirted the valley, 
 and which was also partially surrounded by 
 brushwood, as if to add to its present useful- 
 ness. When he had lain down in his ambush, 
 Mullins walked slowly away from the spot, and 
 then up and down at a little distance, while he 
 awaited the approach of Mr. Purcell, the gen- 
 tleman in whose employment, as a garden la- 
 bourer, he now was, and the same who had 
 given rise to the fray at the pattern some seven 
 months before. 
 
 " I am glad you are punctual, Mullins," said 
 Mr. Purcell, as he came up — " but — are we 
 alone ?" 
 
 " Din't you see we are ?" answered Mullins, 
 
 " I thought I saw another by your side when 
 I first entered the valley." 
 
 " You thought wrong, then, Mr. Purcell, un-
 
 IK) JOHN DOE. 
 
 less it was who you know, keephi' me company, 
 for your sake, till you came yourself." 
 
 " Whom tlo you mean?" said Purcell, half 
 guessing from the nature of the man, as well as 
 from a recollection of the confidence he had 
 given him, the probable allusion — 
 
 " Ilauld your ear an' I '11 tell you; — the OtUd 
 bouchal, Mr. Purcell;"' answered Mullins, very 
 calmly ; " an' I 'd make little wonder if you 
 thought right, after all." 
 
 " Tut, tut, Mullins," said Purcell, laughing, 
 yet perhaps, somewhat disagreeably affected — 
 " no more of that folly ; indeed 'tis worse than 
 folly in such a place." 
 
 A pause ensued, during which it would seem 
 that Purcell wished Mullins to say something ; 
 but whether or not such was his intention he 
 was himself compelled to continue. 
 
 " I have trusted you very freely on this mat- 
 ter, Mullins, because I think I may trust you, 
 and, besides, the more you know of it, the bet- 
 ter you can serve me." 
 
 " May be so, Mr. Purcell." 
 
 " Mullins, I have loved Mary for years ; I 
 have addressed her for years."
 
 JOHN DOE. 141 
 
 " I know that. You tould me afore." 
 " At first as I said, she slighted me, on ac- 
 count of that unfortunate young lad, Kavanah ; 
 but when he was put out of the way, that is, 
 when his own doings put him out of the way, 
 then I found favour with her. ' 
 " Are you sure, Mr. Purcell ?" 
 "No doubt of it — and had no fear of success 
 till this English interloper came between us — 
 do you think I would propose to force a woman 
 who had not given me the first encouragement? 
 Not I, Mullins ; and you know I would not ; 
 but you see, as I said over and over, all is owing 
 to this English ensign." 
 
 " Aye ; the red-coat sassenagh; well, a-roon?" 
 " Don't you think it a shame and a pity, now, 
 Mullins, that the girl and the money should 
 leave the country with a red rag like him, when 
 I offer to keep her as she ought to be kept, and 
 make her an Irish lady on my own estate ?" 
 
 " Thonomon-duoul, yes ! — the grounds you 
 took over poor Kavanah's head are as good as 
 an estate to you." 
 
 " Come, come, Mullins, nothing of that." 
 " An' the blood-money you got fur huntin'
 
 142 john not. 
 
 him to the black north, made a gintliman o' 
 you." 
 
 " What has this to do with the business, 
 Muffins ?" 
 
 " An' sure, you're a justice o' the pace, too.'' 
 
 " Do you mean to insult me ?" 
 
 " Avoch, no ; only you see how it is." 
 
 " Well, then, to business. You will assist 
 me ?" continued Purccll, thrusting a bank-note 
 of some value into Mullins's hand. 
 
 " Try me, a-vich," answered Mullins, crump- 
 lino- the note hard, after he had looked close at 
 it, and then buttoning it up in his pocket. 
 
 " I believe you're a steady fellow, Jack ; and 
 the rest of the lads are ready." 
 
 " Are they ? Who's to head 'em ?" 
 
 " Why, myself, Mullins." 
 
 "Yourself! — ho, ho!" 
 
 " Why do you laugh ? — Yes, disguised as 
 Doe, and under his name, I will this night carry 
 her off." 
 
 " Will you ? — Curp-on-duoul ! — that 's a 
 bright thought." 
 
 " But, Mullins, one uncomfortable thing has 
 happened. You know, we thought Howard
 
 JOHN DOE. 143 
 
 was to stay away from the house for some time, 
 and that all would, therefore, be snug." 
 
 " Well ; an' isn't he to stay away ?" 
 
 " No ; I have just discovered he is to set out 
 for Mr. Grace's in an hour." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " If he comes we are be-devilled and ruined." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Isn't there are any way to prevent him ?" 
 
 " I don't know, faith, Mr. Purcell." 
 
 " Suppose " and Purcell paused a mo- 
 ment, then resumed quickly, " couldn't you pre- 
 vent him ?" 
 
 " How is that ?" demurred Mullins. 
 
 " He is a worm in my path, Mullins ; you 
 know he is. He has crossed me at the very 
 moment of hope." 
 
 " Aye ; so he has.— Well?" 
 
 " I ask you, now — leaving yourself to guess 
 it — how many journeys more ought he to take ? 
 I think, but one," and Purcell slid another note 
 into Mullins's hand. 
 
 " An' that one — is — " said Mullins, slowly, 
 as he put up the second bribe. 
 
 " From this world to the next !" interrupted
 
 144 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Purcell, in a whisper, yet of so sharp and au- 
 dible a kind, that the banks and rocks around 
 indistinctly repeated it. 
 
 "Whisht, man!" replied Mullins, seizing Pur- 
 cell by the arm, while his tone, though deep and 
 hollow, was less revealing than Purcell's whis- 
 per — "How do you know what ear the stones 
 may be tellin' it to ?" 
 
 Even in the imperfect light Purcell stood vi- 
 sibly pale and trembling, and this hint increased 
 his nervousness almost to a paroxysm. 
 
 " Have you deceived me, you scoundrel?" he 
 asked, drawing a pistol, and stepping back. 
 
 " Me? — for what or for why? — put up your 
 barker, Mr. Purcell, or give it to myself for 
 Howard : sure I meant nothin' at all ; only I 
 was just as frightened as yourself, about it ; 
 only I don't look so white, an" shake, afther a 
 manner ; an' yourself knows walls have cars, 
 an' walls are made o' stones like the stones near 
 us :" during this harangue, .Mullins had con- 
 trived, without giving any suspicious appear- 
 ance, to stand directly between Purcell and the 
 r.jck under which Flinn lay concealed. 
 
 'i must continue to trust you, now, how-
 
 JOHN DOE. 145 
 
 ever," resumed Purcell, after a pause, and as he 
 returned the pistol to his pocket. 
 
 " Well ?" said Mullins, coming back from this 
 digression, and assuming an earnest air. 
 
 " I have bribed another friend to guide him 
 to Grace's house," continued Purcell : " Howard 
 thinks the man is loyal to himself, because Mr. 
 Grace pointed him out as a proper person for 
 such services ; but he's mistaken, maybe." 
 
 " Then, what use o' the likes o' me ?" asked 
 Mullins. 
 
 " Much, Mullins, much. My other friend 
 may miss the thing ; may be overpowered ; for 
 Howard is bold and active. You can follow 
 them." 
 
 " So I can ; an' I see it now, Mr. Purcell." 
 
 " Mullins— there is a pass a little way on, 
 between the wood and the river ; they will get 
 into that ; 'tis crossed by the mountain stream, 
 that stream is deep and headlong, and, at last, 
 it meets the river." A pause succeeded. 
 
 " Aye ;" Mullins at length resumed — " when 
 once in, we needn't fear he'll rise agin." 
 
 " Right ; or you know well how to prevent 
 it, if you like, Jack ; weren't you taught how 
 
 VOL. III. H
 
 146 JOHN DOE. 
 
 to make a basket to put a stone in. when you 
 were a man-o'-war's-man !" — 
 
 " I could thrv, 1 tliink; never fear, Mr. Pur- 
 cell." 
 
 " You know how little we can be suspected. 
 It is just the time and place for such a man as an 
 English ensign to be looked for by such a man 
 as Doe, or some of his people : then, I'm a loyal 
 person, and a magistrate, and you're in my em- 
 ployment, Mullins." 
 
 " Aye, faith ; sure I understand it entirely, 
 Mr.Purcell." 
 
 " Come, now; — but, stay — we must not walk 
 together towards my house." 
 
 " No, an' you'd betther go home to the col- 
 leen that's expectin' you, Mr. Puree]] : — an' 
 what 'ill you do wid poor Cauth, I wonder?" — 
 
 " Oh, d — n her, Jack, let her go her ways," 
 answered Purcell, his brow and eye darkened by 
 this sudden question : " I'm long tired of her." 
 
 " An so let her, sure enough," said Mullins ; 
 " 'tis good enough fur any of her sort ; — an' yet, 
 Mr. Purcell, she was a clane, likely girl when 
 you saw her first; an' now her best days are 
 over, faith she has few ud give her a welcome,
 
 JOHN DOE. 147 
 
 I'm thinking ; bud if we get Mary Grace for you* 
 Cauthleen must take the dour, any-how." 
 
 " Good bye, Mullins," said Purcell, evading 
 further explanation on this last point. He 
 walked a few steps away, then returned, and 
 again spoke. 
 
 " When it is done, and well done, come to 
 my house by the back way ; you'll find me in 
 the parlour ; and then we can prepare for the 
 other business." 
 
 " I will," responded Mullins. Purcell stood a 
 moment silent, and again turned off, with a 
 " good bye." 
 
 " Good bye, then," echoed his companion. 
 
 " Stay an instant here, 'till I'm out of sight/' 
 Purcell continued ; " and you remember every 
 thing, and mark me ?" — 
 
 " I do ;" said Mullins, and Purcell rapidly 
 walked away. 
 
 " Or," muttered the other when he was out 
 of hearing, " If I didn't, the divil has marked 
 you, an' that 's enough for us both. Flinn !" — 
 and Mr. Flinn accordingly appeared. 
 
 " The false thief!" — pursued Mullins — " the 
 bloody informer! — wid his acres around him 
 
 h 2
 
 14-8 JOHN DOE. 
 
 that he schamed an' swore out o' the hands of 
 honest people ! an' he thinks he can buy me up? 
 — an' he thinks to do what he likes without our 
 lave? — Where's the farmer's son, Paddy?" 
 
 " At hand, I'm thinkin," said Flinn. " Bud 
 tv/tat bn/rr is on you* now, black Jack? — I 
 didn't see you in a right kind of a passion 
 afore, since the day the ministher offered to lave 
 the oats on your field if you went to church 
 next Sunday — what was Purcell sayin' to you at 
 all, at all?"— 
 
 " Go tell the farmer's son," resumed Mullins, 
 " that Purcell, the Rapparee ! — is goin' to take 
 off poor Mary Grace." 
 
 " Musha, Jack, was that all the omadhoun 
 wanted wid you ? — an' did he cross your fist ?" 
 
 " Did he gi' me a bribe, is it ? — avoch, bad 
 loock to the laffina he offered me ; an' if he 
 did, d'you think I'd touch it, Paddy, frum the 
 likes of him ?" 
 
 " Maybe not, Jack, a-roon ; bud I'll tell you 
 what I was considerin' while you both left me to 
 get could under the stone, there ; faith I was 
 thinkin' there was no raison in the wide world 
 
 • What is thf matter.
 
 JOHN DOE. 149 
 
 why we couldn't manage Purcell where he stood, 
 an' so get over, quietly and hansomely, the little 
 obligation we are owin' him this long time, fur 
 another man's sake." 
 
 " Maybe I was thinkin o' the like, mysef," 
 said Mullins ; " it was so new a thing to see 
 him from home without his red-coats about him. 
 Bud all fur the best, Paddy ; an' it 's a long lane 
 has no turnin' ; — let us go tell the farmer's son 
 what he wants to do in the regard o' Mary 
 Grace." 
 
 " The farmer's son knows it already ; but fur 
 the night that 's in it, he can't help it, poor fel- 
 low." 
 
 " Curp-on-duoul ! an' why so, man ?" 
 
 " I thought you could tell the raison, of your 
 own accord, Jack ; all his tenants on the spot 
 are doin' somethin', an' the rest too far off to be 
 here in time." 
 
 " That 's thrue enough — bud no matter — he's 
 at home ?" — 
 
 " Where else 'ud he be ?"— 
 
 " We must spake to him, thin, about another 
 small matter that Purcell has on hands. D' you
 
 I.W JOHN DOE. 
 
 know, Paddy, a-vich, he wants to have the red- 
 coat to himself?" 
 
 " Musha, how, Jack ?" — asked Flinn. 
 
 " He wants just to stretcli him in the glin, 
 below there : an' I'm to help him, you know." 
 
 " Och, sure I know," said Flinn, laughing. 
 
 "Ho, ho!" — echoed Mullins; — "fur the 
 matter o' that, I'd have little objections to make 
 a hole in a red-jacket, any day ; bud we must 
 hear what the farmer's son says about id. Come, 
 there's no time to be lost; Howard is on the 
 road by this time :" and the two friends went 
 on their errand. 
 
 Meantime, Purcell approached, by another 
 path, his own house, deeply and sternly revolv- 
 ing a purpose, that for some months had occu- 
 pied his mind, and that now, bent as he was on 
 making Miss Grace his wife, and so near the 
 time of his attempt, too, engaged every bad 
 energy of his soul. And the poor individual to 
 whom Mullins had just directed his attention, 
 and whom he described as expecting Purcell at 
 his home, was the object of Purcell's thoughts. 
 She sat, indeed, expecting him ; him — her sole
 
 JOHN DOE. 151 
 
 earthly protector ; the self-elected substitute for 
 every other ; her heart's early and only love, 
 for whom she had sinfully abandoned the world 
 and the world's smile, to keep, in friendless and 
 otherwise cheerless solitude, a constant place at 
 his side. Alas, she did not think what a re- 
 quital he contemplated for her. 
 
 Purcell had not found the destruction of this 
 now helpless creature, an easy exploit. She had 
 withstood his smiles, his oaths, and his ardours 
 — his gold she at once spurned — until, in the 
 fervency of passion, even the constitutionally 
 calm villain had given her, in writing, a solemn 
 promise of marriage. Then she fell, and with 
 her all her influence, attraction, and hopes. 
 Years passed over without any disposition on 
 Purcell's part, to perform his contract ; and the 
 victim could at first only weep, and kneel to him 
 for mercy and justice, and then, when she grad- 
 ually saw the nature of the man to whom she 
 had abandoned herself, and felt in words and 
 acts the effect of that nature in reply to her 
 supplications, the wretched girl could only 
 mourn in silence ; or if she did speak, it was in 
 the tone of a poor slave abjectly begging a
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 favour, rather than in the voice of conscious 
 right demanding the fulfilment of an obligation. 
 She could compel Purccll to nothing, even if 
 her weak and self-accusing heart dared meditate 
 a severity towards the master, that, even with 
 knowledge of what he was, it still worshipped ; 
 the forlorn girl had no friends to advocate her ; 
 her crime, along with other things, had scat- 
 tered them over the earth, or sunk them in its 
 bosom. Since her ruin, too, Purcell had, by all 
 available means, thriven in the world, and for- 
 tune thus added another link to the mean as 
 well as guilty chain that bound her to him. In- 
 creasing wealth lent him increase of sway, and 
 while her love remained unabated, at least in 
 nothing but its independence, her awe increased, 
 and tame subjection soon followed. 
 
 Yet, though she did not continue to plead 
 her own cause, she still had Purcell in her power, 
 and he knew it. Cauthleen held the written 
 promise of marriage, nor cotdd lures or entrea- 
 ties prevail on her to trust it for a moment into 
 his hands. Purcell had lately expressed some 
 slight curiosity to see it, but Cauthleen had never
 
 JOHN DOE. 153 
 
 attended to his wish. The man's designs on 
 Miss Grace prompted him in this instance. As 
 lie himself truly stated to Mullins, Purcell's long 
 and strenuous endeavours had been directed to a 
 union with that young lady : and among many 
 other firm objections urged as well by her father 
 as by herself, the written engagement to Cauth- 
 leen, which was generally talked of, met him at 
 every step. Purcell therefore determined to re- 
 move that one obstacle, even though the un- 
 happy Cauthleen should become still more a 
 victim. 
 
 In truth he had now for some time brought 
 himself to contemplate with indifference the ex- 
 pulsion of Cauthleen from his house, and her 
 subsequent wandering alone, and in shame, 
 through the world. Nor can it be said that his 
 passion for Miss Grace caused a disgust of his 
 old mistress. Purcell bent his ambition not on 
 the person of the lady, but on an alliance with 
 her father's wealth ; to which, as she was an 
 only child, he would, in the event of becoming 
 her protector, also become heir ; and his new- 
 sprung name and pretensions must thus gain 
 strength and countenance in the country. No ; 
 
 h 3
 
 154 John dol. 
 
 he had not even (he poos pretext of alienated 
 and ungovernable passion to urge for his neg- 
 lect of the wretch, who, once having made so, 
 he should never have abandoned ; he knew but 
 one plea for his disgust — for his hatred; she had 
 tired him ; and perhaps, with lengthened inves- 
 tigation, we could not advance a better reason, 
 duly considering the character of the man. 
 
 With a breast and brow made up to the 
 prompt execution of his purposes, Purcell now 
 gained his own door. Poor Cauthleen herself 
 answered his knock : it was her constant prac- 
 tice to anticipate the servants in doing so, when, 
 by the fond fidelity of ear that can distinguish 
 the step, nay the breathing of an esteemed ob- 
 ject at some distance, she had learned to inter- 
 pret this signal of Purcell's approach. 
 
 She smiled faintly, holding a candle in her 
 hand, as Purcell entered : but he only returned 
 her mute welcome with a ruffianly gathering of 
 the brow; and then slapping the door, and 
 hastily passing her, he flew out into a brawling 
 passion against the servants for neglect of their 
 duty, in not attending to his knock. A foul pur- 
 pose will thus seek to nerve it?elf in preparatory
 
 JOHN DOE. 155 
 
 and cowardly excitement, as men not over sure 
 of their own mettle have recourse to dram- 
 drinking before they enter the ring. 
 
 Cauthleen slowly and silently followed Purcell 
 to the parlour, vainly endeavouring to stem the 
 tears that had flowed plentifully in his absence, 
 and, only dried up at his approach, that again 
 sought vent under this fresh sorrow. Her se- 
 ducer flung himself rudely into a chair ; as she 
 timidly took an opposite seat, her tears became 
 evident, and he instantly seized on this as a new 
 theme for dastardly reproach and outrage, ex- 
 claiming in the idiom of a vulgar ruffian — 
 
 " D n ! am I, for ever and for ever, to be 
 
 met in this manner ? — Nothing but cry, cry, cry, 
 from morning to night ? — what do you wish me 
 to do ? — have I left you in any way unprovided 
 for? — Is there a lady — a married lady, in the 
 land — who has more of the comforts of life— 
 who is more her own mistress? — Why don't 
 you speak to me? — what is the matter with 
 you? 
 
 Cauthleen only wept on. 
 
 " You won't answer me, then ? — I advise 
 you, speak — by the great , if you do not
 
 Il>6 john Dor. 
 
 speak, I '11 make you repent it, Cauthleen ;" — 
 he had now wrought himself up to a climax of 
 impotent rage, and he uttered the last words 
 with a violent knock on the table, while his 
 teeth set and his eyes flashed upon her. 
 
 " My dear Stephen," at last, said Cauthleen, 
 much terrified — " indeed it is not obstinacy ; — 
 only I couldn't answer you in a moment; and 
 these tears — I — I cried first because you were 
 away from me — and now because you are come 
 home to me — and indeed I did not mean to vex 
 you, and I will cry no more — there — if 'tis my 
 poor smile you want, instead, there it is for you, 
 Stephen, and from my heart, too, I am sure — 
 from the bottom of my heart. — Don't, don't be 
 angry with your Cauthleen, Stephen — don't 
 frighten her in such a way." 
 
 Nature, even in the bosom of a scoundrel, 
 asserted her sympathy to this appeal, and Pur- 
 cell, turning his face to the fire, remained silent 
 a moment. 
 
 " Cauthleen," he then continued, " you can 
 be a good girl when you like ; — have you since 
 found that little paper? you'll let me look at it, 
 to-night, won't you?"
 
 JOHN DOE. 157 
 
 " Indeed, Stephen, some other time ; but to- 
 night I'm too — too " 
 
 " Too what ?" interrupted Purcell, resuming 
 his boisterous tone — " are you sick ? or too stu- 
 pid ? or too insolent ? or why can you not oblige 
 me?" 
 
 ' I can never be too any thing not to oblige 
 you, Stephen ; but that unfortunate paper — " 
 
 " Where is it ? Cauthleen, I must see that 
 cursed scribble, for your own sake ; I have a 
 particular reason. Go for it. Tis in your room, 
 isn't it ? — Why don't you go ? — then I'll go my- 
 self — and by drawer, box, or press, shall not 
 
 keep it from me— I'll break them into splinters 
 sooner than let it escape me" — and he rose and 
 took a candle. 
 
 " Stay, Stephen," said Cauthleen, also rising 
 — " it would be useless— quite useless — indeed 
 it would — that paper is not in any room in the 
 house— I declare solemnly it is not." 
 
 A startling apprehension crossed Purcell's 
 mind at those words, and, resuming his seat, he 
 said — 
 
 " Then you have sent it to the attorney ? — 
 What ! is that the way you would treat me ?" 
 
 The reproach, the insult, the voice and man-
 
 158 JOHN DOE. 
 
 ner completely overpowered Cauthleen, and she 
 sunk into her ehair convulsed with tears. 
 
 " Answer! — have you sent it away? have you 
 put it out of your hands ? — answer, I say!" and 
 he shook her violently by the shoulder. 
 
 " Spare me, spare me, Stephen," tried Cauth- 
 leen, falling on her knees — " I have not sent it 
 out of the house to any one — I could never send 
 it where you say — indeed I could not." 
 
 " Where is it then, woman ?" he asked, stamp- 
 ing, and holding out his clenched hands. At 
 this moment Cauthleen drew a handkerchief 
 from her bosom, and a crumpled slip of paper 
 Cell on the carpet ; one glance of Purcell's eye 
 recognized the long-sought document, and he 
 was stooping to pick it up, but Cauthleen has- 
 tily anticipated him, snatched it, and restored it 
 to her bosom. 
 
 " I'll have it by heaven !" exclaimed Purcell, 
 stooping towards her; but Cauthleen, starting 
 up, rushed into a corner, and there again kneel- 
 ing, addressed him, — 
 
 " Do not, do not, Purcell!" she said, "1*11 
 give it to you when you hear me — to-morrow 
 when you hear me calmly, I'll give it to you. —
 
 JOHN DOE. 159 
 
 Do not," raising her voice, and wringing her 
 hands as he approached — " for the love of that 
 heaven, whose love we have both missed !" 
 
 " So," resumed Purcell, now standing over 
 her, " you had it about you, at the very time I 
 asked for it, and you would not let me see it !" 
 
 " You should not be angry with me for that, 
 Stephen; I'll tell you about it — when you are 
 away from me, and that I am quite alone in the 
 world, I draw out that paper, and read it over 
 and over, and kiss it, and cry over it, and lay it 
 on my heart — 'tis my only hope — and, if there 
 is any, my only shadow of excuse to myself and 
 before God." 
 
 " Nonsense ! — trash ! — folly ! — give it into my 
 hand this moment !" — and he caught her by the 
 wrists. 
 
 " And sometimes, Stephen," she ran on, out 
 of breath, blinded in tears, and struggling with 
 him — 
 
 " Sometimes I steal up with it to the cradle 
 where our last and only boy lies sleeping — the 
 rest were taken from us, one by one, for a judg- 
 ment — we deserved that curse — and there I 
 kneel down by the infant's side, and ask him, in
 
 1G0 JOHN DOE. 
 
 a voice that would not waken a bird, to look at 
 it, and understand it, and see that he is not en- 
 tirely the child of shame, and that his mother 
 is not entirely the guilty creature they will tell 
 him she is." 
 
 " Come, Cauthleen," interrupted Purcell, 
 bending on one knee, and using more force — 
 " give it me, if you have any fears for yourself." 
 — but in the paroxysm of passion that Cauthleen 
 felt, he encountered more resistance than he 
 had expected ; and, exasperated to the utmost 
 by her continued struggling, the mean and cow- 
 ardly ruffian did that which we blush and burn 
 to record — he raised his clenched hand — it fell 
 — Cauthleen fell under it — and Purcell got pos- 
 session of the paper, and instantly approached 
 the fire. Cauthleen, though stunned and stu- 
 pified, wildly understood his movement, and 
 screamed and tottered after him ; but she was 
 too late ; Purcell cast it into the flame, and then 
 -living — "There — since we have so often quar- 
 relled about it, that 's the only way to end dis- 
 putes," sunk into his seat. 
 
 Cauthleen, with clasped hands, and her tears 
 now dried up at their source, looked a moment
 
 JOHN DOE. 161 
 
 at the fire, and then in the hollow tones of de- 
 spair, said — 
 
 " And now you can wive with Mary Grace, 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Purcell, at first startled, turned quickly round ; 
 but his features only wore a bitter mockery, 
 while he asked — 
 
 " Who told you that fine story, Cauthleen ?" 
 " Never ask me, Purcell, but answer me !" 
 she exclaimed, in a manner the very opposite to 
 her late meekness and timidity — " is it true ? — 
 am I not to be your wife, indeed ? — after all 
 your oaths — the oaths that stole me from my 
 mother's side, and then broke my mother's 
 heart — will you take Mary Grace to yourself, 
 and leave shame as well as sorrow on Cauth- 
 leen r 
 
 " Fear nothing ; I'll provide for you." 
 " It is true, then ? — and this, at last, is to be 
 the lot of Cauthleen Kavanah? — and at your 
 hands ? — whose ? — the hands that brought ruin 
 on all of her name !" 
 
 " Silence, Cauthleen— or — " 
 " Or what ? — you'll make me ? how ? — kill 
 me? — do — I wish it — ask for it — expect it. Yes,
 
 K>2 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Purcell, I expect it— the robber — the perjurer 
 and the murderer, need not disappoint me !" 
 
 " Fool ! take care what words you speak — and 
 listen tome in patience — 1 courted and won you, 
 because 1 loved you ; — listen to me ! — 1 can love 
 you no longer — and why should wc live in ha- 
 tred together ?" 
 
 " Cursed be the hour I saw you, Purcell ! — 
 accursed the false words that drew me, from 
 virtue and happiness, under your betraying roof 
 — your roof that I now pray God may fall on 
 us as we stand here damning each other ! — 
 oh ! I am punished ! I trusted the plunderer 
 of my family, and the murderer of my mother 
 and my brother, and I am punished !" 
 
 " I told you to have a care, Cauthleen," said 
 Purcell, starting from his seat, pale, haggard, 
 and trembling with rage — " I warned you to 
 weigh your words, and you will not ;" and his 
 distended eye glanced on a fowling-piece that 
 hung over the chimney. 
 
 " I know what you mean, Purcell !" resumed 
 Cauthleen, in a still wilder frenzy — " I saw where 
 your eye struck — and knowing and seeing this, 
 I say again, robber and murderer, do it!"
 
 JOHN DOE. 163 
 
 " By the holy saints — then !" he exclaimed, 
 snatching at the weapon of death. 
 
 " Aye, by the saints and all ! the murderer 
 will not want an oath — pull your trigger, man ! 
 but, stop a moment ! — first hear that !" 
 
 Purcell had the piece in his hand, and was 
 raising it, when the faint cry of an infant reach- 
 ed them from an inside room ; his face grew 
 black, and he flung the weapon on the ground, 
 and turned away. 
 
 " Leave my house," he added, after a mo- 
 ment's pause. 
 
 " You and your brat, together — leave it this 
 instant !" 
 
 " I will," muttered Cauthleen — " I intended 
 to do it :" she rushed through a door, and re- 
 turned with the infant on her arm. 
 
 " The night draws on, Purcell," Cauthleen 
 continued, " and it was just in such a night 
 you sent my mother from our own old home, 
 that, in her agony and sickness, too, the could 
 blast might deal on her. I leave you, praying 
 that it may so deal on me ! My mother cursed 
 you as she went ; I pray to have that curse re- 
 membered ! and I add mine ! take both, Pur-
 
 1U1 
 
 JOHN !-(,! . 
 
 cell — tlie mother's first — the daughter's last — 
 may they cling to you !" 
 
 I laving spoken these words, Cauthleen caught 
 closer in her arms the wretch they encircled, 
 and, bare headed and unmantled, rushed out of 
 the house of crime. After an instant's lapse, 
 Purcell heard her wild and already distant 
 scream mingling with the wail of her baby, and 
 the bitter gust of the cold winter night.
 
 JOHN DOS. 165 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 VV hile the last events were occurring, Howard 
 was on his way to Mr. Grace's house. The 
 guide, for whose honesty, as Purcell had stated, 
 Mr. Grace gave a guarantee, was a man of 
 unusually large stature ; in height above six 
 feet, and broad, well-set, and muscular in pro- 
 portion : so that he appeared a good subject to 
 inspire Howard with confidence or apprehen- 
 sion, according to the degree of trust his pre- 
 sence induced. 
 
 Had Howard taken the main road to his 
 friend's house, no guide would have been ne- 
 cessary ; but he did not choose to expose him- 
 self to the too frequent observation of all pas- 
 sengers, and therefore adopted a bye-way, 
 which was also much shorter than the approach 
 by the road. It first led, after crossing the 
 road from Howard's bivouac, over two or three
 
 166 JOHN DOE. 
 
 marshy fields, in which a path was scarcely dis- 
 tinguishable, and then continued through a 
 wood, which, with the exception of a few old 
 nut trees, waa recently planted, and therefore 
 from the slightness of the stems, and the want of 
 brushwood, together with the total absence of 
 foliage, afforded no facilities for an ambuscade. 
 We should say that this wood clothed the 
 sides of a declivity ; and, consequently, as How- 
 ard followed his guide along a winding path, he 
 sunk, step by step, from the level of the road 
 they had crossed. After leaving the wood, 
 without danger, or any symptom of it, they 
 entered on a level sward, through which, at 
 about ten yards distance, a mountain stream 
 hurried along. To gain Mr. Grace's residence 
 it was necessary to pass this impediment ; and 
 Howard was preparing to make the attempt, 
 when his guide warned him of probable hazard 
 at that point, and said that, a little way on, by 
 keeping the course of the water, they should 
 meet with an accommodation for crossing. This 
 was all well, and Howard followed in the man's 
 heavy steps. 
 
 He followed, without any positive misgiving,
 
 JOHN DOE. 167 
 
 and yet with little confidence in his guide. The 
 fellow had, from the outset, resisted Howard's 
 efforts to draw him into conversation, and exhi- 
 bited none of the native good humour or hearti- 
 ness that the stranger had been accustomed 
 to, since his first acquaintance with the Irish 
 peasantry. Absolutely rude, indeed, he was 
 not ; yet his short, and, apparently abstracted 
 answers, and the deep tone in which they were 
 given, fell, ominously enough, on the ear of the 
 doomed victim. 
 
 Pursuing their way, they had left the wood 
 behind them, but still were coursing the long 
 ridge of hill, on part of which it grew, and 
 that which now presented a rough termination 
 of broken bank and rock to the level ground, 
 that Howard and his guide walked over. The 
 moon rose on them, and, by her sharp illus- 
 tration of light and shade, began more dis- 
 tinctly to bring out such rugged features of the 
 path as we have just noticed. In passing a par- 
 ticular spot, where an unusual group of rock 
 formed a considerable recess in the side of the 
 hill, the guide, who was some yards before How- 
 ard, suddenly started back, and at the same
 
 168 JOHN DOE. 
 
 moment Howard thought he observed a figure 
 glide into the recess. After a moment, how- 
 ever, the man continued his way, seemingly un- 
 embarrassed ; and Howard asked — 
 
 " Whom have you spoken with ? — what man 
 was it that crossed you ?" — for Howard fancied 
 he could hear a hasty whisper as the fellow 
 paused. 
 
 " Mel spake, sir?" who could I spake to? — 
 No one crossed me ; an' 'tis only some shadow 
 has frightened you in this lonesome place." 
 
 " Very likely," Howard replied; but with 
 sword in hand, having gained the rocky recess, 
 he thrust his head into it, and looked around ; 
 so far as he could distinguish, no one appeared, 
 and they continued their route. 
 
 The stream now made a sudden bend, widely 
 deviating from the line of the hill to which it had 
 hitherto run almost parallel, and exactly at the 
 apex of the angle it formed, the guide paused, 
 and pointing to a tree that was flung over the 
 water, told Howard that in this place they must 
 
 cross. 
 
 " It is a slippery and dangerous passage, 
 over," said Howard, "and the water is much
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 169 
 
 deeper and wider than it was above ; I should 
 rather have tried the leap when we got out of 
 the wood." 
 
 " Och, musha, it's very safe, sir," replied the 
 man ; " sure I knows it well this many a day." 
 
 " Lead on then. What — are you fearful? — 
 why do you step back ?" 
 
 " Troth an' I am not afeard," said the fellow, 
 " only I can do the best fur you, by followin' 
 close." 
 
 " Take your hand out of your breast, you 
 scoundrel, or I'll run you through the body !" — 
 cried Howard—" and pass on — and quickly." 
 
 " Hoght mille duoul ! — go on yourself then !" 
 i*eplied the man — "Dhar-a-ehristh! — go on!" — 
 and with his left hand he shoved Howard, as if 
 he had been only a child, within a few paces of 
 the stream, while with the. other he presented 
 a pistol. 
 
 Howard recovering from the push, darted on 
 the assassin like a wild cat ; ere they closed, the 
 pistol had been snapped, but it only burned 
 priming ; and as Howard pressed on, he, with a 
 desperate pass, ran the fellow through the thigh, 
 
 VOL. III. I
 
 170 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 In an instant he was in the ruffian's giant 
 
 -■ 
 
 clutch ; and after a lew unavailing struggles 
 Howard was dashed on the ground, and then 
 he felt himself dragged towards the stream. In 
 vain did he resist and cry out; the strength 
 that tugged him along was almost superhuman; 
 and the verging prospect of his terrible fate had 
 almost made him insensible to his continued 
 progress towards it, when the startling whiz of 
 a bullet by his ear, and the immediate report of 
 a pistol, called back his powers of observation. 
 Instantly he was free, for his colossal antagonist 
 fell, scarcely with a groan, on the earth. The 
 bullet had gone through his brain. 
 
 " He's quiet, now, I believe, captain,*' said 
 a voice by Howard's side, while he was at the 
 same time assisted to rise by an unseen hand : 
 and when he had gained his legs, he beheld, 
 close by him, a young man, of rather slight 
 figure, buttoned to the chin in a grey, tight 
 surtout, and wearing on his legs leather gain r 
 also closely buttoned. 
 
 " Dead, by heaven!" — said Howard, in reply 
 to the stranger's remark — " Sir, for this tim< h
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 171 
 
 aid I must ever be your debtor—" if, indeed"— 
 lie added, in an undecided tone — "the bullet 
 has hit its true mark." 
 
 " I don't well know what you mean, sir," said 
 the young man, proudly drawing himself up ; 
 " I fired at this fellow to save your life." 
 
 " I readily believe it, sir," rejoined Howard, 
 " but we were so close, 'twas rather nice shoot- 
 
 ing." 
 
 " Tut, tut," said the other, " it was nothing 
 at all to talk of. I could do it as well if you 
 both stood cheek by jowl." 
 
 " Then, sir, I must cordially repeat my 
 thanks and gratitude." 
 
 " Oh, no thanks. What is it, but what one 
 gentleman should do for another ? — I only- 
 wish you had been with me half an hour ago on 
 the road ; you might then have conferred the 
 first obligation." 
 
 " I may ask to what you allude ?" said How- 
 ard. 
 
 " Why, yes," replied the lad, with indiffe- 
 rence, "I have just been stopped and plunder- 
 ed by Doe, andthree of his men." 
 
 " What do you tell me, sir ?" asked Howard, 
 
 i 2
 
 112 JOHN DOE. 
 
 in some consternation : "I thought I had left 
 him pretty securely guarded." 
 
 " He's out, Captain Howard, I assure you.*' 
 
 " Perhaps sonic other?" 
 
 " No, no, no — I saw the fellow face to face." 
 
 " Yon know his person then ? — have seen him 
 often ?" 
 
 " Often." 
 
 " They plundered you, you say ?" 
 
 " They did —and I said so." 
 
 " Of what, pray ?" 
 
 " Of what ! — of my money and arms to be 
 sure." 
 
