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 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 A STOHY OF IRELAND, 
 
 IN 1822.
 
 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND, 
 
 IN 1822. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 " A Country ever hardly used!" 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND. 
 
 1845.
 
 C, WHITING, BEAUrORT HOUSE, STRAND.
 
 ?K 
 
 4735 
 U\4w 
 
 THE WHITEBOY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Early in the month of June, in the year 1822, 
 one of tlie first steam-boats that voyaged between Eng- 
 land and Ireland, was moving along the narrow Avon. 
 The deck was thronged with passengers, watching and 
 commenting upon the long pennon-like line of smoke, 
 that indicated a head wind ; in spite of which they were 
 told they might reach the Irish coast before the next 
 day's sunset — intelligence that appeared incredible to 
 some, who had been accustomed to many mischances 
 between the ports of Bristol and Cork — " puttings in 
 and puttings back"- — while others found it difficult to 
 beHeve that a voyage hitherto considered an intolerable 
 evil, could be converted into a brief party of pleasure; 
 its duration, a matter of certainty; subjected to few an- 
 noyances, no peril, and, in reality, less fatiguing than 
 
 2061210
 
 6 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 the journey would have been if the two countries were 
 joined by a bridge across St. George's Channel. 
 
 The evening was so mild and genial, that the ladies 
 continued to linger on deck long after they had passed 
 the entrance of the picturesque river, and the shores of 
 Wales and Devon were growing dim in the approach- 
 ing twilight. The passengers, as usual, were divided 
 into small knots; turning their thoughts to any subject 
 in the hope of avoiding, or at least postponing, the pay- 
 ment of a tax extorted from all who are new to ocean 
 dangers. As the night drew on, the less daring gra- 
 dually disappeared, the deck became thinner and thin- 
 ner, and the few who remained, seemed determined to 
 enjoy the invigorating sea-breeze, and the gentle light 
 of the new moon, as far preferable to the close atmo- 
 sphere and limited space of the over-crowded cabin. 
 
 Among them was a lady whose interest was ap- 
 parently absorbed by the motion of the paddle-wheels, 
 which she appeared to watch intently, as she leaned 
 over the side of the vessel. She was a young widow — 
 the Lady Mary O'Brien— the widow of a distinguished 
 officer, whom she had accompanied to Madeira, hoping 
 its mild chmate might arrest the progress of a disease, 
 tlie seeds of which had been sown while in honourable 
 service in the Peninsula. The effort was vain; the at- 
 tempt only hastened his dissolution ; his body was con- 
 signed to the waves before the shores of the health- 
 giving island were reached, and the bereaved wife re- 
 turned alone to England. England, however, was not 
 her country; her sojourn there was brief; she was now
 
 A STORY or IRELAND. 7 
 
 proceeding homeward to shelter in her father's house. 
 Lady Mary was accompanied by her brother, a fine 
 youth verging on manhood; a casual observer might 
 have conjectured that she had another companion also 
 — a gentleman, who, though not a relative, was probably 
 a famiKar friend, privileged to stand by her side, and, at 
 times, monopolise her conversation. 
 
 " And you think I shall be disappointed in my ex- 
 pectation of Ireland?" he said, in answer to some ob- 
 servation of the Lady Mary, as she looked suddenly up 
 from the foaming waters. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " you will be disappointed; I am 
 sure of that." 
 
 " With the peasantry?" 
 
 "No; those who rate them very high, are not likely 
 to overrate them." 
 
 "With the aspect of the country?" 
 
 " Possibly; but not with its scenic beauty." 
 
 "With society in general?" continued the gentle- 
 man, in the same tone of inquiry. 
 
 " I really do not so well know what you expect from 
 * Irish society in general,' as to be able to answer that 
 question. You may ' expect' to be vastly amused by 
 the brogue and the blunders. You may ' expect' 
 every young lady to be a diverting hoyden, and every 
 gentleman a good shot. You may ' expect' wit and 
 starvation to greet your arrival. You may ' expect' to 
 find Spencer Court reduced to a heap of ruins by the 
 Whiteboys, who have lately furnished so many ' daring 
 outrages' to greedy newspapers. You may ' expect' 
 to be called out by a brother because you danced
 
 8 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 with his sister twice on one evening — without proposing. 
 In your simpHcity you may ' expect' to find a humane 
 middleman; a grand jury incapable of jobbing; land 
 let at a reasonable rent ; but — " and while she paused to 
 laugh, the expression of her face changed from that of 
 the most provoking espieglerie to one serious and full of 
 intelligence, " but you are of course aware that two reli- 
 gious and political parties divide the island; two, born 
 on the same land, yet agreeing in one thing only — the 
 hatred they bear each other." 
 
 " I do hope you are not rightly informed," said the 
 young Englishman. 
 
 "Alas! I am," she answered. "We are two na- 
 tions on one soil; Celt and Saxon, Roman and Pro- 
 testant, Irish Irish and English Irish ; in England you 
 do not understand this ; but we do ; perhaps you may — 
 after a time. There may be individual exceptions — I 
 thank God there are, and many; but the parties hate 
 each other; and between them, which to cleave to, and 
 which to shun, you will be speedily called to make 
 election ; be sure of that. I have smiled over what you 
 said a few minutes ago — that you intend to live in 
 Ireland, and belong to no party." 
 
 Mr. Spencer drew a seat close to that of the Lady 
 Mary, and assumed the look of a man determined to 
 record his resolve and assign his reasons for it. 
 
 But the lady was in no mood to Hsten. "No," she said, 
 " I have already heard enough; you are one of the ' in- 
 con vinceables,' and I anticipate much amusement from 
 the delightful perplexities you will have to encounter. 
 The idea of Mr. Spencer, of Spencer-Court (some Cas-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 9 
 
 tie Dangerous of the soutli), and of many hard, cold, 
 Scottish acres in Donegall, being permitted by our mer- 
 curial people to do as he pleases ; to dream of being al- 
 lowed to steer a middle course, undulating between 
 orange and green, with a leaf of our southern shamrock 
 in one button-hole, and a petal of the northern lily in 
 the other, dancing down the middle with an Orange- 
 man on his right hand and a Whiteboy on his left, 
 then up again with the Whiteboy on his right and the 
 Orangeman on his left ! — it is really too ridiculous. I 
 repeat, you do not seem to consider — perhaps you do 
 not know — that we are two people — the Anglo-Irish, 
 and — " her hp curled a little as she spoke it — " the 
 mere Irish; two religions; yet your wise law-givers 
 will legislate for us as if we were one people and one re- 
 ligion. And you think to progress among us just as 
 calmly as you have done among your well-fed, well- 
 clothed tenants in sunny Berkshire, where peace and 
 plenty, and a score of other comforts, have made the 
 rich contented, and the poor prosperous — each being 
 the helpmate of the other." 
 
 . *' But, my dear Lady Mary," he interrupted, " I am 
 convinced it is only a calm and moderate, yet a fixed and 
 steady, middle course that can be beneficial to Ireland." 
 
 " Granted," repUed the lady, " but at the moment I 
 was thinking of you, and not of the country. Nay, you 
 need not bow ; I was only thinking how absurd a mode- 
 rate man would appear among our immoderate people; 
 thinking, moreover, who the magician is, or what the 
 miracle will be, that can make a middle course popular." 
 
 " I do not think," rephed Mr. Spencer, looking more
 
 10 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 tlian usually serious, " I do not tliink a resolve to per- 
 severe in wlaat I Honestly consider the only system that 
 can be attended "with desirable results to the country, 
 however it may inflict pain and injury on myself, de- 
 serves to be noted as absurd. I am visiting Ireland 
 with a determination to do my best for the people with- 
 out reference to person or to party." 
 
 Lady Mary shook her head, and a deep and earnest 
 expression again overshadowed her features. 
 
 " You arc right," she said, " quite right, and, believe 
 me, I did but jest; we mere Irish are accustomed to 
 laugh even at our miseries — the only way we have of 
 getting rid of them ; but those who come among us with 
 a real desire to see and hear for themselves, and then do 
 us service, if they can, deserve our gratitude, and may 
 God bless their good work !" 
 
 At this moment a venerable-looking gentleman passed 
 close to Lady Mary O'Brien ; she rose and extended her 
 hand to him; the greeting was cordial, but it awoke 
 some painful thoughts and feelings, for immediately 
 afterwards she turned away to hide tears that fell 
 into the foaming and rushing waves, as she again 
 bent over the side of the steamer. Mr. Spencer im- 
 mediately opened a book, and seemed to read, but he 
 was too deeply interested by the people about him to 
 pay much attention to the volume he held in his hand ; 
 a knot of" Parliament Men" stood close together, discus- 
 sing some popular or unpopular measure of the Session, 
 and not looking particularly worn or overworked. One 
 little, animated, restless man, had the ear of his compa- 
 nions, and uttered his opinions in a shrill voice, ex-
 
 A STOET OF IRELAND. 1 1 
 
 pressing as much by his pantomime as by his words, 
 while a bright-eyed, barley gentleman, Avho seemed 
 full of the good things of this Hfe, and especially of rich, 
 abounding, overflowing humour, " cut in" every now 
 and then upon the small orator's eloquence : and his in- 
 terruptions were invariably followed by the abundant 
 harmony of Irish laughter, up-rolling from Irish hearts. 
 At the opposite side of the ship, reclining upon a 
 pile of cushions, and coats and cloaks, was a young 
 girl, evidently in the last stage of consumption; her 
 mother, who sat by her side, was pressing the thin, 
 fleshless fingers in her large hand, and holding them 
 as tightly as if her grasp could retain the Hfe that 
 seemed rapidly ebbing. In return for kind, sugges- 
 tions from many who had never seen them before, and 
 would probably never see them again, she said " her 
 darhng" couldn't bear the close air below; she could 
 hardly breathe where they were ; she had taken her to 
 a great London doctor, who had done her no good, 
 and now her whole cry was to be carried home ; and the 
 young woman echoed the words with her feeble Hps, 
 and still feebler breath, and murmured, " Home, mother, 
 home !" A nursery girl, or, as she desired to be considered, 
 " a lady's maid," was fruitlessly endeavouring to do se- 
 veral things at once, " hushowing" in her arms a par- 
 ticularly cross baby, who would cry, and endeavouring 
 to prevent a breach of the peace between an ugly cur 
 named Jessie and a " bould boy," who insisted upon 
 pulhng Jessie by the tail, when nurse wanted her to 
 come forward, by the string, which was twisted round 
 what (figiTratively) would be called her little finger. As
 
 12 THEWHITEBOY; 
 
 this incon-venlent group staggered along the deck, Jessie 
 every now and then snapping at the gentlemen's toes, 
 while young master stumbled over them, Mr. Spencer 
 was much amused by a sort of monologue the " lady's 
 maid" was getting through, sotto voce, the wide borders 
 of her cap flapping sail- fashion in the wind, while the 
 " floating" of her " light English cotton" exhibited a 
 pair of remarkably stout limbs, safely cased in black 
 worsted stockings. 
 
 " Masther Tim, Masther Tim, avick, let the haste's tale 
 alone, dear; she's Enghsh, my darlint, and not used 
 to do any thing she dosn't plase, jewel; not Hke yer own 
 little Pincher at home, that never oflered to bite any 
 thing, barring the tax-man;" then a great squall from 
 the baby, called her attention to the plunging parcel 
 she found it hard enough to manage. 
 
 " Whisht, whisht, darlint, you'll disturb your 
 maama, that's in the cabin. Oh, then, I wish from 
 my very sowl they'd as fine cabins on shore as they 
 have tossing on the say, just for sport. Whisht ! Oh ! 
 murder, what'll I do with you in the night, at all at all, 
 and the sixpen'orth of barley-sugar gone abeady !" 
 
 There were many other children, and. one or two 
 other servants; but the latter, from their quiet manner, 
 Mr. Spencer supposed were not " natives," and the 
 children were returning from English schools. " Och, 
 my sorrow !" muttered the guardian of the child and 
 dog, as the party promenaded by; "I beg your pardon, 
 sir, but will ye tell mc what o'clock it is?" 
 
 Mr. Spencer, not being aware of the propensity of the 
 Irish peasant to know how time goes, was amused, but
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 13 
 
 answered; and the woman resumed, "We shall have 
 twinty hours of it still, through wind and waather; all 
 for what? — going to a watering-place; and I give ye 
 my word, sir, for all it was done out like a paradise, 
 where they drank it — the water I mane — the river Shan- 
 non would be ashamed of the shadow of an Irish face, 
 if it was like that dirty iron trash they went so far to 
 drink. Are we in the Irish sea yet, yer honour?" 
 
 The young Englishman was somewhat astonished at 
 the easy, yet respectful manner of the woman, and 
 would have repHed ; but, apparently to avoid a gen- 
 tleman who was walking up and down the deck, she 
 muttered, " The Lord preserve us, and send the ship 
 safe home," and, crossing herself, turned abruptly away. 
 
 Mr. Spencer's quick eye had noted this person from 
 the moment he came on board, as having dismissed 
 the lad who carried his valise, with half the usual 
 gratuity, two tracts, and a brief expostulation on the 
 sin of extortion. He was a remarkably tall, stout, 
 powerful man, his frame well knit together, his chest 
 broad and muscular, and his large head supported by a 
 thick, red neck, round which was folded a full-sized, well 
 stiffened, well-arranged, neck-cloth. An ordinary phy- 
 siognomist would not have found it necessary to look 
 more than once into his face before determining his cha- 
 racter. The nose was blunt and coarse, the mouth — 
 that truth-telling volume without words — close shut, 
 and firm ; but habit had drawn down its corners, so as 
 to give it, particularly at times, an expression of woe 
 and wailing, as if that single feature mourned for the sins 
 of all its brethren, who were stiU sensual and stubborn.
 
 14 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 Tlie eyes were keen and wandering, and tlie full chin, and 
 tliick, heavy "jowl" was irreclaimably evil. Only that 
 his coat was blue, instead of black, those who followed 
 his footsteps might have supposed him a dignitary of the 
 church, for his bearing was gentlemanly; but those who 
 met him, and who knew Ireland — so completely did his 
 face destroy the effect of his figure — would have called 
 him an attorney or a middleman, and put up a 
 prayer for those of whom he claimed his dues. As he 
 in his turn passed Mr. Spencer, he said, in a strong 
 Munster accent, softened to a whine: " A most blessed 
 evening. Sir; a crowning mercy to have such an 
 
 evening." 
 
 Mr. Spencer bowed — he felt so much repugnance to 
 the person that he could not answer him civilly. Perhaps 
 this coldness disturbed the seemingly placid humour of 
 the man; for immediately after, " Masther Tim," who 
 had contrived to cut the dog's string, came running 
 and tumbling over every thing in his way, and conse- 
 quently over the disdained gentleman's feet and ancles; 
 the boy ran on — the dog doubled to get to her pro- 
 tector, and again inconvenienced the same person, 
 who turned hastily round, his face red with abrupt 
 passion, and dealing the animal a kick that sent it 
 spiilning along the deck, exclaimed, with a sort of oath 
 abridged, " Get out of my way, ye're as bad as the 
 Papists." 
 
 " It's a grate comphment ye've paid her," said the 
 servant, with a look of contempt that kindled into one 
 of fierceness before the sentence was finished, and while 
 the cross baby was crying on one arm, she " tucked"
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 15 
 
 the dog under the other. " It's a grate compliment 
 ye've paid her, Mr. Richards, Sir; but ye 're wrong. Sir; 
 she comes of a Protestant family; one of your own 
 sort — barring she's not a turn-coat." The taunt goaded 
 as bitterly as the woman intended it should, for Mr. 
 Richards had once held a different, and far less popular 
 faith than he at that time professed. 
 
 For a moment he regarded the speaker with so fiend- 
 ish a glare, that Mr. Spencer thought he would have 
 struck her — while she, with hardly less of the demon 
 in her face, awaited the issue. But the fire and wrath 
 faded from the man's countenance ; and then, in a soft, 
 oily voice he said, " Oh, Betty, my good girl, is that 
 you — and how's the mistress? I am. sure I didn't know 
 who the dog belonged to, or I would not have shoved 
 it out of the way." 
 
 " Ah, ah! " answered Betty, " the ould story — hit 
 him hard, he's no friends; but poor Jessie has a back 
 still, if it's not broke. Sir. There, keep yer hand out of 
 her way, for she bites to the bone." 
 
 " Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " said Mr. Richards. 
 
 " Don't fal-lal yer fingers any more at her, or I'll 
 not be able to keep her quiet," growled Betty, who was 
 strongly inchned to let the angry animal go. 
 
 " Thank you, Betty, I shall see the mistress by to' 
 by; " then he added, in a sort of whisper, " have you 
 any time for reading, my poor girl?" and he put his 
 hand into his capacious pocket to take out a tract. 
 
 " Will I have a shiUing? " answered Betty, affecting 
 not to understand him, " I'd be sorry to refuse, Sir — 
 the first time of asking," she said, a sly expression of 
 humour chasing away the venom that had a mo-
 
 16 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 ment before tainted every feature of her round ruddy 
 
 face. 
 
 Mr. Richards looked perplexed — or, as the woman 
 would have expressed it, " bothered," and muttering 
 something about " no small change," repocketed his 
 pamphlet, and turned away. 
 
 The steamer went boldly on her voyage with her 
 mino-led cargo of different creeds, and totally different 
 views, sweeping forwards, foaming and groaning as if 
 discontented with her freight. 
 
 Mr. Spencer's attention was next drawn towards two 
 singularly beautiful and graceful girls, who were ear- 
 nestly expressing to their father, (the old gentleman 
 with whom Lady Mary O'Brien had so warmly shaken 
 hands,) the dehght they felt at returning home after 
 a few weeks of absence. 
 
 Tliey were young Irish gentlewomen; frank and 
 warm in manner, yet protected by a dignity and deH- 
 cacy of deportment which prevented the possibility of 
 that warmth and frankness being misunderstood ; they 
 conversed with the poor woman whose daughter lay on 
 the deck, and while one poured some eau-de-Cologne 
 on her hands, and steeped her coarse cotton handker- 
 chief in perfume, the other placed a cushion beneath 
 her head. This was all done without parade; it was the 
 natural discharge of a duty which the healthful owe to 
 the suffering. 
 
 But if jVIr. Spencer fancied he was the only ob- 
 server on board the steam-packet, he was much mistaken. 
 He was, although profoundly ignorant of the fact, far 
 more the observed than the observant. He had been 
 speculated, and commented upon, and his every move-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 17 
 
 ment had been noted, bj two women — whom it would be 
 as unjust to present as examples of the ladies of Ireland, 
 as it would be to point out the Monday mob at Graves - 
 end as the gentlewomen of England ; good, worthy- 
 creatures they were, in their way, only ridiculous when 
 they sought to elbow themselves into what they would 
 have called "carriage company." In Ireland there is a 
 habit, which, some years ago, was stronger and more ge- 
 neral than it is at present — by which a lady was distin- 
 guished according to her husband's profession — that is to 
 say, provided it was a "liberal" one; no woman ever 
 thought of being called Mrs. Grocer Finnerty — or Mrs. 
 Housepainter Grady — or Mrs. Bookseller O'Haggerty: 
 but there was no end to the Mrs. Counsellor Kinealeys — 
 the Mrs. Captain Doyles — and the Mrs. Colonel O 'Neils; 
 while even a Mrs. Attorney Higgins was unwilHng that 
 her " rank" should be overlooked. It was a little bit 
 of show, and distinction, which in the simple vanity of 
 their hearts, they enjoyed; no harm in it; yet it was 
 one of the things that struck Mr. Spencer — as it does 
 every stranger — as odd and absurd, when he heard a 
 lady tell her servant to go down to the cabin, and ask 
 the steward for Mrs. Counsellor Brown's Cashmere 
 shawl. 
 
 The two who took such interest in Mr. Spencer, 
 were a Mrs. Counsellor Hackett, who talked loud in a 
 rich, full, Cork voice and accent, to Mrs. Attorney 
 Murphy — " I've a great mind, my dear, to go up and 
 make myself known to that illigant crature, Lady Mary 
 O'Brien," said Mrs. Hackett ; " if she wasn't so short- 
 sighted she'd know me a mile off. I've known her 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 since she was the height of a green rush, and I'd like 
 to do it, just to take the shine out of Mrs. Brown; 
 ever since they set up a carriage, she boasts she'll keep 
 none but carriage, and the first county, company; yet 
 she never had a lady of title enter her doors — I reely 
 think I will ; for I should like to know who HE is, 
 above all earthly things, and maybe she'd introduce 
 me ; he seems mighty sweet upon her, and she so short 
 a time a widow." 
 
 " 111 tell the counsellor, so I will, Mrs. Hackett, 
 dear," lisped pretty httle Mrs. Attorney. 
 
 " Oh, bother, nonsense !" exclaimed the jovial looking 
 lady ; " God be praised, I've no daughters of my own 
 to get off now, but there's the counsellor's two sisters, 
 and my own three nieces — charming, illigant cratures ! 
 at any rate, I'd like to know who he is; I'm certain 
 that he's the right thing; he's one of us, I'm sure." 
 
 "I don't agree with you, and I hope you'll excuse 
 me for it, ma'am," said Mrs. Murphy; " I heerd his own 
 man say, that his master was going to Derry." 
 
 " To Derry I" exclaimed Mrs. Hackett, in a tone of 
 deep indignation, " to Derry ! — to the heart of the 
 black North ! Himself in a bottle-green cloak of beau- 
 tiful Spanish cloth, and his servants in grass-green Hve- 
 ries ! Mrs. Murphy, it's impossible, it's not mad he'd be 
 to go to the North — himself in a bottle-green cloak, and 
 his two fine servant-men in grass-green liveries ! He'd 
 be murdered ; he can't know the ways of the country ; 
 it would be only Christian charity to tell him, for may 
 be he's a stranger from France or Spain — I'm sure he is 
 ma'am; he's so dark, with Italian eyes, such as they
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 19 
 
 have in Rome, and such a noble air. May the saints 
 protect the dear young gentleman ! but it's almost a 
 point of conscience to put him on his guard. Oh ! that 
 I should ever hear a bottle-green cloak and grass-green 
 liveries talk of going to the bitter black North !" 
 