 "Your arms?" — repeated Howard, glancing 
 at the pistol the stranger had just discharged, 
 and which he still held in his hand : and imme- 
 diately after Howard, fixing his eyes on this 
 person's face, thought he should recollect to 
 have seen it before. 
 
 " Oh — aye — this little pistol," the young man 
 answered ; " I found it on the hill after them, 
 and you're just as welcome to it as the slight 
 service it lois done you ;" he offered it. 
 
 "Thanks— but you see I have my sword. 
 Will you allow me to ask if we have ever met
 
 JOHN DOE. 173 
 
 before, sir?" — continued Howard, again read- 
 ing the pale, interesting features of his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Upon my soul, not that I know of," was 
 the answer. 
 
 " But you seem to know my person well," 
 resumed Howard. 
 
 " You have been pointed out to me, to be sure, 
 captain," said the other, " and I have often been 
 looking at you, when you little thought it — 
 that 's all." 
 
 " Pray what like man is this Doe ?" 
 
 " Something of your own height, I think," 
 said the stranger, surveying Howard from head 
 to foot — " or mine ; as I believe you and I stand 
 about the same men in our shoes; but he is 
 much stouter than either of us, and, perhaps, 
 twice as old." 
 
 " About forty-five, then ?" 
 
 " Let me see — yes — about five and forty." 
 
 " Well-favoured, sir ?" 
 . " No — black complexion, black hair, strong, 
 rough features, a lowering brow, a haughty, 
 cruel mouth, and, altogether, a face of much 
 ferocity."
 
 i74 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Thus I have heard him described by all ; 
 but I, too, shall see him, perhaps." 
 
 " Perhaps," echoed the stranger, drily ; or as 
 if, joining the general opinion of John's clever- 
 ness, he slighted Howard's pretensions to out- 
 manoeuvre him. The stranger's tone fell dis- 
 agreeably on Howard's ear; nor, indebted to 
 him as he was, could Howard well receive the 
 easy kind of swagger that ran through every 
 word, look, and action, of his new accpiaint- 
 ance ; so that he now turned rather sharply 
 round with a peculiar — " sir ?"' 
 
 " Let me exhort you, Captain Howard," said 
 the young man, without at all seeming to notice 
 this change of manner, " to return with speed 
 to your corps, who must now, I think, require 
 your presence: pardon my freedom." 
 
 " You have purchased a right to use it, sir ; 
 may I beg to know to whom I am so much in- 
 debted ?" 
 
 " My name is Sullivan ; — I live at my father's 
 house some miles up the country; I have yes- 
 terday been to a fair near Clonmel to sell 
 cattle, and was this evening returning with the 
 money, when Doe stopped me ; curse the fellow,
 
 JOHN DOE. 175 
 
 these are new tricks that he might better let 
 alone." 
 
 " You are farmers then ? — you and your 
 father?" 
 
 " Farmers in a small way, captain ; we had 
 been better off, but rents and tithe-proctors 
 now leave us little by the trade ; — if you think 
 of returning to your men," Sullivan continued 
 in a manner that had all the appearance of in- 
 terest, though it still wore a feature of something 
 like dictation — " I shall be very happy to lend 
 you my company : 'tis a bit out of my road — 
 but no matter." 
 
 Howard, rather conciliated by this proof of 
 attention, and overlooking the dash in which it 
 was conveyed, and which he now began to at- 
 tribute to the country, rather than to the indi- 
 vidual, answered — 
 
 " I thank you. — I intended to proceed far- 
 ther, to Mr. Grace's house, but your informa- 
 tion, and, indeed, this accident, determined me 
 to return, and a brave friend like you, may be 
 useful." 
 
 " Very likely," Sullivan replied.
 
 17G JOHN DOE. 
 
 '' Before we proceed farther," Howard con- 
 tinued, " I shall trouble you to accompany me 
 to the nearest place, to despatch a messenger 
 with a note of apology to Mr. Grace." 
 
 " First of all," said Sullivan, turning on his 
 heel to where the dead body lay, " let us qui- 
 etly dispose of this fellow's prodigious car- 
 cass; Oh C — st! — what a Goliath ! — and what a 
 pretty little David am I that gave him his 
 huzh-o, just by the edge of the brook, too. 
 Upon my conscience, captain, I thought I 
 should have split with laughing when I saw the 
 d — ned cpaeer figure you cut, dangling after 
 him, like a calf tied to an ox's tail.'' 
 
 " It was very ridiculous, no doubt, sir," re- 
 plied Howard, rather offended, " and, perhaps, 
 more than ridiculous to one of the actors, 
 though not to the spectator. But, pray," he 
 continued, in a changed tone, " what are your 
 views towards this wretched carrion ?" 
 
 " Why, to begin," answered Sullivan, kneel- 
 ing, " I claim the well-known right every ho- 
 nest man who can shoot a robber possesses over 
 him ; I beg to see what kind of lining he ha*
 
 JOHN DOE. 177 
 
 got to his pockets ; and, if I don't mistake, the 
 inquiry will be worth our while :" and he en- 
 gaged at once in his investigation. 
 
 " Worth your while, I presume you mean, 
 sir," observed Howard. 
 
 " Thank you, captain," said Sullivan, "that's 
 blunt and kind, and what I expected from you. 
 Another poor ensign, in your place, would be 
 crying halves, or quarters, at least. But you 
 remember my loss on the i*oad, just now, and so 
 leave me all the luck. And see, here it is, by 
 holy Saint Patrick, crosier and mitre to boot — 
 here it is — one — two — three — four — four one 
 pound notes, and almost another pound in sil- 
 ver ; he drank a drop since he got the big five 
 pound slip Avhole and entire ; — well ; I believe I 
 know who I may thank for my good fortune to- 
 night." 
 
 While Sullivan was speaking, he extracted 
 from the most secret pocket on the person of 
 the dead man, a small piece of old rag, care- 
 fully tied up, and from this, again, the bank- 
 notes and silver he had enumerated. Throw- 
 ing away the envelope, he now very coolly de- 
 
 i 3
 
 itj> 
 
 JOHN DOK. 
 
 deposited the money in his own pocket, and 
 
 jumping up, continued — 
 
 " And the very next thing I intend to do, 
 captain, is to drop him in the very spot he had 
 an eye on for yourself; — come. n\\ lad, it 's all 
 one to you now, you know ;" he stooped to move 
 the body, hut was interrupted by Howard, who, 
 during the entire last scene, had felt disgusted 
 at the levity and hardiness of the young man's 
 manner and proceedings. 
 
 " I protest, I cannot see," said Howard, " why 
 this should be done. Even for our own sakes 
 we ought to leave the wretch where he has had 
 the misfortune to fall." 
 
 " Nonsense, man," replied Sullivan, with an 
 unkindled eye, and in an impatient voice. " I 
 know what I am about ; just lave me to myself; 
 I commit no crime, I believe ? And let me as- 
 sure you, captain, 'tis the best thing for yourself 
 too; indeed, what concern of mine is it at all? 
 There may be visitors here in an hour or two, 
 perhaps in half an hour, perhaps in a moment, 
 who will expect any thing but to find him in 
 your place, and you might not be the safer of
 
 JOHN DOE. 179 
 
 the discovery for the whole night after. Just 
 let me have my own way, I say." 
 
 " You will do as you please, then, sir," said 
 Howard, turning off, and walking from the spot. 
 As he proceeded, he could distinctly hear the 
 noise caused by the trailing of the body over 
 the crisp soil, and, a moment after, the heavy 
 plunge in the water. In another moment Sul- 
 livan was by his side. 
 
 " And now, about your note of apology to 
 Mr. Grace," he said, as he came up, with an 
 unembarrassed tone. 
 
 " I shall have to ask admission into some house 
 to write it," said Graham — " whose house is that, 
 yonder ?" 
 
 " A black villain's," answered Sullivan, his 
 voice completely altered to a subdued, hissing 
 cadence. 
 
 " What is the name of the proprietor ?" 
 
 " Purcell." 
 
 " Let us try to get in there," said Howard. 
 
 " Never !" cried Sullivan, almost in a scream, 
 and while he stamped his heel into the sward. 
 
 " And why so, sir ?" asked Howard, coolly ;
 
 I><> JOHN DOE. 
 
 for he began to tire of the whimsical impa- 
 tience of the young person's manner. 
 
 Sullivan changing rapidly into ;i deeper tone, 
 and almost speaking through his clenched teeth 
 — went on — " Never, I say, but in defiance, 
 shall my foot rest on this threshold — never shall 
 I darken his door, but when I come, as the 
 shadow of death and destruction might come — 
 to darken it for ever ! — to your quarters ! — or, 
 stay — here are pen and ink," and he produced 
 a small tin case containing both, " and here is a 
 scrap of paper, and yonder I see a light in a 
 cabin — write the line there, and I will faithfully 
 carry it — 'tis on my way." 
 
 Howard assented, and they rapidly bent their 
 steps towards the cabin : meantime he said — 
 
 " This Purcell must, indeed, be a villain, or 
 your prejudice against him is strong." • 
 
 " Troth, an' you have just said the truth twice 
 over," replied Sullivan, " he is a hell-born vil- 
 lain, and I hate him worse than I hate hell ; or 
 fear it, either." 
 
 " He has deeply injured you, then ? ' 
 
 " Injured me ! — ha ! — ha ! — " and he laughed
 
 JOHN DOE. 181 
 
 a bitter laugh, but, whether the emanation of a 
 sense of wrong, or in mockery of Howard's 
 question, could not easily be distinguished. Af- 
 ter a moment, however, he checked himself, 
 and then added, in an easier voice, " me, cap- 
 tain ? — no, not me, but his doings to others 
 mark him for the detestation of every honest 
 man." 
 
 This was not well carried ; but Howard con- 
 tented himself with, " who or what is he ?" 
 
 " What he is now, and for years has been, 
 every body knows ; what he exactly sprang from, 
 no one can tell ; at least, I cannot. But he 
 first appeared here the follower of a lord we ne- 
 ver saw ; some kind of collector, I believe : soon 
 after he became a tithe-proctor ; then a fire- 
 brand; and, at last, a bloody traitor and informer, 
 and, of course, a land-jobber, gentleman at large, 
 and county magistrate." 
 
 " Pray explain," said Howard, much inte- 
 rested, and completely astonished. 
 
 " The particulars would be a long story. 
 Privately he stirred up the wretched and igno- 
 rant people around him to resist rack-rents 
 that he throve by as privately exacting ; when
 
 182 john Dor. 
 
 lie got thcin involved by his agents, he in- 
 formed against them, running their blood into 
 money; those who held lands on reasonable 
 terms he thus contrived to turn adrift on this 
 world, or launch into the next, bidding for the 
 vacant land himself, and then letting it, at ten- 
 fold its value, to starving creatures, who, though 
 they sweated like the beasts of the field — which 
 they do — could not meet their rent day. There 
 was one family in particular — but come, captain, 
 let us push on to the light ; — I delay you." 
 
 " By no means, you have rather interested 
 me; there was, you say, a particular family?" 
 
 " There was. A mother, and a son and daugh- 
 ter, and an old grandfather — the father was 
 long dead. Purcell, by his underhand practices, 
 ensnared the son, a lad of eighteen or nineteen, 
 in nightly combinations — then he arraigned him 
 before the landlord — and then — for their lease 
 w as expired— son and all were turned out of 
 their home — the old man and all; all, except the 
 daughter." 
 
 " And what became of her?" 
 
 " Villain! — eternally damned villain!" — ex- 
 claimed Sullivan in another burst, and while his
 
 JOHN DOE. 183 
 
 youthful face and figure took a stern and for- 
 midable appearance — " what became of her 7 . — 
 He had trod her down, beforehand — seduced 
 her — and she went with him into his house. 
 She left her sick mother, and her ould grandfa- 
 ther, on the field before their own dour, and 
 turned to the menial hearth of him who — par- 
 don me — the night wears — we walk too slow." 
 
 " Pray continue, — what of the rest of this 
 poor family ?" 
 
 The narrator, touched perhaps as well by 
 Howard's evident sympathy, as by the subject 
 he was about to enter on, answered in a broken 
 voice — 
 
 " The mother, as I said, was ill — she could 
 get no farther than the ridge that gave her a 
 last look of her ould cottage — she sat there till 
 night came on — 'twas a bad night — and — she 
 died in it," he added, with a voice scarcely au- 
 dible. 
 
 " Dreadful !— and the son ?" 
 
 " The wretched son was not then at home. 
 He returned with an oath to revenge his poor 
 mother. Purcell gained information of his pur-
 
 184 JOHN DOE. 
 
 pose, and, at the head of a body of soldiers, 
 hunted him through the country. In the north 
 the boy escaped him, and there, it is believed, 
 took shipping for America." 
 
 " It is, inched, a shocking story, and I will 
 not press you to enter the house of such a man; 
 but, since you are so kind as to offer, I can 
 write my note in the cabin, which, when we 
 have got over this hedge, I presume we shall 
 have gained.'' 
 
 Both accordingly prepared to surmount the 
 impediment. It was a fence of earth and stones 
 running straight across their path, with, here 
 and there, a bunch of furze or of dwarf thorn 
 shooting out on the top and at the sides. As 
 they prepared to clamber over, they were struck 
 with a low moaning plaint, which arose from 
 the opposite side; and looking across, a young 
 and beautiful woman appeared sitting on a 
 large stone, her hair dishevelled, her face pale as 
 marble, with an infant resting under her bosom, 
 The moon flared fully in her front, and as she 
 \\ as not above two or three yards distant, de- 
 veloped almost as perfectly as the daylight could,
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 185 
 
 her face, figure, and drapery. Her head turned 
 and inclined over her shoulder with an expres- 
 sion of utter woe and hopelessness, and the 
 thick sighs, which every moment interrupted 
 her wild lament, swelled and distended her bril- 
 liant white bosom as if they had power to ex- 
 plode through it. Her clothes were also white. 
 The infant seemed to have just dropped asleep, 
 after leaving the young breast, that, completely 
 bare, abandoned itself to him ; and the urchin 
 now lay upon his back, along the beautiful round 
 arm that tenderly stole under him, with his little 
 knees slightly drawn up, and his hands near- 
 ly open, approaching his mouth, in that infan- 
 tine repose that Westmacott so well and so pa- 
 thetically feels and executes. 
 
 Howard first gaining the top of the hedge, 
 saw in deep surprise and interest, the poor mo- 
 ther and her infant, and was silently continu- 
 ing his gaze when Sullivan, who soon stood by 
 him, quickly seized Howard's arm, and uttered 
 a deep curse, the tone of which indicated the 
 utmost consternation and astonishment. His 
 exclamation reached the female's ear, for she
 
 186 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 turned her head, ceased her affecting wail, and 
 fixing her eyes for a moment on Sullivan's face. 
 screamed and rushed into the cabin, which was 
 only some yards distant. 
 
 " Don't follow me," said Sullivan to Howard, 
 " this is my affair — I '11 he with you in a mo- 
 ment ;" and he leaped from the top of the 
 hedge, and rapidly pursued the girl into the 
 cahin. 
 
 When he entered, he saw her on her knees, 
 with her face hid in an old man's lap, who sat 
 by the hearth. One arm hung at her side, the 
 other still pressed her now complaining child, 
 and in reply to the old man's repeated — 
 "whisht — whisht, a-vourneen" — she uttered, 
 " his ghost— his ghost ! — come over the waters 
 and the mountains to punish me! — hide me, 
 grandfather ! hide me!" — 
 
 " Ghost or no ghost, Cauthleen, speak no 
 word to me yet," said Sullivan, who now stood 
 at her back ; — " there is an account to settle for 
 you, before we can ever — if we ever do — look 
 straight into each other's face:" — but it was 
 useless for Sullivan to have given this warn-
 
 JOHN DOE. 187 
 
 ing, as, at the very first sound of his voice, 
 Cauthleen had fainted at the old man's knees; 
 her infant still held, however, to her bosom. 
 
 " And is this the way so soon?" continued 
 Sullivan, speaking to the old man — " could he 
 not wait for me a little, but add this last, this 
 very last wrong to all the rest ? when did he 
 turn her out, dha-dhu ?" — * 
 
 " This is the first I heard of it, a-vich," said 
 the old man ; " an' sure I did not think of seein' 
 her to-night, 'till afther you called to see him 
 yourself." — 
 
 " Hush !" — said Sullivan, pointing out to the 
 door — " did you tell her I was in the country ?" 
 in a lower voice. 
 
 " How could I whin you bid me no?" said 
 the old man — " though last night, as I spoke 
 to her out of her window, an' scalded her heart 
 wid the story of Purcell's coortin' o' Mary Grace, 
 I was nigh comfortin' her, poor sowl, on the 
 head of it." 
 
 " Bring her to the barn, dha-dhu, as fast as 
 you can," rejoined Sullivan — " and stay — we 
 want you in other matters ; — you must instantly 
 
 * Grandfather.
 
 1S8 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 mount and away to the elm-trees — you know for 
 what?" — the old man bent his eyes blankly on 
 the ground — "you remember, don't you?" — 
 continued Sullivan, as, from a suspicion of the 
 old man's occasional weakness of intellect, he 
 began to doubt his energy and correctness in 
 the business he wished him to undertake. 
 
 " Do I remember, is it ?" asked the other, 
 as, recovering from his abstraction, he raised 
 Cauthleen in his arms, and stood upright, with 
 a vigour that in one of his great age was sur- 
 prising ; while a strong colour spread over his 
 cheek, and his grey eyes sparkled insanely — 
 " Do I remember your biddin'? — an' why it is 
 to be done? wid this load in my arms, an' you 
 standin' afore me, you ax do I remember it? — 
 do I remember any thing ? — do I remember the 
 day that once was, an' the day that is in it, an' 
 the day that is t© come agin ? — an' if ould age, 
 an' the heart-break strov' to make me forget, 
 could I? — where then 'ud be my dhrames on the 
 hill side, an' in the rushes an' the long grass 
 by the water's brink, whin night after night, I 
 dhremt it? — whin the moanin' came on the hill 
 breeze, an' the craklin' an' the roarin' o' the
 
 JOHN DOE. 189 
 
 blaze was in the reeds that covered my ould 
 head? — whin the mountains fell back, an' the 
 sky grew clear, an' the wide waters were no 
 hindrance to me, an' I saw you through them 
 all, afar off, wid the soord in your hand, an' 
 him, twinin' like a red worm at your feet ?" — 
 
 " Hush, hush, dha-dhu," again interrupted 
 Sullivan, " there is one abroad must not hear 
 or know ; — and you had better call on God to 
 strengthen you, and make you clear, and watch- 
 ful, and prudent; — and now go your ways to 
 the barn, first, and then to the elm-trees — this 
 lost creature is in a long fit, and we have noth- 
 ing here to serve her — go — she seems coming 
 to, a little — go, now, without a word — rest with 
 her abroad in the air, and then she'll walk with 
 you — and now — yet one other word — is Flinn 
 gone to get father O'Clery out of the way, and 
 to talk to him about the work ?" 
 
 " 'Tis an hour agone since he went," answer- 
 ed the old man, " and he'll schame him to the 
 barn, as you tould us." 
 
 " Then don't lose another moment," said Sul- 
 livan — " or just wait where you are, till I step 
 out with this rushlight :"' and Sullivan took the
 
 190 joiin DOE. 
 
 niggard taper and approached Howard, who 
 still remained on the hedge, his curiosity excited 
 to the utmost, and his fears also stirring on ac- 
 count of Sullivan's statement as to the escape 
 of Doe; Howard feeling as a neglect of duty, 
 every moment that kept him from his men. 
 
 " We can't do it in the cabin," said Sullivan, 
 as he stood under Howard, at the bottom of 
 the hedge, — " but come down, and I 11 hold 
 the light while you scribble on this stone — the 
 wind is low and won't hinder us." 
 
 Howard accordingly descended, and, using 
 the implements with which Sullivan supplied 
 him, wrote his note to Mr. Grace, and handed 
 it unsealed to Sullivan. 
 
 " I'll deliver it punctually," said Sullivan, 
 " and within as much time as it will take me 
 to walk and run to the house, — and now, Cap- 
 tain Howard, good night, and make haste to 
 your soldiers — and don't mind walking among 
 these hills with people you are a stranger to, 
 for all the pretty faces about Slievenamon — but 
 we'll talk more of that, may be, when I have 
 the pleasure to see you next — good night, sir;" 
 and he turned again into the cabin.
 
 JOHN DOE. 191 
 
 Great as was Howard's anxiety to get to his 
 quarters, he could not withstand the temptation 
 of concealing himself a moment behind the 
 hedge, in order to watch some continuance of 
 the interesting scene, to the opening of which 
 he had been a witness. So he re-crossed the 
 mound, and stooped his head under it, at the 
 side turned from the cabin. 
 
 In a few moments he heard Sullivan's voice 
 wishing some one good luck and speed ; and 
 almost immediately, Sullivan leapt the stream, 
 of which the course continued so far as the ca- 
 bin, and Howard soon saw him running across 
 the low ground at the other side in the direc- 
 tion of Mr. Grace's house. His curiosity was 
 next bent to catch a glimpse of the female and 
 child, and looking cautiously over the hedge, 
 he saw her, leaning on the old man, walk from 
 the cabin towards the place where he stood con- 
 cealed. They did not, however, directly pass 
 Howard, but continuing their way by the other 
 side of the hedge, issued through it at a gap 
 about twenty yards distant, and then turning to 
 the left, began to ascend a broken and uncul- 
 tivated declivity.
 
 L92 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Howard argued that this declivity must be a 
 continuation of the ridge over which he had de- 
 scended with his traitorous guide, when he first 
 left the road that commanded his quarters; and 
 he concluded that if he also mounted the hill, 
 in the footsteps of the old man and his charge, 
 it must lead him again to the road, some little 
 distance from the point he wished to regain ; 
 so, mistrustful of travelling any longer in bye- 
 paths that had proved sufficiently dangerous, 
 and assisted by his anxiety to track the young 
 female, Howard followed at a distance. 
 
 After gaining the brow of the ridge, the old 
 man and his companion disappeared from How- 
 ard's view ; he also hastened, therefore, to win 
 it; and when he had done so, looked out, and 
 discovered them still walking in a direct line 
 across a wide waste of marshy ground, bounded 
 at some distance by a low wall, on which the 
 moon shone clear and white, distinguishing even 
 the stones of which it was composed. Howard 
 felt surprised that, having passed the hill, so 
 considerable a space should still remain between 
 him and the road; but assured that the wall he
 
 JOHN DOE. 193 
 
 now saw was its boundary^ he continued to fol- 
 low the two figures. 
 
 They again disappeared over the wall, and 
 Howard, mending his pace, straddled across the 
 low barrier, which he perceived to be formed of 
 loose stones, and in increased surprise, saw ano- 
 ther stretch of open ground before him, over 
 which the figures still moved. The lines of the 
 road and the hill, he thought, must have sud- 
 denly departed from their parallel ; but it was, 
 meantime, impossible that he should miscalcu- 
 late his route, and so he persevered in it. 
 
 This second wild tract of moor proved nearly 
 twice as extensive as the first ; yet it was at 
 length terminated by another loose wall, which 
 was successively passed by the old man, the 
 girl, and Howard. But the amazement of our 
 military friend changed into a disagreeable mis- 
 giving when he now found himself at the base 
 of a growing ascent, round which, as he gained 
 the other side of the second barrier, his uncon- 
 scious guides were just winding. In a moment 
 they had entirely eluded him ; and vexed and 
 impatient, he hurried after them to inquire his 
 way to the road, even yet positive he could not 
 be far astray. 
 
 VOL. III. K
 
 194 joiin uoi:. 
 
 As he rapidly turned the bend of the hill, and 
 looked forward for those he supposed before 
 him, they were not to be seen ; but the wailing 
 of a female voice and the shrill cadence of the 
 old man, as if speaking in comfort, guided him 
 in his course. He followed till he found him- 
 self at the mouth of a pass, where the hill di- 
 vided it, and afibrded entrance to its own re- 
 cesses. Up this way Howard turned to the 
 right, and soon saw the female and old man, 
 the one sitting, and the other, with her infant in 
 his arms, standing over her, and both continuing 
 to converse in their mixed tones of anguish and 
 feebleness. He hastened on to join them. All 
 were now wrapt in the shadow of the hill, and 
 as Howard precipitately advanced, he stumbled 
 over some fragments of rock, and fell. The 
 woman and her aged protector instantly uttered 
 a cry of terror, and ran in a contrary direction. 
 Howard rose, not materially hurt, and hallood 
 after them ; but this appearing only to increase 
 their fright and speed, he presently exerted hi^ 
 own legs in pursuit. They fled, for some dis- 
 tance, along the pass he had last entered, and 
 then turned into another which struck almost 
 at right angles with it. Howard once more
 
 JOHN DOE. 195 
 
 missed his guides, till he arrived at the point 
 they had doubled; but he then marked them in 
 the resumed moonlight, which the sudden turn 
 afforded, flitting over the side of the divided hill, 
 and apparently bent on gaining its top : still he 
 held chase. 
 
 Pausing on the verge of the ascent, he in 
 treble alarm saw them hastening over a wide 
 spread of sloping country, at the extremity 
 of which a huge peak of mountain took its 
 rise. In fact, he had not felt, that all this 
 while, ever since he left the cabin, he had, 
 across moors and all, been rapidly, though im- 
 perceptibly ascending towards the bleak and 
 craggy summit of Slievenamon. He gazed about, 
 confounded and almost terrified, and hallood 
 louder than ever after his mysterious seducers 
 into this maze of danger. They, less than ever, 
 heeded his appeal; and, when, resuming once 
 more his efforts to overtake them, Howard en- 
 deavoured to hold them in his eye, the two figures 
 suddenly sunk from view, and left him, complete- 
 ly at fault. 
 
 He ran on in the direction they had taken, 
 until, gaining the verge of the moor, he found 
 
 k 2
 
 19G JOHN DOE. 
 
 himself altogether impeded in his progress by a, 
 •deep gully, that, like a trench before a strong 
 hold, seemed to guard the base of the moun- 
 tain. As the weather had lately been very dry, 
 scarcely any water now sought its way through 
 this natural canal; and advancing cautiously to 
 reconnoitre, Howard could perceive that the 
 gully was profound and abrupt, and lined, at 
 either side and at the bottom, with sharp, pro- 
 jecting fragments of rock. His next investiga- 
 tion was to discover in what part of the pass the 
 old man and the female lay concealed, for he 
 could not suppose they had been able to cross 
 it ; nor could he otherwise account for their 
 sudden disappearance than by concluding they 
 had descended into it. No trace of them ap- 
 peared, however ; and he paused in much em- 
 barrassment, unable to form any plan of pro- 
 ceeding, when they abruptly re-appeared at the 
 opposite side of the gully, moving towards a 
 broad, flat stone, that, supported at one end by 
 two props, also of stone, was raised in that 
 direction from the ground, while the other end, 
 which approached nearest to Howard, seemed 
 buried in the soil. He looked, without know-
 
 JOHN DOE. 197 
 
 ing its traditional nature, at the ruins of an 
 old Druidical altar. But had he been a tho- 
 rough antiquarian, and ever so well acquainted 
 with all that has been said and written on the 
 subject of this rude relic, little interest would it 
 have had for him at the moment. His notice 
 was solely directed to the two figures who now 
 ran towards it, and he hallood lustily and long 
 in hopes of fixing their attention. 
 
 All vainly however. The figures continued 
 in speed and silence to near the stone ; and 
 when they had gained it, and while Howard ex- 
 alted his voice into the shrillest possible key, 
 they became once again, and finally invisible. 
 But, as if not to allow him to waste his lungs 
 for nothing, Howard had scarcely emitted the 
 last bellow, when it was caught up in a contrary 
 direction, and prolonged and repeated rather 
 beyond his wishes. He paused a moment, in 
 hopes that he might have heard an echo ; but 
 when too much time had lapsed to permit, ac- 
 cording to natural laws, of its possible iteration, 
 the shouting was again renewed by more than 
 one person, now sounding nearer, and awaking 
 the deep and real voices of the outspread moors
 
 198 JOHN DOE. 
 
 and desolate hills. Howard, though no pol- 
 troon, felt a disagreeable qnahn at heart, as 
 these wild signals o£ approaching strangers, 
 and to him, foes, closed right and left upon 
 him. lie stood one moment in something like 
 consternation, and then the strongest instinct 
 of nature lent him lightning thought, and, as 
 will be seen, scarcely less than thunderbolt 
 execution. Behind the flat stone the figures 
 had found a hiding place; behind it he, too, 
 would seek safety; — he measured the gully with 
 his eye — it was at least six yards over — perhaps 
 more — no matter. Howard drew back for a 
 good run — sprang across the chasm, like any 
 chamois hunter — and lighted on his feet in the 
 shelving sward at the opposite side. But this 
 was only the first consequence of his leap ; for 
 after striking his heels into the soft ground, he 
 next sunk through it, and fell, with a falling 
 chaos about his ears, and a hellish uproar ring- 
 ing in them, down — down — he knew not where, 
 into the bowels and mysteries of the mountain.
 
 lOHX DOE. 199 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 And now could we, at our pleasure, and not in 
 violation of the known and admitted privilege 
 of story-tellers, change the scene of our narra- 
 tive some miles away from Lieutenant Howard, 
 and leave the obliging reader in a consequent 
 agony of suspense as to the issue of his adven- 
 ture. But we scorn such petty tyranny over 
 the minds of those millions whom it is our wish, 
 in perfect disinterestedness, to treat in the best 
 manner ; and therefore we proceed straight for- 
 ward in our tale. 
 
 The first perception of Howard's restored 
 senses brought him the intelligence of his being 
 in the midst of an almost insufferable atmo- 
 sphere, oppressive as it was strange and unusual. 
 He breathed with difficulty, and coughed and 
 sneezed himself very nearly back again into the
 
 200 JOHN DOE. 
 
 state of unconsciousness, out of which, it would 
 seem, coughing and sneezing had just roused 
 him ; for he gained his senses while performing 
 such operations as are understood by these 
 words. When a reasonable pause occurred, 
 and that reflection had time to come into 
 play, Howard wondered whether he was alive 
 or dead, and whether or no he felt pain ; and 
 due consideration having ensued, he was able 
 to assure himself that, so far as he could judge, 
 he lived, and without much pain of any kind 
 into the bargain. Next, he tried to stir him- 
 self; but here he was unsuccessful. Some un- 
 seen power paralysed his legs and arms, feet and 
 hands. He lay, it was evident, upon the broad 
 of his back, and the surface he pressed seemed 
 soft and genial enough. Howard, in this posi- 
 tion, looked straight upward. The stars, and 
 a patch of deep blue sky, twinkled and smiled 
 upon him through a hole in a low squalid roof 
 over head. This was a help. He remember- 
 ed having fallen in through the slope of the 
 hill, and as an aperture must have been the 
 consequence or the cause of his descent, he 
 ventured to argue accordingly. He had in-
 
 JOHN DOE. 201 
 
 muled, it would rather seem, upon the private 
 concerns of some person or persons, who, from 
 motives unknown to him, chose to reside in a 
 subterraneous retreat among the very sublimi- 
 ties of Slievenamon. Here the strange scent 
 again pressed with overpowering force upon his 
 nose. There was some part of it he thought 
 he could, or ought to recollect having before 
 experienced, and he snuffed once or twice in 
 the hopes of becoming satisfied ; but a fresh, 
 and he conceived, a different effluvia thereupon 
 rushed up his nostrils, and down his throat, 
 and he had again to sneeze and cough his way 
 into his better senses. 
 
 When Howard was in this second effort suc- 
 cessful, he next observed that he dwelt not in 
 absolute darkness. A pandemonium kind of 
 light dismally glared around him, clouded by a 
 dense fog of he knew not what colour or con- 
 sistency. Am I alone ? He listened attentively. 
 The melancholy female voice that he had heard, 
 lamenting at the cabin and among the hills, 
 filled his ear, though it was now poured forth 
 in a subdued cadence. Still he listened, and. 
 a hissing of whispers floated at every side, ac- 
 
 k3
 
 ft)g 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 companied by the noise of a fire rapidly bla- 
 zing, together with ;m intermittent explosion that 
 very much resembled ;i human snore. 
 
 Again he strove to rise or turn, but could not. 
 I will just move my head round, at all events, 
 thought Howard. lie did so, very slowly, and his 
 eyes fixed upon those of Jack Mullins, who, bent 
 on one knee at his side, held his left arm tightly 
 down with one hand, while with the other Jack 
 presented a heavy horseman's pistol. Howard, 
 little cheered by this comforter, turned his head 
 as slowly in the other direction, and again en- 
 countered the fell stare of a second ruffianly 
 visage, while, with both hands of his attendant 
 he was at this side pinioned. Two other men 
 secured his feet. 
 
 " Where am I ? and why do you hold me ? 
 and how did all this happen ?" — asked Howard, 
 as he began to comprehend his situation. 
 
 " Hould your tongue and be quiet," said 
 Mullins. 
 
 " I know you well, Jack Mullins ;" resumed 
 Howard, " 'tis some time since we met at the 
 pattern, but I know your voice and face per- 
 fectly well."
 
 JOHN DOE. 203 
 
 " Nonsense," said Muffins, " and hould your 
 pace, I tell you." 
 
 " You surely would not take away my life for 
 nothing," continued Howard ; " and it can be 
 no offence to ask you why you hold me down 
 in this strange manner." 
 
 " Bother, man ; say your prayers, an' don't 
 vex me." 
 
 " Mullins, I have drank with you out of the 
 same cup, and clasped your hand in good fel- 
 lowship ; and I desire you for the sake of old 
 acquaintance to let me sit up and look about 
 me. I never did you an injury, nor intended 
 one." 
 
 " I don't know how that is," observed Mul- 
 lins. 
 
 " Never, by my soul !" repeated Howard with 
 energy. " This unhappy intrusion, whatever 
 place I may have got into, was an accident ; I 
 missed my way among the hills and wandered 
 here unconsciously ; let me up, Mullins, and you 
 shall have a handsome recompence." 
 
 " The divil a laffina you have about you," 
 said Mullins — " don't be talkin." 
 
 " As you have found my purse, then," rejoin-
 
 £01 JOHN DOE. 
 
 cd Howard, easily suspecting what had hap- 
 pened, " you are most welcome to it, so you re- 
 lease me for a moment." 
 
 " An' who, do you think, is to pay us for the 
 roof of our good, snug house you have tattered 
 down on our heads this blessed night ?"> — asked 
 Muffins. 
 
 " I will, to be sure," replied Howard, " who 
 else should ? — Come, Mullins, bid these men 
 let me go, and you'll never be sorry for it. Is 
 this the way Irishmen treat an old friend ?" — 
 
 " For the sake o' that evenin' we had toge- 
 ther at the pattern, you may get up — that is, 
 sit up, an' bless yourself. Let him go, men, bud 
 watch the ladder." 
 
 The three other men instantly obeyed Mul- 
 lins's orders, and Jack himself, loosening his 
 dead gripe, Howard was at last free to sit up. 
 
 " Now, never mind what you see," continued 
 Mullins, " an', in troth, the less you look about 
 you at all, at all, so much the betther, I'm 
 thinkin': " and Mullins sat down opposite his 
 prisoner, still holding the cocked pistol on his 
 arm 
 
 This caution seemed in the first instance al-
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 205 
 
 together useless, for Howard could observe no- 
 thing through the dense vapour around him, 
 except now and then, the blank and wavering 
 outline of a human figure, flitting in the remote 
 parts of the recess. The whispers, however, 
 had deepened into rather loud tones ; but here 
 he was as much at a loss as ever, for the persons 
 of the drama spoke together in Irish. At length 
 he gained a hint to the mystery. A young man, 
 stripped, as if for some laborious work, approach- 
 ing Mullins, said somewhat precipitately — 
 " Musha Jack, the run 'ull go fur nothin' this 
 time, unless you come down an' put your own 
 hand to the stil." 
 
 Here then, from all he had previously heard, 
 and could now see, smell, and conceive, Howard 
 found himself in the presence of illicit distilla- 
 tion, at work, though it was Sunday, in all its 
 vigour and glory. He snuffed again, and won- 
 dered at his own stupidity, and, indeed, ingrati- 
 tude, that he should not at once have recognised 
 the odour of the pottheen atmosphere, — a mix- 
 ture of the effluvia of the liquor and the thick 
 volumes of pent-up smoke, in which for some
 
 206 JOHN DOE. 
 
 time lie had, under providence, lived and 
 breathed. 
 
 When the young man addressed to Mullins 
 the words we have just recorded, that person's 
 ill-boding lace assumed a cast of more danger- 
 ous malignity, and after a ferocious scowl at the 
 speaker, he said with much vehemence, " Upon 
 my conscience, Tim, a-gra, you're just afther 
 spakin the most foolish words that your mother's 
 son ever spoke ; an' I don't know what bad 
 blood you have to the sassenach officer, here, 
 that you couldn't lave him a chance for his life, 
 when it was likely he had id. Musha, evil end 
 to you, Tim, seed, breed, an' generation ! — 
 Mahurp-on-duoul ! what matther was it if the 
 whole shot went to ould Nick this blessed 
 evenin', providin' we didn't let strangers into 
 our sacrets I — Coul'n't you let him sit here a 
 while, in pace ? — Bud, since the murther's out, 
 take this, you ballour* o' the divil," giving the 
 pistol — " while I go down to the pot; — an', 
 Tim — lave well enough alone, now, an' if you 
 can't mend what 's done, try not to do any more ; 
 — don't be talkin' at all, I say ; you needn't pull 
 
 • Babbler.
 
 JOHN DOE. 207 
 
 the trigger on him fur spakin' a little, if it isn't 
 too much entirely ; bud take care o' your own 
 self, Tim, an' hould your gab 'till I come to you 
 agin." 
 
 After this speech, the longest that Mullins 
 was ever known to deliver, he strode away from 
 Howard's side towards the most remote end of 
 the place, where the fire was blazing. Howard 
 comprehending that Jack's indignation was 
 aroused because of the revealing summons of 
 the young man, and that his own life might prob- 
 ably be sacrificed to his innocent advancement 
 in knowledge, very prudently resolved to avail 
 himself of the hints contained in the harangue 
 he had heard, by observing, in Mullins's absence, 
 the most religious silence, and withal the most 
 natural unconsciousness. The latter part of 
 his resolve was however soon rendered super- 
 fluous and unavailing The wind rose high, 
 abroad, and entering at the recent aperture, at- 
 tributable to Howard, took an angry circuit 
 round the cavern, agitated the mass of smoke 
 that filled it, and compelled the greater portion 
 to evaporate through another vent at the oppo- 
 site side. In about five minutes, therefore, the
 
 208 JOHN DOE. 
 
 whole details of the apartment became visible to 
 any observer, nor could Howard refuse to his 
 curiosity the easy investigation thus afforded. 
 And what he saw is now to be written. 
 
 The place was evidently an excavation scoop- 
 ed in the side of the hill, and then, as Howard 
 could remember from his observations abroad, 
 added to his present survey, roofed over with 
 trunks and branches of trees, and covered with 
 sods level to the contiguous soil. Into this den 
 one entrance was now visible ; for, looking 
 across, Howard saw the rude ladder, of which 
 Mullins had spoken, guarded by the three fel- 
 lows he had ordered to that point. Against 
 the sides of the cavern, almost all the way round, 
 turf, furze, or well-filled sacks were piled. One 
 end appeared to be dedicated to the purposes 
 of a barn, for it was stuffed with sheaves of 
 corn at one side, and straw at the other, while 
 on the ground lay two flails, half-hidden amid a 
 litter of a compound description. 
 
 At the other end — heaven bless the mark! — 
 the genius of pottheen had established his elabo- 
 ratory, On a tremendous fire of turf and furze 
 sat a goodly pot, of comprehension sufficient,
 
 JOHN DOE. 209 
 
 perhaps, for thirty gallons of pot-ale. This 
 cauldron was well covered with a wooden lid, 
 which, at its junction to the sides of the vessel, 
 as well as over all its casual crevices, received 
 an earthy impasto of some kind, to make it air- 
 tight. Out of the top of the lid issued the 
 worm ; so called in courtesy only ; for it bore 
 little resemblance to its licensed prototype in 
 loyal distilleries, and was in shape no logical 
 symbol of the word. Truly, it did not coil; 
 but rather ran in and out, crinkum-crankum, in 
 sharp angles, right, acute, or obtuse, at every 
 turn. Its material was common tin; daubed 
 most uncouthly with solder ; the clumsy pro- 
 duction of some hill-tinker, who was but too 
 well remunerated for his work, by a few draughts 
 of the first oozing it brought forth. The greater 
 part of this curious apparatus passed through a 
 large tub of cold water, called familiarly the 
 cooling-tub, and representing the condenser of 
 more formal establishments. At length the end 
 protruded, free of all impediment, over another 
 wooden vessel, and therein deposited, drop by 
 drop, its precious and fully-matured product — 
 in fact, the bona fide pottheen, regularly distilled.
 
 210 JOHN DOE. 
 
 \ round the fire, and at the end of the worm, 
 and from vessel to vessel of different compass, 
 in which the yielding corn underwent its diffe- 
 rent processes of fermentation, previous to a 
 final enclosure in the pot, Jack Mullins now 
 appeared busy, the presiding and directing 
 spirit of the scene. He moved about heavily 
 and silently, with bent brow and closed lips, 
 only condescending to the various questions 
 levelled at him, a — " bother — don't be talkin'." 
 Two or three other men were also busy at the 
 vats, and an old woman, with lank streaming 
 locks, and her neck almost entirely bare, and a 
 dirty girl of about fourteen years, stood near 
 the worm, pouring, from time to time, upon it, 
 and into the vessel through which it passed, 
 their contributions of cold water. Around the 
 blaze, on straw, lay perhaps a dozen men, old 
 and young, keen observers and anxious ex- 
 pectants. The fire glared on all, throwing into 
 sympathetic shadow many a wild or sinister eye, 
 and touching with red light the top edges 
 of their shaggy eye-brows, their vulgar cheek 
 bones, hooked or snub noses, and ample chins. 
 Howard, continuing his observations, surveyed
 
 JOHN DOE. 211 
 
 the height from which he had fallen. It might be 
 about seven feet ; but he sat elevated above the 
 floor of the cavern ; and fnis remark, causing 
 him to examine the material under him, enabled 
 Howard to account for having escaped so well. 
 In truth he had descended, where he now re- 
 mained, upon a heap of litter, composed of the 
 residuum of the pot, and some bundles of straw 
 strewed lightly over, so that the whole sub- 
 stance was soft and unresisting as any man in 
 his circumstances could have wished. 
 
 He was however little pleased on the whole 
 with the scene thus become revealed by the 
 partial expulsion of the smoke. Mullins's late 
 hints still rang in his ears ; and while contem- 
 plating the faces of those round the fire, the 
 unintentional visitant thought he looked on men 
 who would have little hesitation, all circumstan- 
 ces of prejudice and relative place duly weighed, 
 to assist the master ruffian in any designs upon 
 an Englishman and a red-coat. Then he recol- 
 lected his untimely absence from his men ; the 
 intelligence Sullivan had given him ; the dis- 
 astrous consequences that to them might there- 
 fore ensue ; and his cheek and brow flamed
 
 212 JOHN DOE. 
 
 with impatience ; while the next moment, a re- 
 currence to his own immediate peril corrected, 
 if it did not change,- their courageous glow. 
 
 The young man who had relieved guard over 
 Howard, well oheyed the parting orders of 
 Mullins ; for he did not open his lips to the 
 prisoner, contenting himself with watching his 
 every motion, and keeping fast hold of the 
 pistol. Utter silence therefore reigned between 
 both, as Howard also strictly observed his own 
 resolution. 
 
 After he had fully investigated every thing 
 and person around him, and when thought and 
 apprehension found no relief from curiosity, this 
 blank pause disagreeably affected him. It was 
 uncertainty and suspense; fear for others and 
 for himself; or, even if he escaped present 
 danger, the unhappy accident might influence 
 his future character and prospects. Under the 
 pressure of these feelings, Howard most ar- 
 dently wished the return of Mulling 1 , in order 
 that his fate might be at once decided. 
 
 And in his own due time Mullins at length 
 came. Every thing about the pot seemed 
 prosperous, for with a joyous clatter of uncouth
 
 JOHN DOE. 21o 
 
 sounds the men now gathered near the worm, 
 and, one by one, held under it a large turkey 
 egg-shell, which was subsequently conveyed to 
 their mouths. Mullins himself took a serious 
 loving draught, and refilling his shell, strode 
 towards Howard, the bumper in his hand. 
 
 " First," he said, as he came up, " since you 
 know more than you ought about us, taste 
 that." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mullins," said Howard, "I 
 should not be able to drink it." 
 
 " Nonsense," resumed Jack — " dhrink the 
 queen's health, good loock to her, in the right 
 stuff that is made out o' love to her, an' no one 
 else ; dhrink, till you see how you'd like it." 
 
 " I cannot, indeed," said Howard, wavering. 
 
 " Musha, you'd betther," growled Mullins. 
 Howard drank some. 
 
 " So you won't finish it? — Well, what brought 
 you here ?" 
 
 " 111 luck ;" answered Howard — " I knew of 
 no such place — had heard of no such place ; 
 but, as I told you, lost my way and — and — in 
 truth I tumbled into it." 
 
 " An' well you looked, didn't you, flyin' down
 
 214' JOHN DOE. 
 
 through an oukl hill's side among pacable peo- 
 ple? — An' this is all thrue? no one tould you?" 
 
 " Upon my honour, all true, and no one told 
 me. 
 
 " By the vartch o' your oath, now? — Will you 
 sware it?" 
 
 " I am ready for your satisfaction to do so." 
 
 " Well. Where's our own soggarth, Tim ?" 
 continued Mullins, turning to the young guards- 
 man. 
 
 " In the corner, beyant, readin' his breviary," 
 replied Tim. 
 
 A loud snore from the corner seemed, how- 
 ever, to belie the latter part of the assertion. 
 
 "Och, I hear him," said Mullins — " run, Peg," 
 he continued, speaking off to the girl, " run to 
 the corner, an' tell father Tack'em we want 
 him." 
 
 The girl obeyed, and with much shaking and 
 loud screaming in his ear, called into imperfect 
 existence a little bundle of man who there lay 
 rolled up among other bundles of straw, 
 
 "What's the matter now?" squeaked this 
 vision, as badly balancing himself, with the 
 girl's assistance, he endeavoured to resume his
 
 JOHN DOE. 215 
 
 legs, and then waddle towards Mullins at a short 
 dubious pace. 
 
 "What's the matter at all, that a poor priest 
 can't read his breviary once a day, without 
 being disturbed by you, you pack of " 
 
 "Don't be talkin'," interrupted Mullins, "but 
 look afore you, an' give him the buke." 
 
 " The book !" echoed father Tack'em— " the 
 book for him!— Musha, happy death to me, 
 what brings the likes of him among us ?" 
 
 " You'd betther not be talkin', I say, bud give 
 him the buke at once," said Mullins, authorita- 
 tively; and he was obeyed. Howard received 
 from Tack'em a clasped volume, "much the 
 worse of the wear," as its proprietor described 
 it ; and, at the dictation of Mullins, swore upon 
 it to the truth of the statement he had already 
 made. 
 
 " So far, so good," resumed Mullins, — " an' 
 hould your tongue still, plase your reverance, 
 it's betther fur you. An' now, Captain How- 
 ard " 
 
 " I only want to ask, is the shot come off?" 
 interrupted Tack'em — " for, happy death to me, 
 Im drouthy."
 
 216 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 11(0, Tim," said Mullin.s, giving the shell 
 to the young man, and taking the pistol, " go 
 down to the worm, an' get a dhrop for the 
 soggarth." 
 
 The shell returned top-full, and Tack'em 
 with a prefatory smack of his lips, was about to 
 swallow its contents, when glancing on Howard 
 he stopt short, and offered him " a taste." 
 The politeness was declined, and Tack'em ob- 
 served — 
 
 " Ah, you haven't the grace to like it yet. 
 But wait awhile. I thought like yourself at 
 first, remembering my poor ould Horace's aver- 
 sion to garlic — which, between ourselves, a-vich, 
 is a wholesome herb after all :" and he repeated 
 with much amusing flippancy the beginning of 
 the ode — 
 
 " Parentis olim si (jail unpin manu, 
 Senile guttur fregerit " 
 
 " Bother," interrupted Mullins, " ould Hurish, 
 whoever he is, an' barrin' he's no friend o' your 
 reverance, could never be an honest man to talk 
 o' 'gutter an' the potthcen in one breath." 
 
 " Och ! God help you, you poor ignoraamus,"
 
 JOHN DOE. 217 
 
 replied Tack'em, draining his shell ; " an' now I 
 think of it, what a blessed ignorant crew I have 
 around me — do you know humanity, a-vich ?" 
 he continued, addressing himself to Howard. 
 
 " Nonsense," interposed Mullins, " we all 
 know that in our turns, and when we can help 
 it. Don't be talkin', bud let me do my duty. I 
 was a sayin' aroon," pursued Mullins, turning 
 to Howard, " that all was well enough, so far. 
 Bud, somehow or other, I'm thinkin' you will 
 have to do a thing or two more. 'Tisn't clear 
 to mysef, a-gra, bud you must kiss the prim- 
 mer agin, in the regard of never sayin a word 
 to a christhen sowl of your happening to stray 
 down through that hole over your head, or 
 about any one of us, or any thing else you saw 
 while you were stayin' wid us." 
 
 Howard, remembering that part of his duty 
 was to render assistance at all times to the civil 
 power of the country, in putting down illicit 
 distillation, hesitated at this proposition ; doubt- 
 ful but he should be guilty of an indirect com- 
 promise of principle in concealing his knowledge 
 of the existence and situation of such a place. 
 
 VOL. III. L
 
 218 John DOE. 
 
 He therefore made no immediate answer, and 
 Mullins went on. 
 
 " There's another little matther, too. Some 
 poor gossips of ours that have to do with this 
 Captain John — God help 'em — are all this time 
 in the bog 3 we hear, in regard o' the small misun- 
 derstandin' betuxt you and them. Well, a- 
 vich. You could just let 'em out, couldn't 
 you c 
 
 " I can engage to do neither of the things you 
 have last mentioned," said Howard, who, as- 
 sured that concession to the first would not 
 avail him unless he also agreed to the second, 
 thus saved his conscience by boldly resisting 
 both. 
 
 " Don't be talkin'," rejoined Mullins, "throth, 
 you'll be just afther promisin' us to do what we 
 ax you, an' on the buke, too ;" and his eye 
 glanced to the pistol. 
 
 " It is impossible," said Howard, "my honor, 
 my character, and my duty, forbid it. If those 
 unfortunate persons yet remain within my lines, 
 they must stay there, or else surrender them- 
 selves, unconditionally, as our prisoners."
 
 JOHN DOE. 219 
 
 " I don't think you're sarious," resumed Mul- 
 lins. " Suppose a body said — you must do 
 this ?" 
 
 : ' I should give the same answer." 
 
 " Thonomon-duoul ! don't vex me too well. 
 Do you see what I have in my hand ?" 
 
 " I see you can murder me if you like ; but 
 you have heard my answer." 
 
 " Stop, you blood-hound, stop !" screamed 
 Tack'em — " happy death to me, what would 
 you be about ? — don't you know there 's wiser 
 heads than yours settling that matter ? — Isn't it 
 in the hands of father O'Clery by this time ? 
 An' who gave you lave to take the law into your 
 own hands ?" 
 
 " Bother," said Muffins—" who'll suffer most 
 by lettin' him go ? — who, bud myself, that gets 
 the little bit I ate, an' the dhrop I taste, by shew- 
 in' you all how to manage the stil through the 
 counthry ? — an' wouldn't it be betther to do two 
 things at once, an' get him to kiss the buke fur 
 all I ax him ?" 
 
 " You don't understand it," rejoined Tack'- 
 em — " you were never born to understand it — 
 you can do nothin' but pull your trigger or keep 
 
 l2
 
 280 joiin dob. 
 
 the stone in your sleeve — let better people's bu- 
 siness alone, I say, an' wait awhile." 
 
 Mullins, looking as if, despite previous ar- 
 rangements, he considered himself called on, in 
 consequence of a lucky accident, to settle mat- 
 ters his own way, slowly resumed. 
 
 " Then, I'll tell you how it 'ill be. Let the 
 sassenach kneel down in his straw, an' do you 
 kneel at his side, plase your reverance, an' 
 give him a betther preparation nor his mother, 
 poor lady, ever thought he'd get ; just say six 
 patterin'-aavecs, an' let no one be talking : sure 
 we'll give him a little time to think of it." 
 
 " Murderous dog !" exclaimed Howard, with 
 the tremulous energy of a despairing man, " re- 
 collect what you are about to do ; if 1 fall in 
 this manner there's not a pit or nook of your 
 barren hills shall serve to screen you from the 
 consequences ! nor is there a man who now 
 hears me, yet refuses to interfere, but shall be- 
 come an accessary, equally guilty and punish- 
 able with yourself, if indeed you dare proceed 
 to an extremity !" 
 
 " Don't be talkin'," said Mullins, determinedly, 
 " bud kneel down. - '
 
 JOHN DOE. 221 
 
 " I'll give you my curse on my two bended 
 knees, if you touch a hair of his head !" said 
 Tack'em ; " an' then see how you'll look, going 
 about on a short leg, an' your elbow scratching 
 your ear, an' your shins making war on each 
 other, while all the world is at pace !" 
 
 " An' don't you be talkin', either," resumed 
 Mullins who seemed pertinacious in his objec- 
 tion to the prolonged sound of the human voice; 
 " bud kneel by his side an' hear what' he has 
 to tell you first ; and' then say your patterin'- 
 aavees." 
 
 Evidently in fear for himself, Tack'em at last 
 obeyed. The other men, with the old hag and 
 the girl, gathered round, and Howard also me- 
 chanically knelt. He was barely conscious, and 
 no more, of the plunging gallop in which he 
 hastened into eternity. He grew, despite of 
 all his resolutions to die bravely, pale as a sheet ; 
 cold perspiration rushed down his face ; his jaw 
 dropped, and his eyes fixed. Strange notions of 
 strange sounds filled his ears and brain. The 
 roaring of the turf fire, predominantly heard in 
 the dead silence, he confusedly construed into
 
 222 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the break of angry waters about his head ; and 
 the muttering voice of Tack'em, as he rehearsed 
 his prayers, echoed like the growl of advancing 
 thunder. The last prayer was said — Mullins 
 was extending his arm — when a stone descended 
 from the aperture under which he stood, and, 
 at the same time, Flinn's well-known voice ex- 
 claimed from the roof, " Take that, an' bloody 
 ind to you, for a meddling, murtherin' rap !" — 
 Mullins fell senseless. 
 
 " Bounce up, a-vich — you're safe !" said 
 Tack'em, while kneeling himself, he clasped his 
 hands and continued, as if finishing a private 
 prayer that had previously engaged him — " in 
 secula scculorum — Amen ! — Jump, I say — 
 jump ! — Of est us dies hominis ! — vix sum a pud 
 me ! — jump !" — but Howard did not rise till after 
 he had returned ardent thanks for his deliver- 
 ance ; and he was still on his knees when Flinn 
 rushed down the ladder, crying out — " Tattu- 
 an'-tundher-un-ouns ! — it 's the greatest shame 
 ever came on the counthry ! — a burnin' shame ! 
 Och ! Captain a-vourneen, are you safe an' 
 sound every incli o' you ? — and they were goin
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 223 
 
 to trate you in that manner? — are you in a 
 whole skin, a-vich?" — he continued, raising- 
 Howard, and clasping his hands. 
 
 " Quite safe, thank you, only a little fright- 
 ened," said Howard, with a re-assured, though 
 faint smile. 
 
 " Oh the murtherin' thief! — where is he ?" — 
 resumed Flinn — " where is he till I be the death 
 of him ? — get up, you unloocky bird" — giving 
 Mullins a kick — " get up, if the brains are in 
 your head — musha, I pray God the stone 
 mayn't have left 'em — get up an' go on your 
 errand — Purcell is waiting for you, an' the 
 farmer's son is there — get up — an' that you 
 never may !" 
 
 " Musha, I meant all for the best — don't be 
 
 talkin' ;" muttered Mullins, as, recovering from 
 
 the stunning blow, he scrambled on his feet : 
 
 " an' is Purcell ready ?" 
 
 " Yes, you black dog, he is," answered Flinn, 
 
 — " go your ways to him — an' tell him you're 
 
 afther doin' all he axed you — be sure o' that." 
 " Father Tack'em must come wid me," said 
 
 Mullins — " Purcell wants him to make all sure 
 
 — an' I promised."
 
 224 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " I'll not budge a peg in your company," said 
 Tack'em, " there 's neither luck nor grace at 
 your side." 
 
 " For that matter, there 's a priest in the 
 house already," observed Flinn, carelessly. 
 
 " Is there, honey?" asked Tack'em much in- 
 terested — " then, where 's my breviary ?" 
 
 " An' you'd better go, for another raison," 
 rejoined Flinn ; " there 's one abroad that came 
 wid myself to the barn, — (only I left him a lit- 
 tle way off, when I saw the hole in the roof, 
 to make his own way) — that your reverance 
 wouldn't be ovcr-plaised to see — by the powers, 
 here he comes down the ladder;" — Howard 
 looked in some alarm, but was greatly relieved 
 to see the portly person of father O'Clery in 
 the situation Flinn had described. The friends, 
 in mutual surprise and pleasure, advanced to 
 each other. 
 
 " Move aside, plasc your reverance," conti- 
 nued Flinn to Tack'em, as the gentlemen con- 
 versed apart — " and stale out wid .lack as soon 
 as you can — it's the best M r ay for you both." 
 
 Poor Tack'em seemed to agree with thi 
 speaker; for folding round his fat body, and
 
 JOHN DOE. 22/5 
 
 over the relic of a coat that once had been black, 
 a loose, dark-blue dread-nought, and hiding his 
 bald head in a slouched hat, while at the same 
 time he tucked his breviary under his arm, the 
 fallen apostle tottered after Mullins towards a 
 dark corner of the cavern. 
 
 But father O'Clery's quick eye rested on the 
 uncouth figure while it was in motion, and ra- 
 pidly advancing, and asking — "who's that ?" 
 he confronted in terrible severity his lost bro- 
 ther. 
 
 " Wretched man!" — he then continued, his 
 brilliant black eyes half hid by the angular de- 
 pression of eye-lid that accompanied his stern 
 frown — " do I again find you in such a scene, 
 and, indeed, in such a state, as you had so- 
 lemnly promised never to relapse into ? — Is it 
 thus you are to be trusted ? — And has this one 
 absorbing vice sunk you so very low, that you 
 have no terror, either on your own account, or 
 on that of the anointed brethren whose cloth 
 you disgrace, of the shameful death such con- 
 nexions as these must inevitably end in ?" — 
 
 * I rejoice, reverend sir," answered Tack'em, 
 in a doleful whine, disconnected by the clipping 
 
 L <j
 
 £>6 .ions DO] • 
 
 propensity of his tongue — " I say I rejoice, 
 
 that you mercifully allot me but that one unfor- 
 tunate failing — I like it. sir, I like it, God help 
 me ; and I believe — that is, I am afraid, — that 
 while heaven spares me a mouth to open, I must 
 be tasting it. Every one has his fate— I don't 
 mean it heteere — < — doxically, sir — for through 
 all I'm firm in the faith — I'm a sinner, but I be- 
 lieve—but I nevertheless fear, somehow, that 
 we are all born to some misfortune we can 
 never get over ; and as to the cloth, all I can 
 wish, is, that, having once called me into it — 
 many arc called, but few are chosen — and — 
 nemo mortalium omnibus horis .sojtit, as we say 
 in syntax — having once called me into it, 1 wish 
 you could call me out of it again ; I am humble 
 enough to admit, I can never wear it well — and 
 little sorrow would I have to strip it off on any 
 other account ; for, happy death to me, if I get 
 as much by marrying stray-couples, up and 
 down, at the sides of ditches and hedges, and 
 such places, as would keep a second-hand black 
 coat on my back half the year round." 
 
 " Go, you miserable creature," rejoined 
 O'Clery — " hide your head for shame, and,
 
 JOHN DOE. 227 
 
 when you get sober, think and repent, if you 
 can. I can only advise and pray for you ; of 
 punishment you have already had your share ; 
 a poor exile from the pale of God's church ; a 
 bad branch of the tree, lopped off, and cast 
 aside, I fear, for the burning ; and yet are you 
 obstinate in your sin and scandal; and yet, alas, 
 
 the name of priest is abused in your person " 
 
 " Aye, troth, sir,'' interrupted Tack'em, get- 
 ting valiant; " a priest once, a priest for ever; 
 that 's the bite on us both ; and the worst is, we 
 can't help it : good night, brother, and benedi- 
 cite ;" and he moved towards the ladder. 
 " And where now ?" asked O'Clery. 
 " I must go home to read my breviary," an- 
 swered Tack'em, hobbling up the rugged steps. 
 " Stop" — cried O'Clery — " who is that be- 
 fore you ?" — 
 
 It was Mullins, who, taking advantage of the 
 conference between the two clergymen, con- 
 trived to steal up unnoticed until this moment, 
 when his aft orb became visible to O'Clery. 
 As soon as he heard the question directed 
 after him, Jack redoubled his efforts, and re- 
 moved out of sight every part of his unwieldy
 
 228 john doe. 
 
 person. Tack'em followed as he might, and 
 in silence too, like his leader. 
 
 " Here has been infamous work," resumed 
 O'Clery, addressing Flinn and the other men ; 
 " where is the fellow, who, as Captain Howard 
 informs me, meditated a deadly outrage on his 
 person ?" 
 
 " Your reverance saw the hinder part of him 
 just now, I believe," answered Flinn. 
 
 " I thought so," rejoined O'Clery. "Well, 
 then, my good men, let us settle the business 
 you have invited me here to assist you in ; first, 
 Captain Howard, a word with you :" he drew 
 Howard aside and continued in a low voice — 
 " you are of course as surprised to see me here 
 as I am to see you. I have your story, and 
 now listen to mine. Sitting at Mr. Grace's ta- 
 ble, about an hour ago, I learned that some 
 person wished to speak with me ; and when I 
 went down, this young man," pointing to Flinn, 
 " was in waiting. From a long conversation 
 that ensued between us, I could collect that up- 
 wards of one hundred stand of arms were ready 
 to be delivered into my possession for you ; 
 and, indeed, other concessions volunteered, which
 
 JOHN DOE. 229 
 
 promise to put an end to this petty warfare — 
 on one condition however, which it is in your 
 power to grant or refuse. But let us continue 
 before the people." Both advanced, and O'Clery 
 went on, aloud. 
 
 " I have informed Captain Howard, that you 
 propose, my good people, to give such infor- 
 mation as shall lead to the finding of more than 
 a hundred stand of arms, with other things, 
 provided he thinks it safe and prudent to take 
 under his protection the few misguided men — 
 you have told me they are few — now within his 
 lines ; and you engage that these men shall ap- 
 proach his soldiers without arms in their hands, 
 leaving them behind, and remaining as hostages 
 until they are, according to true instructions, 
 found on the spot where they have grounded 
 them." 
 
 " We just tell you, father O'Clery, what we 
 were bid to tell you, by some of our gossips 
 that knows more about it ; bud we'll stand by 
 every word you spake, howsomdever," said 
 Flinn. 
 
 " How say you, Captain Howard ?" asked 
 O'Clery.
 
 2o0 JOHN DOE. 
 
 On the terms proposed, I shall venture to 
 protect those men," answered Howard — " but 
 with one exception. Their captain, Doe, must 
 surrender himself) unconditionally." 
 
 " I fear that will be fatal to the treaty," said 
 O'Clery. 
 
 " Not in the laste, your reverance," said 
 Flinn. " Poor people that are badgered into 
 corners in such a maimer must look aft her them- 
 sefs ; — an' so, if the captain just promises to 
 lend a hand to the rest, he 's welcome, I hear, 
 to Doe, afther all." 
 
 " I promise, then," said Howard : " but good 
 faith must in the very first instance be shewn, 
 by giving up the arms." 
 
 " We have little to do wid 'em, plase your 
 honor," resumed Flinn; only as friends to 
 both sides, an' pace-makers. But I'm tould we 
 needn't go far for the guns an' pistols, any how. 
 Arrah, Shawmus," he continued, addressing an 
 old man near him, " wasn't it somewhere here 
 the woman bid us look for 'em?" — and taking 
 down some bundles of straw, Flinn exhibited a 
 considerable depot of old muskets, fowling 
 pieces, pistols, great and small, carbines, and 
 blunderbusses.
 
 JOHN DOE. 231 
 
 " All this is very well," said Howard, re- 
 straining his pleasure as well as amazement — 
 " and now I have to say, that if these things re- 
 main as they are, until morning, when, with some 
 of my men, I can get possession of them ; and if 
 the other concessions and submissions, spoken 
 of by Mr. O'Clery, are made with a good grace, 
 I shall then see about performing my own part 
 of the treaty. But — " he continued, after a 
 short pause, and now pressed by a goading re- 
 collection — " but, my dear Mr. O'Clery, I fear 
 I have even yet made a childish arrangement — 
 Doe, I can learn, is not in my power." 
 
 " Indeed, Captain Howard ! do you speak on 
 good authority ?" 
 
 " I am afraid I do. But come, 'tis a point 
 easily ascertained if I was once at my quarters 
 — how shall I safely get there ?" 
 
 " I will, with pleasure, accompany you, and 
 this young man will guide us," said O'Clery, 
 pointing to Flinn. 
 
 " Wid a heart an' a half, your reverance," 
 said Flinn, " an' don't let the captain be so 
 much down in the mouth about Doe ; whether 
 he 's in the bog, or out of it, we'll shew him to
 
 232 JOHN DOE. 
 
 his honor, Captain Howard, some time or 
 other; an' sooner than he thinks, maybe. 1 
 
 " Come on, then, there 's no time to be lost, " 
 rejoined Howard ; and he, O'Clery, and Flinn, 
 prepared to leave the cavern by the ladder. 
 
 In passing by a recess, which was studiously 
 surrounded with piles of straw, furze, and fern, 
 Howard observed, in deep shadow, the young 
 female and child, who had been the first, though 
 unconscious cause of his stumble on such a nest 
 of disloyalty in every shape. She still sat, 
 holding the infant to her bosom ; but her voice 
 was hushed, and she only kept that peculiar to 
 and fro motion of the body, by which the wo- 
 men of her country gesticulate a heavy sorrow. 
 " Who is she ?" asked Howard of Flinn, as 
 they passed. 
 
 " Troth, plase your honor, I dunna," was the 
 reply. 
 
 Howard looked round for the figure of the old 
 man, who had accompanied her over the hills ; 
 but, of all those in the place, none resembled 
 his. O'Clery, in leading the way, had not no- 
 ticed the young person, and Howard now hur- 
 ried after him up the ladder.
 
 JOHN DOE. 233 
 
 " Let your reverance an' the captain take 
 care o' your heads," said Flinn, as he followed 
 them ; " the stone covers the hole all over, an' 
 you'll have to stoop fur it a little." 
 
 O'Clery, from his exploring and unassisted 
 descent, was prepared for this intimation, and 
 cautiously observed it ; but Howard, whose en- 
 trance had been in an independent way, found 
 much difficulty in lowering his person, neck 
 and knees, as he almost crawled, once again, up 
 to the face of the earth. 
 
 The moon had gained her zenith as the party 
 emerged into her reviving beams ; and Howard 
 and O'Clery both paused an instant to examine, 
 in the broad light, if any appearance of sus- 
 picion was attached to the secret entrance they 
 had just cleared. As Flinn truly premised, the 
 large flat stone, completely jetted over the mouth 
 of the excavation ; and, at either side, as also 
 at its elevated end, fem and furze-bush formed 
 such a screen as must beguile the eye of any un- 
 informed wanderer. After remarking, that the 
 concealment was perfect, the gentlemen, attend- 
 by Flinn, pursued their mountain-path to How- 
 ard's quarters.
 
 234 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " I must say, Mr. O'Clery," observed Howard, 
 after they had made some progress downward, 
 " that though other things agitated me more, no- 
 thing, through the course of this eventful even- 
 ing, so utterly astonished me, as to find a per- 
 son of your profession in such a place; and 
 such a person! — I mean father Tack'em. 
 
 " Poor creature," said O'Clery, " he is our 
 shame, indeed : though it will also be acknow- 
 ledged how very rarely such instances of vi- 
 cious infatuation are to be found in our body." 
 
 " I know it, sir," resumed Howard, " but my 
 only wonder is, why, when you have ascertained 
 the obstinate unworthiness of a minister, you do 
 not at once discard him from your brotherhood. 
 — Tack'em, if such be his name, is evidently in 
 priest's orders still." 
 
 " We cannot canonically do what you sug- 
 gest," answered O'Clery ; " the rule, in such a 
 case, differs in our separate churches. You 
 have heard the poor fellow, himself, say, a priest 
 once, a priest for ever ; and such is our dis- 
 cipline. We deem that, although we assist in 
 sanctioning the vow by which an anointed priest 
 dedicates himself to the service of his Master,
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 235 
 
 we have no power to declare the mysterious 
 contract annulled, under any circumstances. All 
 we can do in a case of irreclaimable error is to 
 forbid, to the unworthy priest, the exercise of 
 his priestly functions, and to deprive him, so far 
 as in us lies, of all lawful opportunity of assum- 
 ing them." 
 
 " Meantime," asked Howard, " can he assume 
 them if he pleases ?" — 
 
 " Certainly, and we say with as much spiritual 
 efficacy as ever : for we argue, that the grace, 
 having once adopted its human conduit, cannot, 
 by any accident that may befal that conduit, be 
 defiled in its transmission to other human souls. 
 In other words," continued O'Clery, striking 
 on one of his less serious tones, " Tack'em, — 
 which you have sagaciously surmised not to be 
 his real name: in fact, 'tis only an expletive of his 
 present contraband trade — may — (and he does) 
 — splice in holy wedlock, scores of run-a-way 
 couples, who dare not solicit the good offices of 
 their parish-priest, or of any of his curates."
 
 '■><> JOHN DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 .Howard had sent word that he should be at 
 Mr. Grace's house at seven o'clock, and he left 
 his quarters at six, in order to keep his ap- 
 pointment. Seven o'clock came, and Howard 
 did not appear. But it was about this hour that 
 Mr. O'Clery, while sitting with Mr. Grace and 
 the Protestant clergyman, Mr. Somers, (the pa- 
 rish priest had been some time gone,) received 
 an invitation to speak with a strange man in the 
 hall. Returning to his company, and generally 
 hinting the result of his conference with Flinn, 
 O'Clery was strongly dissuaded by his friends 
 from returning alone on such an invitation. Mr. 
 Grace urged, that even O'Clery's spiritual call- 
 ing was no certain shield against the displeasure 
 of the deluded people, whom, he said, the ex-
 
 JOHN DOE. 237 
 
 hortation delivered in the course of the day, 
 might have provoked into blind hostility towards 
 the preacher. Neither did he suppose an un- 
 precedented case. It had before now happened 
 that a Roman Catholic pastor was visited with 
 the vengeance which a sense of his efficacious 
 interference had aroused. 
 
 " And o' my conscience, father O'Clery," con- 
 tinued Mr. Grace, " I know not what to make 
 of Captain John ; he will legislate for us all in 
 our turns. I thought my poor old papist name, 
 Mr. Somers, might have been respected ; but 
 no later than last night he sends me a notice to 
 lower my rents, and plead gratis for all de- 
 fendants in the tithe-proctor's court." 
 
 " Aye," said O'Clery, smiling, "and this morn- 
 ing I tore off the chapel-door, before day-light, 
 a paper signed by him, advising the clergyman 
 at whose house I slept, to give over all ser- 
 mons against his government, as he was pleased 
 to call it ; to take two shillings per annum for 
 his Christmas and Easter dues ; to marry at 
 five shillings a pair, and christen at ten pence a 
 head. Then father Doyle, in the next parish, 
 has had a visit from him and his men. These
 
 238 JOHN DOE. 
 
 are strange times, and Doe a strange fellow ; 
 yet will I hazard the visit this young man invites 
 me to ; there is nothing to fear." 
 
 He left the house accordingly, and his friends 
 remained anxiously speculating on his return. 
 Mr. Grace, consulting his watch, began to feel 
 additional uneasiness on Howards account also. 
 It was now half past seven, and no sign of 
 Howard, — it was eight, and yet he came not ; 
 and Mr. Grace and Mr. Somers grew seriously 
 alarmed. 
 
 To another person under the same roof, his 
 absence caused even livelier pain. Mary Grace 
 had, before seven o'clock, retired to her apart- 
 ment to make some little preparation for re- 
 ceiving her lover, as also to discharge some re- 
 ligious observances of the day. She proceeded 
 half way in her toilet ; the fair long hair was 
 first dishevelled and then newly bound up, and 
 a simple flower braided through it ; and Mary, 
 her upper robe laid aside, consulted her glass, 
 in, it must be admitted, much modest satisfac- 
 tion at her progress ; when, recollecting her 
 unperformed task of gentle penance and Sunday 
 reading, a reproving blush mounted on the
 
 JOHN DOE. 239 
 
 young cheek that had, before, its share of 
 healthy bloom ; and she hastily drew a chair to 
 the fire, opened her prayer-book, and strove, 
 with all virtuous seriousness, to detach her mind 
 and heart from personal vanities, from Howard, 
 and every thing earthly, and fix them on sub- 
 limer objects. She chided herself for having 
 indulged the inclination to make her toilet pre- 
 vious to the discharge of her spiritual obliga- 
 tions, and she would not proceed in dressing, 
 would not even look towards the glass, until she 
 had said and read her penance, and, kneeling at 
 the chair, attentively perused a religious tract. 
 