 " I wonder your friend Lady Mary O'Brien does 
 not tell him," suggested Mrs. Murphy. 
 
 " Thath ! my dear ! Lady Mary, though she ought 
 to be what all her seed, breed, and generation were, as 
 good, and better than ourselves, has been wandering in 
 England ; her husband was a Protestant, and she was 
 always mighty liberal — and more than that — ." 
 
 The steamer had now got fully into the open sea, and 
 in addition to its usual shaking, commenced rolling as 
 ships will do, despite all that is said to the contrary ; 
 Mrs. Hackett bore up against these sea miseries with 
 the air of a heroine ; but at last, as Mrs. Murphy as- 
 sisted her in descending the cabin stairs, she looked 
 into her friend's face, with an air of intense suffering, 
 and exclaimed, " Oh dear ! dear ! darhng ! It isn't the 
 shake, but the roiol of it, that's killing me 1" 
 
 C2
 
 20 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE KEY-NOTE. 
 
 The night was passing witliout any occurrence to 
 disturb the monotony of a " Night at Sea;" there was 
 the dim, uncertain light of the full-orbed, but often 
 clouded moon — the twinkUng of the mysterious stars — 
 the rush and roll of the waters — the spray falling on 
 the deck — the heavy tramp of the few watchers — the 
 motion and shaking of the engine increasing the vi- 
 bration "natural" to a legitimate ship — the heavy 
 smell of the oil — and in the cabins the half-sleepy com- 
 plaints and querulous grumbHngs of the passengers — 
 the coming forth of all the little, mean selfishness of 
 human nature, redeemed, however, by the self-sacrifices 
 of some who give up the pillow or vinaigrette to those 
 who need it more than themselves. Mr. Spencer folded 
 himself in his cloak, — " the bottle-green'," which had 
 excited " Mrs. Counsellor's" sympathy — and continued 
 on deck long after his fair friend, and the greater num- 
 ber of passengers had disappeared. Edward Spen- 
 cer's nature was that of a deep-minded, thoughtful, 
 refined Englishman; slow to receive impressions, but
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 21 
 
 clinging to tliem -witli a tenacity which hardly admitted 
 of change. He could not entertain a single paltry feel- 
 ino- — liis manners were as calm and as classic as his 
 mind. The romance of Irish history, and the romance 
 of the Irish people, had entered his heart; though he 
 never quoted poetry, and could as easily have turned 
 the world on its axis as a tune, the patriotic songs of 
 Moore were treasured in his memory; and Irish heroism, 
 without distinction of party, was one of the idols of his 
 mind-worship; he took extensive views both of things 
 and people, but could hardly be considered an observer 
 of, or a carer for, small matters; thus, he was pecu- 
 liarly unfitted to comprehend the bickerings and bitter- 
 nesses, the petty malignant nothings which form the su- 
 perstructure of Irish discontent, frequently to the exclu- 
 sion of thought for actual and positive grievances. He 
 was fully aware of the real miseries of the country, 
 thoroughly indignant at the long past cruelty, and the 
 continued neglect, which had characterised the conduct of 
 England to a sister she never treated as an equal, nor even 
 with the tenderness which the elder is expected to be- 
 stow upon the younger; perhaps the strongest principle 
 of his nature was a love of justice; he was so accustomed 
 to weigh and balance, that he never could attach him- 
 self to what is called a party; it was his habit— a habit 
 inseparable from his moral constitution — to seek for 
 the right path, and to follow it implicitly. During 
 Ills purposed residence upon the estate to which Lady 
 Mary had alluded, Edward Spencer had resolved to do 
 more in one year than any practical man would have at- 
 tempted to accomphsh in ten, or twenty; all his plans for
 
 22 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 tlie improvement 'of his English estates had succeeded 
 so admirably, that he determined to apply to Irish 
 grievances the systems and remedies he had applied 
 to English ones ; smnming up his thoughts on the 
 subject with, " they cannot be so unreasonable as to 
 reject that," " they cannot upon mature consideration 
 refuse this;" forgetting, as strangers usually do, that he 
 had to deal with a people who feel wliile others reason, 
 and who act too rapidly upon that feeling to give 
 ''mature consideration" to any earthly thing; still he 
 was perfectly and entirely in earnest in his desire to 
 deal justly with a long enduring country; and so truth- 
 ful was his nature, that he had no intention of reserving 
 — no wish to hide — his sentiments; though, like the ge- 
 nerality of Englishmen, he was more reflective than ex- 
 perimental. He was, in short, young, full of the unscathed 
 hope of one born to riches and station ; in the enjoy- 
 ment of good health, an even temper, and the glorious 
 desire and laudable ambition of serving his fellow-crea- 
 tures. As the moon rose he was still pacing the deck, 
 pausing occasionally, and gazing towards the west, the 
 land where he hoped his name might yet be blessed as 
 a benefactor; he thought of the generous enthusiasm 
 of its inhabitants, of their patient endurance, their 
 intense earnestness ! His deep devotion to his own 
 faith taught him to sympathise with those who were 
 ready to sacrifice their lives for that which they held 
 sacred. His imagination erected cottages and covered 
 them with roses ; at one end of his smihng village arose 
 the spire of a church, and at the other the cross of a 
 chapel; the village green was in the centre and fronted
 
 A STOEY OF lEELAND. 23 
 
 tlie scliool, from which issued children of " all denomi- 
 nations," well clothed, noisy with joy, and full of spirits 
 as of health; gray -haired domestics crowded round Spen- 
 cer court; the parish priest and the Protestant clergy- 
 man sat at the same board ; — but who besides sat there, 
 Lady paramount of love, and wit, and beauty? his cheek 
 flushed, while in that direction his thoughts wandered; 
 and as he passed his hand over his face, the vision va- 
 nished. He was neither in a smihng village, or at a well- 
 filled board — but on the deck of the hissing, and 
 groaning, and heaving steamer, one of the most ner- 
 vous and discontented class of vessels that ever took rank 
 
 among 
 
 " The monsters of the deep." 
 
 The waste of waters was around him, and a noble, stately 
 ship, with her sails set, was bending gracefully before the 
 breeze by which they were opposed. Tliere was some- 
 thing so dignified and majestic in its motion, that he 
 could not avoid smiling at her qiieenly progress, when 
 contrasted with the noise, and opposition, and outrage 
 of the little resolute, but most mechanical, steamer. In 
 an incredibly short time they were again alone ; 
 again the young man's thoughts reverted to the " darl- 
 ing West," and his hope became stronger and more 
 fervent that he might yet be made a blessing to the 
 generous, affectionate people, who had found place in 
 his heart — whom he had resolved to care for, and "con- 
 ciliate," and cherish, and redress. While thus exulting 
 in the hope of the future, which now seemed an ap- 
 proaching reahty, his attention to the present was sud- 
 denly aroused by the old gentleman — the same who
 
 24 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 had been recognised with so much affection by Lady 
 Mary O'Brien. 
 
 "This steam will be a great thing for Ireland," he 
 said, addressing Mr. Spencer; "it will indeed be a 
 great thing, it will draw the countries closer together, 
 induce an influx of Enghsh capital, make us better 
 known to each other; although an Irishman, and a 
 warm lover of my country, I do not hesitate to say it 
 must improve us in every respect, while it will also 
 give additional advantages to England." 
 
 "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Spencer. " In 
 three or four years we shall see an immense difference." 
 
 " No, not quite so soon as that," answered his com- 
 panion. " You must pardon me for saying such eager 
 anticipation savours rather of Irish impatience than of 
 English calculation. It will be a long and tedious 
 lesson to teacli England to confide in us, and still more 
 difficult to teach us to confide in England. We have 
 each sometliing to forgive, and more to forget, and 
 both a great deal to learn of one another. You are in a 
 state of deplorable ignorance as to our wants, and 
 powers, and characters, and we are loath to acknow- 
 ledge, as were the people of old, that any good 
 can come out of Galilee — at least to us; but rapid 
 communication is a decided step in favour of both 
 countries; an influx of strangers must serve us, and," 
 he added, " I do not think — I am sorry to say so — 
 that any mode of transit can increase the niunber of 
 our Absentees. May God pardon those who forget a 
 landlord's duties, when they receive a landlord's income ! 
 But this steam will work wonders. We, standing
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 25 
 
 thus on the deck of one of the earHest of the vessels by 
 which the voyage has been made a certainty, can 
 hardly anticipate the vast results. You will live to see 
 them ; I shall not." 
 
 *' I am sure, Sir, I hope you will," exclaimed Edward. 
 
 " Thank you for the warmth of the wish, my young 
 friend," answered Dean Graves; " thank you truly; we 
 Irish can bear injustice better than indifference; if you 
 would serve us, you must not only feel for us, but 
 express your feelings. Lady Mary O'Brien tells me you 
 mean to do a great deal, and a great deal can be done 
 with the tenantry of Spencer Court. I knew your 
 uncle well, and when you are in that part of the world 
 shall be happy to pay you any attention, or give you 
 any information, in my power. I shall be your neigh- 
 bour when you are there and I am at home." 
 
 Mr. Spencer thanked him; the voice and manner 
 had impressed liim strongly in favour of his new ac- 
 quaintance. He was the perfection of a gentleman 
 of the old school ; frank and polished : he had lifted 
 his hat at the commencement of their conversation, 
 and his white hair floated hke a halo round one 
 of the finest heads Edward had ever seen. They 
 had inspired each other with confidence — a feehng 
 which arose from each involuntarily believing in the 
 other's truth. They were the only passengers on deck 
 during the still hour of midnight, and they sat down at 
 the same moment as men do, when they are resolved 
 to have a somewhat lengthened ".talk" on interesting 
 subjects. The clergyman was again the first to com- 
 mence the conversation.
 
 26 THE whiteboy; 
 
 " The country is fearfully disturbed just now, and I 
 am almost sorry you are coming among us at sucli a time." 
 
 " I have not the least fear," replied Edward. " Lady 
 Mary declares there is no instance on record of their 
 injuring a stranger." 
 
 " But you are a landholder, and they may fancy you 
 composed of ejectments and latitats," said Mr. Graves, 
 smiHnG:. 
 
 " No fe^r of that: I have forgiven them all arrears; 
 and as I shall put every thing to rights myself — hear 
 with my own ears — see with my own eyes, and act 
 from my own judgment, I do not think I, for one, 
 shall he injured." 
 
 Mr. Graves again smiled at his brave words, but 
 made no allusion to them, simply saying, " Not in per- 
 son I hope and believe. Even I have no fear of that ; 
 but take care you are not injured towards the people 
 in heart and spirit. I dread the reaction upon such a 
 mind, as I am told you possess. I dread the dissolving 
 of your dream, for all knowledge of Ireland, acquired 
 only by hearsay, leads to dreams. I dread the effect of 
 the certain quantity of disappointment you must expe- 
 rience more than I do the evil whisperings or daring 
 proclamations of those who will seek to win you to 
 their several modes of tliinking. I dread it because 
 Ireland wants men like you — not to stand by a party, 
 but by the country. Men with sympathies and capital, 
 men also with memories, capable of tracing back 
 the various causes of the people's discontent to by-gone 
 times and by -gone events, which, however forgotten or 
 overlooked in England, are still freshly kept in mind in
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 27 
 
 Ireland — freshly as if they were but growths of yesterday ; 
 for they are continually revived, not only by agitators of 
 the moment, but by a higher and holier class, — of feelings 
 as well as of men ; men who love their country and honour 
 its patriots. You may imagine that in visiting Ireland 
 you are visiting only one people ; you are visiting two." 
 