 While just commencing her devotions, the 
 clock audibly struck seven. This was an unto- 
 ward intrusion. Howard was always punctual 
 to his appointments ; he would surely come to 
 the house in an instant, if indeed he had not 
 already arrived ; and he would have to wait for 
 Mary, and out of good nature, Mary did not 
 wish to keep him waiting. Her eyes wandered 
 a moment as she listened for his knock; she 
 caught herself inattentive ; again brought her 
 heart to task, and again resumed her devotions. 
 
 In about half an hour she had finished, with
 
 \M-0 JOHN DOE. 
 
 few further temptations or distractions; but as 
 Mary rose, her feelings changed, first into im- 
 patience, and then into anxiety, at the absence 
 of Howard. He could not have knocked with- 
 out her hearing it ; and even if he had, Nora, 
 her attendant, must have come, according to 
 arrangement, to inform her mistress of his arri- 
 val. Her heart sunk, as just standing up, a 
 thought of danger or treachery to Howard 
 crossed her mind, and Mary unconsciously sat 
 on the chair, her toilet again forgotten, to pur- 
 sue her sad reverie. And, in this situation, we 
 substitute a slight graphic sketch of Mary, and 
 of her chamber, for a detailed description of 
 her character. 
 
 Having doffed her very outside dress, while 
 proceeding with her toilet, she sat in tight- 
 laced stays and a white petticoat, leaning back 
 in the chair, her ankles crossed, her left arm 
 and hand hanging by her side, and in this 
 hand her prayer-book, still open. While sink- 
 ing in the chair, Mary put her rosary on the 
 toilet-table, but, at the same time, took up a 
 miniature of Howard, which she now held in 
 her right hand; her face was, however, un-
 
 JOHN DOE. 241 
 
 consciously turned away from the likeness, as 
 with big tears in her soft blue eyes, she sighed 
 forth a gentle storm of intercessions for his 
 safety. Her figure, rather round than slight, 
 was fully, indeed luxuriously, developed by her 
 undress ; the short petticoat and slippers per- 
 mitting a more than usual exhibition of her 
 plump, though not heavy ankle ; while her po- 
 lished shoulders, and dimpled neck and back, 
 abandoned themselves to the guardian sylphs 
 who alone enjoy (married men excepted) the 
 chances of a lady's happy chamber. 
 
 Upon the toilet, and immediately beside the 
 red morocco case, out of which she had taken 
 the miniature, stood a carved ivory crucifix. A 
 little farther on was a tall glass vase half filled 
 with water, and holding a monthly rose, just 
 blown, and newly plucked. Emulative groups 
 of flowers, the creatures of Mary's pencil, hung 
 on the walls over the table ; and in the midst a 
 Madonna and child, in crayons, also executed 
 by herself. A small book-shelf appeared to the 
 right-hand side, and under her glass lay, (of 
 course, even in Ireland) an album, of which the 
 covers were tastefully ornamented. 
 
 VOL. III. M
 
 -'!.' JOHN DOE. 
 
 Immediately In-hind .Mary was her bed, draped 
 with virgin white. As she sat, the lire blazed 
 strongly upon her, heightening the colour of 
 her check, and the golden cloud of curls around 
 her forehead, and enriching the already rich 
 carnation tint of her neck and shoulders. 
 Through her figure, her attitude, and her ex- 
 pression, as well as through the detail of all the 
 accompaniments we have described, there ran a 
 blended character of alternate elegance and pu- 
 rity, and subdued, though subduing voluptu- 
 ousness. In such a situation, and in the elo- 
 quent presence of such indications of pursuit 
 and sentiment, vice might at first contemplate 
 her with unholy throbs, but would at length 
 retire on tip-toe, awed and relenting, if not 
 abashed and converted. 
 
 It was some time before Mary had spirits to 
 rise and complete her toilet ; but the startling 
 .sound of the clock, striking eight, at last roused 
 her, and she pulled the bell for Nora. 
 
 Nora entered; a fast-fading maiden of forty, 
 with strong, staring features, her head sur- 
 mounted by a stiff-starched " high-cauled cap,' 
 which pinned under her throat; and further
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 243 
 
 wearing a brown stuff gown, tucked up behind, 
 and leaving her arms bare from the elbows ; a 
 blue check apron ; a flaming silk handkerchief, 
 drawn down between her shoulders ; blue stock- 
 ings, and sharp-pointed shoes, with large square 
 silver-buckles in them. 
 
 " Not come yet, Nora ?" asked her mistress, 
 after engaging the Abigail to assist in her toilet 
 — "but what is this, you nasty woman? — get 
 away from me ! you have again been indulging 
 in that ugly habit I so often checked you for, 
 and which you so often promised me to give 
 over." 
 
 Nora solemnly protested that " never a single 
 shaugh o' the pipe had herself taken since the 
 blessed mornin', now six months agone, when 
 Miss Mary forbid her doin' iv it." — This was, 
 however, a rash assertion ; for, in good sooth, 
 Nora, after many laudable efforts, could not pos- 
 sibly prevail on herself to surrender a much-in- 
 dulged and long-loved gratification. " It rises my 
 poor heart," she often said in soliloquy, " betther 
 nor any thing else in the world ; an' sure there 's 
 neither sin nor shame in givin' into it a little, now 
 an' then, whin I'm done my work, an' nobody 
 
 m 2
 
 § I 1 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the wiser, and the clours shut to keep the smoke 
 in the kitchen ;" and Nora accordingly sought 
 her own opportunities for solitary enjoyment ; 
 nay, the tingle of her mistress's bell had just 
 summoned her out of the centre of a good cloud, 
 that for the previous hour she had been indus- 
 triously accumulating. 
 
 " I scarcely believe you, Nora," said her 
 young lady in reply to Nora's rapid defence, 
 " only I cannot think you are so vile as to tell 
 a fib this holy evening. But, Captain Howard 
 has not yet come ?" 
 
 " Musha, no, God presaarve him," said the 
 attendant. 
 
 " Oh, Nora !" sighed Mary — " heaven send 
 no evil has overtaken him on the road !" 
 
 " O, yea, amin, from my heart," groaned 
 Nora : " you love the handsome captain, dearly, 
 Miss Mary, that you are so unasy fur him." 
 
 " Indeed, Nora, I do love him, well and 
 dearly; and better than I thought I could ever 
 love again." 
 
 " Agin? musha, good loock to you, I never 
 thought you loved any body afore." 
 " Fie, Nora, you knew it well."
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 245 
 
 " Avoch ! poor young Kavanah, is it ?" 
 " Alas, yes — poor young Kavanah." 
 " Ulla-loo, Miss Mary — that was all nothin' 
 in the world but childer's folly, you know." 
 
 " It was childish ; yet, sweeter that it was so. 
 It was silly, too ; vain and romantic ; still, my 
 good Nora, its recollection is innocently sweet." 
 " Why, sure it 's now four years agone ; an' 
 you were then only thirteen, an' he a slip of 
 eighteen." 
 
 " No more, I believe, was either of us." 
 " Well ; if ever I hard o' the like ! — Musha, 
 Miss Mary, 'twas an early notion, wasn't it ?— 
 Throth, fur the matther o' that, there 's many a 
 colleen in the country, as ould as you are this 
 blessed day, that never yet thought of it ; an' no 
 wonder. Here 's myself, that might be your mo- 
 ther, God bless the mark, an' I believe I was a 
 start past eighteen afore an ida of it ever cross- 
 ed me; an' many long years afther I had my 
 first sweetheart. Thin, there was sich a differ 
 betuxt ye in the world, sure I never guessed 
 you could dhrame of any thing o' the kind. Lord 
 save us ! did ye ever spake to ach other ?" 
 "Scarcely, Nora; but it gave my childish
 
 246 JOHN DOB. 
 
 heart a secret pride and pleasure to see, by his 
 looks anil manner, that Kavanah also loved me 
 with all a boy's love. There was a distance, I 
 know; yet my lather was not then so rich, and 
 J larry and his mother were well to do in the 
 world, and thriving fast to something better ; 
 and only for that vile Purcell, heaven knows 
 what might have come of it." 
 
 " Well, to be sure ; were you ever tould what 
 became o' poor Harry, misthess ?" 
 
 " Yes — he escaped from the north to Ame- 
 rica. 
 
 " An' the mother died ; — an' they say — Lord 
 presaarve us ! that the ould grand lather roves 
 about the country, for mad, like any ghost; 
 frightenin' the people out o' their lives ; though, 
 musha, I don't grudge it to some o' them — he 
 came across Purcell once or twice, and turned 
 him white wid his curses." 
 
 " Then he must have cursed deep, indeed."' 
 
 " An' that villain o' the world, Miss Mary, 
 that Purcell, to have the impidence to look at 
 you, afther all his black doins, an' wid his up- 
 start consequence that cum in such a way." 
 
 " Yes, Noni, and while he kept in the shadow
 
 JOHN DOE. 247 
 
 of shame and sorrow, the poor creature he had 
 sworn to be just to ; and she holding his written 
 promise ; surely that was enough to make me 
 scorn him even if there were no other reasons, 
 and although it were possible I could ever love 
 such a man. All was the wildest presumption on 
 his part. But I am now, thank heaven, free 
 from his pursuit; protected, or soon likely to 
 be — by a brave and honorable man." 
 
 " Musha, yes ; an we hope an' 'spect, you'll 
 do your duty by him, Miss Mary." 
 
 " How do you mean, Nora ? — something very 
 silly and impertinent, ' I'm sure." 
 
 " Avoch, no — only, make a christhen o' the 
 sassenach, Miss Mary — throth, it 's your duty 
 afore God an' us." 
 
 " Hold your foolish tongue, Nora — and — 
 hush ! — there is his knock at last — louder than 
 usual, indeed — I hope he is come safe to us. — ■ 
 There — take away your hands — I am very well. 
 Run to the door — or, stay, I shall first ask my 
 father :" and Mary accordingly hastened to the 
 parlour. 
 
 " "Tis Howard at last, I'm sure, father," she 
 said, gaily entering.
 
 24S 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Most likely, Mary — but are the doors and 
 lower windows all barred '." 
 
 " ^ es, sir, as usual — do you fear any thing?" 
 
 " No, but better Leave them so till we ask a 
 question of this late visitor, whoever he may 
 be :" and Mr. Grace threw up a window, and 
 called out—" who's there ?" — 
 
 " A friend to Lieutenant Howard," replied 
 a sharp voice from below — " I have a letter 
 from him." 
 
 " Is he well, sir ?" — asked Mary, at the win- 
 dow. 
 
 ' He is — let me in, mistress, 'till I give tin 
 letter ; the night is cold, do you know, and 
 grows too bad for tarrying here." 
 
 " Throw in the letter, and if it be from Lieut. 
 Howard, you are welcome ; and, meantime, you 
 must excuse a precaution that the times render 
 very necessary, sir," resumed Grace. 
 
 " Here, then — and I could quite excuse your 
 over-caution if the night were finer," replied 
 the voice ; and, immediately after, the letter 
 dropped into the room. 
 
 Mary took it up, and, glancing her eye over 
 the contents, said — " oh, we should instantU
 
 JOHN DOE. 249 
 
 admit him, father; — Howard writes — ' be kind 
 to the bearer, for my sake, as he has just 
 rendered me a signal service :' " Mr. Grace went 
 down stairs. 
 
 In his absence, Mr. Somers inquired of Mary 
 if any thing disagreeable had happened to keep 
 Howard away, and she answered — " no — he 
 only mentions a necessity for not quitting his 
 present post." 
 
 While she was speaking, Mr. Grace re-enter- 
 ed, introducing Sullivan, and saying — "welcome, 
 sir ; and if you have to travel farther, better 
 not speak of it 'till morning." 
 
 " I thank you, sir," Sullivan said, bluffly, 
 " and at once accept your hospitality." 
 
 " Sir, you are welcome," echoed Mary, court- 
 sying. 
 
 " I thank you, too, mistress," resumed Sulli- 
 van ; — then, thinking his words — " will she know 
 me? — 
 
 " Captain Howard speaks of a particular ser- 
 vice you have just done him. On any danger, 
 sir ?" — resumed Mary, advancing a little. 
 
 Sullivan was absent a moment while he men- 
 tally added, gazing on her — " No — years, and 
 
 si o
 
 250 JOHN DOE. 
 
 grief, and travel, and the growth of new habits 
 and passions under a warmer sun, must have 
 completely altered me" — then, recollecting him- 
 self, he added, carelessly — " hoot, toot — no, 
 fair mistress ; I pointed him out the best road 
 to his wild quarters, as I met him marching in 
 quest of them : that 's all." 
 
 " Sit, sir," said Man, much embarrassed — 
 and then she too had her reverie — " why did 
 he not answer me ? — Gracious God !■ — that side- 
 face !" 
 
 " Aye, sir, sit," said Mr. Grace, " and let 
 us have the pleasure to drink your health, here." 
 "In genuine mountain-dew, I hope?" said 
 Sullivan, in a kind of condescending pleasantry, 
 as he and Mr. Grace sat to the table with Mr. 
 Somers. 
 
 " The right sort, sir ; only Mr. Somers, there, 
 makes it a case of conscience, and has some 
 ' parliament' to himself." 
 
 " I reverence the minister's scruples," re- 
 joined Sullivan, bending on Mr. Somers an in- 
 quisitive and rather intrusive glance. 
 
 " Exactly such a change," continued Mar\ 
 to herself, " I have dreamt came over his face
 
 JOHN DOE. 251 
 
 and person ; the bright bloom gone ; the round 
 cheek sunk; the features sharpened; the eye 
 grown quick and daring ; and the mouth bold, 
 open, and haughty; and so I have seen him, 
 night after night, though now long ago, stand- 
 ing sternly erect, and walking and moving like 
 another creature than the innocent boy he was 
 when we first met. But no," she continued, as, 
 after his deep gaze, Sullivan turned easily away 
 and sat to the table,—" it cannot be he, so 
 unmoved and light of heart to see me — this is 
 childishness, or worse :" and she, too, sat down 
 by her father's side. 
 
 " Any thing new of Doe, sir ?" asked Grace, 
 after a rather disagreeable pause. 
 
 " Why, yes," said Sullivan — " I heard just 
 now — that is, your friend Howard told me — 
 he had escaped. Is there no mention of it in 
 the letter ?" 
 
 " No, sir," said Mary, " and that omission, 
 and your account, are alarming." 
 
 " No need of alarm, I think, mistress," re- 
 sumed Sullivan, without raising his eyes from 
 the glass in which he was compounding his pot- 
 theen punch — " Howard is too many for him,"
 
 252 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Doubtless," said Mr. Grace—" and, wel- 
 come, once more, sir ; may we add a name ?" 
 
 '"Now!" thought Mary, in continued and 
 irresistible anxiety and apprehension. 
 
 '" Surely that, at least, is in the letter?" said 
 Sullivan. 
 
 "It is not, sir,*' said Mary, strangely. 
 
 *' Then my curse on him for forgetting !" — 
 muttered Sullivan — " I forget it myself, now : let 
 
 me see — no matter — any name will do you 
 
 may call me Butler, sir," he added aloud, to 
 Mr. Grace. 
 
 " Mr. Butler, your health ;" and the old- 
 fashioned greeting went round. When Mary 
 took a wine-glass in her hand, Sullivan, as at 
 his pleasure, we must continue to call him, 
 rapidly glanced at her ; a new misgiving crept 
 into life in the very bottom of her soul, and, 
 in addressing him, she pronounced the name 
 " Butler," so broken and indistinctly as scarcely 
 to be audible. Sullivan withdrew his eyes, 
 and his breast rose and fell as if inflated by a 
 deep sigh, all sound of which he was able to 
 suppress. 
 
 Another general pause ensued, which Mr.
 
 JOHN DOE. 253 
 
 Somers at last broke, by renewing with Mr. 
 Grace a conversation that the knocking at the 
 door had interrupted. 
 
 " I did not think," he said, " Purcell had 
 acted so very foully towards this unfortunate 
 young person." 
 
 At the mention of Purcell' s name, Sullivan 
 slightly, though quickly started, but concealed 
 or diverted his sudden movement, by turning 
 sideways on his chair, and crossing his legs. 
 Then he appeared to listen with set attention. 
 
 " I tell you the fact, Mr. Somers," said Grace, 
 " she holds his written promise of marriage." 
 
 " I am astonished," resumed the clergyman ; 
 " for, in the discharge of what I conceive my 
 duty, and, as Mr. Purcell is a Protestant, I 
 spoke to him on the subject ; when he assured 
 me, with solemn oaths, that he had never en- 
 tered into any such engagement ; in fact, that 
 the connexion was not of his seeking." 
 
 " He lied, and was perjured then, like the liar 
 and perjurer he is," said Sullivan, deliberately. 
 " Mary looked ; but no extraordinary interest, 
 sufficient to lend positive confirmation to her
 
 .'251 JOHN DOE. 
 
 suspicions, was visible in the face or manner of 
 the speaker. 
 
 " And his assertions with respect to her un- 
 happy young brother appear, from what you 
 now say, equally unfounded," continued Mr. 
 Somers, still addressing his host. 
 
 " Why, what did he say different from what 
 I tell you, sir?" asked Grace. 
 
 " Every thing different ; but, in particular, 
 he stated, that young Kavanah had, joined to 
 his disloyal combinations, provoked the laws of 
 his country by robberies on the highway.*' 
 
 A more decided agitation was here evident in 
 Sullivan as Mary still looked ; he writhed again 
 round, pressed his hands across his brows ; and 
 she could hear him draw in his breath, and 
 grind his teeth together. 
 
 " Then you are quite right in terming it ano- 
 ther slander, false and malignant as the first, 
 Mr. Somers," said Grace. Touched and fired 
 by this kindly vindication, perhaps, Sullivan at 
 last burst out — 
 
 " Hell's torments !— a mean thief! — a com- 
 mon thief!" and he stampt violently, and walked 
 about the room.
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 255 
 
 Mary grew sickly pale, and Grace and the 
 clergyman looked at each other. In an instant, 
 however, he was apparently calm, and turning 
 to the company, added, " I beg pardon for 
 speaking rather warmly on what little concerns 
 me. But here is an instrument ; — you play, Miss 
 Grace ?" Sullivan pointed to a piano-forte. 
 
 " Poorly, sir," said Grace, " but, if you are 
 no hard critic, Mary will be happy to give you 
 
 a song. 
 
 Sullivan slightly bowed ; and Mary moved, 
 like a machine, to the instrument. Her limbs 
 trembled, and her heart failed within her ; yet 
 she sat, and busied herself with the sheets of 
 music that lay by her side, till Sullivan, stooping 
 over her shoulder, took up a song she had just 
 put down, and mutely placed it on the stand. 
 Bowing her head, Mary rapidly, and without 
 coherent thought, commenced. 
 
 " You used to sing that, too, Mary,"' said her 
 father, when she had struck a few notes, " and, 
 as 'tis a pretty song, you will favour us with 
 it, now, I am sure." 
 
 " Pray do, Miss Grace," said Sullivan, as he 
 continued to stand at her back — " it is a sweet 
 
 song.
 
 256 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Mary, endeavouring to compose her hand 
 and voice, complied. Jt was a native melody, 
 of the wildest and most plaintive cast, set to the 
 following words, <>f which, doubtless, Sullivan 
 and Mr. Grace had hoth spoken too highly. 
 But, such as they are, we subjoin them. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tis not for love of gold I go, 
 
 'Tis not for love of fame ; 
 Tho' fortune should her smile bestow, 
 
 And I may win a name, 
 
 AUleen ; 
 
 And I may win a name. 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet it is for gold I go, 
 
 And yet it is for fame ; 
 That they may deck another brow, 
 
 And bless another name, 
 
 Ailleen ; 
 
 And bless another nanr. . 
 
 III. 
 
 For this, but this, I go — for this 
 
 I lose thy love awhile ; 
 And all the soft and quiet bliss 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile, 
 Ailleen ; 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile.
 
 JOHN DOE. 257 
 
 IV. 
 
 And I go to brave a world I hate, 
 
 And woo it o'er and o'er, 
 And tempt a wave, and try a fate, 
 
 Upon a stranger shore, 
 
 Ailleen ; 
 
 Upon a stranger shore. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh ! when the bays are all my own, 
 
 I know a heart will care ! 
 Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, 
 
 I know a brow shall wear, 
 Ailleen ; 
 
 I know a brow shall wear ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 And, when with both returned again, 
 
 Z\Iy native land to see, 
 I know a smile will meet me, then, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me, 
 Ailleen ; 
 
 And a hand will welcome me ! 
 
 Mary, while entering on this song, and parti- 
 cularly from the circumstance of its having been 
 so placed before her, felt her misgivings in- 
 crease. In fact, it had been a favorite ditty of 
 the person now uppermost in her thoughts ; she
 
 JOHN DO! . 
 
 had often, often, sang it at his request ; as, pre- 
 vious to their unfortunate separation, he long 
 
 entertained a notion of seeking his fortunes in a 
 foreign country, and the words became roman- 
 tically applicable to their then felt situation. A 
 crowd and bustle of associations, sorrows, 
 doubts, and fears, attended therefore her exe- 
 cution of the ballad ; yet she went through it 
 with peculiar expression ; perhaps the very 
 hurry and agitation of her soul lent it a wild 
 energy and pathos. She was just prolonging 
 the last note, when a warm tear fell on her 
 neck ; another, and another, and another, fast 
 as the big drops from the swollen and sultry 
 cloud, when it has at last been able to weep its 
 concealment ; — she started — shrunk — burned — 
 cringed, under them ; now they came like trick- 
 lings of molten lead, parching her skin, and 
 sending a fierce glow through her frame ; and 
 now, like the drippings of a thawed icicle, 
 making her blood run chill, and her very bones 
 to shiver. Yielding at once to her feelings, 
 Mary leaned back in her chair, and raised her 
 head to a pier-glass immediately opposite ; but 
 this was no relief; for there, dimly reflected
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 259 
 
 from the back of her chair, stood the very man 
 she had before failed to recognize — his face 
 now relaxed to all its primitive character — 
 clouded in anguish and in recollections — and 
 his eyes sadly bent in the mirrored image of 
 his boyish love. Their looks met in the glass. 
 Mary, taken by surprise, could no longer re- 
 strain herself; she screamed wildly and dole- 
 fully, and with clasped hands rushed to her 
 father. 
 
 Mr. Grace and Mr. Somers instantly rose, 
 and were about to inquire the cause of her emo- 
 tion, but a new sound of alarm arrested their at- 
 tention. Mary's scream had scarcely subsided 
 when a loud shout arose outside the house, ac- 
 companied by the discharge of a gun or pistol. 
 
 " Not Captain John, I hope !" — exclaimed 
 Sullivan, instantly resuming his reckless appear- 
 ance. Mary, her father, and Mr. Somers, stood 
 suspended in silence. Another shout, with ex- 
 clamations of " John Doe ! John Doe !" broke 
 forth. 
 
 " By heaven, but it is, though !" resumed 
 Sullivan, approaching a window. Ejaculations 
 of apprehension and terror rapidly escaped the
 
 260 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 others, and Mary, her arms dropt, stood the v< 
 picture of dismay, leaning against the wall. 
 
 At the same moment Nora rushed in. She 
 had heen surprised by the noise while taking 
 her customary relaxation in secret, and thrown 
 off her centre of caution by the immediate pres- 
 sure of bodily fear, the pipe was entirely forgot- 
 ten ; so that she now entered with a short black 
 stump in her mouth, firmly secured in a spasmo- 
 dic compression of the jaws, while speaking 
 through her teeth, she cried out — 
 
 " Misthess ! — Master !— we're all undone! — 
 ruined fur ever! — ruined fur ever!" — then 
 running to Mr. Grace, she got behind his back, 
 clasped her hands round his hips, and continu- 
 ed — "Mr. Grace! Mr. Grace! your house is 
 destroyed! — your house is destroyed! — it's 
 all over wid us ! — over wid us !" and totally 
 unconscious of the promulgation of her for- 
 bidden pastime, Nora mechanically made a short 
 puff between every sentence, and, at the end, 
 fell into a boisterous hysteric of laughing, 
 crying, and screaming. 
 
 Meantime, the uproar abroad increased every
 
 JOHN DOE. 261 
 
 moment. To the shouts and exclamations was 
 now joined a loud rapping at the front door, 
 mixed with cries of " open ! open !" 
 
 " Merciful God ! what will become of us !" 
 Mary exclaimed, from time to time. During 
 her last words, Sullivan cautiously approached 
 her, and, in a changed tone, said impressively 
 at her ear, " Mary !" 
 
 " Ha !" with another faint scream, " that was 
 in the voice I know — Kavanah !" 
 
 " Hush ! and fear not — I am here to protect 
 you" — then turning to her father, "you have 
 arms, Mr. Grace ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," answered Grace, " but you know 
 they are the first things we must give up." 
 
 " Shame, shame! arm yourself, and the mi- 
 nister there, and we may yet beat them off — 
 your arms, sir !" he continued, in a commanding 
 tone, which Grace instantly obeyed, by leaving 
 the room. 
 
 " My weapons are my words, sir," said Mr. 
 Somers, " I am a soldier of peace." 
 
 " Mine are under my frock, sir ; and, though 
 I'm no soldier, I'll fight," said Kavanah ; for we 
 are at last free to give him his true name.
 
 £62 JOHN DO I . 
 
 Grace now returned with a blunderbuss and 
 pistols. "Mary, be of good cheer, and stand 
 near us," he said, while passing her. 
 
 "Och! yes, masther, yes!" — cried Nora, con- 
 firming her grasp round his waist. 
 
 " Speak to them, first, through the window," 
 said Kavanah. Mr. Grace accordingly threw 
 up the sash, and asked — " What do you want 
 here?" 
 
 " Open your door, and you shall know," ex- 
 vlaimed two or three rough voices together. 
 
 " Do you seek arms ?"' demanded Sullivan. 
 
 "No — who are you that asks the question?" 
 they answered. 
 
 " We have no money in the house at present," 
 said Grace. 
 
 " Not a rap, good christhens !" screamed 
 Nora, still at his back — " it 's all in the bank! — 
 all in the bank !" 
 
 " We do not want your money," resumed the 
 voices. 
 
 Kavanah, who for the last minute had been 
 anxiously peering out at the window, as if to 
 distinguish a particular object, now suddenly 
 ilropt on one knee, and leaning his carbine on
 
 JOHN DOE. 263 
 
 the edge of the frame-work, cried in a suppres- 
 sed yet sharp voice — "Muffins! Muffins! — 
 move an inch aside ! — he moves though he does 
 not hear me — now I hit him ! — no — sink that 
 idiot ! — he covers the scoundrel again !"' and he 
 continued kneeling, and still on the watch. 
 
 The shouts and knocking grew louder and 
 louder, and Mr. Somers, in his turn advanced 
 to the window — " Misguided men !" he said, 
 " what brings you here ? — retire in the name of 
 religion and honesty !" 
 
 " Sure we don't want the likes o' you," an- 
 swered a voice. 
 
 " Though since the minister is there," added 
 another, less coarse than the first, and appa- 
 rently feigned, " we may borrow him for an 
 hour or two, as he may be useful." 
 
 " My God, father, what can they mean ?" 
 said Mary, her fears taking a more poignant 
 turn as she listened to this last announcement. 
 
 " Och ! we're lost ! lost ! our vaartue isn't 
 worth the turnin' of a pin !" cried Nora, con- 
 cluding with an odd scream, rattled through 
 her throat, and dancing with her heels in an 
 excess of tribulation, as she still held by her 
 master.
 
 ■-'»'>l JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Open ! open ! — 'tis betthcr for you, Mr. 
 Grace ! — open ! or we'll break in !" — continued 
 those below, amid still increasing shouts, and 
 while (hey battered still more violently at the 
 front door. At this moment, Nora, to the sur- 
 prise of all present, rapidly left the room and 
 ran down stairs. 
 
 " Do you rely on the strength of the hall- 
 door, Mr. Grace ?" asked Sullivan, quickly 
 turning his head, as he still knelt. 
 
 " It ought to be able to withstand all the 
 force they can bring against it," answered 
 Grace; "but the back door is, most unfortu- 
 nately, worse framed for long resistance." 
 
 During this conversation Nora was heard 
 slowly ascending the stairs, with heavy and toil- 
 some groans, and strange mutterings. She enter- 
 ed at length, carrying a tremendous stone in her 
 arms, while the epitome of a pipe still remain- 
 ed wedged between her teeth. All looked in 
 some amazement as she continued her labori- 
 ous way towards a window immediately over 
 the hall door: and this Nora opened, and with 
 much caution deposited her burden on the 
 window stool outside; then, squatting down, she
 
 JOHN DOE. 265 
 
 watched, with a mixture of the cat and the hare, 
 in her position and manner, proper time and 
 opportunity for a valiant deed. Nor had she 
 to watch long. The crowd of assailants all 
 gathered to the hall-door and commenced a se- 
 rious attack upon it ; Nora shoved her stone, 
 and with its deadened fall a loud groan was 
 immediately heard, and then the hurried noise 
 of feet running in confusion from the door. 
 Nora, uttering a hideous giggle, sprang up 
 and resumed her old place behind her master. 
 
 As the crowd dissipated, Kavanah seemed to 
 look out with increased earnestness — and in an 
 instant after he again levelled his piece, and 
 with a loudly-whispered — " Now!" — discharged 
 it. His head and neck were almost at the same 
 time, thrust out to mark the effect of his shot ; 
 but as quickly, he started up with a vehement 
 bitterness of action, and flung the carbine on 
 the floor, exclaiming — " No ! — curse that angle ! 
 I've missed him — fire, Mr. Grace ! fire ! and 
 give me a pistol — yet, no — it is now useless, 
 I see — they flock to the back yard." 
 
 " And over that," said Grace, " we have no 
 command from any window in the house." 
 
 VOL. III. N
 
 266 JOHN DOE. 
 
 To the back door, indeed, the besiegers now 
 directed all their efforts, and, enraged, it would 
 seem, by the joint outrages of Nora and Ka- 
 vanah, attacked it in good earnest. Amid 
 a continued clatter of kicking, shoving, and 
 knocking, as if with sticks or the butts of 
 fire-arms, one mighty bump was heard, perhaps 
 the effect of a ponderous stone hurled at the 
 door by the united strength of two or three 
 men. Profound and painful silence reigned 
 above, after this terrible intimation of present 
 fate. A second thump ! and the crash of the 
 yielding door followed, mingled with a trium- 
 phant yell from the assailants. 
 
 " Heaven shield us ! they are in !" — exclaim- 
 ed Grace. Mary fell on her knees, and Nora 
 flat on her face. 
 
 " I will breast them first," said Mr. Seiners, 
 as the victorious party were heard rushing up 
 stairs. 
 
 " All is vain for the present," said Kavanali, 
 coolly; then advancing to Mary, he whisper- 
 ed — "Yet, Mary, be firm, rational, and fear 
 nothing !" 
 
 He had scarcely done speaking, when a
 
 JOHN DOE. 267 
 
 crowd of at least a dozen men with red waist- 
 coats, and having their faces blackened, broke 
 into the room, headed by another, who wore a 
 red waistcoat also ; but a black mask disguised 
 his features, instead of their being smeared 
 over like those of his party. Around his waist 
 was tied a red sash, as if to proclaim his supe- 
 riority ; and all were strongly armed and com- 
 pletely disguised, except the last man who en- 
 tered; and who, having taken no precaution 
 either with his face or person, exhibited to all 
 whom it might concern, the identity and totality 
 of Jack Mullins. 
 
 " John Doe! John Doe !" shouted the leader, 
 as he appeared, and this shout was well re- 
 echoed. " Speak for me, Mullins," he continu- 
 ed, aside, as this person followed. 
 
 " Unhappy creatures !" exclaimed Mr. So- 
 mers, approaching them, " what seek you in 
 this peaceable and unoffending house, and in so 
 lawless and savage a manner?" 
 
 " First your arms !" said Mullins, presenting, 
 while all followed his example. The arms were 
 given up. 
 
 " Mullins," resumed the leader, still aside, 
 
 n 2
 
 268 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " get the minister with us. Tack'em will not be 
 sufficient, as Mary and I (lifter in religion — 
 'twould not be a legal marriage, though the 
 priest may satisfy her seruples." 
 
 " Well, unfortunate people," rejoined Mr. 
 Sotners, " your demand is answered, and now 
 why not depart in peace? — you have said you 
 did not wish money, and what else seek ye?" 
 
 " Why, then, next, by your reverance's lave, 
 no less than yoursef," replied Mullins, laying 
 his hand on Mr. Somers's shoulder — " here, 
 men, take the best care o' the ministher :" and 
 Mr. Somcrs was accordingly guarded by two 
 men. 
 
 " And next, my handsome misthess," con- 
 tinued Mullins, approaching Mary, " our cap- 
 tain has a word wid you." 
 
 Nora started up — " Me ! — wid me, you ugly 
 christhen" — Purcell walked across — " never lay 
 a finger on me !" 
 
 " Stand out of the way, an' he won't," said 
 Mullins. 
 
 " I guessed it !" exclaimed Mary, as Purcell 
 stood by her side — "all along I guessed it — 
 father, father, save me !" and with a desperate
 
 JOHN DOE. 269 
 
 spring she reached and clung to her father's 
 knees. 
 
 " My child ! my Mary ! — my only and my 
 good child! — men — if ye are men — spare my 
 Mary, and you shall have all I am worth !" said 
 Grace, in the father's agony, and while tears 
 ran down his cheeks. 
 
 " Dare not to touch the young lady, if you 
 fear God or man !" added Mr. Somers. 
 
 " No harm is intended her," said Mullins, 
 " only a pleasant ride in the moonshine, wid all 
 her friends about her. Come, Miss — we are 
 waitin' for you :" he seized her arm, and Mary 
 shrieked and struggled in desperation. 
 
 " Do not tire yourself with useless resistance," 
 whispered Kavanah — " and still fear not." 
 
 "Mullins! seize that man!" said the leader, 
 pointing to Kavanah. 
 
 " Musha, I believe it 's the best for a sartain- 
 ty," observed Mullins, as, uninterestingly, he 
 laid hold of Kavanah. The leader now raised 
 Mary, whom the last intimation seemed to have 
 somewhat assured ; and " my daughter ! — my 
 dear daughter! is it thus we are parted?" — 
 cried her father.
 
 270 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Not parted at all," said Mullins, " sure 
 you're coining wid us, Mr. Grace. 
 
 ■ Away r cried the leader, holding Mary by 
 the waist. "Are the horses ready?" to Mul- 
 lins. 
 
 " Yes — all below. Lade on, captain !" 
 
 " Come !" said the captain, and left the 
 room with Mary, who, more dead than alive, 
 now submitted passively. 
 
 " The ministher, next !" said Mullins ; Mr. 
 Somers was led out. 
 
 " An' now the ould attorney!" and Mr. Grace 
 followed, also guarded. 
 
 "Go on," he continued to the rest, who 
 obeyed his command, and Mullins and his pri- 
 soner remained alone in the apartment. 
 
 They stood some time in silence, listening the 
 descent of the party — at last — 
 
 " Now ! are your measures well taken t* — 
 asked Kavanah, starting into sudden energy. 
 
 " I think so," answered Mullins. 
 
 " You lead them by the elm trees V 
 
 " By the elm threes, plaise God." 
 
 " But Purcell understands you are to con- 
 duct him to the old castle?"
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 271 
 
 " He does— what of that, a-vich ?" 
 « Why— the other place is out of the straight 
 road !" — said Kavanah, impatiently. 
 " Well — lave me to manage that." 
 " Our ground is distant— let me see— how 
 
 far?" 
 
 " Two miles — into the heart o' the hills." 
 " Pshaw ! do you tell me where ?— all 's right. 
 
 Come on !"
 
 272 JOHN DOF. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Assuming our prescriptive privilege of scene- 
 shifters at pleasure, we now look back after 
 Lieutenant Howard, and his friend, father 
 O'Clery. 
 
 They were faithfully guided by Flinn to How- 
 ard's quarters, where the military gentleman 
 found his soldiers in some alarm at the long ab- 
 sence of their officer. A Serjeant was in wait- 
 ing, of whom Howard, immediately inquired con- 
 cerning the probable escape of Doe. Nothing 
 had been heard of the matter. 
 