 " Two !" repeated Edward, remembering at the mo- 
 ment Lady Mary's words. 
 
 " It is even so, — two ! Protestant Ireland and Ca- 
 tholic Ireland, Saxon Ireland and Celtic Ireland; but 
 the blood of the Irish Saxon is as hotly boihng as 
 that of the Irish Celt. They boil against each other; 
 and, perhaps, the chief motive of union between the 
 Saxon Irish and your country is the Church establish- 
 ment ; that is the bond which binds the Irish Protestant 
 to England ; but for that both might overboil against 
 you, as they do now against each other." 
 
 Mr. Graves paused, and Edward for some time made 
 no reply : he was thinking. 
 
 "I dare say," said he, at length, " that what you ob- 
 serve is quite true ; and perhaps we deserve it should be 
 so. "We have protected a party, and not a people. — I 
 have often heard my poor imcle say as much." 
 
 " You are right in that opinion," observed Mr. 
 Graves, "whatever party has been dominant in England, 
 has, to a certain extent, protected that nearest to itself 
 in Ireland; but as the peasantry, the very, very poor, 
 have no party, no covenant with their country, the po- 
 pulation of Ireland have had only occasional friends. 
 Strangers frequently, like yourself, come among us, 
 with generous and large desires of usefulness, and kindly
 
 28 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 and extensive sympatKles, but, insensibly drawn into the 
 vortex of party, they either become accustomed to the 
 misery which at first appalled them, or are so over- 
 whelmed by its extent that they turn away altogether 
 from the voice of the weeper, and join in the common 
 cry of want of care and providence in a population, 
 who, even when able to obtain employment, have only 
 existed on what, in your country, would have caused a 
 hundred rebellions, under the name of starvations. A 
 few speak loudly of, and feel keenly, the moral degra- 
 dation that want creates; the cry of the multitude is 
 echoed by them ; and initiated by others — by others who 
 augment evil by misdirecting agitation; yet, all the 
 while they argue that the fruits of peace may be thus 
 gathered — grapes from thorns and figs from thistles." 
 
 •' The country sadly wants repose," said Edward 
 Spencer. 
 
 "Most true," replied Mr. Graves, "but the deep sea- 
 calm of a starving multitude, sinking by hundreds into 
 the grave, is not, I am certain, the sort of repose which you 
 would wish to see continued in my poor country." Neither 
 spoke for some moments, and then Mr. Graves resumed: 
 " Let me," he said, " again caution you against harsh 
 judging in any case ! Do not suffer the Orange party 
 of the North to persuade you that their warmer brethren 
 of the South are all violent and bigoted ; nor the Ro- 
 man Catholics of the South to impress you with the idea 
 that the Orangemen of the North are all bitter and fierce 
 destroyers; in all you hear you must take into account 
 the quick beatings of our hearts, and our universal habit 
 of exaggeration ; not from a desire to falsify, but as is-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 29 
 
 Euinef out of a rich imagination tliat converts us into a 
 nation of poets. We think what we say, while we 
 speak ; but we feel strongly, and do not prepare our 
 words before we utter them. We want judgment 
 rather than genius." 
 
 " I am sure," said Edward, " I am delighted to hear 
 all this; I fancied the tone of the Irish churchmen 
 to be Puritan rather than Protestant; but Lady Mary 
 has frequently quoted you as a specimen of what a Pro- 
 testant clergyman can be to his Roman CathoHc 
 neighbours. I have heard her say that Dean Graves 
 was kind in manners as well as generous in money, and 
 zealous to promote friendly intercourse between Pro- 
 testant and Catholic, while his charity to the poor was 
 dispensed with an even hand." 
 
 The old o-entleman shook his head. " Remember 
 what I told you of Irish exaggeration ; Lady Mary ex- 
 ceedingly magnifies the virtues of her friends. I must, 
 however, in common justice to my brother clergymen 
 state, that I believe they are individually generous to 
 the poor Catholics, though less willing than, I think, 
 they ought to be to extend the hand of fellowship to 
 the ministers of the other creed; but, local circum- 
 stances have much influence with ail of us. I have 
 studied the character of the people more than many, 
 and I know their history well ; my circumstances have 
 rendered me independent of church preferment, which, 
 I regret to say, few of my brethren are. But, to return 
 to the subject of my anxiety; I wish I could show those 
 who cry out against Irish outrage and Irish discontent, 
 a few of the palliating circumstances, which a little know-
 
 30 THE whiteboy; 
 
 ledge and reflection would enable tliem to conipreliend, 
 and I would trvist tlie issue to the feelings of kindly 
 sympathy implanted in every human bosom. I pray 
 your patience ; I am an old man now, but the love of 
 my native land, of both Celt and Saxon, is as warm in 
 my heart as it was when, in my boyhood, I joined the 
 Irish volunteers ; purer, certainly, for many of my pre- 
 judices have vanished, and I should be sorry to have 
 some of the feelings now which I thought glorious then. 
 Again I crave your patience only for a httle time ; it is 
 cool and fresh here, and the words I have to say I 
 would wish to speak beneath the arch of that Heaven 
 which registers our words, for good or evil." 
 
 Edward assured Mr. Graves of his entire attention. 
 
 " You know then," recommenced the venerable gen- 
 tleman, " that the heads of many of the highest of our 
 Irish families perished in defence of their rights; treach- 
 ery frequently accomplished what the sword and the 
 law might have spared. Their lands were seized, often 
 without a show of reason, and the descendants — as the 
 Scotch have it, ' the kith and kin' — of the chieftain 
 lingered in the mountain fastnesses, maintaining a guer- 
 rilla-like warfare, struggling against the power which 
 had outraged, betrayed, starved, destroyed, all but con- 
 quered them ; it is the Irish idea of fixity of tenure, 
 that they were never conquered." 
 
 " But how would they define conquest?" inquired 
 Edward. 
 
 " They define nothing; an Irishman's faith is equal to 
 his feeling, and his feeling to his laith ; he is told by the 
 only persons he considers he can trust, that he has never
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 31 
 
 been conquered ; he believes it, resolving never to be con- 
 tented. Now mark me — in process of time the very hunters 
 tired of pursuit ; the dogs of war became wearied ; they re- 
 tired to the shelter of the valleys and the security of the 
 towns ; they built castles to protect their newly-acquired 
 territory; and in their power, the hunted ones were 
 forgotten, because despised; still, in a little time, as they 
 crept from their fastnesses they became necessary to the 
 settlers; they were employed as labourers — mind you, 
 upo7i their own land, so they still considered it; they were 
 trampled on and insulted on all occasions; they were 
 not deemed worthy even of conciliation ; it would have 
 seemed humanity to have expatriated them at once; 
 better to have taken their lives, when those lives were 
 rendered a means of torture. Now mark me — even 
 more closely — they still bear their proud ancestral names ; 
 the blood of their native princes does not stagnate in 
 their veins ; it flows as freely as though they were not 
 as they are ; their faith was outraged and insulted — " 
 
 " But not now," interrupted Edward; " though as 
 yet they are not thoroughly emancipated, you cannot 
 call their faith insulted now." 
 
 " Was my faith so treated in this year, 1822, I con- 
 fess to you I should so consider it," was the reply. " I 
 would be content, if it were the Almighty's will, to be 
 called away from life to-morrow, if any such sacrifice 
 could \inite my countrymen in the bonds of my own 
 faitli, beUeving it to be the best and purest given from 
 God to man; for it I would live, and for it I would die; 
 but that does not render me insensible to the wicked- 
 ness and folly of the penal statutes, which, by perpetual
 
 32 THE WHITEBOY: 
 
 insult and Injustice, have mocked at national equality; 
 it is as though a man were to place his foot upon the 
 neck of his prostrate fellow-creature, and then, while 
 he keeps him firmly down, to bid him rise, in all the 
 dignity of human nature! The commonest peasant feels 
 this, and though as a clergyman I would joy to receive 
 those who felt themselves in error, I cannot, as a man, 
 but respect the firmness which, despite scorn and degra- 
 dation, has hitherto united the peasant to his faith, 
 mingled though it be with a superstition, which is a part 
 of the national religion, as well as the national poetry." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Mr. Spencer, " the 
 superstition of Ireland is the foundation of its national 
 school of poetry; its faith is intense, but I, of course, 
 speak from thought and feeling, not from observation or 
 experience," 
 
 " The Irish peasant," continued Mr. Graves, " lives 
 amid the faded glories of his country, knows and feels 
 it; his cabin is mud- walled and miserable, yet the ruined 
 castle he passes by, to go to his ill-remunerated labour, 
 bears his name. This yields him a gloomy satisfaction ! 
 he looks on the crumbling walls, and knows that the 
 glories of his ancestors are not mere fables. His wife 
 while digging the potato garden, or whirring at her 
 wheel, sings the cherished legends of his race ; tells their 
 triumphs and their oppressions to the children who 
 tremble in rags at her knee ; and dim prophecies of the 
 future — when ' Ireland shall be herself again' — when 
 Ireland shall belong to the Irish — when Tara's kings 
 shall dispense * justice to Ireland' — are repeated and 
 listened to with avidity at every wake and fair; the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 33 
 
 story-teller vies with the piper in attracting listeners; 
 and gi-ateful as they feel for individual kindnesses of 
 the Saxon race, they look upon them in a body, as not 
 only intruders, but oppressors." 
 
 " Surely, even-handed justice could prevent this," 
 said Edward. 
 
 Mr. Graves smiled. *' It would not be easy to per- 
 suade a man that you meant him justly, while you re- 
 tained what he believed to be his." 
 
 " But consider the impossibility of upsetting a coun- 
 try, after centuries of undisturbed inheritance have 
 passed," observed Edward. 
 
 "Of course," answered the Dean, "I know that; 
 but fancy the impoKcy of leaving a highly sensitive, 
 and imaginative people to brood, with misery and want 
 for their companions, over the wildly, but truly, chroni- 
 cled tales of former greatness, — wrenched from them 
 by force or fraud. If they had been drawn into active 
 life ; if they found their labour sufficiently productive to 
 afford them subsistence; if eftbrts had been made to 
 elevate, and not depress them, in the scale of human- 
 kind; such memories would have faded into fables, or 
 have been in a great degree lost, — as they must be, where 
 existing realities demand perpetual thought, instead of ro- 
 mancing over an old man's tale. We all seek something 
 to chng to in this world — something to raise us above the 
 tides and currents of Hfc; the poor Englishman clings to 
 his comforts ; the poor Irishman might have done the 
 same, if he had had them to clinrj to; but ragged, tattered, 
 the shivering wreck of the past — his foot still on his native 
 heath ; the music of his native land ringing in his ears ; 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 tlie history of liis country graven on liis lieart ; those 
 in -whom he trusts whispering disquieting advice — the 
 advice his restless, ardent, and faithful nature best loves 
 to hear; the only marvel is, that instead of occasional 
 outbursts — the festering indications of unhealthy con- 
 stitutions — the disease has not been more universal and 
 more deadly. Think, my dear Sir, of these things; 
 tliink, as I have so often found it necessary to do, lest 
 my heart should harden ; think, not so much of what, 
 under the excitement and influence of dangerous men, 
 the people do, as of what for a long series of years they 
 have forborne to do." 
 