 " 'Tis very strange," said Howard, " my in- 
 formation was particular, and such as I have no 
 reason to doubt." 
 
 " To satisfy you, sir," answered the Serjeant ; 
 " I can inform you, that to the centre of the bog 
 I have myself seen a fire that must have been 
 kindled by no others but Doe and his men.
 
 JOHN DOE. 273 
 
 Precaution had been taken to screen it from us 
 by lighting it between some clumps of turf; but 
 I gained a particular point from which it was 
 visible." 
 
 " Then hasten, serjeant — return again to the 
 men, with orders to keep a more watchful eye 
 than ever : for this night let them do good ser- 
 vice ; — you may mention that it is likely to- 
 morrow morning early will give them relief:" the 
 serjeant touched his hat and left the cabin- 
 
 " I am resolved," continued Howard, turning 
 to O'Clery, " to draw a complete line round 
 the bog at the very first light, and one by one 
 get those poor wretches out, so that their leader 
 may not escape me. And now, Mr. O'Clery, 
 let us do something to rest and refresh you. 
 Our fire is pretty good — sit — and here is the 
 pottheen; — you, sir," he added, addressing 
 Flinn, who all this time had deferentially stood 
 aloof, seemingly unconscious of what was said 
 — " you, too, shall warm yourself and take 
 some refreshment ; — advance." 
 
 The party were all disposing themselves to> 
 be comfortable, when a woman, rushing by the 
 centinel at the door, pushed into the cabin, and. 
 
 n 3
 
 274 JOHN DOE. 
 
 with loud screams cast herself on her knees, 
 then sat back on her heels, and clapping her 
 bonds — 
 
 "\Yun;i! wurra! — an'ochown! ochown! — 
 your honor an' your worship ! an' mille mur- 
 ders ! — we're all undone !" — she shouted forth. 
 
 It was Nora; the pipe still between her teeth; 
 her starched, and heretofore unwrinkled and 
 spotless cap, now soiled and torn ; her lank 
 hair escaped from under it ; one shoe off, and 
 her face a universal convulsion. Howard and 
 O'Clery started up, and Flinn permitted him- 
 self to seem a little interested. 
 
 " What do you mean, Nora? — Is any one ill ? 
 or — dead ! — How is Miss Grace ?" — asked both 
 gentlemen in a breath. 
 
 "Och!— little duv I know! — bud it's all 
 over wid us ! over wid us !" 
 
 " Foolish woman ! speak ! — what 's the mat- 
 ter ?"— 
 
 " Captain John, a hinnies ma-chree ! Captain 
 John !"— 
 
 " What of him ? Where is he ?" 
 
 " He came to take me off wid him! — pilla- 
 loo-o ! to take me off wid him !" —
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 275 
 
 " You rave, woman ! — she 's mad ;" said 
 O'Clery. 
 
 " Did you see him ?" — asked Howard. 
 " Saw him an' hard him ! — he came to ruin 
 me ! — to ruin me !" — 
 
 " But you have escaped^-you are safe !" said 
 Howard. 
 
 " He has not taken you off— he has not ruin- 
 ed you !" — echoed O'Clery. 
 
 " That's nothin' at all ! nothin' at all!" — still 
 howled Nora. 
 
 " What then ? — what has he done ?" — 
 " Run off wid the ministher ! — the ministher '." 
 " Is that all ?" — continued Howard, much re- 
 lieved. 
 
 " An' my poor ould masther !" — 
 " Why, you brainless creature!" — began 
 O'Clery. 
 
 " And where is your lady, then ?" — bellowed 
 Howard. 
 
 "An my poor young misthess ! — my poor 
 young misthess !" — 
 
 " Death, idiot ! — why not say that at once !" 
 cried both gentlemen ; — " when ? — how ? —
 
 276 JOHN DOK. 
 
 whither? — Sentinel!"— continued Howard. The 
 man entered. 
 
 " How long since, Nora?" — 
 " Avoch, T dnnna I — I dnnna !" — 
 " Ass! — beast! — stupid hound!" — both went 
 on — then Howard — " Sentinel, I say ! — forego 
 your post — has White gone with my last or- 
 ders?"—" Yes, he has !"— " After him quickly 
 — fire your piece as a signal — see him — let 
 him countermand my orders — which road, Nora? 
 — and draw off all the men, instantly — Doe is 
 out — has been to Mr. Grace's — let them meet 
 me there — quickly — begone! — stay ! — which 
 road, Nora?" 
 
 " Which road, you wretched woman ?" — 
 screamed O'Clery, losing all patience. 
 " Avoch I dunna ! — I dunna !" — 
 " Away then, sentinel ! — and now, Mr. 
 O'Clery, to Grace's house, first — I know you 
 will with me — come !" — 
 
 " They're afther lavin' me !" continued Nora, 
 still in her first position, and with uninterrupted 
 clapping of hands. A shot was heard : she 
 stopt herself with a sudden — " och ! — I'm kilt
 
 JOHN DOE. 277 
 
 dead ! — I'll be ruined again ! worse an' worse ! 
 — worse an' worse ! — Captain ! — Soggarth ! 
 Captain !" — and she ran howling out of the 
 cabin. 
 
 " Throth," said Flinn, by way of soliloquy, 
 when Nora was gone, and he remained alone at 
 the fire — " may be this 'turn 'ud sarve our poor 
 gossips in the bog, widout waitin' for the morn- 
 in' : it 's a bad wind, a-vourneen, that blows no- 
 body good ; an' if a body could get to spake to 
 them, faith it 's likely enough bud they'd help 
 Mary Grace betther nor the red-coats, them- 
 sefs. We'll try it, any how ;" and, after coolly 
 helping himself to a bumper of pottheen, Flinn 
 also left the cabin. 
 
 Meantime, the motley cavalcade continued on 
 its route from Mr. Grace's house. 
 
 When Mary, led by the captain of the night, 
 gained the end of the winding approach to her 
 father's residence, she saw, standing under the 
 shade of some old alder trees, a horse, bridled 
 and saddled, with a pillion behind the saddle, 
 such as is used by the humble class of Irish fe- 
 males ; and to this pillion her companion unce- 
 remoniously assisted her to rise ; in a moment
 
 87$ JOHN DOE. 
 
 after, ho sat in the saddle hefore her. Her 
 father was ul)liged to mount one of his own 
 horses; Mr. Somers another; Mullins and his 
 prisoner got on the bare back of a fourth ; and 
 the rest of the party also rode double, and with- 
 out saddles. When all were in travelling or- 
 der, the leader ordered four men, on two horses, 
 to the front; after these Mr. Grace and Mr. 
 Somers were compelled to fall in ; four other 
 men followed ; then, Mary and her companion ; 
 and then the remainder of the party : and when 
 Mullins, with his charge Kavanah, got at the 
 head of all, on an understanding to act as guide, 
 the journey was commenced in a brisk trot. 
 
 Avoiding the wild bridle-road which, if pur- 
 sued, would lead in the direction of Howard's 
 quarters, Mullins guided the party up another 
 narrow and rugged lane, that, at some distance, 
 ran by the front of Mr. G race's house, and con- 
 tinued beyond it, towards the bare solitudes of 
 the country. Much inconvenience occurred on 
 this way from the deep ruts that, time out of 
 mind, indented it ; as it was a constant passage 
 for the turf-cars that received their loads among 
 the recesses of the hills around; large atones
 
 JOHN DOE. 279 
 
 also profusely strewed it ; with, here and there, 
 pools of water, or patches of miry slough. 
 Neck or nothing, however, the party pushed on; 
 horses tripping, and stumbling, and falling, and 
 riders cursing, laughing, or crying out, as, with 
 different tempers, they bore their mishaps. The 
 rapid and uncomfortable motion first called 
 Mary out of the torpor into which she had 
 lapsed ; and one or two serious stumbles of the 
 horse, at whose discretion she was, had the 
 effect of causing her to use some precaution 
 for holding her seat and balance on the pil- 
 lion. Perhaps there never occurred a stronger 
 proof of the power of the animal instinct of 
 self-preservation, than when Mary, escaping 
 once or twice the near danger of being flung to 
 the ground, mechanically clasped her right arm 
 round the body of the man before her, thus 
 claiming a support, if not protection, where her 
 heart and mind owed and paid the most utter 
 loathing. 
 
 After about half a mile's progress, the way 
 continued over an uninclosed space, by the verge 
 of a descent to the left hand side, which, though 
 also passed by cars and horses, was less rough
 
 280 JOHN DOE. 
 
 than the commencement of the journey : and 
 taking advantage of this favourable change, the 
 party now went on at a gallop. The wind, 
 about the same time, rose high ; and in the rush 
 through it, Mary almost lost her breath and 
 senses, and was again in danger of falling. She 
 rallied herself, however, and tried to collect her 
 thoughts and make observations. 
 
 Looking before and behind her, she saw her- 
 self surrounded by the guardians of the night. 
 With much hazard she was also able to keep her 
 eyes sufficiently long in an averted position to 
 discover the figures of her father and Mr. 
 Somers before. She listened for the sound of 
 their voices, but the rushing of the wind nearly 
 overmastered even the noise of the horses' feet ; 
 and no other prolonged sound reached her. 
 Now and then, indeed, a hoarse laugh, or the 
 burst of many voices, came in some pause or 
 turn of the breeze ; or the distant watch-dog's 
 bark or howl ; or the sudden dash or shriek, 
 heard and lost in the same moment, of some 
 concealed stream, that held to hill and fell its 
 wild and sleepless plaint. She strove attcn- 
 tively to consider the scenery around, for the
 
 JOHN DOE. 281 
 
 purpose of noting, by old and well-known 
 landmarks, her probable destination. But this 
 effort was also vain. Mary could only ap- 
 prehend that hill gathered unto hill, and val- 
 ley running into valley, lay tossed around and 
 beneath her. The black masses varied in shape 
 each time she looked, and even while she look- 
 ed ; line chased away line ; the moonlight faded 
 into shadow, and the shadow became light ; 
 heavy clouds, that for some time had been mus- 
 tering in the lower part of the sky, mixed and 
 blended with the curving of the mountains ; 
 and all comprehension of form and locality was 
 lost : while the stars around and over her head, 
 breaking through thin vapour, seemed also to 
 run disarranged through their deep blue field of 
 space, and, she thought, glittered in bright ter- 
 ror on her fearful speed. 
 
 Another half mile might have been past, 
 when the party emerged on a bye-road, that, 
 vnth all, and more than the distance they had 
 come, between, ran parallel to that which led to 
 Howard's quarters. The reins were now tight- 
 ened, and along this road they went with less 
 suspicious hurry, till, some distance on, there
 
 28 I JOHN DOE. 
 
 trai a moment's halt l>efore a wooden barred 
 gate, that opened into the back part of the do- 
 main of the principal proprietor of tho»district. 
 Mullins dismounted to open the gate, and hold- 
 ing it till all had passed, resumed his uncomfort- 
 able scat on the bare-backed horse, and com- 
 menced a hard trot through a neglected planta- 
 tion of old trees, and over a narrow path, that 
 was barely visible to any but an habituated eye. 
 And here the mishaps and distresses of the 
 party were renewed to excess. All over the 
 path, and around in every direction, the roots 
 of the trees, protruding through the spare soil, 
 spread and coiled like serpent-things; and ren- 
 dered slippery by the state of the weather, op- 
 posed obstacles, at every step, to the safe pro- 
 gress of the horsemen. Many horses, straying 
 from the path, tripped, fell, and rolled about 
 with their riders, in darkness, among the trees ; 
 the animal on which Mary sat, though evi- 
 dently of gentle blood, twice came to his knees; 
 while, in other respects, the way proved diffi- 
 cult and hazardous from the constant interfe- 
 rence of branches of trees that shot directy 
 across at the level of the men's breasts or faces ;
 
 JOPIN DOE. 
 
 283 
 
 more than once these unseen impediments, giv- 
 ing sudden resistance to a rider, tumbled him 
 to the ground ; and Mary's guide suffered se- 
 verely from the same cause. The cries and 
 imprecations of the scrambling party added to 
 the wild character of this unusual scene; and 
 it was further heightened by what might seem 
 the terrified quivering of the moon-shine through 
 the leafless branches over head, the whistling 
 of the night-wind through them, and their own 
 clatter and groaning, as the grove tossed her 
 thousand bare arms, as if in torture and agony 
 to the breeze. 
 
 At last, this unsafe path was cleared, and 
 through another gate, which, like the first, was 
 not well secured, a second bye-road was gained. 
 This kept straight only for a little way, and 
 then suddenly turned to the left, round a hill. 
 Mullins stopped at the first inclination of the 
 turn, and waiting till the leader came up, gave 
 him to understand, that to their destination, the 
 way by the road was a great round, while, if he 
 chose to walk straight over the hill, he could 
 gain it in about five minutes : the horses, Mul- 
 lins added, might be sent round under the care
 
 284 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 of two men. The person to whom Muffins ad- 
 
 dressed himself yielded, after some considera- 
 tion, to this arrangement ; and, accordingly, the 
 whole party dismounted, and through a gap in 
 the fence of the road, began to ascend the hill ; 
 observing the same order in which they had 
 ridden ; Mary still by the side of the captain, 
 and, with the exception of those sent with the 
 horses, the men still divided as at first. 
 
 Owing to her feebleness and terror, Mary 
 made but slow progress ; her companion re- 
 mained, however, closely and attentively at her 
 side ; and it would seem, that Mullins, taking 
 advantage of this circumstance, used main ef- 
 forts to outstrip, with his prisoner, the rest of 
 the party. They walked in a very rapid pace 
 against the hill, gained its brow before any of 
 the others, and then ran down its descent, and 
 jumped on a narrow and rough road at the bot- 
 tom. 
 
 " Do you think them two gorc,oons will ever 
 find us by the road they took, wid the horses ?" 
 asked Mullins, jocosely, as they gained a co- 
 vered side of the way. 
 
 " I'm thinking, no," answered Kavanah, "but 
 this is the place, is it not ?"
 
 JOHN DOK. 285 
 
 " Thry," replied Mullins, "just give the laste 
 bit of a whistle in the world." 
 
 Kavanah did so, and was immediately an- 
 swered from a little distance : " you hard that ?" 
 said Mullins. 
 
 "I did — all's as it should be. But see !— 
 who is this coming up to us on horseback ? — 
 stand close." 
 
 The horseman was passing them at lightning 
 career, when Kavanah resumed, " Flinn or the 
 devil, by Saint Senanus ! — stop — you rider of 
 the wind," he continued, waving his arm, " come 
 under the shelve of the hill, here, and in six 
 words and a hard whisper, tell us what you are 
 about." 
 
 " Howard is afther you, wid his men> Jack," 
 said Flinn to Mullins, in a rapid whisper, and, 
 while he quickly obeyed the directions of Ka- 
 vanah, " bud, the cat gone, the mice may play, 
 an' so, I axed them he left behind, to help you 
 — an' they will, plaise God;— keeping him in 
 sight, an' if he finds you out " 
 
 " Away !" interrupted Kavanah, " I hear the 
 voices coming down after us — that 's enough — 
 go — meet them — steal quietly by this hedge for
 
 2S6 JOHN DOK. 
 
 awhile, anil then spur ! Move, and curse ye !" 
 Flinn disappeared in a moment. 
 
 " His poor reverance, father Tack'em, that 
 thinks we are so in earnest to-night, ought to 
 be somewhere here too," resumed Mullins, when 
 he and his prisoner were again alone ; " an' 
 faith," he continued, having made his observa- 
 tions, " I think I see something like himself an' 
 his auld gray mare, standin' in the shelter o' the 
 corner, beyant." 
 
 Mary and her leader had now won the rugged 
 road on which Mullins and Kavanah stood, and 
 she distinctly recognized her situation, thougb 
 she concluded that they had led her to it by an 
 unusual way, or that her speed and agitation 
 had prevented her continuous notice. At the 
 hill-side of the bridle-road there ran a fence ; 
 but, at the other, the ground was open, stretch- 
 ing, in the moonshine, flat and cheerless, to some 
 distance. Hither she had often walked with 
 Howard ; and, in the sequestered space to the 
 right hand, Mary distinguished five or six gi- 
 gantie trunks of trees, that had repeatedly at- 
 tracted the notice of herself and her lover. 
 Perhaps they were the last relic of a plantation
 
 JOHN DOE. 287 
 
 attachecL a century, if not centuries ago, to 
 some ancient edifice near the spot, but, of 
 which, all traces were at present lost. To what- 
 ever accident they owed their existence in this 
 place, the trunks were very aged ; they should, 
 indeed, be more properly called shells, than by 
 any name that invested them with solidity ; for 
 they stood completely hollow, though, from the 
 top of each, a few branches still shot, which in 
 summer were sprinkled with scanty foliage. 
 Mary and Howard had occasionally sauntered 
 into them, by low openings that appeared as 
 gothic door-ways, of rude and fantastic shape ; 
 and struck with the unexpected spaciousness of 
 their interior, calculated with surprise, that a 
 body of at least twelve men could find shelter in 
 each, while to half the number these primitive 
 receptacles might afford ample accommodation 
 for sitting, standing, or other common move- 
 ments. 
 
 Mary was interrupted in her remarks on the 
 place, by the voice of her guide calling, " Mul- 
 lins !" — when they had descended to the road. 
 
 " I am here," said Mullins, advancing : " you 
 were very long comin'. "
 
 288 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " This way — a word" — continued the other, 
 beckoning. 
 
 " How much farther is the retreat you have 
 chosen?" 
 
 " About half a mile." 
 
 " So far still ? then, fellow, you have misin- 
 formed me." 
 
 " Thonomonduoul ! no! — to the best o' my 
 knowledge; sure we '11 see it very soon." 
 
 " Why not keep our horses, and push on with 
 all speed ?" — 
 
 " Curp-on-duoul ! — is a shentleman so stu- 
 pid ? — Why, I told you that the short cut 
 over this hill is a good mile offo' the road." 
 
 " You are sure you have got accommodation 
 for the night in the old building?" 
 
 " Yes — fire an' candle, an' good fern beds, 
 an' the atin' an' drinkin', an' plenty of every 
 thing." 
 
 " Where is Tack'em to meet us ?" 
 
 " Can't you see him yet ? — he's snug under 
 the fence, farther up." 
 
 " Shall we meet our horses soon }" 
 
 " Aye — in a minute."
 
 JOHN DOE. 289 
 
 " Proceed then." And he once more drew 
 Mary's arm over his, and was slowly following 
 Mullins, when the old man whom Kavanah had 
 previously spoken to in the cabin, issued from 
 one of the hollow trees, and confronting the 
 captain, drew himself up to the full of his un- 
 usual height, and with a shivering and shrill 
 voice, exclaimed — " let go the colleen's hand !" 
 — all paused. 
 
 " Death ! Mullins," whispered the captain, 
 " it is that old madman, Kavanah, and his 
 cursed brawling may spoil all." 
 
 " Aye, faith," observed Mullins, drily enough. 
 
 " Stand away, idiot '."—resumed the leader, 
 passing, or endeavouring to pass. 
 
 " Stand, you, where you are, an' let her go, 
 I say !" resumed the old man, in a yet shriller 
 tone, to which through the pausings of the 
 wind, the hills rang — " let go the hand o' Mary 
 Grace; — free her of a touch she should never 
 feel! — perjurer and informer, let her go ! — ty- 
 rant o' the poor, an' spoiler o' the wake an' 
 
 ouid, an' o' the humble fire-side Purcell ! 
 
 — Stephen Purcell!— let go her hand !" — 
 
 Mary screamed out, thrilled to the marrow 
 
 VOL. III. o
 
 290 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 of liev bones ; and her father and Mr. Somers 
 also uttering exclamations of surprise, gathered 
 round, with their guards. 
 
 " He is stark mad, and raves wildly, - ' said 
 Purcell — " stand back, old man ! — Mullins, re- 
 move him." 
 
 " He would not lay a hand on me, to harm 
 me," resumed the old man, " though it war to 
 save you, body an' sowl, from what is prepared 
 for you! — Purcell! Purcell! let the colleen go 
 to her father !"— 
 
 " Fool ! — you call me by a name I know no- 
 thing of" — answered Purcell, still trying to move 
 on. 
 
 " Och! that 's another lie as black as the 
 thousands you have lived an' thriven on ! — as 
 the thousands that brought shame, an' wrack, 
 an' madness, on us all ! — that lifted the tatch 
 frum the poor man's cabin, an' made his hearth 
 as could as a grave-stone ! — that took my daugh- 
 ter from me — an' my daughter's daughter, — 
 an' left my white head houseless, to-night, to 
 meet you by this wild hill, an' bid you prepare 
 
 fur a reckonin' Purcell ! 'tis nigh at hand ! 
 
 'tis nigh at hand !" he continued in a pitch of
 
 JOHN DOE. 291 
 
 enthusiasm, and then by a sudden and unex- 
 pected movement, the old man plucked the 
 mask from Purcell's face, and added — " do ye 
 know him yet ? — do ye know him for the liar he 
 is, yet?'— 
 
 Mary, now fully convinced, struggled hard to 
 escape from Purcell's gripe ; and Mr. Somers, 
 taking her disengaged hand, cried out to Pur- 
 cell, — " monster — ruffian ! — dare you attempt 
 such an outrage? — yield me the young lady's 
 hand, this moment ! — yield it !" — 
 
 There was an increased struggle, when Pur- 
 cell at last loosened his hold, and Mary just felt 
 herself clasped in her father's arms when she 
 fainted. 
 
 " I yield it up, Mr. Somers," said Purcell, 
 after a short pause, " that you may bestow it 
 as I command you. Ye know me, now ; 'tis but 
 a little sooner than I purposed, and I care not. 
 Hear me, Mr. Somers — Mr. Grace, hear me — 
 I love Mary, and she shall be mine !" — 
 
 " Never !" — exclaimed Grace. 
 
 " Never is a big word," resumed Purcell — 
 " remember she is in my power, and Mary 
 
 o2
 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Grace might, according to any form, or with- 
 out any, be mine." 
 
 " Never, according to any form : though here 
 you shed our blood, we will resist while we have 
 a drop to spill !" — answered Grace. 
 
 " And I swear by my holy function," resumed 
 Mr. Somers, advancing to Mary, and taking 
 her passive hand, " the arm that tears this vir- 
 tuous hand from mine shall first be raised against 
 my life !" — 
 
 " Hear me, I say! — no blood shall be spilt — 
 no force but what is necessary, used, — no ad- 
 vantage taken but what is lawful and honour- 
 able — the young lady shall be my wife ! — here! 
 now! — Mr. Somers, do your office! — Mr. Grace, 
 stand by your child ! — resistance is vain — I have 
 taken my measures too well — you are here in a 
 solitude where no help can reach you — and look 
 round upon my men — they are armed, and nu- 
 merous — do not cross, and, perhaps, provoke 
 
 me! 
 
 " These men will not assist you in a sacrilege 
 — they dare not!" — exclaimed Mr. Somers. 
 " They will see me through my present pur-
 
 JOHN DOE. 293 
 
 pose, sir — they are my own tenants — I have 
 sworn to them not to touch life or limb, and they 
 liave sworn to do any thing else I command — 
 have ye not?" — continued Purcell, turning to 
 them. 
 
 " We have, we have !" — shouted his followers. 
 
 " But you do not recollect that all this must 
 be useless to you," rejoined Mr. Somers: — 
 " even supposing that by threatening our lives 
 you can force us into your measures — that you 
 can force me to go through a nominal ceremony 
 — it would still be only nominal." 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Somers," said Purcell. " I 
 think I am aware of what I do. Your marriage 
 of a Protestant and Roman Catholic is as legal 
 and binding as it could be between two of your 
 own persuasion." 
 
 " It is, sir, with a certain proviso," said Mr. 
 Somers, " that is, after publication of banns, or 
 under license, my ministry is legal in both cases ; 
 but without one preparative or the other, the 
 contrary in both." 
 
 " By heaven, and I forgot that !" — exclaimed 
 Purcell.
 
 294 JOHN DOf. 
 
 M But come, all is safe yet — father Tack'em!" 
 
 " Happy death to me. here I am, honey," 
 said Tack'em, emerging on his blind gray mare, 
 as the unusually loud summons of Purcell reached 
 him, above all the late conversation. 
 
 " And a long ride, and a could station I have 
 had of it," he continued ; " why I 'm a cripple, 
 sitting there so long." 
 
 " Are you ready, good father," resumed Pur- 
 cell, " to join in holy wedlock myself and this 
 young lady ?" 
 
 " Ready and willing, a-vich, if you behave 
 dacent, and consider every thing," answered 
 Tack'em. 
 
 " I am quite prepared to do so," said Purcell. 
 
 " The out-o'-the-way ride, and my long wait- 
 ing, and the time o' night, and all ?" 
 
 " Every thing," answered Purcell, handing 
 him a bank-note — " and now begin at once." 
 
 " You surely cannot think, sir," said Mr. So- 
 mers, addressing Tack'em, whose person and 
 character he knew, " of proceeding in such a 
 ceremony, without clue permission and allow- 
 ance?"
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 295 
 
 " And, happy death to me, why not, sir ?" 
 quoth Tack'em, who also knew Mr. Somers — 
 " what do you call allowance and permission ? 
 — do you think we, poor unbeneficed missiona- 
 ries of the ould and pure, though persecuted 
 church, are to stick at nice provisions like you 
 of the established schism of the state? — How 
 would you have us live, then ? I 'm in the habit 
 of permitting and allowing myself, sir, on my 
 own lawful account and business." 
 
 " I see your reverence does not understand 
 
 me," rejoined Mr. Somers — " I " 
 
 "Understand you, sir!" interrupted Tack'em, 
 — " happy death to me, man, I 'm able to under- 
 stand any thing you can say from this to the 
 day of judgment. I'll discourse theology with 
 you — mystical theology — I'll go through the 
 scriptures with you — I '11 scan a line of the Bu- 
 colics with you — I'll translate an ode of Horace 
 with you — or I'll go through this present con- 
 troversy with you in pure ould Latin — happy 
 death to me but I will — come — and now mind 
 
 your propria qua maribtis " 
 
 " Father Tack'em " Mr. Grace began — 
 
 " Le* me alone, a-vich," continued Tack'em —
 
 UVG JOHN DOE. 
 
 " just lave him to me for a minute ; — I'll expose 
 him here in the face o' the country ; — never fear 
 but I will ; — and then let him take care in future 
 how he comes so far out of his way to snap the 
 bit and the sup from a poor priest's mouth." 
 
 " .Still I beg to assure you, sir, I am entirely 
 misunderstood. I dispute neither your colle- 
 giate nor professional learning, nor your power 
 and freedom to go on with this ceremony ; nay, 
 I am prepared to admit both ; but I shall only 
 ask if a gentleman like you, an accomplished 
 divine and an honourable man, can undertake 
 the proposed task against the will and consent 
 of all parties concerned, except, indeed, his will 
 and consent, who, by outrage alone, seeks to ac- 
 complish his base ends ?" 
 
 " Proceed, father Tack'em!" PurceU exclaim- 
 ed, assisting the dignitary to dismount. 
 
 " Wait a bit, Mr. Purcell, honey," said Tack- 
 'em ; then waddling towards Mr. Somers — 
 " now you spake raison, sir ; will I proceed, you 
 
 say 
 
 " Against the will of the wretched father of 
 this young lady, who now addresses you, and 
 with tears on his cheeks, implores you as a man
 
 JOHN DOE. 297 
 
 and a christian priest, not to send his grey hairs 
 with shame and sorrow to the grave!" 
 " I'll double the fee," whispered PurcelL 
 " Why, you see, a-vich," resumed Tack'em, 
 at first much moved, and then pleading for the 
 double fee — " I have a mission that does not 
 always oblige me to insist on the formal consent 
 of paarents, in such cases ; according to my prac- 
 tice, it is usually enough if the two young peo- 
 ple know ach other's minds, and " 
 
 " But if one of them refuses consent?" — 
 Mary exclaimed, who, recovering her senses, 
 had heard the latter part of the debate — " will 
 you, sir, proceed against not only the will, but 
 the abhorrence, and to the certain destruction, 
 here and hereafter, of the poor creature be- 
 fore you, and who now joins her own tears and 
 supplications to those of her father, praying 
 you, if you believe in God or have a humane 
 heart, not to make us both irrecoverably miser- 
 able !"— 
 
 " Eh, honey ?" — whined Tack'em, snuffling 
 the tears that ran down his own cheeks. 
 
 " I'll treble it — I'll double it twice over," again 
 whispered Purcell. 
 
 o 3
 
 298 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 "No! — nor if you squared it — nor if you 
 cubed it, twice over!" — squeaked Tack'em sud- 
 denly turning on Purccll with all the fierceness 
 liis poor face, voice, and manner, were able to 
 express — " happy death to me ! — I'll wash my 
 hands of it." 
 
 " First, then, give me up that bank-note," 
 cried Purcell, advancing angrily to Tack'em. 
 
 " What bank-note, a-vich ?" — demurred 
 Tack'em, taking his place in the opposition 
 ranks ; that is, between Grace, Mr. Somers, 
 and the old man, who had stood a stern specta- 
 tor of this scene. " Wait a bit, 'till I bring you 
 to raison. You see, Mr. Purcell, I was to be 
 paid for ach distinct part of my agency in this 
 matter, and for the extraordinary trouble as 
 well as for the job itself; well, a-vourneen ; the 
 last understanding between us, for the whole, 
 was four times the amount of that shabby bit o' 
 paper you talk of; now, let us say that three 
 parts of the gross sum were to come down for 
 the wedding-money ; sure the fourth part, at 
 laste, 'ud be little enough for the long ride, an' 
 the sitting there beyond, on my ould gray mare, 
 for a long hour, like a pelican in the wilderness,
 
 JOHN DOE. 299 
 
 or a solitary sparrow on the house-top ; an' what 
 more am I asking from you ? — Happy death to 
 me, 'tis a case of conscience, and as clear as 
 day ; I'll lave it to your own honest minister, 
 Mr. Somers, here, an' let him decide between 
 us." 
 
 " Give him back the note, father Tack'em, 
 and I will make it up to you," said Mr. Grace. 
 
 " Will you ?" asked Purcell, assuming, after 
 another short pause, all the ruffian of his cha- 
 racter — "and so you, and he, and all of you, 
 think I am baffled, or to be baffled, amongst 
 you ? — you shall see. I cautioned you not to 
 cross and provoke me too far, and I promised 
 forbearance only under the belief that you 
 would not — that you dared not; — 'now, let us 
 see what else I can do ; — men !" he continued, 
 addressing his followers, " you are witnesses 
 of the trifling and imposition practised on me, 
 particularly by this outcast priest, who is a 
 shame to your religion, and, in this instance, 
 would doubly disgrace it ; — if you are faithful to 
 me, or sensible of my past kindness and ser- 
 vices, and alive to those that are to come, you 
 will see me righted — you will! — I am assured of
 
 300 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 it — bind the excommunicated wretch to his sad- 
 dle, and lead him after us to a still more silent 
 and distant place." The men advanced to obey. 
 
 " Desperate and unprincipled madmen !" ex- 
 claimed Mr. Somers, stepping before poor 
 Tack'em, who sent up a most pathetic lament, 
 " what are you about to do ? — on your own 
 priest ! — I am not one of your persuasion, but I 
 vow to God it makes my blood run cold ! — 
 what ! — lay your hands on him ! — on the head 
 that other hands have visited, in another spirit, 
 and for another purpose! — he is a degraded 
 minister, your leader says — what have you, or 
 I — and, least of all, what has he to do with 
 that ? How can — how dare any of you judge 
 it ? — his church still allows him the name of 
 priest, and, will you commit a ruffianly outrage 
 on that name ? — could you even stand by to see 
 it done?" 
 
 The men hesitated ; Purcell stamped and 
 raved ; and poor Tack'em, now crying like a 
 child, took off his broad brim, and extending 
 his hand to Mr. Somers, said, piping all the 
 time, " I give your reverance thanks — for now I 
 cannot refuse you the title that shews you to be
 
 JOHN DOE. SOI 
 
 what you are — a missionary of the peace and 
 good will to men on earth — I give your rever- 
 ance thanks, I say, for this defence of a poor 
 erring brother. I ask pardon, at the same time, 
 for my late mistake, and for my words ; and, as 
 your best reward, I promise, happy death to me, 
 from this moment, to watch and pray, and strive, 
 and wrestle, that at last I may grow more worthy 
 of the fellowship, that to-night your charity and 
 humanity alone " 
 
 He was interrupted by Purcell, who, after 
 holding out, in whispers, abundant reward to 
 his party, and having succeeded in rallying their 
 bad determination, came on, with loud threats, 
 to Tack'em, and cries of encouragement to 
 them. 
 
 " Seize and bind him, I say ! — Mary, we once 
 more proceed together." 
 
 " Touch her not !" exclaimed the old man, 
 again unexpectedly raising his shrill voice, " and 
 you — blind slaves of an accursed master! — 
 touch not the white hairs of the father, nor 
 the holy head of God's priest ! — too long I have 
 stood here, waitin' to see an' to hear, somethin' 
 that her tears, an' their words, an' tears too,
 
 302 john Don. 
 
 might work on him, hud did not ; an' now, 
 there is only time to ax ye, will ye, afther all 
 has heen said, assist Stephen Purcell in his had 
 schame ?" 
 
 " They will assist me !" shouted Purcell, and 
 was echoed by his party. 
 
 " More, then — arc you ready to stand the 
 struggle, and do your best, if he is prevented ?" 
 
 " Prevented ! mad and doting wretch ! — can 
 you prevent it ?" cried Purcell. 
 
 " I say, are ye ready ?" resumed the old 
 man. 
 
 " We are ready for any thing that comes !" 
 they answered. 
 
 " Then, Stephen Purcell," continued the 
 aged speaker, " I do not say /can prevent you, 
 but — (try to get aside, Mary Grace, wid your fa- 
 ther, an' the priest, an' the ministher, too — run 
 for the elm trees, an' stay behind them) — but, 
 Purcell," the old man went on, turning to him 
 after he had spoken the last words in a hasty 
 whisper to those by his side, " maybe there 's 
 one near you that can and will — stand out, 
 grandson ! — Harry Kavanah, stand out!" 
 
 " Kavanah ! Kavanah !" shouted the person
 
 JOHN DOE. 30 
 
 who was addressed, springing forward with 
 Mullins from the midst of Purcell's people, and 
 "Kavanah! Kavanah !" shouted Mullins. At 
 the same moment Kavanah blew a horn that 
 hung under his frock, and, at the sound, an 
 overpowering force, wearing loose blue great- 
 coats, and strongly armed, rushed from the 
 hollow trees. At the first intimation from the 
 old man, Mr. Somers and Mr. Grace, appre- 
 hending the result, had contrived, with Mary 
 and Tack'em, to edge away from the immediate 
 ground of contest, so that when Kavanah 
 winded his horn, they were within a short run 
 of the trees ; and they gained them, just as, to 
 their utter surprise, the ambushed allies, issued 
 forth on the plain.
 
 304 JOHN DOS 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 1 On, and flash away! — Kavanah!" — continued 
 the summoner, as the men advanced ; taking 
 with Mullins, a place at their head. All re- 
 peated his word and cry, and set, yelling like 
 demons, upon PurcelTs party. 
 
 Purcell, at the first signal of attack, had also 
 headed his men, and now made desperate re- 
 sistance. He rapidly formed them into a close 
 body, with their backs to the hedge that fenced 
 the hill, and thus awaited the assailants. 
 
 And on they came, armed with pistols, fowl- 
 ing-pieces, muskets, and bayonets screwed on 
 the ends of poles. Before the two parties 
 closed, a volley was exchanged betwixt them, 
 from the effects of which two of Kavanah's 
 people fell, one dead, the other wounded ; while 
 only one man went down on Purcell's side. 
 Amid the smoke and confusion that reigned for
 
 JOHN DOE. 305 
 
 a moment after, Purcell judiciously got his men 
 across the fence, over which they knelt, and, re- 
 loading their arms, prepared in this strong po- 
 sition, to continue battle. 
 
 " Steal round, with six of the boys, by the 
 slope of the hill, and attack them behind, Mul- 
 lins," said Kavanah, when he had observed this 
 movement — " and, of all things, keep your eye 
 on Purcell — meantime we will have another 
 blaze at them, here." Mullins readily obeyed ; 
 and, after a short pause, the other volley was 
 given and returned, Kavanah still the sufferer, 
 by the loss of two men more, and Purcell, this 
 time, untouched. 
 
 " Do that again, my boys !" shouted Purcell, 
 " and the next shot we are safe, and the outlaw 
 our own into the bargain!" 
 
 " Are you sure of it ?" — bellowed Mullins, 
 now within a few yards of Purcell's back, as he 
 and his detachment hurled themselves down the 
 hill on the rear of the whole party. 
 