 The old man rose, excited both by his feehngs and 
 the subject, and extended his hand to Edward Spencer, 
 while he added — 
 
 "I hope to meet you frequently hereafter; and, I 
 trust you will, despite all untoward circumstances, re- 
 member what I have said." 
 
 The dawn of the shivering morning came at last, with 
 the usual lull of wind, and the ringing of the bell, and 
 the cold water cure applied to the narrow boards, and 
 the scraping sound of the hard brush, the gruff voice of 
 the captain perhaps, and the coiling or uncoiHng of the 
 ropes — those who are so unfortunate as to be awake on 
 ship-board, seldom give a thought to the cruelty of 
 waking the sleepers. The morning had changed to 
 midday, and another afternoon had come before the 
 opposite coast was reached. Few of our acquaintances 
 among the passengers, however, cared to leave their 
 berths, until the welcome news^vas conveyed below, that 
 the steamboat was about to enter the Cork river — the
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 35 
 
 famous and beautiful river Lee. And beautiful indeed it 
 is ! Astonished and delighted was Edward Spencer, de- 
 lighted past all telling; he had pictured a universal 
 ■want of wood, but plantations sloped to the very water's 
 ed^e. He looked from side to side, with increased 
 emotion; he gazed around and around, and — cold as was 
 his exterior, in heart and soul, Edward Spencer was a 
 thoroug;h enthusiast — in the fervour of the moment, he 
 prayed earnestly that God would make him the means of 
 good to the people with whom he was about to dwell. 
 No selfish desire, no prejudice, no sectarian, or political 
 bitterness marred the purity of tliis prayer, which, 
 though unheard by human ear, was registered in Hea- 
 ven, as one of the pm^e heart-oiferings of an English- 
 man to the land of the Shamrock. 
 
 " Hurra for Ould Ireland !" exclaimed Betty, who hav- 
 in<]f left her incumbrances below, ran on deck to breathe 
 again the Irish air, " Hurra, my jewel; there ye are, my 
 own darhn river, bright as a diamond and clear as crystal ! 
 Oh, wisha, wisha, God be praised, that I see ye once 
 more" — and clasping her hands in ecstacy, she dropped 
 down on her knees close to where Mr. Spencer stood. 
 At any other time he would, perhaps, have smiled at her 
 enthusiasm; but now he fully entered into it, and as 
 EngHshmen generally show their approbation by giving 
 money, he placed half-a-guinea in her hand. 
 
 " Wliy, then, the Lord be good to yer honour !" she 
 said, rising slowly, and glancing from the coin to the 
 donor as she turned it over and over in her palm, " it's 
 long since we saw the like o' that — and now, if there's 
 any thing I can do to sarve yer honour, just say it ; 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 and, faith, Betty Doyle '11 be the girl that '11 do it ! I 
 knew very well the PARTY yer nobility was of, when 
 I saw the glance ye threw at that base, black-hearted 
 turn-coat, that's tuning up the morning hymn below 
 there (I pray the saints it may turn to a marrow-bone 
 in his ugly throat). Whisht ! there's the misthress ; good 
 bye, and God bless ye. Sir. Sure I'll be past Spencer 
 Court before yer honor, and may be I won't give them 
 the wind of the word as to yer honor's PARTY." 
 
 The man of no party was not sufficiently versed in 
 Irish affairs to understand why a glance of his eye, di- 
 rected to a person who was exceedingly disagreeable to 
 him, should have identified him, even in the opinion of 
 one of the lower orders, with a " party." He would have 
 spoken to Lady Mary about it, but he knew she would 
 laugh at him. 
 
 As they drew near the city, many of the ladies came 
 on deck ; and the kind, gentle-hearted sisters, who had 
 been so attentive to the poor sick girl and her mother, 
 immediately went to make inquiries, as to how they 
 had passed the night — beneath a sort of rude tent con- 
 structed above them. A shawl had been laid lightly 
 and carefully over the girl's face. 
 
 " I am sure," said the eldest of the two to the mother, 
 *' you must be very glad to be so near land." 
 
 The woman looked at her, but made no reply. 
 
 " We are almost arrived, and there arc all the dear, 
 ragged Paddies, watching, and cheering ; do you not 
 hear them ?" 
 
 " I hear a bell," she answered, " a deep — deep toned
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 37 
 
 bell — it has been striking liere these two hours," and 
 she pressed her hands on her temples. 
 
 " Your daughter will get better,"* said the young 
 lady, who was confused, if not alarmed, by the woman's 
 manner, " she vnW be home soon." 
 
 " She is home — she is home !" she repeated, and 
 witlidrew the covering from her face. The sisters shrank 
 back ; the girl was dead — and the bereaved mother fell 
 with a shriek, that answered the wild cheer from 
 shore, upon the body of her child.
 
 38 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 THE TWO SIDES. 
 
 No matter how frankly and freely Engllsli people 
 converse on ship-board, when they land, the intimacy is 
 dissolved; they no longer know each other; or, if upon 
 first meeting on terra Jirma — betrayed by a sudden 
 impulse into an irregular act — they bow or even smile, 
 they immediately draw back in a regretful sort of way, 
 as if the reminiscence was any tiling but a pleasure. 
 Tliey are as cautious in forming, as they are firm in 
 keeping, friends. On the other hand, their mercurial 
 brethren of the green island, become famihar at once, 
 and joy in a new face, as the English do in an old one. 
 The cold suspicion of Enghsh manners is pecuHarly and 
 painfully embarrassing to those who remain only a short 
 time in the country ; while the warm greeting of an 
 Irishman, who, really, at the moment means aU he says, 
 is a more than *' set-off" against the strangeness of 
 things in general, and the small annoyances which peo- 
 ple, accustomed to order and regularity, must perpe- 
 tually encoimter. 
 
 Edward Spencer had never before been in Cork ; it
 
 A STORY or IRELAND. 39 
 
 was his fii'st visit to Ireland; and it was witli no 
 little anxiety he set out — the morning after his ar- 
 rival — to investigate its " beauties." At that time, 
 much more than at present, no gentleman could pass 
 along without being followed, or, when he paused, sur- 
 rounded by beggars — the quantity and quality of whose 
 offensive rags were enough, without the wretchedness 
 wliich sought shelter beneath the scanty covering, to 
 excite a feeling of repugnance allied with that of pity, 
 which no one who has not been in the country can at all 
 comprehend. To Mr. Spencer, the scene was one of a 
 most painful character ; one for which he was impre- 
 pared. Tliere was an utter hopelessness about the mul- 
 titude of beggars — which made liim shiver ; he won- 
 dered how the denizens of the large and stately houses 
 that rose on every side, could exist without — if not 
 overcoming, at least lessening, and alleviating a system 
 of wretchedness that seared his eyes and his heart. 
 With their cries and supplications in liis ears, and such 
 a fell dance of misery and distortion, and skeleton 
 existence around him, he could enjoy nothing. Idiots 
 and the extremity of age — manhood and infancy — in- 
 treating for one halfpenny to save from starvation ! 
 During his brief pause upon the quay, he had seen 
 droves of cattle on their way for embarkation; crates 
 filled with eggs and poultry — all the evidences, in 
 short, of surplus plenty ; and as he marvelled that a 
 hungry population suffered them to depart, he ran 
 over in his mind the scenes he had witnessed abroad; 
 his memory was distanced by the reality of Irish misery ! 
 The Lazzaroni, half buried in dreams beneath the
 
 40 THE WHITEBOy; 
 
 warmtli of an Italian sky, wore princes in comparison 
 to those who, with ghastly faces and dimmed eyes, 
 trembled in the humid atmosphere of the second Irish 
 city. The wideness of the streets — the dignity of the 
 public buildings — even the lovely faces and gay toilets 
 of the ladies, who laughed and flirted as gracefully as 
 if there were no beggars in existence — were unnoticed 
 by Edward Spencer ; the beggar wit, that flashed 
 around him, seemed as though, in most cruel mockery, 
 the arrows of death were tipped with diamonds; he 
 could hardly believe his senses; there was a mad jest- 
 ing too, from some of the suppliants at their own 
 wretchedness, which made him weary, faint, and sick. 
 Beggars at every door, at every window, blockading 
 the passages, and howling to the cars and carriages — in 
 most appalhng destitution ; a population of beings, 
 .created in God's own image — degraded — rendered ab- 
 solutely loathsome, by the squalid poverty which en- 
 genders disease and despair ; and who could find no refuge 
 in those days, but the grave. He longed to regain his 
 hotel, that he might think over what he had seen, so 
 different from what his progress down the river had led 
 him to expect; and he had nearly accomplished liis pur- 
 pose, when his rapid steps were arrested by Mrs. 
 Hackett and her husband, who placed themselves so 
 that he could not proceed without stepping into the 
 rolHng gutter, that marked the line of the trottoir. All 
 blazing in feathers, and ringlets, and gold chains, and 
 in a dress like Jacob's coat of many colours, the lady 
 made a flourishing courtesy, and commenced pro- 
 ceedings.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 41 
 
 " Delighted to meet you, Mr. Spencer, and welcome 
 to the ' Emerald Isle,' as we call it. The counsellor 
 lost no time in calling upon you. Sir, as the friend of 
 that sweet creature — my old friend that I knew when 
 she fii'st stept out of long clothes. Such a picture of a 
 babby she was ! — Lady Mary O'Brien ; — but you were 
 early afoot. Sir." 
 
 " Yes — you were out — seeing the beauties," added 
 ' the Counsellor,' eyeing a group of smiling girls; " see- 
 ing tlie beauties," he repeated, while Mrs. Hackett's 
 face became of a deeper hue, and she muttered some- 
 thing, of which Edward Spencer only heard the words 
 *' dacent" and " chip of the ould block." The coun- 
 sellor took no notice of this little "aside;" but, without 
 further prelude, offered himself as " Cicerone" to show 
 Mr. Spencer the " places," — the " gaol," and the court- 
 house, and institution, the latter of which he gravely 
 affirmed was the linest school of oratory in Europe. 
 Edward, sick at heart, for the wretched beggars had 
 gathered roimd them, excused himself as he best could. 
 He was fatigued; Mrs. Hackett assured him she 
 had been the same " until she walked Patrick-street 
 twice." He was not weU. " Sure they could see 
 Doctor Myles in a minute; the only raale doctor in 
 Cork worth a farthing, and — one of themselves — who 
 told stories like an angel, and could do as well 
 for you after dinner as before it." He had letters 
 to write. "If he'd only step to their house hard by, 
 there were ' loads' of writing-paper, and ' lashins' of 
 pens and ink, and he'd be qinetcr there." 
 