 " Now, every man up the fence !" — cheered 
 Kavanah, pushing, with the rest of his batta- 
 lion into Purcell's front. 
 
 An appalling struggle followed. Three of
 
 30l> JOHN DOE. 
 
 Purcell's faction lay in the trench at the back of 
 the fence ; the rest Hcd over the hill, hotly pur- 
 sued. Kavanah singled out Purcell. Both 
 were too close to use their pistols, and could 
 only twist and strain for a fall. At last Kavanah 
 slipt, and his antagonist discharging at him a 
 random shot, jumped over the hedge upon the 
 road : but Kavanah, unharmed, was on his legs 
 in an instant ; and in the next, and when Pur- 
 cell had scarcely touched the ground outside, 
 he made a desperate spring after, and over him, 
 and landed on the road some yards beyond his 
 foe, so that Purcell stood between him and the 
 fence, and could not, therefore, readily escape. 
 
 Both glared on each other a moment, pant- 
 ing, foaming, and equally excited by effort and 
 aversion. At last Kavanah exclaimed — 
 
 " Do you doubt the word you heard, that you 
 look on me so hard ? — villain — accursed villain ! 
 — it is Kavanah!" He covered him with a 
 pistol. 
 
 " I see you, and know you well, now," an- 
 swered Purcell ; " but, it is so long since we met, 
 no wonder I li^e to look at you, Kavanah :" and 
 he moved a little, in order to recover an upright
 
 JOHN DOE. 307 
 
 position^ which, since his leap, he had not yet 
 assumed, having been surprised by his pursuer 
 in an effort to rise, so that with his body and 
 neck half stooped and wrung round, Purcell, to 
 this moment, returned the gaze and challenge 
 of Kavanah. 
 
 " Stand to me, and yield !" — exclaimed Ka- 
 vanah, when he saw him move — " love, alone, 
 could pay you with a poor shot and a moment's 
 pain — I owe you more than that — yield, abhor- 
 red wretch ! yield !" — he advanced as he spoke. 
 
 " Thus, then !" — cried Purcell, suddenly dis- 
 charging into Kavanah's face a small pistol he 
 had hitherto kept concealed. Kavanah reeled, 
 and fell ; mechanically, and without any effect, 
 pressing the trigger as he went down. Purcell 
 fled. 
 
 At this moment the old man, returning with 
 Mullins from the pursuit, saw his grandson 
 stretched, alone, on the ground. With a wild 
 cry he ran, knelt, and raised him in his arms. 
 Blood profusely flowed down Kavanah's face 
 from a wound in the temple. The old man 
 commenced a heart-rending lament, of which
 
 308 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the shrill tones soon had the effect of restoring 
 his grandson to perception. 
 
 "Who is this? — where is Purcell?"— he 
 said, disengaging himself and standing up. The 
 ball had only grazed his temple, and Kavanah 
 was no more than stunned, though from injury 
 done to a branch of the artery, the flow of 
 blood was considerable. 
 
 " Curse on the false weapon or false hand 
 that never before failed me !"— he continued — 
 " come, Mullins — come, grandfather — Mullins, 
 a pistol— let us take different directions — spread 
 out the men— come!" and the whole party left 
 the scene of contest. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. and Miss Grace, Mr. So- 
 mers, and Tack'em, had, previous to the dis- 
 charge of a shot, gained the backs of the 
 hollow trees. Of all the group, Tack'em dis- 
 played, from the first moment of danger, the 
 greatest degree of cowardice. He fell on his 
 knees, and, alternately in good Latin and bad 
 English, prayed for deliverance. He groaned, 
 he chattered, and sent forth very agonized 
 ejaculations, as the firing and shouting in-
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 309 
 
 creased. At last a better thought occurred. 
 He looked round, embracing, however, a circuit 
 of observation sufficiently prudential, and his 
 companions could hear him mutter — " Nau- 
 bocklish ! — Naubocklish ! — where is the un- 
 lucky baste? where can she be? — Naubock- 
 lish !"— and they understood that he repeated 
 the name of his gray mare ; which name, trans- 
 lated for the Britannic reader, signifies, " Never- 
 mind-it ;" an appellation, by the way, frequently 
 bestowed by Irish sportsmen, on their favourite 
 animals of the same species ; we recollect a 
 racing-mare of much worth, so called on the 
 " Curragh of Kildare ;" the Newmarket, or 
 Newcastle, of the sister island. 
 
 But, for some time, Naubocklish did not ap- 
 pear. It seemed, however, that Tack'em be- 
 came aware of her proximity, for after a pause 
 he was heard to add — " that 's she — that 's she 
 — come a-chorra, come a-vourneen," accom- 
 panying these coaxing words with his best coax- 
 ing tone ; and as he spoke, his party also recog- 
 nised the approach of a horse, indicated by a 
 succession of hysteric snortings, that, if the 
 language of quadrupeds may ever be rendered,
 
 810 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 loudly proclaimed the excessive astonishment 
 and mortal fear of the said Naubocklish. At 
 length she made her appearance at the side 
 of the hollow trees, occasionally cocking or 
 lowering her ears, standing quiet, or rearing 
 on her hind legs and prancing upward and for- 
 ward, and to this side and that, her feelings 
 still expressed, as has been intimated, and her 
 white, sightless orbs, rolling fearfully in their 
 sockets. 
 
 " I'll promise her oats," continued Tack em, 
 still muttering to himself; and thereupon he 
 took off his ample hat, and, stretching his neck 
 as far as he dared, towards the animal, shuffled 
 his hand in the crown of the beaver, his suppli- 
 cating and beguiling tones and words rapidly 
 continued. The finesse succeeded. Wheedled 
 out of her fears, the gaunt animal approached, 
 with outstretched nose and neck, in the direction 
 where Tack'em stood ; when she was within 
 arm's length, her master dexterously succeeded 
 in catching her by the forelock ; after two or 
 three unhappy failures he next deposited him- 
 self on her back, and then, spurring with all his 
 might, Tack'em and Naubocjdish soon disap-
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 311 
 
 peared over a path diverging from the bloody 
 plain. As they receded, her snorts and his 
 groans were audible through the whole roar 
 of battle ; and, ere they had become entirely 
 lost in distance, Tack'em could be seen lying 
 down on her neck, his arms clasped round it, 
 while, Gilpin-like, his bald head remained un- 
 covered ; a distinct object even at a great 
 distance, as the moon brilliantly illuminated its 
 polished surface. 
 
 After he had departed, Mr. Grace, and his 
 daughter, with their worthy friend, Mr. So- 
 mers, continued, in anxious, and by no means 
 unapprehensive silence, to await the result of^the 
 struggle on the plain. The shots and yells be- 
 came less and less, as Mullins pursued the de- 
 feated party over the hill ; and there was an 
 aching pause left after Purcell and Kavanah had 
 terminated their personal encounter. When 
 the cries of the old man arose, Mr. Somers ven- 
 tured to look out towards the ground of action, 
 and so became a witness of the ensuing scene: 
 and, when in obedience to Kavanah's commands, 
 all separated in pursuit of Purcell, he commu-
 
 312 
 
 JOHN DOS. 
 
 nicated the state of affairs to Mr. Grace and 
 Mary. 
 
 " Our foes have been routed, and are fled," — 
 said Mr. Somers, " thanks for this great, though 
 terrible preservation !" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Somers !" said Grace, " yet do I 
 fear we have only escaped one bad fate for 
 another — my child ! my child !" — he caught his 
 daughter to his breast. 
 
 Mr. Somers demanded what he meant. 
 
 " You recollect the unfortunate young man, 
 Kavanah, about whom, we this very evening 
 conversed ? — Well, then — our preserver is the 
 same person — and — " Grace hesitated, while 
 Mary added — 
 
 " In truth, Mr. Somers, Kavanah paid me 
 some early attentions." 
 
 " And you fear he may now renew them, 
 Mr. Grace ?" 
 
 " What else can we expect from a desperate 
 man like him? an outlaw, and, evidently, with 
 force at his command ?" 
 
 " Do not speak too harshly, my dear father/' 
 said Mary ; " perhaps we need not fear such
 
 JOHN DOE. 318 
 
 very bad things from Kavanah ; he had once 
 a gentle, if not a tender heart" — she checked 
 herself, and an accusing blush spread over her 
 pale cheeks. 
 
 1 Why cannot we take advantage of his 
 absence, and now, while the way is apparently 
 clear, fly from him ?" said Mr. Somers. 
 
 " If you think we may venture it, come then — 
 come, my Mary, and heaven guide us !" 
 
 " Stay a moment, my dear father, and let us 
 rather consider the use of this," said Mary. 
 " Whatever may be Kavanah's views towards 
 us — whether he means to protect us to our 
 house — or — or — in fact, make me the sub- 
 ject of a claim in his own person — still, we 
 may be assured, he will expect to find us here, 
 and will speedily return to seek us. If we 
 appear to avoid him, after receiving an obli- 
 gation at his hands, it becomes a question, I 
 think, how safely we may venture to arouse his 
 displeasure. He has many active and despe- 
 rate men at his side, and, supposing him in- 
 clined to pursue, I doubt that we could escape 
 him. This very moment, I fear, it would be 
 impossible to proceed far without meeting him 
 
 vol. in. p
 
 31 I JOHN DilE, 
 
 or sonic of his party. Therefore, it appears to 
 me, that however kavanah may be inclined to 
 treat us, there would be no use, and might be 
 danger, in leaving our present place." 
 
 Mr. Soniers drew his friend aside. — "Permit 
 me to ask you — and excuse the abruptness of the 
 question — in what feeling did Miss Grace seem 
 to receive the addresses of this young man '." 
 
 " You probe me on a subject," answered 
 Grace, " that this instant occupied, while it 
 distracted my mind. I must candidly tell you, 
 Mf. Somer^, — but Mary was then a child — a 
 mere child — and he was quite a buy also— u-t I 
 must admit that from my anxious obsrn ati<>m 
 on Mary, I thought she was foolishly partial to 
 the lad." 
 
 " Then excuse another question — do you 
 think that in her present advocacy of Kavanah, 
 — advocacy, or whatever else we call it — there is 
 any recollection of the past, and — any wish to 
 renew it ?" 
 
 " God have pity on me if there is !" said 
 ( trace. 
 
 " But what do you think, my good friend ?" 
 
 " I cannot believe it, yet I fear it," he re- 
 plied, with increased distress and apprehension
 
 JOHN DOE. 315 
 
 " Then let us, at any risk, try to escape 
 homeward," resumed Mr. Somers ; — " your fa- 
 ther and I, Miss Grace, have considered the 
 matter we were speaking about, and it seems 
 best, after all you have said, to remove immedi- 
 ately out of the presence of a desperate man, 
 of blasted character and ruined prospects," he 
 added, with solemnity and some severity. But 
 all further movement was impeded by the ap- 
 pearance, at the instant they were about to 
 turn towards the hill, of Kavanah at one side, 
 and Mullins at the other. During his absence, 
 Kavanah had contrived to wash the blood from 
 his face, and his cool, forward manner was again 
 adopted. 
 
 " Stop, Mr. Grace !" he said, as soon as he 
 saw the party — " stop, sir, till I am ready to 
 attend you:" then, turning to Mullins — "have 
 you seen him ?" 
 
 " No — nor nobody else — this time he 's safe," 
 answered Mullins — "the only thing we found 
 war the horses strayin' by the wrong road, an' 
 the two grooms looked so quare when we axed 
 'em! ho! ho!" 
 
 " He's safe but for a day," resumed Kavanah, 
 
 f2
 
 >*>1G JOHN DOE. 
 
 " for tliat matter, I might at once order you and 
 these fellows on a pursuit he could hardly even 
 now escape; but here we have work yet to do." 
 
 " You have saved us, sir, from outrage and 
 shame," said Grace, addressing Kavanah, "we 
 owe to you the preservation of our honour — of 
 our lives — and we deeply thank you." 
 
 " Do you remember me, Mr. Grace ?" asked 
 Kavanah, abruptly turning his full front to 
 the speaker. 
 
 " -After the services you have just conferred 
 on me, sir, I should be very forgetful, indeed, 
 if I did not easily recognise you," replied Grace, 
 unwilling to admit any acquaintance of more' 
 ancient date. 
 
 " And do you know me no better?" rejoined 
 Kavanah. 
 
 " Let me inform you, Mr. Grace, that our 
 old friendship might be renewed without pre- 
 sent odium to your name, station, or fortune. 
 I, too, have grown wealthy since we last met. I 
 believe," he continued with composure, and as 
 if following a mental calculation while he spoke 
 — " I believe I could, this moment, purchase 
 you, out and out, and then throw all you are
 
 JOHN DOE. 317 
 
 worth into the bottom of the sea, and still be a 
 comfortable man." 
 
 ' ,l It is very probable, sir," said Grace. 
 
 " As to the slander I have suffered from foul 
 tongues," Kavanah ran on, with vivacity, "a 
 tithe of my possessions were enough to ensure 
 eternal silence on that head; and you know in 
 your heart, sir, I have never been really guilty 
 of a moral crime or a dishonourable action in 
 my own country. What say you, Mr. Grace, 
 shall we be old friends on the old understanding V 
 
 "It would afford me sincere pleasure, Mr. 
 Kavanah, to meet you on terms of perfect 
 equality." 
 
 " You evade me, sir," his eye kindling, and 
 his voice rising — "I can fully conceive your 
 meaning; first you doubt my declarations of 
 ability to establish that character; and then, 
 even supposing all the power on my side, you 
 would prudently step back and watch me setting 
 to work in the endeavour to do so, refusing 
 your countenance — your assistance is out of 
 the question — till you had ascertained my suc- 
 cess or failure. Oh brave ! — I thank you, sir, 
 for your condescension. And so it is, the
 
 318 john doe. 
 
 world round; and so are the unfortunate, the 
 wronged, and the oppressed, always sure to hi 
 treated. Shew me the man of what you call 
 most benevolence and charity amongst you, and 
 I will, at the same time, shew you the over-cau- 
 tious hypocrite, who can wink, or shrug, or 
 whisper, or cast up his eyes, over the lying 
 story that deprives an innocent fellow-creature 
 of rank and estimation ; who will never be the 
 first to meet him halfway in his solitary struggle 
 towards reinstatement in the world's opinion — 
 if so contemptible a thing were worth the strug- 
 gle ; but — mark you — who will ever be the very 
 first — oh yes, the very first— that I allow — to 
 hail him with the holiday smile, when he has 
 fought and won his own battle, and sprung, 
 without a hand or voice, or wish to assist him, 
 back again to the firm ground he would never 
 have lost, if villany and perjury were not too 
 strong for single, unbefriended innocence !" 
 
 Kavanah, having delivered this speech with 
 much energy, strode about in chafing silence: 
 Grace remaining prudently without an answer. 
 The speaker, coming to a sudden stand, then 
 continued —
 
 JOHN DOE. 319 
 
 "And, so help me God, here I am, the 
 most belied and trampled of innocent men, 
 and I have not a friend under the blessed 
 canopy of heaven, wide and beautiful as it 
 spreads above and around us, who would this 
 night lend me a moment's counsel, kindness, or 
 confidence, to save me from the worst fate, here 
 and hereafter ! — not one ! — to save me from my 
 own counsel — and in my state of lonely recol- 
 lections and temptations — the dark things it 
 urges me to, every hour I trust it ! — not one to 
 give me the composing shelter of a christian 
 roof, or to fling me a christian pillow, that my 
 aching brows might take christian rest, and 
 waken out of it, with christian temper, pas- 
 sions, and consolations !— not one J"— he resum- 
 ed his quick walking, every step almost a stamp, 
 while his clenched hand was often raised to 
 his forehead. And once again, while he con- 
 tinued in motion — 
 
 " This, then, is no country to me !" he said, 
 "I owe it nothing — nothing but my birth, and for 
 that I curse it, and pray, that, in utter woe it 
 may be confounded ! — it gave me nothing — 
 nothing but a name— which, in cruelty and
 
 320 JOHN DOE. 
 
 wrong, it wrenched from me again — why should 
 I love it } — what arc its blue hills and its plea- 
 sant fields to me — though in distant and dreary 
 banishment, I have thought of them, till, as the 
 foolish tear filled my eye, their shadowy forms 
 wavered through the sultry horizon, and the 
 fresh noise of their streams, and all their old 
 sounds, came on my ear, and were heard in my 
 soul, and at last I wept and sobbed to see them 
 again — yet, why should I love it? — and, least of 
 all, why should I fear it ? — And since it will not 
 cherish or assist me, why should I hesitate to 
 do, in the teeth of its arbitrary prohibition, 
 whatever may, for a moment, assert, satisfy, and 
 revenge me?" 
 
 Mary Grace, who had listened with intense 
 interest to all he said, now could not refrain 
 from breathing one word of appeal, remon- 
 strance, and comfort ; one word ; but its tone 
 and spirit contained a volume of persuasion. 
 
 " Kavanah !" she aspirated. He stopt, turn- 
 ed, looked tremblingly upon her ; then walked 
 slowly and solemnly to some distance ; again 
 stopt ; and after some thought, muttered — 
 
 " She is in my power — and I love her stilh"
 
 JOHN DOE. 321 
 
 * Young man," at this moment said Mr. So- 
 mers, " all the gratitude, all the services, we 
 can command, are yours ; and we doubt not 
 but your final disposal of us will still be honour- 
 able and just." 
 
 Kavanah returned no answer ; but to himself 
 he went on, unconscious of having been ad- 
 dressed — 
 
 " I know that once she loved me too ; — Mul- 
 lins!"— 
 
 " Here," answered the summoned party, 
 walking to his side. 
 
 " Did you not say — answer me below your 
 breath — did you not say that to-morrow night 
 roving Jack is expected at the harbour ?" 
 
 " Yes ; wid his tight ship ; as fast a sailer as 
 ever ran in an honest hogshead." 
 
 " And how soon to weigh again ?" 
 
 " How soon ? — why the same hour if he can ; 
 just as soon as the ship's lightened." 
 
 " Well — leave me. — 'Tis a happy dream," 
 he continued, after Mullins had strode away - 
 " though country be given up, I should still 
 have with me the only creature that now makes 
 country dear ; and, perhaps — though my cha-
 
 322 IOIIN ];oE. 
 
 racter is altered, and though men have stamped 
 a brand on my name, perhaps, even yet, Mars 
 might remember the past, and love the outlaw." 
 
 " He does not answer," whispered Mr. Grace 
 to Mr. Somers, " but there stands, as if planning 
 some wild or terrible scheme ; heaven befriend 
 us!" 
 
 " In truth," answered Mr. Somers, " I do not 
 like his pause, and, least of all, his secret com- 
 munication with that bravo. Young man," he 
 continued aloud to Kavanah, "we have spoken 
 to you, to offer our thanks and gratitude, and, 
 notwithstanding all the sad discourse you have 
 held, our services, if need be." 
 
 Still Kavanah made no answer : did not seem 
 to hear, in fact. "Yes," resumed Grace, "and 
 to express our full reliance on your manliness 
 and honor." 
 
 "Can we trust you?" asked Mr. Somers, after 
 another silent pause. 
 
 '" We can !" exclaimed Mary. — Kavanah 
 caught his breath, and with face half turned to- 
 wards her, seemed to await her further speech. 
 
 " We can !" she repeated, " yes ! alone with 
 him, and in his power in a desart, / fear not
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 323 
 
 the honor of our deliverer. Whatever he 
 does — whatever his feelings may lead him to at- 
 tempt, he will act with delicacy, and at the pro- 
 per time"and season. In any views he may have, 
 Kavanah is not the man to imitate a mean vil- 
 lain. Kavanah is not the man to blacken a 
 noble action with a bad one !" 
 
 The person addressed heard this appeal evi- 
 dently in checked feeling. He pulled his hat 
 over his brows, and changed frequently from 
 one foot to another, as his clenched hands 
 hung by his sides griping the folds of his 
 frock. When Mary had ceased, and in the 
 deep silence that followed, the breath was heard 
 to labour in his throat, rapidly coming and go- 
 ing as if with alarmed precipitancy it struggled 
 to make way for a burst of combatted resolu- 
 tion. Then he beckoned Mullins with two or 
 three impatient motions of his hand ; when the 
 man came he turned quickly upon him, and with 
 flashing eyes fixed on his, gasped and gaped in 
 an effort to pronounce a word : the difficulty 
 seemed, by irritating him, to increase his pa- 
 roxysm of passion ; he waved his hand and arm 
 over and over again, and at last, stamping vio-
 
 324 JOHN DOE. 
 
 lently, was able to utter in a choaked tone, half 
 scream and hall' whisper — " Lead on !" — 
 " Whither ?— whither ?"— asked Grace and Mr. 
 Somers, both advancing. 
 
 " Oh, Kavanah ! — whither ?" echoed Mary, 
 with clasped hands and streaming eyes, con- 
 fronting him. 
 
 " To your father's house !" he exclaimed, in 
 a burst of voice — " there we can find your pro- 
 per time and season ! — Mullins, get those 
 horses sent round to meet us at the other side 
 of the hill — and do you direct our course — I 
 cannot — I will remain far behind — I must not 
 yet approach her — must not look upon her — 
 my heart is wracked— my breast and neck are 
 choaking — but lead on!"
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 325 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The narrative left Howard and Mr. O'Clery 
 setting out, after Nora's intelligence, in great 
 speed to Mr. Grace's house. 
 
 They soon gained, by the short path well 
 known to O'Clery, their destination. As the 
 gentlemen hurried along, it occurred to both 
 that much reliance was not to be placed on 
 Nora's raving information, and, all the way, they 
 had hopes she might have misconceived or ex- 
 aggerated the real circumstances. 
 
 The first thing that raised Nora's credit was 
 the appearance of the little avenue gate, wide 
 open. The friends looked at each other and 
 pushed on to the house. As they approached 
 the door, Howard stumbled over something; 
 and a moment's examination shewed them the 
 dead carcass of a fine mastiff watch-dog, which 
 it had been the intruders' first care, to despatch.
 
 S26 joiin doi:. 
 
 This was a worse symptom ; but, as a still WOTSC 
 the hall door remained unclosed. They en- 
 tered the house. The hall and staircase were 
 in darkness, and with some difficulty they as- 
 cended to the sitting-room where O'Clery had 
 left his host and Mr. Somers in convivial dis- 
 course. Here was a scene of dreary, and to 
 the spectators, afflicting desolation. Of four 
 lights, two had burned out ; one lay crushed 
 and extinguished on the carpet, and one only 
 lent imperfect illumination to the apartment. 
 The fire was black; the hospitable hearth chill 
 and cheerless. On a table near it lay some 
 broken, and all in disorder, glasses and de- 
 canters. The chairs were disarranged or over- 
 turned, and the carpet soiled and crumpled, in 
 evident token of the recent intrusion of a vulgar 
 crowd. The window which Grace had thrown 
 up in order to parley with the assailants, still 
 remained open, and at it, In the faint rays of 
 the moon, sat a little long-eared, silky lap-dog, 
 Mary's own favourite, piteously howling forth 
 his sense of abandonment and loneliness. 
 
 With rapid words of alarm and consterna- 
 tion, the friends ran to the door through which
 
 JOHN DOE. 327 
 
 they had entered the room, and called, loudly 
 and anxiously, the names of those they scarcely 
 expected should hear them. — " Mr. Grace ! my 
 dear friend, Mr. Grace !" — cried O'Clery : 
 " Mary ! my beloved Mary !" — echoed Howard. 
 The empty apartments and staircases feebly an- 
 swered, like the inarticulate efforts of a child, 
 in a shadowy sound of the same words they 
 had spoken, and deep silence again fell around. 
 The friends, snatching the lighted candle, 
 rushed through the other rooms, one by one. 
 At last they gained what they knew to be Mary's 
 chamber. There was her little toilet, surround- 
 ed by the books and the drawings ; and upon 
 it still lay the crucifix, the glass vase with its 
 hectic rose now drooping, the rosary, the prayer- 
 book, turned down, and Howard's miniature. As 
 his eye glanced on the likeness, he saw on its 
 crystal cover, traces of the tears Mary had 
 shed while, as we have already described, fearing 
 for his absence, and a gush of bitter grief blind- 
 ed his own eyes for a moment. He glanced to- 
 wards Mary's bed. It stood, white, pure, and 
 impressed, as it had been arranged for the 
 night's repose : "Oh God !" he exclaimed, "and
 
 328 JOHN DOE* 
 
 where, instead, is she to lie clown to night!" — 
 The thought was madness, and Howard, drop- 
 ping into a chair, gave vent to his feelings. 
 
 Mr. O'Clery, his own soul afflicted and agi- 
 tated, strove to administer comfort to his friend, 
 but, for some time, in vain. 
 
 " If we had even a trace of the road," said 
 Howard — " if that accursed woman could in- 
 form us which way they went, there might be 
 some hope — but as it is, nothing is certain but 
 the ruin of the young lady — and — " he con- 
 tinued wildly — " my ruin also — for I will outlive 
 no shame that this outrage must fix on Mary 
 Grace !" — 
 
 " Hist !" — O'Clery said — " here arc your sol- 
 diers." — The rapid and heavy tramp of the men 
 was, indeed, now audible, as they advanced in 
 double quick time, up the approach to the 
 house : — " and all is not yet lost with help so 
 near us," added O'Clery ; " come, Mr. Howard, 
 man yourself — dispose them over the country by 
 every path and road the ravishers may pos- 
 sibly have taken — and, hark ! that bewildered 
 creature comes with them — I hear her demo- 
 niacal yell ringing through the house— come
 
 JOHN DOE. 329 
 
 down — let us again speak to her — and perhaps 
 she is at last calm enough to collect her senses 
 and yield us some particular information !" 
 
 They accordingly descended, and in passing 
 the door of the sitting-room they had first en- 
 tered, Nora rushed by them, into it, and squat- 
 ting herself as in the cabin, on the middle of the 
 carpet, set up her old pilla-loo, eked out by the 
 incessant clapping of her hands. The little dog, 
 whom Howard's and O'Clery's appearance had 
 for a moment diverted from his howling, now 
 sympathetically chimed in with Nora, and a 
 duet arose from the efforts of both, sufficient to 
 startle the dull ear of the dead. 
 
 " 'Tis hard to say which is the purer brute," 
 said O'Clery, as with Howard he advanced at 
 Nora's back. " Silence, you obstreperous fool," 
 he continued, addressing her, " and get up and 
 inform us which road these ruffians have taken 
 with your master and your young lady." 
 
 But Nora accorded no answer ; neither did 
 she suspend her part in the performance. 
 
 " Answer us, you unfortunate woman !" — 
 eried Howard, " tell us, if you know, which 
 road they first pursued, — answer instantly, or
 
 330 JOHN DOE. 
 
 I'll cut that tongue out of your head ! \\ hid, 
 road 1 say?" 
 
 "Ochl little duv I know! — bud there's no 
 one here! no one here! they're all gone! — 
 gone ! — the hearth is could! — could ! — ochoun ! 
 ochoun!" — and she suddenly started on her feet, 
 and trooped up stairs, before Howard or O'Clery 
 could stop her. 
 
 " Gracious God !" exclaimed Howard — " the 
 moments lapse in which a well directed effort 
 might be made ; but I'll after her, and try one 
 other experiment," and separating the sheath 
 of his sword from his belt, Howard retraced his 
 steps to the top of the house. 
 
 " Aha !— that may do — but you will lay it on 
 lightly," said O'Clery, following him. 
 
 Nora's continued outcry soon led them to her 
 presence. She had, by the kind of instinct that 
 enables a blind man to do the same thing, made 
 her way in utter darkness to Mary's chamber ; 
 and, when the friends entered with the candle, 
 they saw her in her usual position and gesticu- 
 lation, halfway between the bed and the toilet, 
 while, with' tears plentifully rolling down her 
 cheeks, Nora went on —
 
 JOHN DOE. 331 
 
 " You're not in your room ! — there 's no one 
 to read your prayer-book ! — an', och, a-lanna ma- 
 chree ! — you won't put your darlin' white skin 
 under your own white sheets, to-night, an' sink 
 down among the feathers, like a lily as you are, 
 goin' asleep on its bed o' daisies ! you won't ! 
 no, you won't! — mille murthers !" 
 
 Somewhat affected by the tears and poetical 
 lament of Nora, Howard hesitated in the first 
 instance, to treat her too roughly ; and it was 
 not till, after repeated conjurations, she still ob- 
 stinately or heedlessly withheld all rational an- 
 swer, that Nora felt the scabbard gently intro- 
 ducing itself to her broad shoulders. At the 
 touch she uttered a louder cry than ever, and 
 again succeeded in escaping from her pursuers, 
 first through the chamber-door, and then down 
 the stairs. 
 
 They still followed her. She issued through 
 the half door, and looking round for the huge 
 stone she had lately precipitated from the win- 
 dow overhead, was moving towards it, when her 
 interminable cry became changed into a sudden 
 squeak, and she hastily ran back to the door. 
 The gentlemen, advancing, discovered the cause
 
 13 I JOHN DOE. 
 
 of her terror. Beside the stone lay the man on 
 whom it had fallen, his thigh crushed to pieces, 
 so that he was deprived of all power to move, 
 while weakened by pain and fear, the wretch 
 remained stretched on his back; his features — 
 made more hideous by the black smearing they 
 had undergone, and which was now half rubbed 
 off — set in an agony of dread, and his eyes 
 staring straight upward, with the most ghastly 
 expression. Howard and O'Clery shuddered 
 at this spectacle, and could not blame Nora for 
 her cowardice. 
 
 The man was sufficiently sensible, however, 
 to comprehend what was going forward. He 
 had heard the repeated inquiries made of Nora, 
 and now muttered, as the friends stood over 
 him 
 
 " Don't kill me — for the love o' God an' the 
 blessed Vargin Mary, don't kill me entirely, an' 
 I 11 tell you where to find 'em." 
 
 " Speak, then, and truly," said Howard, " if 
 you hope to live another moment !" he raised 
 his sword. 
 
 The man gave a description of the route he 
 had heard proposed by Mullins, and which was
 
 JOHN DOE* 383 
 
 really the course taken. Howard listened with 
 increased impatience ; ordered two soldiers to 
 garrison the house till his return, and also to 
 remove and 'tend the wounded man ; and then 
 heading his party, and accompanied by O'Clery, 
 set off with all speed ; Nora still bringing up 
 the rear. 
 
 Along the very way they pursued, Purcell, at 
 about the same moment, was hastenincr after his 
 escape at the elm-trees, with purpose to call on 
 Howard and his men for assistance ; concluding 
 from Mullins's treachery, that Howard was still 
 available. We need not try to picture his feel- 
 ings at this juncture ; we need not say that all 
 the fiends of hate, disappointment, rage, and 
 bloody impulse, possessed it even unto mad- 
 ness. He ran, he panted, he smote his fore- 
 head, and called on the earth to swallow, and 
 the hills to slip and crush, his detested and suc- 
 cessful enemy : for, at cautious distance, Pur- 
 cell had stopped to ascertain the effect of his 
 last shot, and saw Kavanah arise, and heard 
 him order the pursuit. By an unusual, and yet, 
 for pedestrians, a short path, Purcell then fled, 
 bounding along with the shouts and curses of
 
 334 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the pursuers ringing in his ear, and the effort for 
 life and vengeance bracing his sinews, and giving 
 all but wings to his terrible speed. He broke 
 through fences, dashed over streams, and tram- 
 pled down, indifferently, the barren heath and 
 the pregnant furrow ; resembling, with blackest 
 hell in his heart and on his brow, and at such 
 an hour and in such solitudes, some spirit of 
 the lowest depths, sent forth upon man's slum- 
 bering world, to blight, crush, and destroy. 
 
 Dripping with wet, his clothes torn and soiled, 
 without a hat, and his face intensely pale and 
 haggard, Purcell, after avoiding the wood, and 
 the road which led to it, found himself free from 
 pursuit, on the open ground which commenced 
 an approach to the first bridle-road that had 
 conducted him from Mr. Grace's house. Over 
 this way he was holding his fierce career, when 
 a man appeared running towards him in a cross 
 direction. His nerves strung to the utmost 
 pitch of sensitiveness, Purcell screamed out a 
 challenge at this person, stooping, at the same 
 time for a large stone that lay before him, as 
 lie was now otherwise unarmed. It proved, 
 however, to be one of his own men, flying like
 
 JOHN DOE. 835 
 
 himself from the late scene of confusion and 
 blood. Re-assured, and, from the presence of 
 one associate, comforted, Purcell dropped the 
 stone from his weakened grasp, and poured 
 forth a torrent of inquiries, imprecations, and 
 vows of revenge. Kavanah, Mullins, and all, 
 should feel, he said, his arm, in time and turn. 
 
 " Come !" he continued, " Howard and the 
 soldiers ! he is saved for me though they don't 
 think it ! let us cheer them on ! — let us swear 
 that Kavanah himself is the man who has forced 
 her away — that we interfered to prevent him — 
 that we were — were — curses ! — that they have, 
 by overpowering force, reduced us to this breath- 
 less condition ! — come ! — baffled in every way — 
 at every turn — and by that boy, still ! he that 
 has ever been a stone — a rock on my path ! 
 — but we will have it yet — come! — the sol- 
 diers !" 
 
 "The soldiers!" — echoed the sharp voice of 
 old Kavanah, who at that moment started, like 
 a spectre, before him — " dog of an informer 
 still ! — I have traced you as the hound traces 
 his prey — stiff an' worn as I am, I have traced 
 you — an', now, how do I find you here? how,
 
 ZoV> JOHN DOE. 
 
 but on the ould thrack? — the soldiers!— what do 
 you want with them I — will they assist you to 
 bring shame on another white head? — or — 
 crossed in your own endeavour — do you only 
 to to loose them on the game you have before 
 hunted down ?" 
 
 " Stand out of my way, or — I will make you 
 stand out of it !" said Purcell, balefully glaring 
 on the old man. 
 
 " Never ! till you unsay that word I hard, an' 
 promise at last to spare him ! — haven't you 
 done enough? — haven't you spent yourself on 
 us all? where is my child's child? where is my 
 child herself? — hoot, toot! — never scowl an' 
 gnash your teeth at me, Purcell — where is the 
 comfort you tore, like a pillow, from me ?— the 
 pride an' the pace o' mind ? — can you make me 
 as I was agin? Can you make me not mad, 
 a gi n ? — oath-breaker an' robber! stay where 
 you are, an' answer!" — 
 
 " Out of my way, wretch ! or " : he 
 
 griped the old man's throat with both his hands, 
 who, however, amid choking breath and utter- 
 ance, went on- 
 
 " Aye — aye! — doit! doit! keep them round
 
 JOHN DOE. 337 
 
 my neck 'till I fall stark and stiff' under your 
 hands ! — kill the ould grandfather that so you 
 may deal on the three generations !" — 
 
 Purcell persevered in his purpose till the 
 sound of approaching feet were heard, and the 
 man who stood by his side, crying out — " we're 
 taken!"— plunged clown the slope at the left 
 hand side, and disappeared. He then released 
 the old man, and looking forward, saw, to his 
 great surprise and pleasure, Howard and 
 O'Clery rapidly advancing. 
 
 "Hold! hold!"— Howard exclaimed as he 
 came up, having heard the cries of old Kavanah 
 — " what shameful outrage is this ?" — 
 
 " Saize him, sassenah, saize him ! — he is the 
 man that this night took off your Mary Grace !" 
 — the old man gasped out, and then rapidly 
 withdrew from the scene. 
 
 " Och ! saize him !— hould him fast ! hang 
 him ! shoot him ! tare him limb from limb !" — 
 exhorted Nora, coming in front. 
 
 " Soldiers ! — take him prisoner !" — said How- 
 ard. 
 
 " Stop, sir," cried Purcell, " you will not 
 heed, Captain Howard, the ravings of a mad- 
 
 vol. in. q
 
 3o8 JOHN DOE. 
 
 man — all can tell you he is mad — what, Nora, 
 do you not know me ? — am I the person this 
 old fool speaks of?" — for — we had omitted 
 to mention — Purcell, so soon as he escaped 
 from Kavanah's men, took care to divest himself 
 of his red waistcoat and sash. 
 
 " Och ! no ! no ! no !" — responded Nora. 
 
 " You did not, then, see this man at Mr. 
 Grace's ?" — 
 
 " Avoch, no! — Captain John! a-guilla-ma- 
 chree! — Captain John! — this is a very dacent 
 gintlimen — if he does his best fur us, now, I 
 mane," — added Nora, in a qualifying tone. 
 
 " I will ! it is therefore I am here, on my way 
 to Captain Howard, with intelligence where to 
 find them." 
 
 " On your way from them, then ?" — asked 
 O'Clery. 
 
 "Yes, sir — directly — this moment from them." 
 
 " And may I ask how you got among them, 
 Mr. Purcell?" 
 
 " Mr. O'Clery — Captain Howard — look at me 
 — you may guess by my appearance and man- 
 ner what I have suffered and escaped at their 
 hands. I tell you, gentlemen, that— passing
 
 JOHN DOE. 339 
 
 the road by chance, by mere chance — I met the 
 whole party — Mr. and Miss Grace — and Mr. 
 Somers — and all — and giving way to my feel- 
 ings — you know how keenly I ought to feel to 
 see Miss Grace in such a situation, father 
 O'Clery — not considering what I did, I plunged 
 into the midst of them, unarmed ; and, after a 
 desperate struggle, am here, scarcely alive, to 
 tell you my adventure." 
 
 " Were you alone as well as unarmed, sir?" 
 still questioned O'Clery. 
 
 " Was I alone, sir ? — to be sure I was — who 
 could have been with me ? — I should be glad to 
 know what you exactly mean, Mr. O'Clery." 
 
 " Why I thought that in the present state of 
 the country ; you did not usually venture out at 
 night, unattended and unarmed, sir ; but I beg 
 your pardon a moment — Captain Howard, a 
 word. By my priesthood," continued O'Clery, 
 " all this is very mysterious, my good friend. 
 I assume sufficient knowledge of the human heart 
 to be convinced, from Mr. Purcell's character, 
 — which, also, I have good reason to know — 
 that he is not the man to do any such exploit 
 as he states himself the hero of — nor in my 
 
 q 2
 
 0*40 JOHN DOE. 
 
 conscience do I believe he met, alone and un- 
 armed, the persons we are at present in pur- 
 suit of." 
 
 " This, then, involves the truth of his inform- 
 ation as to their route ?" — 
 
 " I fear so — and more — and do not let him 
 see you startled when I speak it — Purcell may 
 be the author of this outrage himself! — Stop, 
 for heaven's sake — and let me go on — and his 
 present appearance before us may be for the 
 purpose of misleading you, while, in the mean 
 time, his agents shall have secured " 
 
 " I'll run him through the heart!" — Howard 
 broke out. 
 
 " Tut — that would be a bad way of coming 
 at the truth, under the present circumstances. 
 I wish that old man who first gave us to under- 
 stand he was the true aggressor, were here. "Why 
 should he have his hands on the poor creature, 
 as we came up? — but, no matter — suppose, 
 Captain Howard, you now seem to place im- 
 plicit reliance on Purcell — keeping an eye on 
 him, meantime ;— if he does not immediately 
 lead us on the track — or if, at all events, it be 
 finally proved he leads us wide of it — then, you
 
 JOHN DOE. 341 
 
 know, he will be in your power still ; and, in 
 truth, if we now reject his guidance, the country 
 becomes, a little further on, so full of cross- 
 roads and difficult ways, that I see not what 
 better you can do." 
 
 " And all this time is time wasted !" — said 
 Howard, impatiently ; then, turning round — 
 " Mr. Purcell, we place the utmost faith on 
 your story and your guidance — pray, have the 
 goodness to fall in with me, between these men 
 — and now, sir, is your point far off?" — 
 
 " Not very far, Captain Howard — I will en- 
 gage to lead you to it in little more than half 
 an hour." 
 
 " Haste, then — which way ?" 
 
 " For the present, straight on," replied 
 Purcell. 
 
 " Come, Mr. O'Clery — soldiers, attention ! — 
 double quick time and march !" — 
 
 " Och, no, red-coats ! — double quick time, 
 an' run! run! run!" — countermanded Nora, 
 putting herself in motion to join the main body. 
 But an accident impeded her further career. 
 To keep clear of the soldiers, and yet trot on at 
 their side, Nora had deviated a little too much
 
 342 JOHN DOE. 
 
 towards the edge of the declivity before de- 
 scribed, and, in an unlucky moment, slipt at 
 its edge, and, losing her balance, tumbled to the 
 bottom. There, landing on her feet, she stuck 
 fast in a quagmire, from which, in her alarmed 
 and debilitated state of body, it was impossible 
 to extricate herself. 
 
 " An' och !" — No.a cried — "here I am in 
 throuble, an' nobody comin' to me ! Sunk a past 
 my hams in could wather an' mud, an' all alone! 
 alone ! — it 'ull be the death o' me, an' not a 
 sowl near me ! — an' my new quilted petticoat, an' 
 my Sunday stocking ! petticoat an' stockins ! 
 stockins an' petticoat !" — 
 
 And here we must take leave of Nora, sym- 
 pathising in her distress indeed, but too much 
 concerned in the distresses of others to be able 
 to lend her immediate assistance, though, no 
 doubt, she escaped, in good time, to live over 
 this eventful night during many a long and 
 prosperous day.
 
 JOHN DOE. 343 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Mullins had led his party, and those they es- 
 corted or guarded, through the wood before 
 mentioned, as part of Purcell's first route, when 
 Kavanah rode briskly up to him on the road, 
 and said, in a low tone — 
 
 " Mullins — Purcell is coming to meet us with 
 Howard and the soldiers ; my poor grandfather 
 has just returned from them to inform me." 
 
 " Well ?" — asked or answered the impertur- 
 bable Mullins. 
 
 " Our number is too small to check them, and 
 it may happen we shall have to take care of 
 ourselves." 
 
 " An' so we can, wid God's help, and others." 
 
 " You think, then, Flinn's new friends will 
 be up ?" — 
 
 " Never fear :" and both relapsed into silence. 
 
 "He seems to keep his word, though his man-
 
 344 JOHN DOE. 
 
 ner is so suspicious," said Mr. Somers, to his 
 friends, while this conversation was going for- 
 ward in front — " it is certainly our road home- 
 ward." 
 
 " It is," said Grace, " and now I scarcely 
 doubt but he will, at all events, guide us to our 
 house." 
 
 " Do not doubt at all," said Mary. 
 
 " Hark !" resumed Somers, " I think I hear 
 the approach of a number of persons over the 
 high ground that leads from your residence to 
 this road." 
 
 " If so," said Grace, " we are to be attacked 
 again by Purcell, with a fresh body of men ! — 
 I le has escaped for no other purpose — the vil- 
 lain is too desperate to forego a settled scheme 
 so easily !" — Still the advancing footsteps were 
 heard. 
 
 "Oh heaven! — who are they!" — exclaimed 
 Mary. 
 
 " No matter — stand close and fear nothing," 
 said Kavanah, passing her; and again he rode 
 up to Mullins and whispered in some anxiety — 
 
 " These are the soldiers, Mullins !" — 
 
 " Well ? — look far through the moonlight,
 
 JOHN DOE. 345 
 
 into the hollow, under them, an' thry what else 
 you can see." 
 
 " The red waistcoats, I think !" resumed 
 Kavanah, while he obeyed the suggestion of 
 Mullins. 
 
 " These are not a crowd of common men," 
 Mr. Somers continued to Grace, " the regular, 
 though rapid tramp of their advance leads me 
 to hope they may be soldiers." 
 
 " They are soldiers," exclaimed Grace, joy- 
 fully, " I see the glancing of their caps and 
 feathers over the edge of the height — thank 
 heaven !" 
 
 Howard and his party had now, indeed, just 
 gained a point from which the road became ob- 
 servable, and Purcell was the first to point out 
 the opposite phalanx in motion over it. 
 
 " There they are !" he exclaimed, " and now 
 it is my time and opportunity to inform your re- 
 verend counsellor, Captain Howard, that I fully 
 understood the nature of his doubts and cau- 
 tions expressed to you, a little while ago, though 
 I waited for this moment to say so." 
 
 " Praise to God," said O'Clery to Howard, 
 in a low voice, " these are the friends we seek, 
 
 q3
 
 346 JOHN DOE. 
 
 I can distinctly see my dear Mary Grace in 
 the middle of the party, wearing her white 
 dress and dark mantle." 
 
 " I see her too !•" exclaimed Howard, " and 
 now an instant's pause, Mr. O'Clery. Your 
 suspicions of Purcell seem to be ill-founded." 
 
 " Perhaps, Captain Howard — but the whole 
 event, and his future conduct, can alone assure 
 me there were no reasons, of any kind, for my 
 caution." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Captain Howard," re- 
 sumed Purcell, advancing a step towards them, 
 " but I think I may have the benefit of what- 
 ever new hints his popish reverence thinks pro- 
 per to direct to me." 
 
 " You are rash, if not intrusive, sir," said 
 Howard. 
 
 " Very likely," continued Purcell, "this, then, 
 1 have to add ; that, since I am intrusive, and, 
 since that is the only word for my zealous ser- 
 vices, I shall instantly withdraw homeward ; 
 you are now in sight of your enemy, Captain 
 Howard, and can no longer require the at- 
 tendance of an unarmed man, like myself, whose 
 strength and spirits are already exhausted ; ami,
 
 JOHN DOE. 347 
 
 indeed, recollecting that, for my first opposi- 
 tion and present services, I must become a mark 
 of especial hatred and hostility to those wretches, 
 there seems an additional reason why I should 
 take care of myself." 
 
 " Do not let him budge an inch," whispered 
 O'Clery, while at the same time he elbowed 
 Howard rather vehemently, " you perceive our 
 friends are returning, with a party, towards 
 their own residence, not flying from it, and this 
 looks additionally mysterious." 
 
 " Why — what do you specifically think, Mr. 
 O'Clery?" asked Howard. 
 
 " Nothing, specifically — my former grounds 
 of suspicion are certainly altered, but I cannot 
 avoid resting on others, though I am not able 
 distinctly to define them ; yet, one question — 
 if this be really the party that perpetrated the 
 outrage — why — I repeat — why, after such a 
 lapse of time, do we meet them moving on the 
 very point they should, of all others, avoid ?" 
 
 " Good night, then, Captain Howard," re- 
 sumed Purcell, " and I shall, perhaps, find an op- 
 portunity, to present my greetings to your prime 
 minister also ; but, before I go, I too claim
 
 MS 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the favour of a private word ;" and he turned 
 off with Howard. " I know the kind of enemy 
 you have to deal with, better than you can pos- 
 sibly know them, and this is my humble but 
 earnest advice and request — prayer, rather — for 
 your own sake, as well as for your friends — 
 do not parley an instant with these ruffians; 
 they are headed by a marked and branded out- 
 law — you will know him by his air and dress 
 above all the others— run that man through 
 the body, or blow his brains out with your own 
 hand ! — let it be your very first act ! — if you 
 hesitate, beware of the consequences — he is 
 sworn to do the same by you the moment he 
 sees your face — I have the best private infor- 
 mation of the fact ; I can shew it to you to-mor- 
 row morning ; therefore have a care, I say, and 
 remember my caution." 
 
 " I shall certainly think about it, sir," said 
 Howard, " but as to your now leaving us — " 
 
 " There are other reasons why you should 
 act prudently," interrupted Purcell, talking ra- 
 pidly, "and, as this is no time for squeamish- 
 ness, I shall just hint them to you. Von are be- 
 trayed, Captain Howard ! betrayed by the very
 
 JOHN DOE. 349 
 
 friends you now purpose to assist! — listen to 
 me — it would be too long a story, and there- 
 fore out of season, to tell you why this is the 
 case, but I can satisfactorily prove it, along 
 with other things, early in the morning ; — now, 
 it is sufficient to say, that Grace, aye, and his 
 meek daughter too, have a feeling and interest 
 for the very persons in whose power they are." 
 
 " What, sir I" cried Howard, threateningly. 
 
 " You may well be astonished," added Pur- 
 cell. 
 
 " But, then, Mr. Purcell," continued How- 
 ard, as, calling to mind O'Clery's hints, and 
 contrasting them with the present information, 
 he became first confounded, and next irritated, 
 " then, Mr. Purcell, I insist on your remaining 
 with us 'till this affair is at an end, for — " 
 
 " Excuse me, Captain Howard." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, it must be so — you have 
 spoken things that require to be explained on 
 the spot — no waiting 'till morning — no waiting 
 an instant, sir, beyond the opportunity for ex- 
 planation — I will know what you mean in a few 
 moments — you shall confront my friends, Mr. 
 Purcell, and to them repeat your words, aye,
 
 350 JOHN DOE. 
 
 and support them too ; pray fall in again, sir — 
 Serjeant, take care of this gentleman, and now 
 forward !" 
 
 This, as O'Clery surmised, was more than 
 Purcell had bargained for. In fact, his first 
 hurst of rage and revenge had not left him 
 capable of framing a rational scheme ; in calling 
 upon Howard ; he obeyed the indigested im- 
 pulse of the moment, while they came along 
 he had some time to reflect on the danger he 
 must front in facing Mr. and Miss Grace, and 
 Mr. Somers, after his known agency in the 
 original aggression ; and now cursing himself, 
 that he had at all guided Howard, Purcell's 
 chief anxiety was to withdraw from immediate 
 detection, while, at the same time, he endea- 
 voured, by incoherent mistatements, that a 
 still cooler moment would also have enabled 
 him to reject, to prepare Howard's mind for 
 what was inevitably at hand. In the fever of 
 agonizing passion, of hope, fear, doubt, and 
 dismay, it is not extraordinary that even a clever 
 villain should thus find all his ingenuity prostra- 
 ted, and his cunning and consistency reduced to 
 wild assertion.
 
 JOHN DOE. 351 
 
 But, when Howard insisted on his remaining 
 with the party, Purcell experienced the most 
 distressing pang: his heart felt a spasm of de- 
 spair ; and, with strange energy of manner, 
 he blustered, entreated, and raved, by turns, 
 against the order for his detention. This un- 
 natural behaviour but strengthened Howard in 
 his resolve, while he was further assisted by the 
 approving whispers of O'Clery ; and, when Pur- 
 cell saw no possibility of escape, he could only 
 return to his former tact, and try, by every 
 species of falsehood, to anticipate the accusa- 
 tions ready to be preferred against him. 
 
 " Well then, Captain Howard," he said, " re- 
 lying on your watchful protection against the 
 enmity of these men, I have only to press upon 
 you the advice and cautions you have already 
 heard ; I repeat, you will find your old friends 
 with new faces ; and, what I have not before 
 stated, you may expect to hear them charge 
 me in the most violent as well as improbable 
 manner, all in defence of the individual I have 
 before pointed out to your vengeance, and, 
 because I am, to him and them, an object of
 
 352 JOHN DOE. 
 
 common dislike. You do not know," he added, 
 interrupting himself, — " you cannot conceive, 
 Englishman and Protestant as you are, to what 
 lengths the papists of this cursed country will 
 go to stick by each other — you cannot imagine 
 what a web of smooth deceit and treachery they 
 can wind round you." 
 
 " Give over, sir, it is time," interrupted How- 
 ard, briskly, " we shall soon see all this out — 
 come, soldiers ; but I perceive these people 
 have drawn up across the road, and wait for 
 us. 
 
 " They were so placed some time, said 
 O'Clery, "and, you may observe, our friends 
 still remain exposed in their centre." 
 
 " 'Tis so," said Howard, "we must go to 
 work cautiously, then. Soldiers ! no firing in 
 the first instance — give them the steel, and let 
 it be your chief object to support me in get- 
 ting five or six file round the lady and her 
 friends. When we have succeeded so far, press 
 those fellows back, and then, your own plea- 
 sure, and your best — take as many prisoners, 
 however, as is possible — so — forward !"
 
 JOHN DOE. 353 
 
 The whole party were in motion, and about 
 two hundred yards of the sloping ground 
 brought them to the road in front of Kava- 
 nah's men : O'Clery and Purcell remaining close 
 in the rear, under the charge of a serjeant and 
 two file. 
 
 O'Clery had truly described Kavanah's posi- 
 tion. Miss Grace, her father, and Mr. Somers, 
 were placed in the middle of his line, fully ex- 
 posed in front, though well guarded behind. 
 At their side and back about six men, mounted 
 on the horses that had previously served Pur- 
 cell, kept close together ; Kavanah and Mullins 
 also remained mounted ; while across the nar- 
 row road, at the right hand and at the left, the 
 remainder of the body formed, three deep, and 
 in good order. 
 
 The whole were less than Howard's force, 
 whose spirits increased, as, at the first glance, 
 he ascertained this inferiority. But Howard 
 reckoned chances, in complete ignorance of his 
 real situation : and to explain this, we must re- 
 trograde for a moment. 
 
 After Kavanah, in consequence of Mullins's 
 hint, had perceived the distant approach of
 
 854 JOHN DOE. 
 
 Flinn's reinforcement, lie fell back some ten or 
 twenty yards, and halted on the road, a good 
 distance beyond the little valley through which, 
 in silence and caution, his friends pushed their 
 way. This manceuvre was effected for the pur- 
 pose of inducing Howard to advance upon him, 
 after also passing the valley, and so afford 
 ground to the appearance, in Howard's Hank 
 and rear, of the new-comers. Kavanah's only 
 anxiety now seemed to be, lest Howard should 
 charge him before the arrival of his reinforce- 
 ment ; but he was relieved by the timely and 
 fortunate pause of Howard's party on the height 
 over the valley. Graining, therefore, while his 
 men stood still, a point of the road in which 
 he was hid from Howard, he hoisted his 
 neckcloth on a pole, and waved on the body 
 under Flinn's guidance. They saw and under- 
 stood his signal, and in a few moments were up 
 with Kavanah, consenting to be disposed of as 
 he should direct. 
 
 Here we should observe, that the hollow 
 through which they defiled on the road, ran at 
 right angles to it, and continued, beyond it, at 
 the other side, while the road passed across the
 
 JOHN DOE. 355 
 
 inequality by means of a rude bridge, affording 
 vent to a rapid mountain stream, that, in rainy 
 weather, swelled into some compass. Along 
 the road were fences of bank, of bush, and of 
 interstices of dry wall, formed by flat, slaty 
 stones, laid close upon each other, and the 
 clumsy parapets, or boundaries, of the bridge, 
 continued, on both hands, the same line of 
 fence. 
 
 When the strange men came up, Kavanah 
 directed Flinn to station them inside the fences 
 to the end of the bridge farthest from his own 
 position : " there keep them hid, if you can, 
 until Howard passes you by, and until you hear 
 a volley from my people — and at that instant 
 let them jump upon the road and close at his 
 back, while we do the same at his front; then, 
 Flinn, we can disarm the soldiers without another 
 shot — remember, I will not have a trigger touch- 
 ed on your side." 
 
 Flinn hastened to observe these suggestions, 
 and Kavanah, returning to his own body, con- 
 tinued — " Let every man draw his bullet, keep- 
 ing a charge of powder only ; we need not fear 
 that Howard will blaze on his friends, here — and
 
 356 JOHN DOE. 
 
 there is no use in wasting lead, when we can have 
 them just for stretching our hands out. Mean- 
 time, attend to what I say; stand perfectly 
 quiet till I speak to you— then fire your blank 
 cartridges in their faces— close in with your pri- 
 soners — they dare not return your fire, but it 
 will frighten them ; and while Flinn surprises 
 them at their rear, all you have to do is to as- 
 sist him in getting up the bran-new muskets 
 and cross-belts — mind yourselves !" 
 
 .For Howard now quickly advanced, after 
 passing the valley and bridge, crying out — 
 "Charge! charge! — but draw no trigger with- 
 out orders !" 
 
 " A word before a blow, Captain Howard,'' 
 said Kavanah, advancing, while Howard spoke : 
 " What, sir ? is this your return to a man that 
 has served you, and would still do so?" 
 
 "Sullivan, by heaven! — halt, soldiers, and 
 recover arms !" exclaimed Howard ; then turn- 
 ing to Kavanah, " sir, that you have served me, 
 my gratitude must ever be a witness — you saved 
 my life ; but I have, notwithstanding, to learn 
 how you would now serve me, when I find that 
 lady in your company.''
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 357 
 
 " And is it then so wonderful that I should 
 set a few of my poor tenants to rescue your be- 
 trothed lady, and her father, from Captain 
 John?" asked Kavanah with composure. 
 
 " Have you indeed done me that sendee ?" 
 
 " He has rescued us ! —he has ! he has !" 
 cried Mary, Grace, and Mr. Somers. 
 
 Purcell's voice was here loudly exalted, call- 
 ing on Howard, from behind. Howard at- 
 tended to the summons, as, in great perplexity, 
 he had just resolved to question Purcell con- 
 cerning Kavanah's assertion, backed as it was 
 by the words of his friends. 
 
 " These are not, then, the people, into whose 
 hands you first traced Mr. Grace and his 
 daughter ?" he said, approaching Purcell. 
 
 " They are — they are! — the very same! — do 
 not heed what the prisoners now would say, for 
 they are prisoners, and speak under fear, or, 
 perhaps, as strong a feeling ; for, Captain How- 
 ard, what I have all along hesitated, through 
 delicacy, to state, must now be plainly told ; — 
 before you met Mary Grace, she and this bravo 
 loved each other !"
 
 358 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Scoundrel !" cried Howard, "dare you pre- 
 sume to assert such a thing ?" 
 
 " Ask them both the question, separately, 
 with this caution, that you do not permit them 
 to answer except in a blunt, simple yes or no — 
 by their own words I am ready to abide ; and 
 you, I hope, to act, Captain Howard, in re- 
 membrance of the danger I told you to fear from 
 the leader of this infamous outrage." 
 
 " Come with me then, sir, and hear the re- 
 sult ; Mr. O'Clery, I cannot consent to your kind 
 and zealous wishes for getting into danger — I 
 must use some well-meant force to keep you 
 where you are — serjeant, your duty — Mr. Pur- 
 cell, forward !" 
 
 They again confronted Kavanah, and How- 
 ard precipitately asked, " What, fellow! — how 
 do you answer to this charge ?" 
 
 " Let me hear it, first," said Kavanah, in- 
 differently. 
 
 " You presumed to pay attentions to Miss 
 (irace?" 
 
 " I loved her to adoration," was the reply. 
 
 " Speak, Miss Grace ! — Mr. Grace, speak !" 
 Howard cried, in a frenzy.
 
 JOHN DOE. 359 
 
 " 'Tis true," answered Mary, in a tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 " 'Tis true," echoed Mr. Grace, " but— — " 
 " Silence !" — bellowed Purcell ; " pardon me, 
 Captain Howard, but have you not got your 
 answer ? — and now will you heed whatever eva- 
 sion they may advance? — listen not to them, 
 I advise again ; they are all leagued against you ; 
 they will, as I warned you, endeavour to baffle 
 us ; I wonder they have not begun to accuse 
 and falsify me. Be assured, sir, there is but 
 one way to act; call on these fellows to lay 
 down their arms ; if they do not instantly obey, 
 shoot every man of them on the spot ! — a mo- 
 ment's delay may be fatal to you ; give me a pis- 
 tol, and I will make sure of the leader ! — and 
 oh !" — Purcell continued to his own heart — 
 " Heaven and the devil grant he may follow 
 my advice ; for in the uproar of the fray is 
 Stephen Purceli's chance, if he can ever have 
 any, to close the mouths of every witness 
 against him, father and all — but the girl's 
 self!" 
 
 " I know not what to think, or how to act,"
 
 360 JOHN DOE. 
 
 said Howard, after a moment's painful and con- 
 fused pause — "but" — turning to Kavanah, with 
 a pistol in his hand — "you are my prisoner!" 
 
 " Not yet, captain," said Kavanah, moving 
 back. Howard presented — 
 
 " That's the way — fire! fire!" roared Purcell. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no! hold for God's sake! for 
 the sake of justice!" — cried Grace, Mary, and 
 Mr. Somers. 
 
 " Let me reflect for a moment," resumed 
 Howard, lowering his pistol — " some one — the 
 servant Nora — yes — she particularly informed 
 me that the person who took away Miss Grace 
 called himself Captain Doe." 
 
 " He did! and that person "began Grace. 
 
 " Silence them, captain, or they will talk us 
 into madness !" interrupted Purcell. 
 
 " Silence ! cry silence, men !" said Howard, 
 obeying, though he felt not why he did so, the 
 urgency of Purcell. 
 
 " I, at least, may speak," said Kavanah — 
 " he did call himself Doe — you hear he did ; 
 and can I, Captain Howard, be that person ? I 
 I met you, alone and unprepared for such an 
 attempt, at about the very moment it was made 
 
 \
 
 JOHN DOE. 361 
 
 — more — I was in Mr. Grace's house and re- 
 sisted the assailants." 
 
 " He was !" interrupted Grace. 
 
 " I fired the only shot that was fired — and — I 
 am now glad of it — missed my mark." 
 
 " He did, he did !" cried Grace and Mr. So- 
 mers. 
 
 " And now, when you find your friends with 
 me, and, observe, on the way to their own home 
 — must I nol have just rescued them from Capt. 
 John?" 
 
 " It would appear so, indeed," replied 
 Howard. 
 
 " It is not so !" exclaimed Purcell, scarcely 
 knowing what he said, but impelled by a para- 
 mount feeling to contradict Kavanah. 
 
 " It is not so !" echoed Grace and his friend. 
 
 " True — it is not so !" repeated Kavanah. 
 
 " Then, what am I to think of this monstrous 
 tissue of contrary assertion ?" asked Howard, 
 more than ever perplexed and irritated. 
 
 " I rescued them but from the incarnate 
 fiend that stands by your side," resumed Ka- 
 vanah, not seeming to notice Howard's pertur- 
 bation. 
 
 VOL. III. R
 
 362 JOHN DOE. 
 
 "A lie I a black lie! now, Captain Howard* 
 begins the falsehood I anticipated," said Purcell. 
 
 "No, no! — the truth! the truth!" ejaculated 
 Mary. 
 
 " What ! this gentleman?" said Howard. 
 
 " Yes, him, that black villain, every way, — 
 Purcell !" answered Kavanah : " he who called 
 himself, Doe — he who dares attempt in other 
 people's names what he fears to do in his own." 
 
 " Here, corporal ! with two men !" exclaimed 
 Howard — "oh, sir," turning to Purcell, who 
 vainly continued to assert liis innocence — " you 
 will excuse any doubt of your honour this may 
 imply ; I would only be over-cautious in my 
 duty. Remove him." 
 
 " And now do you know me for the friend I 
 am ?" Kavanah asked, again moving his horse 
 forward. 
 
 " I do," answered Howard, " and I beg to 
 stand excused for my mistake. It was indeed, 
 a mistake, every way ; even when I supposed 
 that Doc Mas the leader of this violence, I 
 should, if my proper senses had served me, 
 have acquitted you altogether." 
 
 " Certainly. All was misconception ; for in 
 the first place, captain, Doe could not have
 
 JOHN DOE. 363 
 
 been the man, as he was at a distance, and sur- 
 rounded by your soldiers, when the thing hap- 
 pened." 
 
 " But he escaped ?" observed Howard. 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Kavanah, drily. 
 
 " You cry, indeed, sir. Now my memory 
 serves, you were the first to tell me he had 
 escaped, long before this unhappy circum- 
 stance." 
 
 " I might have mistaken ; and then, as to 
 your blunder about myself — Captain John, you 
 know, is double my age, and black, and stouter, 
 and more like a common ruffian — is he not ?" 
 
 " Many, nay, yourself told me so," answered 
 Howard. 
 
 " I lied, then," said Kavanah. 
 
 " Sir !" 
 
 " Though that is no reason," he resumed, 
 speaking quickly, " why you should now believe 
 me when, on the word and faith of a true 
 knight, I assure you, that Doe is a man as 
 young as I am — rather like me, too — some think 
 as like as a twin brother; — by heaven, Captain 
 Howard, as like me as myself !" 
 
 While speaking these words he engaged his
 
 3(54 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 hand* in unbuttoning the close frock that we 
 have described as fitting tight to his figure ; and 
 when he had ended, kavanah, laying the reins 
 on his horse's neck, flung it aside altogether, 
 and displayed an inside dress consisting of a 
 white vest, or jacket, over which was a red 
 waistcoat, with bunches of green ribbon for 
 shoulder-knots, and a broad green sash round 
 his waist. He also wore a belt, or girdle, in 
 which were seen two case of pistols. 
 
 Howard started back at this alarming change 
 of costume, and Grace uttered cries of conster- 
 nation and despair. Mary, though she too 
 sent forth an exclamation, seemed less affected. 
 Purcell, of all the unarmed party, congratu- 
 lated himself on the circumstance, as, he ra- 
 pidly argued, it gave him a better opportunity 
 for revenge, by making his deadly foe an object 
 of more marked hostility. 
 
 As all looked on in silence, Kavanah, in an 
 instant after he hatl thus avowed himself, turn- 
 ed round to his party, and exclaimed — " Twelfth 
 sub-division of the flying army of the hills, show 
 yourselves !" and immediately the men all cast 
 off their loose great coats, and exhibited, iudi-
 
 JOHN DOE. 365 
 
 vidually, uncouth imitations of the fanciful uni- 
 form of their young leader. 
 
 "Now, see how they stare at us," he con- 
 tinued, 
 
 " Can I beliete you ?" asked Howard, in un- 
 abated surprise — "yet, this armed gang, and 
 their and your strange dress — " 
 
 " Serjeant Moonshine!" interrupted Kavana,h, 
 exalting his voice into loud command. 
 
 " Here," answered Mullins, striding forward, 
 " And — Lieutenant Starlight! — appear by your- 
 self!" he resumed, in the same tone. 
 
 " And here, too, then," said Flinn, after a 
 short pause, which was occupied by his running 
 inside the fence, past Howard and his soldiers; 
 he sprang over, and stood by Kavanah's side. 
 
 " And now, my loyal officers and men, what 
 is my own hill-name? answer!" he still con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " John Doe ! — John Doe ! and Johnny for 
 ever!" they all shouted ; Lieutenant Moonshine 
 throwing up his hat while he cheered, and 
 catching it in mid air, as he jumped buoyantly 
 from the ground. 
 
 " If this indeed be true, I am heartily sorry
 
 366 JOHN DOE. 
 
 for it," said Howard, stepping back towards hi* 
 soldiers. 
 
 " And why so, captain?" — asked Kavanah, 
 or Doc as at pleasure we may call him. 
 
 " You have served me — served me at extre- 
 mity — and eternally. You have saved my life 
 and the honour of my affianced lady; and now, 
 to do my stern duty by you, which, as the 
 king's officer, I must, will afHict me at the bot- 
 tom of my soul." 
 
 " Your duty, how, brother?" asked the out- 
 law. 
 
 " Unhappy young man! replied Howard, 
 with the energy of deep feeling — " I must here 
 seize you, to deliver you up to the outraged and 
 impatient justice of your country." 
 
 " Two words to that, gallant captain." 
 
 " What can you mean ? you would not, 
 surely, be so desperate and so foolish as to re- 
 sist my disciplined force with that inferior one ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I would not," returned Doe. 
 
 "And what then? — mercy, alas, does not 
 rest with me." 
 
 " Mercy ! — that is a word unknown to my 
 enemies as they say it is unknown to me —
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 367 
 
 pshaw!— let us trifle no longer '.—Moonshine ! 
 men ! do your work at every side ! spare pre- 
 sent life and blood, but disarm them !" — 
 
 He had scarcely done speaking when the 
 party which he headed, rushed forward with 
 tremendous cries, and, as they had been or- 
 dered, discharged a volley into the faces of 
 Howard's soldiers, Mary, her father, and his 
 reverend friend, still in the thick of the assault- 
 ers; while, at almost the same moment, the 
 ambushed foes in Howard's rear, jumped upon 
 the road, at either side, broke through his 
 ranks, and, more than three to one, instantly 
 grappled with the royal muskets, simultane- 
 ously assisted by Kavanah's men. The soldiers, 
 taken at surprise, and their arms shouldered, 
 made little or no resistance ; in the midst of the 
 smoke and flash, and explosion of the unex- 
 pected volley levelled at them, every man in 
 the line found himself in the sudden gripe of at 
 least three enemies, front and rear, so that 
 even effort was paralyzed; some few shots in- 
 deed escaped them ; but this happened while 
 they vainly struggled against an overwhelming 
 force, and while their pieces, already seized by
 
 368 JOHN DOE. 
 
 tugging hands, were pointed upward ; ;i few 
 others, who might have fired Btraight on, saw 
 Howard's friends immediately before them, and 
 remembered his orders; and, in fact, a minute 
 had not lapsed until Howard found himself at 
 the head of an unarmed body, wearing red 
 cojits and military caps, indeed, but deprived 
 of every other badge of warfare, as even their 
 pouches and belts had been ravished in a twink- 
 ling. 
 
 Himself, too, did not longer than any of his 
 soldiers, retain the means of defence. While 
 all was yelling and uproar around him, Lieute- 
 nant Starlight advanced with, simply, a short 
 stick in his hand, and — " Captain, honey," he 
 said, " I'm comin', first, to keep my promise 
 wid you; I tould you in the barn, that we'd 
 show you Doe, some time or other ; well, a-vich, 
 sure, there he is; an' now, honor bright; just 
 lend me a loan o' your soord, a moment, an' 
 I '11 take the best care in the world o' you." 
 
 Howard only answered by a pass at his an- 
 tagonist, which Flinn skilfully parried ; they 
 then set to, nearer to each other, and the con- 
 test ended in Lieutenant Starlight striking the
 
 JOHN DOE. 369 
 
 sword out of the hands of Lieutenant Howard, 
 and immediately flourishing it aloft, and then 
 dropping the point. At the same moment Ser- 
 jeant Moonshine came up, dismounted, with a 
 sword also girded round his loins, the property, 
 a few moments before, of his more loyal brother, 
 who now accompanied him as his prisoner. 
 
 Kavanah, seeing nothing of Purcell, rapidly 
 questioned his officers concerning him ; they 
 could give no satisfactory answer, and he has- 
 tened, after some preliminary orders, to seek 
 him. 
 
 " Twelfth and fifteenth divisions of the flying 
 army !" he exclaimed, in his most usual tone of 
 mixed authority and humour — " form and close 
 your lines ! — the soldiers to the rear, doubly 
 guarded — Lieutenant Howard in the front with 
 our friends — Starlight, look to your man !" and 
 through the confused crowd that now were in 
 bustle to obey him, Kavanah spurred on in 
 search of Purcell, full of apprehension that he 
 might have escaped. 
 
 He found him in good hands, however. In 
 the first moment of attack, Purcell had fled 
 through the host of combatants, and was run- 
 
 r3
 
 370 JOHN DOE. 
 
 ning fast from the field, when he stumbleil on 
 O'Clery, who, released by Mullins's capture of 
 the Serjeant, in whose care Howard had po- 
 litely left him, was rushing on in a directly con- 
 trary way, to fling himself among the aggres- 
 sors and exert his voice for peace. As Purcell 
 and he met, O'Clcry, all along influenced by the 
 belief that this man had more to do with the 
 night's disaster than he chose to acknowledge, 
 unceremoniously seized him by the collar. Pur- 
 cell remonstrated, implored, threatened, and im- 
 precated, and at last exerted his strength to dis- 
 engage himself by trying to bring his captor to 
 the ground. To this arrangement O'Clery de- 
 murred, and, as both were powerful men, a 
 desperate wrestling-match ensued between them, 
 in which they were seriously engaged at the in- 
 stant Kavanah came up, and which, a second 
 after, terminated by the prostration of Purcell ; 
 O'Clery falling upon him and continuing to hold 
 him down by keeping his hands on his collar 
 and a knee on his breast. 
 
 " Bravo, father O'Clery !" shouted Doc, fling- 
 ing himself from his horse, " I was your debtor 
 before, but this makes me yours for ever ; may
 
 JOHN DOE. 371 
 
 I never die in sin, reverend sir," he continued, 
 stooping down with a belt and buckle in his 
 hand, " if there has been done, this night, a 
 better deed in my honourable service. But 
 come, good father, take away your knuckles 
 from the wretch's throttle ; the belt is now tight 
 enough ; — and rise, Purcell ; you are my pri- 
 soner, and mine only." 
 
 " Unhappy young man," said O'Clery, " it 
 was not for your hands, or to your judgment I 
 wished to deliver this person." 
 
 " Hoot, toot, never spoil a pretty action by a 
 bad compliment ; come, Purcell, on before me ! 
 you will follow us, I suppose, Mr. O'Clery ?'! 
 
 They gained the main body, O'Clery attend- 
 ing in silence, when Doe called out the names 
 of Starlight and Moonshine. The men stood 
 by his side ; he whispered them for a moment, 
 and they precipitately left the road, on horse- 
 back, galloping over the high ground that led 
 to Mr. Grace's house. 
 
 " Have mercy on me !" said Purcell, when 
 they had gone. 
 
 " I will not kill you, noiv" answered Kava- 
 nah.
 
 872 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " Where have you scut these men (" Purcell 
 resumed, his features displaying the wildest 
 anxiety : and, perhaps, he had caught a part of 
 Doe's whisper. 
 