 This proposal was also dechned, though less abruptly
 
 42 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 tlian the others, for the offers, despite the tone and man- 
 ner, were made with irresistible good-nature, — Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hackett being always glad to see a stranger, espe- 
 cially one rich and well born; and that such was the 
 case with Mr. Spencer, they had ascertained before 
 they slept after the voyage. The beggars, too, had 
 closed them in on every side; some blessing, others 
 intreating ahns, and others lifting up their sightless 
 heads or shrivelled arms above the crowd. 
 
 " Is it telhng them you've given them all the small 
 coppers you had — ^you are — ?" said the counsellor; 
 " bedad they'll offer you change, and give it. Here, 
 this is a good way to get rid of them, and a run for it : 
 that is, if you object — as I fancy you 'Jook as if you 
 did — to use your horsewhip"— and he flung a handful 
 of halfpence into the middle of the street, which 
 cleared the pavement at once ; the poor creatures 
 began scrambling, and scuffling, and howHng for the 
 coins, as wild beasts eager for their prey. This scene 
 accorded so badly with Edward Spencer's feelings — 
 there was something so repulsive in sporting with the 
 misery, the utter wretchedness before him — that Mrs. 
 Hackett saw, as she would have expressed it, " he 
 was not up to the fun;" and, throwing as much ten- 
 derness as possible into her countenance, she said " Ah, 
 then, I had all the pity in life for them myself, when 
 first I came to Cork. They might have had my heart for 
 the asking; but there's terrible imposture among them 
 — as you'd find out soon — and to your cost, too — if 
 you were to stop here long." 
 
 Mr. Spencer shook his head; the counsellor did
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 43 
 
 not understand lils new acquaintance; liis reserved, 
 self-possessed, and almost haughty manner was particu- 
 larly offensive to one who had fought his own way, not 
 fairly and honoui'ably, but by the lowest of law's tricks, 
 and fancied he was seen through by every honest man 
 who looked him, as Edward did, "straight in the face." 
 Having none of the higher quahtlcs of his profession, 
 he made up for the deficiency by an extra quantity of 
 keenness and cunning ; was a great man among small 
 attorneys, and very popular with the more discontented 
 of liis party. 
 
 Mr. Spencer rendered him exceedingly uncomfortable ; 
 and this was at once perceived by Mrs. Hackett, whoso 
 great ambition was for high company, while Counsellor 
 David delighted in low. She was not, however, to 
 be driven from her point. It would be a "grand thing" 
 if Mr. Spencer of Spencer Court, eat his first "raale 
 Cork dinner" in the house of Counsellor David 
 Hackett. Great things might result to the family if 
 that dinner was well managed ; and, consequently, 
 with a speech far more flourishing than her courtesy, 
 she invited him for the next day, and her husband would 
 have opened liis tightly closed little gray eyes wider 
 if he could, when she assured Mr. Spencer he should 
 meet Lady Mary O'Brien. Much to her disappoint- 
 ment, he resisted even tliis temptation. Still she was 
 not discomfited; but leaning on her husband's arm, 
 who looked sullen and sulky, she walked by Mr. 
 Spencer's side, endeavouring to amuse and interest 
 him ; and so prove her own usefulness. 
 
 " You'll be for buying Irish linen — I'll go bail ;
 
 44 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 encouraging the manufacture of the country. Tliere, 
 Pat Fimicrty's the place for that ; and you needn't bate 
 him down above sixpence in the yard to get a 
 raale bargain. A poor persecuted man he was — by 
 the bittlier Protestants ever since tlic trial; — only I'd 
 be sorry to say much against them ; I could if I liked ; 
 — and as to gloves, Cork's the place for gentlemen's, 
 and Limerick for ladies' gloves. I'm sure the coun- 
 sellor has gloves that would fit in a pigeon's egg; — 
 think of that ! yet strong enough for a fox-chase." 
 
 Mr. Spencer agreed that this was remarkable. 
 
 " And the glass-house, and the blowing," continued 
 the lady, " Maybe you'd have time to see that, this 
 morning; it's pure christal — as clear as a kitten's eye." 
 
 Mr. Spencer, although he declined, said he was glad 
 to perceive that Mrs. Hackctt was enthusiastic about 
 Irish productions, and that he hoped to see the time 
 when they would be valued as they deserved to be, at 
 home and abroad. 
 
 This touched Mrs. Hackett's heart; for with all 
 her faults and all her vulgarity, she loved her 
 country as dearly as any woman ever did; and she 
 bid God bless him for that, " any how," with fervour 
 and truth, as they paused at the steps of the hotel, 
 
 Mr. Spencer invited them to enter. 
 
 "Is it me!" exclaimed Hackett, growing red, and 
 looking furious. " I certainly did call on you. Sir, 
 there, because, as Mrs. H. said, you were her friend's 
 friend; but having paid the compliment — done myself 
 the honour, I mean — I wash my hands out of the 
 house altogether. No Irishman, Sir, knowing tlie
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 45 
 
 wrono-s of lils country, would patlironise tliat house !" 
 and he shook Ms doubled hand toward the staircase with 
 so anathematising an air, that the boards might have been 
 supposed to tremble. 
 
 "Ah, Sir," sighed Mrs. Hackctt, "you must excuse 
 the counsellor's warmth. A public man, you know, 
 must stick to his party — it's the only back a poor 
 fellow has: and it's a grate thing for a professional 
 man to have a strong hack — which, the saints be praised, 
 he has at this minute : as strong a back as any man in 
 Cork — though I say it. There was many a little thing 
 I wanted to speak to you about. Lady Mary is so 
 backwards and forwards, abroad and at home, that she 
 goes on never heeding, and laughing, all through her 
 own heartiness. She was always mighty hearty in 
 herself, God bless her ; and, maybe, she never gave 
 you a hint about — " she paused, and Mr. Spencer felt 
 his colour mount to his temples. 
 
 " I really do not understand you," he said, and then 
 Mrs. Hackett laid her puffy, dimpled hand upon his 
 arm with a motherly sort of tenderness, and half wliis- 
 pered, looking pathetically in his face, "Maybe she 
 never gave you a hint about them beautiful grass- 
 green liveries." 
 
 " Now, really, Mrs. Hackett," observed her hus- 
 band, "Mr. Spencer is more to be honoured for this. 
 Why should he not publish an index to his politics, it 
 is bold and brave, there can be no mistake about it. 
 I hope none of us are ashamed of the green." 
 
 " But he may be murdered for it; and so may the poor 
 boys who wear them, Comisellor Hackctt," she rephed.
 
 46 THE whiteboy; 
 
 " Siu'e it's to tliG north he's going, tlic bitter, black 
 north ; and through Dubhn. And suppose they catch 
 'em in College Green on the 12th of July? Grass- 
 green on the 12th, just under the statue of King 
 William ; or in dark Belfast, or bloody Derry ! Think 
 of that! Dear gentleman, ho does not know them 
 
 yeti" 
 
 Mr, Spencer was more perplexed than ever ; but, 
 although he shrunk from an inquiry, one fact impressed 
 itself strongly upon him, — that he seemed, by some 
 means unknown to himself, to have become identified 
 with a party. So, after wishing the counsellor and his 
 lady good morning, and thanking them for their kind 
 attentions, and promising to call before he went to the 
 country, he resolved, if Lady Mary had not left Cork, 
 to entreat of her an explanation. So full was he of 
 his pecuHar situation, that he was absolutely startled, 
 when after one or two gentle taps at the door, Mr. 
 Richards bowed himself into the apartment. 
 
 " As," he said, " I hold a stewardship close to 
 Spencer Court, and was about to journey there to- 
 morrow, I thought I could bear some tidings for you to 
 your house. I call mine a stewardship," he added, 
 after a pause, with the most hideous mock humiHty, 
 " seeing that we are all stewards to give an account of 
 our stewardship." 
 
 The manner of the man was so exceedingly disagi*ee- 
 able to Mr. Spencer, that he was forced to guard himself 
 most carefully lest he should say or look any thing 
 rude, to one whom he grieved to hear avow himself 
 liis neighbour; so he made some trivial reply, and
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 47 
 
 paused, giving an opportunity to liis visiter to speak, in 
 wliicli lie evidently delighted. 
 
 *' Your lot is cast in a beniglited land, yet your 
 abode is in one of the pleasantest places of the earth. 
 Yoiu' uncle, Sir, meant well, but he was benighted — 
 sadly benighted — led entirely by that dark vessel I 
 saw you speaking with on the deck. A minister of our 
 protesting church — a church protesting against the 
 scarlet woman ; yet he, its minister, holds commimion 
 — mito friendship — with the Babylonish priests and 
 people. Tliough you come amongst us, Su-, with 
 doubtful coloiu's, surely you are in the faith?" 
 
 " I certainly am a Protestant," answered Mr. Spencer. 
 
 " I might have known it, Sir, by finding you at this 
 hotel ; it is a sad state of things for a coimtry when we 
 are obhged to stand so apart from the children of perdi- 
 tion, as not even to frequent the same houses, which 
 ought to be of pubHc, not exclusive, resort." 
 
 " And to whom, may I ask," said the young EngKsh- 
 man, looking his visiter steadily in the face, " to whom 
 do you apply the term ' children of perdition ?' " 
 
 " To the darkened offspring of Satan, Sin, and Death 
 — the people of the Popish faith," he repHed; and bitter 
 and gaUing as were his words, they were delivered in 
 the soft, honeyed brogue which had previously so dis- 
 gusted Edward Spencer ; opposite to whom he had 
 hitherto sat, but after replying to this question, he 
 arose, and walked pompously across the room, until he 
 stood close to liim. 
 
 " I have long," he said, " wrestled with the spirit 
 because of this people, and sought almost in vain in the
 
 48 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 dark south for some one to assist in tlie glorious reform- 
 ation of the peasantry. What does it matter if they 
 continue clothed in the rags of earth, so we can but 
 rescue their precious souls !" 
 
 " I hope good may be effected in two ways," repHcd 
 Mr. Spencer. " My plan would be first to provide them 
 food and raiment by means of occupation, without in- 
 quiry as to their creed ; and though I would of course 
 much rather they professed the faith I know to be the 
 purest, I would let them preserve their own rather than 
 persecute tlicm to its denial with their lips, and — " 
 
 What Mr. Spencer was about to add, his visiter did 
 not wait to learn, but interrupted him before his 
 sentence was finished. " Stay, Sir — I entreat, Sir — I 
 see you have already been tampered with," he said ; 
 " you little know what you have to encounter — ^you 
 cannot imagine what it is. Sir, I have lived among 
 this benighted people, I have toiled for them, taught 
 them, employed them, enlightened them, built schools, 
 to which they would not send their children, and given 
 them books, which their bigotry would not let them read, 
 — prayed for them ! — and yet, see here !" He threw open 
 his coat, and from each waistcoat-pocket peeped forth a 
 pistol. " This is necessary for me, and will be necessary 
 for you, too ; in the present state of the country, every 
 one who does not travel so armed will be shot — like a 
 dog. I tell you, you don't know them. In the night, 
 armed bands parade the country, and in our wild part 
 of this unhappy land, every rock conceals a traitor. 
 Now you look as if you had not faith in my Avords. 
 Nothing is to be done but by the uprooting of their
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 49 
 
 accursed faitli ; and woe — woe — woe to those wlio turn 
 back from the plough, or cease to wield the besom of 
 destniction." 
 