 " You shall learn,'' answered Doe. " Have 
 patience, Purcell. For oh ! I had patience with 
 you ! a patience of years and of distance — of 
 hope and of despair ! patience, while the brain 
 blazed, and the sick heart was rending itself 
 with agony — while shame, and hate, and the 
 grief that weeps not, were together fastened 
 upon it! Be patient, therefore, in your turn.*' 
 As lie spoke, his face assumed the most baleful 
 expression, and every fibre of his frame seemed 
 knit. 
 
 " His words are terrible ! spare us, Kava- 
 nah !" said Grace. Doe took no notice. Mary 
 also appealed to him, and he answered quickly — 
 
 " I have not harmed you, yet, Mary Grace." 
 
 " In the name of the religion whose child you 
 ought to be, and whose minister I am, answer 
 me!" exclaimed O'Clery, standing out, erect 
 and sternly before Kavanah, " I fear not your 
 daring and unlawful gang, nor your lonely power 
 among these bare hills and solitudes, and in this
 
 JOHN DOE. 373 
 
 fitting hour of the dead night ; — I fear you not, 
 man, though the sword is in your hand, and 
 your foes bound at your feet ;— hear my voice ; 
 in the silence of your heart, answer me! — 
 What deed have you done? — what victory 
 gained? — whom have you vanquished, and in 
 whose name, and in what spirit? Have you stood 
 forth in the land of your birth for its pride or 
 its happiness ? have you overcome its foes who 
 would give it up to the sword, or its chosen 
 soldiers whose power is from the power that 
 hath rule from above, to watch for peace while 
 the husbandman turns the furrow, and while 
 the hand of labour is busy with the culture of 
 the earth ? Crime is unwashed upon the hands 
 of your unhappy followers ; what crime ? who 
 are the widows and orphans it has made? and 
 were the voices that ascended for what it has 
 done, the voices of women that were as strangers 
 to you ? were their wailings in tones and a lan- 
 guage strange to your ears, and to the wild 
 echoes that gave back its outcry? — Wretched 
 children of many sorrows and many sins ! have 
 the wives of your bosoms, and the offspring 
 that sat on your knees, never wept or lisped
 
 374 .JOHN DOE. 
 
 in the same cadence? Men of blood and of 
 outrage! what do ye lure in unnatural war- 
 fare ? — while even the birds of prey have cow- 
 ered in their nests, why are you, alone, dis- 
 turbers of the sleep of the world, wanderers in 
 darkness, intruders on the deep slumber of the 
 heath and the mountain ? — why are ye away 
 from your household hearths? — those hearths 
 that are indeed chill and comfortless, — but are 
 there none to be comforted round them ? Hear 
 ye not the cries of many ye have left helpless, 
 rising in vain to you for help? — where are 
 they? — and what eye and hand is over them? 
 Not, perhaps, the eye and hand, that, by all 
 breaches of command, heavenly and human, 
 yourselves have averted from them. Sin not, 
 amid all your offences, the sin of wild presump- 
 tion, to say it ! lay not that too flattering unc- 
 tion to your souls! It is declared that the 
 curse descended on the father shall visit him 
 in his third and fourth generation — and are ye, 
 miserable men, blessed or cursed, while your 
 church proclaims you beyond the pale of her 
 obedient children, while in bitterness only she 
 names your names, and while her voice hath
 
 JOHN DOE. 375 
 
 gone forth among the desert places, calling 
 you back, as an angry shepherd, to the flock 
 and the fold you have abandoned ? Woe to 
 the ear that hath not heard that voice ! to the 
 rebel that arms himself for the battle that voice 
 hath not ordained ! — to the hard-hearted and 
 the hardened! — perishing woe on earth, and the 
 woe of gnashing of teeth in the fire that never 
 quencheth !-— Hear it from my mouth ! Take 
 it from the word of my lips ! — I speak it to you 
 in your hour of bad triumph, while you are 
 strong in your sin, while your leaders are by 
 your side, and while your captives are delivered 
 for a temptation and a curse into your hands ! 
 — I speak it to you while you are as a host, and 
 while I as a captive also, stand before you ! I 
 speak it to you in the solitude where, alone, 
 you have dared to gather together, and where 
 the tongues of the hills and the valleys, will 
 take it up and repeat it ! — Woe to the hard of 
 heart, to the deaf and obdurate, to the dweller 
 in his sin ! — Die, or repent ! In hope and in 
 soul, and in the life for ever, die, or cast down 
 the sword !" — 
 
 This address, excited by the impulse of the
 
 J7G JOHN DOE. 
 
 moment, and more enthusiastic perhaps than 
 tlie general cast of O'Clery's studied exhorta- 
 
 turns, made an evident impression, which even 
 Doe seemed in no haste to interrupt. On the 
 contrary, he allowed some minutes to elapse in 
 solemn silence, and then said, with much deli- 
 beration— 
 
 " I have heard you, father O'Clery, now twice 
 to-day, with all respect due to your character 
 and eloquence. As all my men had not the 
 advantage of your first exhortation, you have, 
 under my sanctioning silence, now enjoyed an 
 opportunity to argue with them ; and I am glad 
 of it, because it will teach them the nature of 
 the influence under which I, this evening, des- 
 patched an emissary fo you, to treat for a 
 happy, or, at least, peaceful termination of our 
 sad warfare. Meantime assure yourself you 
 have done some good ; and Lieutenant Howard 
 will, perhaps, take the same view of the 
 question when he recollects the last disclosure 
 made to him, in the place he had the chance 
 to thrust his head into a few hours ago — in 
 your company, too, Mr. O'Clery. I will not 
 damp your zeal by asserting that any former
 
 JOHN DOE. 377 
 
 conviction or change of policy or feeling, assist- 
 ed your efforts ; enough that you have been 
 partially successful, and are likely to be more 
 so ; for the present we rest here. On my 
 own part, however, I beg to volunteer an ex- 
 hortation in my turn. When my government 
 of these poor creatures is at an end, spare 
 them. Pity and spare the starving creature 
 who comes to you, Mr. Grace, or to you, Mr. 
 Somers, for whatever assistance the law's mercy 
 allows against the law's cruelty ; or to you, Mr. 
 O'Clery, for those comforts or ceremonies that 
 sanction the interchange of the poor man's af- 
 fection. Let not justice, humanity, or religion, 
 be held out at a price too high for the poor 
 man's purchase ; let not Mammon sit at the 
 right hand side of the counsellor or the judge, 
 or kneel down within the pale of the sanctuary. 
 — But of what do I talk ? — if you, sir, and your 
 brethren, cannot of yourselves, recollect, that 
 amid all his trials, his wants, his oppressions, 
 and his crimes, the wretch looks up to you for 
 the comfort and forbearance you have been 
 sent to give, — the help, the pardon and persua- 
 sion, instead of curses, and exactions, and per-
 
 378 JOHN DOB. 
 
 secutions, still — if you cannot rememliei this, 
 
 why should I bring it to your mind I And 
 
 now, Captain Howard " 
 
 " For myself I ask not mercy. The chance 
 is yours, bold outlaw ; use it as you will," inter- 
 rupted Howard. 
 
 " I will not deny, Howard," continued Doe, 
 with a sudden change of manner, " that, for the 
 last month, you pressed me harder than was 
 courteous on your part ; worse, — you checked 
 me from a vengeance I had travelled far to take; 
 you thwarted me beyond patience; and I all but 
 swore to have your life." 
 
 " If so, why did you save it ?" 
 
 " I could not suffer you to fall at the hands 
 of this mean villain," Doe answered, spurning 
 Purcell. 
 
 " He, then, was the prompting assassin V 
 Howard asked. 
 
 " He was. One of his instruments intended 
 to murder you — and you may remember suffer- 
 ed for it. The other, my non-commissioned 
 officer, Moonshine, whom Purcell only slightly 
 knew under another name and character, told 
 me of the plan. I was on the spot to assist you.
 
 JOHN DOE. 379 
 
 You passed me while I hid in that rocky recess 
 you thought you had fully explored ; I saved 
 you; and when I saved you, I was, perhaps, 
 vain enough to shew that I could spare also." 
 
 " When and how did you break through my 
 lines ?" 
 
 " Tut — I was never in them. More than 
 half my men, who came up at your back just 
 now, were, however ; and, for good reasons, I 
 had it whispered that I headed them. Any 
 other question ?" 
 
 " Yes. Why did you send me this paper?" 
 said Howard, presenting the notice he had be- 
 fore unintentionally exhibited to Graham. 
 
 Kavanah looked at it closely and attentively 
 in the waning light of the moon, and then 
 answered — 
 
 " This is a forged notice, signed Doe, com- 
 manding you to give up your pretensions to. 
 Miss Grace. I never wrote, dictated, sent, 
 nor, to this moment, thought or knew of it. 
 But do not be surprised; my name is often 
 taken in vain. For that matter it was popular 
 among you before I assumed it ; before I was in
 
 380 JOHN DOE. 
 
 the country to do so ; and it will, I am afraid, 
 live after me." 
 
 " But, if you did not send this paper, who 
 
 then?" 
 
 " Just ask yourself who it was that broke 
 into her father's house to drag her from you, for 
 ever. 
 
 " Purcell, again?" 
 
 " Tis in his hand," Doe answered, returning 
 it : " and now," he continued, speaking to his 
 party, " forward !" 
 
 " Why, forward ?" said Howard, " are this 
 young lady and her father yet your prisoners ?" 
 
 " They are yet under my protection, sir," he 
 replied, distantly and haughtily. 
 
 " In what view ? — do you lead them directly 
 home ?" 
 
 " They shall pass with me directly by their 
 own house," answered Kavanah. 
 
 " By it!— not into it then?" 
 
 " Yes, but not immediately. Your house 
 lies a little farther on, in the same direction ?" 
 he added, fixing his eyes ominously on Purcell. 
 Purcell winced and groaned.
 
 JOHN DOE. 381 
 
 " Doe," resumed Howard, " you should not 
 be a mean, or heartless, or cruel foe." 
 
 " Well, Captain Howard ? — go on. What 
 do you mean ? — we lose too much time." 
 
 " Doe, or Sullivan, or Kavanah — hero or de- 
 vil — listen to me one moment — answer me one 
 question, if you are a man." 
 
 " Out with it. Ill answer." 
 
 " Do you love her ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " What are your views towards Miss Grace?" 
 
 " Pshaw ! — move on ! — I will guard my own 
 prisoner on foot — fall back, Lieutenant Howard, 
 from your men, and take your place with mine 
 — draw off the soldiers, first — forward with 
 them — proceed now, captain; and now, your 
 other prisoners !" 
 
 As, in quick obedience to his orders, the 
 party of friends passed Kavanah, O'Clery, 
 Grace, and Somers, earnestly besought him to 
 declare his intentions : but he only answered, 
 that he should do nothing but what a wronged 
 and trampled man might, on his own individual 
 account, dare, and stand accountable for : and 
 he added, a few moments would yield satisfac-
 
 oS l 2 JOHN DOE. 
 
 tion to all. Her friends unheeded, Mary again 
 addressed him. But — 
 
 " Excuse me, Mary — madam, Miss Grace, I 
 should rather say — we cannot converse at pre- 
 sent. In a little time I shall, perhaps, claim 
 that honor. Be of good heart, however. I 
 am, this night, an armed outlaw to avenge a 
 woman's injuries, rather than — but, excuse me — 
 proceed !" was Kavanah's only answer. 
 
 " I will not — cannot leave you behind, and 
 alone with your prisoner," said O'Clery, paus- 
 ing, while the rest moved forward, " I wish to 
 walk by your side." 
 
 « Begging your reverence's pardon that would 
 be inconvenient," replied Doe; " your path is 
 before you, Mr. O'Clery. Take it, or I shall 
 have to call back two of my men." 
 
 " If you harm him," rejoined O'Clery, " be 
 accursed and anathema !" and he joined his 
 friends. 
 
 Kavanah remained stationary with Purcell. 
 He looked on him. He looked into his eyes as 
 if they were but the windows of his soul, and 
 that, through them, he could behold the des- 
 pairing agony which his own heart wildly and
 
 John doe. 383 
 
 sinfully rejoiced in arousing and contemplating. 
 All grew black and silent around them, as 
 within them. The moon was setting, and the 
 tramp of the receding party grew faint along 
 the high ground that led from the road. And 
 still neither spoke, only Kavanah looked, and 
 Purcell cringed like a hound. At last his tor- 
 mentor burst into a hideous laugh — and — 
 
 " Now, Purcell, you think I will kill you," he 
 said. 
 
 " I fear it, Kavanah, but, oh, spare me !" 
 " You are wrong to fear it then. I only 
 wished to feel how my heart would leap to my 
 throat, and the blood boil to my fingers' ends, 
 when, for the first time, we stood, man to man, 
 and eye to eye, together. Now, Purcell, we 
 follow." 
 
 " Be merciful, and I will enrich you !" 
 "Reptile! — no word — no breath! — enrich 
 me ? — with the riches you plundered from me ? 
 — my mother ? — my sister ? — my young name ? 
 Silence, Purcell, and on." They followed the 
 party without speaking another word.
 
 384 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Our last scene necessarily changes to the 
 grounds before Purcell's house, which lay about 
 three hundred yards from Mr. Grace's resi- 
 dence, nearer to the road that led to, and com- 
 manded Howard's quarters. 
 
 Here Purccll had, from time to time, under- 
 taken considerable improvements, nattering him- 
 self that his house surpassed, in every respect, 
 those of the old proprietors in the neighbour- 
 hood ; and such, indeed, was the case. It was 
 a tasty edifice of modern construction, and he 
 had just planted shrubberies and groves at each 
 side, and against the bosom of a hill that rose at 
 its back, while in front was a spacious lawn, and 
 a pond of water, which he filled by turning the 
 course of a small mountain stream that was suf- 
 ficiently near him for the purpose. A high and
 
 JOHN DOE. 385 
 
 well-built stone wall enclosed all those improve- 
 ments. 
 
 Outside the wall, and immediately fronting 
 the house, was a rising ground, that afforded a 
 view of the whole, together with the swelling 
 piles of mountain scenery, hurled in disorder 
 around, and shooting up in the distance. In 
 about half an hour after Doe had despatched 
 them with the whisper, as mentioned in the 
 last chapter, Mullins and Flinn occupied this 
 height. Mullins shouldered a musket, and 
 Flinn flourished Howard's sword, as both paced 
 up and down, like sentinels on post, and in deep 
 and unusual silence. 
 
 " Mullins," at last, said Flinn, " how very still 
 an' quiet the house an' the place look to-night." 
 
 " Aye," his companion replied, continuing to 
 walk about. There was another pause again 
 broken by Flinn, in a strange whisper. " I never 
 saw it so lonesome an' quiet as it is this night." $ 
 
 " You said that over an' over," observed 
 Mullins. 
 
 " I wondher what's keepin' him," resumed 
 Flinn, " an' I wondher too, why he bids us meet 
 him here instead of goin' up to the house." 
 
 vol. in. s
 
 386 JO^N DOE. 
 
 " Because he took his holy oath," said MuL- 
 lins, " never to cross the bounds o' the place 
 while they stood in his way to cross 'em." 
 
 Again they became silent, 'till Flinn again re- 
 joined, following Mullins as he strode up and 
 down, " Jack, this seems to plaise you." 
 
 " It docs plaise me," answered his comrade. 
 
 " An' I think we made sure work of it," con- 
 tinued Flinn. 
 
 " I think so, too," rejoined the other. 
 
 " I set fire to the house in three places." 
 
 " And I in twenty. It 'ill be a good blaze." 
 
 " I wonder what the captain intends for Pur- 
 cell." 
 
 " Toss him in, to be sure, or he's no captain 
 
 » _ J* 
 o mine. 
 
 " You're a bloody-minded dog, Moonshine. 
 Tell me this — did you ever fall on a good deed 
 in your life ?" 
 
 " I did ; on two." 
 
 " An' what war they?" 
 
 " I killed a gauger." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " An' I shot an attorney. Don't be talkin ; 
 here they are."
 
 JOHN DOE, o87 
 
 Kavanah, with Purcell by his side, and the 
 rest of the party in the same order they had 
 set out, appeared, indeed, approaching the 
 height occupied by Flinn and Mullins. 
 
 " Have ye observed my orders, well?" he 
 asked, when they had met. The men answered 
 in the affirmative. He paused an instant ; looked 
 towards the house ; then consigned Purcell to 
 the care of Mullins, and approaching Miss 
 Grace, assisted her to descend from her horse. 
 She set her feet on the ground, weak and trem- 
 bling, and much exhausted. 
 
 " Now, and here, Mary Grace, we speak ; 
 give me your hand, and walk forward with 
 me." 
 
 " Kavanah, have pity on me!" said Mary, 
 weeping and clinging to her father, who had 
 also dismounted. 
 
 " Spare my child !" Grace exclaimed, detain- 
 ing her. 
 
 " Touch her not — harm her not !" said Mr. 
 Somers and Mr. O'Clery, in a breath. 
 
 " Outlaw, touch her not ! — or let it not be 
 while I can look on — kill me ere you injure her!" 
 cried Howard. 
 
 s 2
 
 3bfc> JOHN DOK. 
 
 u Mother of heaven !" retorted Kavanah, in 
 rising passion — " what can you all mean? how 
 have I yet harmed the lady? how am I disposed 
 to harm her? Silence, Captain Howard, till 
 there is reason for your interference. Mary, 
 will you not advance and speak with me?" he 
 added, in an altered and melancholy tone. 
 
 She hesitated] wept, wiling her hands, and at 
 last walked some paces towards him, and then 
 suddenly dropping on her knees — " your heart 
 was once generous and noble — 'tis yet brave, 
 and ought to be generous !" she said. 
 
 " Rise, Miss Grace — this must not be — must 
 not be said — you should not kneel to me !" — he 
 cried, hastily, though gently, compelling her to 
 rise. 
 
 " Pity a weak and trembling woman !" re- 
 joined Mary, now submitting to be led forward. 
 
 " Be calm, for God's sake, and hear me," 
 said Kavanah, when they had gained a rather 
 distant place, " Mary, you loved me once." 
 
 " I did— but— " 
 
 " You did, you did !" vehemently interrupt- 
 ing her. 
 
 " Oh, Kavanah, that is not generous ! you
 
 JOHN DOE. 389 
 
 speak of a time when we were children toge- 
 ther — a very childish time — I could not love, 
 then." 
 
 " I could and did. I loved, you with my 
 whole heart, soul, and hope. A villain cast 
 my hopes to the wind — I left you and my na- 
 tive country in despair and nominal infamy, and 
 I loved you still. I settled in a distant land, 
 and, under a changed name, sought knowledge 
 and wealth, partly for my revenge, partly for 
 my love of you. I have come back to my coun- 
 try, and now my revenge is in my grasp — but 
 you, Mary — my adored Mary ! you do not love 
 me still." 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ! my heart, my promise, al- 
 most my duty, are another's." 
 
 " And that other is Howard ?" 
 
 " Howard — and no man else — now and for 
 ever c — 
 
 " Swear to me, by heaven, that you love 
 him?" 
 
 Mary, urged, by her feelings and the situa- 
 tion, wildly gave the oath demanded of her. 
 
 He paused ; his eyes fell on the earth ; he 
 groaned aloud ; then starting into sudden ve-
 
 390 JOHN DOE. 
 
 hemence — " answer mc one question on the 
 pledge of your immortal soul! — if you were 
 freed, without your own concurrence, of these 
 merely prudent engagements, and if you saw 
 and were sure of a prospect of competence and 
 fair name to be shared with the object of your 
 earliest love — with Kavanah " 
 
 " Never !" she interrupted, firmly and ener- 
 getically — " call them not prudent engage- 
 ments, only — I repeat in the divine presence — " 
 
 " Stop, Mary, and hear me out ! — the earth 
 is wide, and upon her spreading bosom there 
 are hills and pleasant valleys, fairer and richer 
 than even the hills and valleys of this green 
 land; the sun shines kindlier upon them; 
 their airs are softer, and their groves and flow- 
 ers brighter, and in their bowels is hoarded 
 wealth — oh, Mary ! their solitudes beyond the 
 blasting voice of man and man's hatred, breathe 
 out a paradise ! — and with you to crown as my 
 queen, and as the lady and the queen of their 
 silent beauty, how happy I could live and die ! 
 how happy after all I have suffered ! and how 
 changed ! from what I was, from what I am — 
 and, if you hate me now, from what I must ever
 
 JOHN DOE. 391 
 
 be ! do not cast me off, Mary !" he continued, 
 falling in his turn at her feet — " save me from 
 this world and the next!" 
 
 " Rise, oh, rise, Kavanah — you are not to 
 be lost — God never made you to be lost, nor to 
 be an outcast from men! think of your God, and 
 pray to him for light and patience ! — I — I will 
 pray for you on my bended knees, in the morn- 
 ing when I get up, and in the night before I lie 
 down to sleep — I will pray for you in tears, in 
 tremblings, and in remembrance of the past — 
 but, Kavanah, expect no more from Mary Grace 
 — in the divine presence, I repeat he is proudly 
 and fondly beloved by Mary, and no man, and 
 no circumstances, can ever make him less so !" — 
 
 " This you swear ?" — said he, suddenly rising. 
 
 " I swear it !" — His brow fell blackly. He 
 glared at Purcell. He took her hand, and 
 walking rapidly, led her back to her father; 
 then, after a moment's silence, turning to his 
 victim — 
 
 " Monster!" he shrieked out — " my destroyer 
 every way ! behold another cup of earthly hap- 
 piness, the sweetest, the purest of all, your 
 hand has dashed from my lips ! — you sent me
 
 392 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 — banished me — tore me from her — you took 
 away the name and the means for native exer- 
 tion, and all the opportunity, in and by which 
 I might have continued present with her, and 
 worthy of her love — you branded and outlawed 
 me, 'till she first learned to fear, and then — 
 abhor me ! God, oh God ! this is the hardest 
 stroke !" — 
 
 " Kavanah, be just — I am not the man that 
 injured you," said Purcell. 
 
 " Not ! — must I again repeat how often and 
 how deadly? — my poor mother, Purcell! my 
 gentle, kind, and good mother! — my blooming, 
 happy — and, till you damned her, my sweet 
 and innocent Cauthleen ! — my only sister and 
 my only shame ! — wronged me ! injured me! — 
 oh, deep and cool villain ! — see these scalding 
 tears, and hear this shivering voice, made child- 
 ish by a recollection of all your wrongs, and 
 then, fiend as you are, say not that word again !" 
 He crossed and pressed his extended hands 
 over his face, and the plentiful tears burst, in- 
 deed, through the interstices of his fingers. 
 
 " Divil a dhrop ud come, Starlight, only for 
 this girl wid the white face," said Mullins to
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 393 
 
 Flinn, as they observed the scene : " though 
 mysef wondhers what ails him, about her, when 
 'tis only to give us the word, an' he has her 
 still." 
 
 " I wondher, too," answered Flinn. 
 
 " I'll jog him on the business, an' get him 
 out o' this soft fit," continued Mullins ; he 
 strode to Kavanah and whispered — " captain, 
 musha, captain — no more of it, now — only tell 
 us which way to run wid the girl— down to the 
 coast, eh ?" 
 
 " Silence, and keep your place !" exclaimed 
 Kavanah, stamping at him. Mullins withdrew, 
 uttering an " avoch;" and his captain went on, 
 still addressing Purcell — " look at these un- 
 happy men, and learn, over and over, how you 
 have cursed me ! — I found them, indeed, ripe 
 for my purpose — and some of them stained with 
 crimes, that, under me, they should never have 
 committed ; my revenge alone could have sought 
 their fellowship. I leagued with them, profes- 
 sedly for their views, but really for my own — 
 but I leagued with them — have led and encou- 
 raged them — and stand accountable, before 
 heaven and man, for their late perseverance in 
 
 s 3
 
 391 JOHN DOE. 
 
 outrage — Purccll, Pureell, have you not wrong- 
 ed me ?" 
 
 Pureell, starting and clasping his hands, here 
 uttered a loud cry, and — " lights in my house! 
 in every window!" he exclaimed, "what is this?" 
 
 " Lights in your house! and in hell, tyrant! 
 — a shadow of the flame that shall soon, and 
 for ever, swathe you ! look again ! 'tis brighter 
 and redder than the midnight blaze that shone 
 over your" costly feasts, and on the worms that 
 crawled round to share them ! — look again !'' 
 
 The fierce light grew stronger at all the win- 
 dows ; then waned ; and then flared out again, 
 as it proceeded in its destroying course. 
 
 " My house on fire ! my property wrecked ! 
 my papers ! my wealth ! my all ! — and was it for 
 this, plunderer and assassin ? — was it for this 
 you led me here ?" he continued, turning in fury 
 on Kavanah. 
 
 "For this? — fool, fool, prepare yourself! if 
 you have ever learned a prayer, repeat it." 
 
 " Mercy ! I am now below your vengeance !" 
 cried Pureell, suddenly changing his tone and 
 manner, " I am a beggar, and at your feet ! 
 Look on me, I am at your feet !"
 
 JOHN DOE. 395 
 
 " There would I have you be ! by the round 
 world, I have prayed and wept for it ! for such 
 a scene and hour I have thirsted, and my tongue 
 hath burned with thirst ! — thus, in my dreams 
 I have seen it, and shrieked and laughed to see 
 it ! — look at your house again!" 
 
 While he spoke, the crackling of slates and 
 glass was heard, and, a second after, the flame 
 shot out through the windows and door, clear 
 and straight, like a broadside from some great 
 war ship. Immediately followed the smoke— 
 the volumes of smoke, massy, thick, and curling, 
 and shewing, amid the red light and the murky 
 relief of the hills around, white as a morning 
 vapour that the sun calls from the bottom of the 
 valley. The moon had set, and here and there 
 in the sky black wreathes of clouds moved, 
 swollen and slowly along ; while through them, 
 and between them, the " chaste stars," glim- 
 mered wildly on the phenomenon ; reduced by 
 the contrast of lurid light to the appearance 
 of cold, silvery specks set in a frozen ground 
 of intense blue. The side of every hill and 
 every break for miles adjacent, caught the sud- 
 den glow, removing it, fainter and farther, in-
 
 3.06 JOHN DOE. 
 
 to almost desert solitude, till it was at last de- 
 voured by remotest darkness. But the rugged 
 features of all the nearer heights became fitfully 
 developed in the blaze, and, grim and haggard, 
 broke out into the night ; nay, at a very con- 
 siderable distance, high peaks, white in snow, 
 blushed faintly, and without form, like the sha- 
 dowy indications of grand scenery caught and 
 lost in a dream. The lawn immediately before 
 the house seemed perishing in light, and the 
 pond of water, flaming like molten ore, reflected 
 
 and heightened the immediate horrors and maff- 
 
 © © 
 
 nificence of the scene. 
 
 " And now, and at last," continued Kavanah, 
 " amid this general wreck of your ill-got for- 
 tune, bane of my worldly hopes and happiness! 
 — amid — " 
 
 " Hold ! hold !" cried Mary, her father and 
 the two clergymen springing forward, as Ka- 
 vanah stood over Purcell, tugging at a pistol 
 that was held in his belt — 
 
 " Kavanah ! stain not your hands with his 
 blood ! leave him to God and his country ! you 
 said 1 hated you — I do not — I never did — but 
 now, force me not to abhor !" exclaimed Mary.
 
 JOHN DOE. 397 
 
 " Then, I will not, myself, deal with him," 
 said Kavanah ; " I have never yet coolly shed 
 blood ; and the only drop I ever shed was this 
 night, in protecting the life of him who is most 
 dear to you, Mary. But, Starlight !— lead him 
 down amongst you." 
 
 " Most unhappy man !" said O'Clery, " you 
 dare not assume the disposal of his life ! — In 
 my presence, whose voice is the voice of that 
 religion you are bound to hear and obey — you 
 dare not !" and he stept between Doe and his 
 victim. Mr. Somers also interfered to the same 
 purpose. Kavanah stood a moment silent, whis- 
 pered Mullins, and then spoke out. 
 
 " I am willing, reverend gentlemen, to be 
 guided by what you say. Only answer me one 
 question. Is it not set down — an eye for an 
 eye, and a life for a life?"' 
 
 "It is," they answered, "but the power to ex- 
 act the penalty lies in the law and authority of 
 the land." 
 
 " It is," he continued, not seeming to notice 
 the latter part of the answer : " this man, then, 
 for the life of her who was my mother, and Avhich 
 he has cut short, deserves to lose his own ?"
 
 398 JOHN DOE. 
 
 " For his crimes of this night, his life is for- 
 feit, whatever may have been his previous 
 course," they replied, " but, again we say to 
 you, leave him to pay the forfeit to those who, 
 alone, can justly claim it, and embrue not your 
 individual and unpermitted hands in a murder." 
 
 " He deserves to die ; you have said it ; are 
 there no other voices here to give in a verdict?" 
 
 " He deserves it," answered all of Doe's 
 party, in a deep mutter of many voices—" take 
 his life." 
 
 " You have, yourselves, uttered the word, 
 and now you hear its echo," resumed Doe, still 
 speaking to the clergymen, " and I have not skill 
 nor time to argue the other question : enough, 
 if I feel that the permission was spoken to all 
 mankind, as well as to a few ; and to you or me, 
 as well as to any others — to the injured if to 
 any ; to the heart made desolate, and to the sur- 
 vivor left alone ; therefore, my officers, away 
 with him !" he continued in a sudden change of 
 voice, as Mullins and Flinn by an unobserved 
 manoeuvre, and in obedience to his former whis- 
 per, had fastened their talons in Purcell, and 
 were dragging him along — " take him to his
 
 JOHN DOE. 399 
 
 own threshold — there — put him out of pain — 
 shoot him ! — and then " 
 
 He was interrupted by cries of intercession 
 from the clergymen, who hastened after the 
 men, from Mary, her father, and Howard ; and 
 by despairing appeals from Pur cell, whose arms 
 had escaped from the belt. 
 
 " Come wid us out of his way — he's always 
 dangerous in a passion," croaked Mullins, tug- 
 ging him off. 
 
 V Kavanah, have mercy on me ! — Captain 
 Howard! — Mr. O'Clery ! — Miss Grace! — speak 
 for me ! — a word ! a single word !" the unfortu- 
 nate continued. 
 
 " Come, don't give us any more o' your non- 
 sense ; come, we'll be kind to you," Mullins 
 continued. By this time O'Clery had reached 
 them, and, with his clenched hand, knocked 
 down Flinn. Purcell, a little relieved, strug- 
 gled some steps with Mullins towards the edge 
 of the abrupt height on which they were si- 
 tuated. Here both fell, and ere O'Clery could 
 farther interfere, they rolled down the side of 
 the steep, grappled in each other, and straining 
 and foaming at every turn over. They were 
 stopt by the high wall that arose immediately at
 
 iOO JOHN DOE. 
 
 the bottom. Half a dozen men rushed after 
 them, intercepting O'Clery ; but, ere any could 
 reach the spot, the report of a pistol followed by 
 a groan was heard. 
 
 In a moment the men re-emerged from the 
 hollow, bearing Purcell by his arms, legs, and 
 feet, between them. His horrent face was 
 sprinkled with blood ; his eyes projected, with- 
 out winking, from their sockets ; despair seemed 
 to have fastened on all his features, and yet the 
 remnant of a hideous smile was about his mouth. 
 
 " Why does he smile? — where is Moon- 
 shine?" asked Kavanah — " who fired the shot?" 
 he continued, when the men did not instantly 
 answer. It was Purcell, who in the struggle at 
 the bottom of the wall, had snatched a pistol 
 from Mullins's girdle, and with the muzzle at 
 his breast, literally shot him through the heart. 
 
 " Poor Jack is gone from us," the men an- 
 swered at last, " what are we to do with Pur- 
 cell?" 
 
 " Flinn will tell you — lead him off! — let me 
 not again look on him — he makes the flesh of 
 a man creep and run cold !" cried Kavanah. 
 They instantly bore away their prisoner, Flinn
 
 JOHN DOE. 401 
 
 leading them ; and Purcell, stupified, and still 
 in his fearful smile, now said not a word. 
 
 " And your hand, again, Mary Grace !" re- 
 sumed Kavanah, when they had left the height, 
 " and be quick — be quick ! — why do you draw 
 back and shiver? — Mine is not yet blotched. 
 Howard ! — men, let him advance ! — here — take 
 her — she is yours — virtuously yours — you will 
 be kind to her, for her own sake, for my sake, 
 Howard — I saved your life — you are free — in 
 the morning send your soldiers to the barn, and 
 they shall there find their arms, along with those 
 you saw, and others — now they are free, also." 
 
 " Still generous, though utterly lost !" inter- 
 rupted Mary — " Kavanah, Kavanah ! call back 
 that dreadful command !" 
 
 " Noble, though unfortunate man ! — leave 
 him as all of us exhort you, to the laws he has 
 this night outraged — give up your desperate 
 
 courses, and, if my friendship " Howard was 
 
 going; on when Doe broke in with — 
 
 " Peace ! I give them up, because I had in- 
 tended it. Miserable and misguided creatures! 
 return even to the oppression you would vainly 
 and sinfully oppose, and to the hard lot that,
 
 402 JOHN DOE. 
 
 embittered as it is by utter poverty and cruel 
 neglect, you can never hope thus to improve ; 
 traitors I will not call ye ; but men of many 
 crimes ye are, even as a higher voice has said 
 it : forgive me the bad example I set — reform, 
 repent, and be industrious ; this gallant and 
 honorable captain, and all the gentlemen that 
 hear me, will, if you deserve it, be to you the 
 friends they kindly wished to be to me." 
 
 " We will! but what is your own fate?" 
 asked Howard. 
 
 " No matter what ; yet, perhaps, better than 
 I merit ; to-morrow night I sail from my native 
 land, to resume, in a distant one, other acquaint- 
 ances, and another station — but hark to that!" 
 
 A sudden explosion of fire-arms reached 
 them, and, almost at the same moment, the 
 roof of Purcell's house fell in, and one tremen- 
 dous spire of flame darted to the heavens, illu- 
 minating for a few seconds more fiercely than 
 ever, all contiguous objects, and even the re- 
 motest distances. Then succeeded the vomit- 
 ing and expanding smoke, and the red fragments 
 of burnt timber that the exploding air impelled 
 upward, and then almost utter darkness wrapt
 
 JOHN DOE. 403 
 
 once more the hills, the fields, and the blotted 
 sky. But ere thickest shadow had veiled the 
 countenances of all near him, Howard, for the 
 first time, brought to mind, while looking on 
 Kavanah, the features of the young man who 
 had so much intei - ested him in the tent, on the 
 evening of the pattern. 
 
 While all paused in consternation, Doe con- 
 tinued, " 'tis over ! mother and sister, you are 
 revenged! — yet, now, I hear that sound, and 
 see that sight in more sorrow than my first 
 yearnings promised — who comes ?" interrupting 
 himself as the faint but wild cry of a female was 
 heard advancing ; and, immediately after, Cauth- 
 leen tottered forward, and sunk at his feet, ex- 
 claiming — 
 
 " Brother, spare me ! 'tis poor Cauthleen." 
 
 " Spare you, my poor girl, spare you !" he 
 repeated, "rise, come to your brother's heart — 
 you have a brother still ! I did not think to see 
 you so soon, Cauthleen," he continued, pressing 
 his flushed cheek to her pale one, " but, but — 
 oh Cauthleen ! — sister !" — he wept on her neck. 
 
 " I always loved you, Harry — and — I — hoped 
 — I — " she could not, amid sobbings and chok-
 
 
 1(H 
 
 JOHN DOE. 
 
 ings, utter the words, 'ti'l she sank, feinting, in 
 his arms. " Tlie health has faded from your 
 cheek, my girl," he resumed, " and you are 
 worn and wasted — a shadow of my once beau- 
 tiful Cauthleen ! — 'tis over !" looking around — 
 " farewell all and every thing, but this poor 
 bruised flower, which, to raise up and nurse, 
 and call back to bloom, must now be my life's 
 only care and occupation ! Farewell, country ! 
 my native hills — my hearth made desolate — my 
 lost love ! — Mary, I ask not now to touch your 
 hand with mine — Farewell !" 
 
 He bore his insensible sister on his arm 
 down the hill, and was followed by all his 
 party! Mr. Grace, Mary, Howard, their re- 
 verend friends, and the disarmed soldiers re- 
 mainine: behind ; and the outcast brother and 
 sister were never again heard of in the land of 
 their birth, their sorrows, and their crimes. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 J. M'Creery, Tooks Court, 
 Chancery L*ne, London. 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ■■ . ;,ES 
 
 !.' 
 
 t*pj 
 
 RY
 
 3 1158 01124 3671 
 
 i 
 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 364 767 4 
 
 
 
 SIFY of CALM 
 
 1 T*
 
 A