 " I must really beg your pardon," said Mr. Spencer, 
 not knowing how to consider his visiter, whether as 
 sane or insane ; " but I have many things to attend to; 
 and in conclusion, can only entreat you to beheve, that 
 I am of NO PARTY, either in religion or poHtics. Is that 
 so rare a thing ?" he added, half laughing ; for the 
 change that passed over the face of Richards, expressing 
 undisguised astonishment, was quite starthng ; "is that 
 so rare a thing ?" 
 
 " Poor young gentleman !" he exclaimed, in a tone 
 of pity. " Ah dear ! turning his back on the fold, aban- 
 doning the shepherd — I feared as much ! I shall wrestle 
 with the Lord for you, night and day; and just leave for 
 your consideration — these — and these, and this little 
 plan for the erection of one of our tabernacles in the 
 wilderness. I grieve to see you blinded by lalse theories. 
 Alas ! alas ! The late Mrs. Spencer, Sir, was an angel 
 of Love. Seed, I fear me, sown in stoney ground," 
 he added, when laying his fifth tract on the table. 
 " Seed sown among thorns of the world and choking 
 briars ;" and do^vn went a sixth. 
 
 Mr. Spencer took up one, and read its title ; " An 
 Exposure of the Idolatrous Blasphemies of the Church 
 of Rome ; proving the Mammon of its Spirit, and the 
 Abominations of its Practice." 
 
 " A small thing of my own !" observed Mr. Richards, 
 with a smile, meant for meekness. " One of my babes 
 of grace, as it pleases Lady Lucy Knott to call them." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE ■w:hiteboy; 
 
 " And did you mean tliis tract for circulation among 
 Roman Catholics ?" inquired Mr. Spencer. 
 
 " Certainly ; liundreds have been scattered on the 
 liighways." 
 
 " Where they remained, I'll answer for it," said Mr. 
 Spencer, frankly. " Surely no one would feel inclined 
 to read that which commenced by insulting, what of 
 all else he respected most." 
 
 " The sword of the spirit shapes not its course ac- 
 cording to the ways of the world," replied Abel 
 Richards; " but I see you have been with the enemy; 
 however, I shall pray for you; it is my duty, dear 
 yoimg gentleman. So like the family. Surely he will 
 be yet in the fold !" then, having reserved, perhaps, the 
 chief object of liis visit to the end, he said, wliile he 
 buttoned up his coat, " You have not fixed upon an 
 agent, I tliink I heard. The land. Sir, is miserably un- 
 der-let — it does the poor people harm to give them land 
 at too low a rate; increases their careless habits; and 
 there is no truth in them, IVIr. Spencer — no truth ; how 
 can there be? Ah, popery — popery I — if you should 
 require an agent, my knowledge of the country and its 
 people are at your service ; if not in any other way, as 
 a friend." 
 
 Mr. Spencer could brook this no longer; he told Mr. 
 Richards he intended to be his own agent, and rang the 
 beU in a manner that admitted of no further parley. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the varied 
 changes of mind, or rather the various thoughts that 
 passed tlarough Mr. Spencer's mind during tliis eventful 
 morniag ; and yet Lady Mary or Mr. Graves, — the old
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 51 
 
 clerg3rman who had interested him so much on board 
 the steamer, — could have seen notliing to wonder at or 
 speculate upon ; they were, as all the Irish gentry are, 
 used to the beggars; they had never seen the coimtry 
 or the town without them; and truly, but for them, 
 the streets of many of the coimtry towns would have 
 been lonely enough. Mr. Spencer fancied every man 
 and woman he saw without shoes was a beggar, and 
 so exaggerated, if that indeed were possible, the extent 
 of the misery which seemed to increase and multiply 
 around him. 
 
 Every body, that is every Irish body, knew that the 
 Hacketts were ignorant, ilHterate people; low, and 
 cunning, and bigoted in their way, as bitterly as Mr. 
 Richards was in his. Mr. Spencer had " enjoyed," as 
 Lady ]\Iary O'Brien would certainly have called it, 
 two rare specimens of the parties which have been 
 worrying the kingdom of Ireland between them for 
 the last two or three centuries ; he had seen, face to face, 
 two of the most inveterate samples of party spirit, 
 and was grieved and shocked at the exhibition ; but to 
 those born in the cauldron this was nothing new; one 
 party exalted the people into deities, the other de- 
 pressed them into demons ; this was only as it always 
 had been ; not, it is to be hoped, as it always wiU be I 
 Mr. Spencer clung to the prospect of meeting speedily 
 vnth. the class inclined to steer the middle course ; he 
 had to learn, and bitter at last was the knowledge, 
 that though there are many individuals who think 
 and act justly towards their fellow-creatures, without 
 reference to religion or pohtics, Ireland knew not, 
 
 e2
 
 52 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 in any respect, in tliose days, tlie blessings of a mid- 
 dle class — or tlie legislation of a middle course. It 
 was difficult for an Englishman, born with both eyes 
 open, to understand this. A car-driver endeavoured 
 once to explain it thus: "A boy," he said, " can only 
 sit on one side of a car !" 
 
 Edward Spencer — cool and quiet Edward Spencer — 
 had a deep under-current of romance in his compo- 
 sition. Slirinking instinctively from every species of 
 vulgarity, he felt a deep and earnest sympathy for the 
 Irish peasant. He had read — written in letters of blood, 
 which nothing but the sweep of an angel's wing can 
 efface — the wrongs under which the Irish peasant has 
 ■writhed and been crushed; the oppressions under which 
 he has laboured and starved.. Tlie legends of the people ; 
 their music — a language which all the nations of the 
 world understand — were familiar to him ; — they were 
 more — they were beloved by him. 
 
 Already more disappointed and perplexed than he 
 cared to confess to himself, particularly after Mr. Graves' 
 warning, Edward, his eyes fixed on the irrcgidarities 
 of the houses opposite liis windows, began at last to 
 fancy that green — " grass green" — which he had fixed 
 upon to be his servants' liveries, while in Ireland, from 
 the idea that being the national colour of the country 
 it must be welcome everywhere, had caused him in- 
 stead of beinci; understood to be misunderstood. Mr. 
 Spencer was not a popularity hunter; but this had 
 occurred to him, at his own quiet dwelling in Berkshire, 
 Ripley Hall, as a delicate way of evincing the interest 
 he felt in the Irish; indeed, he had thought seriously
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 53 
 
 about having a liarp or a shamrock on the button ; his 
 respect for his family crest forbade this, and he con- 
 tented himself with arraying the footman and groom 
 who accompanied him to Ireland in emerald green. 
 He felt already that he had made a mistake, that green 
 was only the national colour of Ireland, out of Ire- 
 land, and in Ireland the colour of one party; the sub- 
 stantial shebbolcth; the palpable war cry, as it were. 
 He rang the bell for the papers. The newspaper " of 
 our side" was brought to him; he inquired for the 
 other. 
 
 " Wliat did yer honour plazc to say?" asked the 
 waiter, a keen, ductile, sharp-witted fellow, as Irish 
 waiters generally are. 
 
 Mr. Spencer repeated his request. The man shut the 
 door and advanced close up to where he sat; then, 
 raising his fingers to his lips in a low hissing tone, he 
 pronounced the word " Whisht!" 
 
 " What do you mean?" asked Edward, amused at 
 the mystery of the man's manner. 
 
 " Whisht, yer honour, or maybe it's the walls or the 
 roof that 'ill fall about us. Sure if that was brought 
 into this house every customer we have would quit; 
 bedad, we darn't look at the same side of the street 
 with it. Lord help yer innocence. Sir, do ye think 
 that any of them here would look at both sides of the 
 question?" 
 
 Mr. Spencer laughed, and the waiter turned to 
 withdraw; but when he got as far as the door he crept 
 steathily back, and coming closer than English habits 
 would permit a waiter to come, he said, " Ye're an
 
 54 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 honourable gentleman, and if ye would like (tliougli 
 it's aginst the rules of the house), I don't mind getting 
 you one — on the sly." 
 
 Tliis offer was of course rejected, much to the man's 
 disappointment, and Mr. Spencer (who was obliged to 
 wait for letters from the north) thought he would 
 call and inquire if Lady Mary had left town as she 
 intended. In the hope of escaping the beggars he 
 hired an outside jaunting car, and — after the first five 
 minutes, when the novelty was over of sitting on one 
 slip of wood, while your feet dangle on another — he 
 agreed in opinion with the driver, who, seeing he was a 
 stranger, had taken the earhest opportunity of informing 
 him, that " these cars bate the world and all for con~ 
 vaynience; for, in case of an accident, you are up and 
 off in a minute." 
 
 On inquiring at the residence of Lady Mary O'Brien, 
 he was informed she had gone with Mr. Graves and 
 his daughters to Blarney. 
 
 " How long had Lady Mary been gone?" 
 
 " About three quarters of an hour." 
 
 "Then," said Mr. Spencer, "I will go there too; 
 that is the famous castle?" 
 
 " Good luck to yer honour it is." 
 
 " But I must have another car." 
 
 " Why so, plaze yer honour?" inquired the carman, 
 taking his dudeen "rom his mouth, and looking over 
 liis shoulder to where Mr. Spencer stood. 
 
 " Why, really my friend," he replied, " I do not 
 think your horse is able to go so far." 
 
 She's the most willing baste upon Ireland's ground
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 55 
 
 this minlt, Sir, and knows every fut of tlie way blind- 
 fold, and never axes to stop, barring a gintleman like 
 yourself would insist upon it, just to wasli her mouth 
 as well as her master's." 
 
 "Yours!" said Mr. Spencer, while re-arranging the 
 "bottle green cloak" on the seat, which, as he al- 
 ready found was any tiling but a comfortable one. 
 
 " Ay, Sir, the drop comes as natural to my mouth 
 as the water to hers. Don't think she can't go because 
 she's rather thin; she's too much blood ever to make 
 flesh — and run for the cup at ' the Curragh.' " 
 
 " She did not win it, though," said Mr. Spencer, 
 glancing at the miserable -looking hack — trembhug and 
 starved — whom her master called " rather tliin." 
 
 " We don't all win what we try for, this side of the 
 water, any way," repHed the carman. 
 
 "That's thrue Darby — put in the servant who 
 stood at the door of Lady Mary O'Brien's lodgings, 
 or it isn't there you'd be sitting now." 
 
 The driver gave a leer and a laugh — and, jerking his 
 ragged " big coat" by the collar, flourished Ms whip in 
 the air, preparatory to bringing it down with another 
 flourish upon the galled back of the poor jade, who 
 set ofl* at as fast a canter as she could maintain on 
 three legs — the fourth being useless for all purposes of 
 active motion. 
 
 " Hurroo !" he exclaimed; " Hu^oo ! for the honour 
 of ould Ireland and Blarney Castle !"
 
 56 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PRIEST OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 All along to the ascent called Sundays Well — a 
 suburb of tlie "beautiful city" — the car-diiver ma- 
 naged to push his poor starveling to a canter; but the 
 rapid pace did not prevent his fare from observing, that 
 miserable as were the beggars in the leading streets, 
 those of the suburbs were still more so. In England, 
 residing in an agricultural district, he had only seen 
 poverty in what might be called its " pictorial form" — 
 in the person of an aged widow receiving her weekly 
 alms — or under the aspect of a group of rosy children, 
 who, but that you were told so, would not have been 
 imagined orphans. Sometimes a vagabond-looking 
 fellow, dressed in an old checked shirt, a torn jacket, 
 dirty trousers, bare feet, and a wide-leafed straw hat 
 with a piece of black coarse ferreting dangling from 
 it, crossed the young magistrate's path; and if he 
 could not give an account of himself, was committed as 
 a rogue under the vagrant act. Or some poachers 
 apprehended by his neighbours' game-keepers — when
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 57 
 
 brought up for examination, pleaded poverty as an ex- 
 cuse. They had no cheese to their bread, and notliing 
 to drink but water — so at least they said ; and though 
 they were punished, the poverty they talked of was 
 alleviated; and if it was ascertained that they had 
 actually been existing without meat once a day, the 
 hamlet rang in sympathy with their privations. 
 
 Alas! alas! those who ran wolf-like, yet harmless, 
 screaming after his car, seldom tasted animal food once 
 a year. All they complained of was, that the old 
 potato-crop was exhausted, and the new not yet come ; 
 and till it did, they must starve, " only for charity." 
 In England, poverty, at that time more particularly, 
 was so great a shame, that it hid its face, and wept; 
 but in Ireland, it breasted the breeze, and howled in 
 the sunsliine. 
 
 " Drive on — faster — faster!" exclaimed Mr. Spencer. 
 " I cannot bear this !" 
 
 When they were fliirly away from the suburb and 
 its hordes, and the yelp of the last dog sounded Hke an 
 echo, the man ceased to ply the wliip or jerk the 
 rein. He brought his bullet-like head round, so as to 
 perceive that " the gentleman" had placed his elbow 
 on his knee, and covered liis face with his hand. His 
 keen blue eye glanced again and again ; and yielding 
 at last to the curiosity and loquacity of a nature at 
 once the most inquisitive and the most secret, he re- 
 solved to speak. 
 
 " We've got a pretty bit of road forninst us now, 
 yer honour; and it's not overspread much with those
 
 58 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 dirty bits of cabins that do be spiling tlie look of the . 
 country on tlie quality." 
 
 " I cannot think that cottages spoil the look of the 
 country," replied Edward; "surely some nice wliite 
 cottages, mth pretty little gardens, and one or two 
 well-cropped fields to each, would add much to the 
 beauty of that lovely river, and break to great advan- 
 tage the formal outline of these young plantations." 
 
 Darby turned half round to see if the gentleman was 
 in earnest, and then muttered " God bless liim," with all 
 his heart, adding: "I wish there were more of your ho- 
 nour's mind. Wliite cabins ! — flower-gardens ! bedad ! 
 the only flower we ever look at is the blossom of the 
 pratee ! Oh, blessed Father 1 — one or two well-cropped 
 fields! — it's long since I heard such a thing as that 
 evejied to a poor man ; but to see it, is what I never ex- 
 pect. Is that the way it is where your honour comes 
 from ?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " Well — glory above ! — think of that ! And where's 
 yer honour going afther ye see the castle and the curo- 
 sities?" 
 
 " I am going back to Cork," replied Mr. Spencer, 
 amused at a familiarity so perfectly new to Imn, but 
 which was far from being rude. 
 
 "Oh, I know that, Su'; but ye'r not going to stop 
 always in Cork, are ye ?" 
 
 "No ;— I am not." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, Sir; only one likes to know if 
 the good have a mind to stop in the country with us; 
 we rear enough of the other sort ourselves."
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 59 
 
 " I intend remaining in L-eland; but not in Cork," 
 answered Edward. 
 
 "Och! murder! — the luck is laving tlie beautiful 
 city altogether," sighed the driver. " I thought I 
 might have the honour of being yer honour's coach- 
 man whenever ye wanted a car. Tliere's a view. Sir; 
 there's meadows and cattle ; there's not finer cattle nor 
 them in England, I'll go bail, — barring when we send 
 them over. I brought ye the longest road on account 
 of the beauty of the place; it's not as good as the 
 Black Pool one, but there's the world and all of diflfer 
 in the beauty." 
 
 The poor horse, who had been going at his own 
 pace — any but a swift one — passed by a woman with a 
 basket of eggs on her arm, and a heavy blue cloak 
 hanging over a heap of potatoes, which she carried on 
 her back; and then, by another, who offered Mr. 
 Spencer cliickens at twelve-pence a couple ; and at last 
 they were overtaken by a lame piper. 
 
 "God save you. Jack; where are you going?" in- 
 quired the talkative carman. 
 
 In reply, a whisper passed between the driver and 
 the wandering; musician. 
 
 "Jack says, plaze yer honour," said the carman, 
 " that if ye've any love for music, he'll be happy to 
 introduce you to the minstrelsey of Ireland. He'll sit 
 this side, and play ye into Blarney, unless 'ye'd rather 
 have him the same side as yerself, to get the strength 
 of the pipes into yer head at once." 
 
 Mr. Spencer had a kindly and gentle dread of wound- 
 ing any one's feeHngs. All his life he had found a
 
 60 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 difficulty in saying " no," and anxious to observe Irish 
 character of every grade, he consented to the proposal ; 
 only saying, he thought he should hear the music to 
 more advantage if the piper sat behind him. 
 
 While the man hitched himself up behind, Darby 
 observed that a blast of Jack Sullivan's pipes would 
 shake the roof off a church — especially if he'd had three 
 or four stiff tumblers of good punch. 
 
 Mr. Spencer was asked what tune he preferred, 
 and naming " St. Patrick's day," the tAvo men gave a 
 positive yell of delight; wliile the driver, drawing 
 up his horse with a jerk, which nearly brought it on 
 its haunches, took off his hat, and pulling his forelock 
 of shaggy hair, which seemed to hang down to be 
 pulled, said, 
 
 " I hope I'm not making too free, but maybe it's 
 yer honour that ovms them two beautiful grass-green 
 liveries that seemed so overtaken with the wliisky this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Mr. Spencer confessed that his livery was green, and 
 this was received with a still louder hurroo, and fol- 
 lowed by a jabbering in genuine Irish. 
 
 While Edward for the first time luiderstood the 
 nature of the " sea sickness," which the waiter at the 
 hotel had assured him still " confined the poor fellows 
 (his servants) to their beds, so that they hadn't a leg to 
 stand on," he began to fancy there really was a spell over 
 these liveries, which in some shape or other were per- 
 petually conjured up before him. Beautiful as the 
 country was, he could not enjoy it, so unsettled had 
 his thoughts become. The piper played his best, the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 61 
 
 carman stamped his feet — snapped liis fingers — sliouted 
 " Success" and "Hurroo!" in time (as Edward sup- 
 posed) to the birr, and wheeze, and groaning of the 
 pipes, and ended by throwing the reins over the neck 
 of the horse, leaving him to the exercise of his own 
 judgment in all matters toucliing the journey, while he 
 sprang into the road and performed a most charac- 
 teristic and animated jig in the dust, covering the 
 buckle — heeling and toeing — whirling his whip— hoop- 
 ing and jumping like a half maniac; at last exciting 
 himself to the utmost, he threw liis hat into the air — 
 sent his " top coat" a summerset after it, and continued 
 shaking liis rags in the sunbeams, in the exube- 
 rance and animation inspired by the national tune, en- 
 deared to the rudest hearts, and so seldom appreciated 
 by the high-born of the country; for "party tunes," 
 are as marked in Ireland as " party colours !" 
 
 "Faith," said the piper, "you did that well; if his 
 reverence saw you dance that hearty jig, there's nothing 
 but his cloth would keep him off the floor." 
 
 " The kindness of his honour's words warmed me as 
 much as your music, Jackey, my boy," replied Darby, 
 while resuming his hat and coat. "Didn't the gentle- 
 man wish we had all white houses — and flower-knots — 
 and cropped fanns to live in, on the banks of the River 
 Lee. And didn't he fling his money, God bless him, 
 to the poor. And didn't he come to the coimtry in 
 grass-green, just to tache the tame nagurs not to be 
 ashamed of the colour God put upon the hills and 
 meadows. Well, it was a hearty jig, and has riz my 
 heart out of the starvation ; and now we'll foot it the
 
 62 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 rest of tlie road, and Jack, you can get down at the 
 turn off to tlic town, — that was a town in my father's 
 time, of grate accoimt, a wonderful market for woollen 
 goods, and as many as thirteen mills going about it; 
 they went so fast that they soon war gone, like every 
 thing else that's good." 
 
 They met several peasants returning from the village 
 to Cork, and exchanged, of com'se, kind greetings with 
 them all. The inquiry was also made if there were 
 many " down at the priest's," and at last one merry 
 bare-legged girl answered, that liis reverence was not 
 in it at all, but up at the castle with some grate quahty 
 from Cork. 
 
 " Yer honour's in luck," said the carman, and hav- 
 ing dismissed the piper, he urged his " fine hunter" 
 into one of its extraordinary canters, towards the 
 
 bridge 
 
 " Where no water flows." 
 
 Mr. Spencer, however, remembered the man's hint 
 about " water" and " drop," and saying he would 
 walk to the castle, told hun to refresh himself and liis 
 beast, and come for him in an hour. This was gladly 
 acceded to, and the Englishman found himself .for the 
 first time alone in the fresh and fair pastures of Ire- 
 land. 
 
 Above where he trod, the pennons of the rival houses 
 of the Macarthy and the Fitzgerald had floated, 
 and the onslaught and war-cry been echoed from the 
 rocks and caverns of the frowning keep. In more 
 recent times, those fair and peaceful fields were ploughed 
 by the rude artillery of the Puritan cliief — ^in Ireland
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 63 
 
 of most bitter, cruel, and accursed memory. Tlien, 
 in tlie time of the second James, the fortress that had 
 braved- so nobly the cross-bow, the battering-ram, and 
 the cannon, was degraded into a prison. Since then, 
 its glory has been gradually decaying. Edward 
 Spencer paused before he reached the bridge, to look 
 upon the " war shaken" structure, scarred and hoary 
 with feud and age, a monument gaimt and ghastly 
 of those evil times when the might made the right. 
 Although but the shadow of a structure of which the 
 Macarthy might have been proud, it was a shadow that 
 recalled the past. Antiquity had wreathed it in a shroud 
 — washed away its scarlet stains — smoothed its rigidity 
 into softness ; — and tlie halls where the biting jest was an- 
 swered by the asrapidsword, and where the harpers stirred 
 hearts long since sleeping, to deeds of glory, or warmed 
 them into love, are now so still that you can hear the 
 wind of a swallow's wing, or the twitter of the martin ; 
 while the whistle of the blackbird from the " sweet 
 rock close," pours into the ear a long-famiKar me- 
 lody. The jars, and jealousies, and party spirit of the 
 morning, were all forgotten when Edward contem- 
 plated a ruin of which he had heard so much, but 
 which now requires a knowledge of the past, to be 
 appreciated as it deserves. He wandered into the 
 " sweet rock close," being assured by a girl who was 
 milking cows, and ojBTered him some milk, that he 
 would meet liis reverence and the company somewhere 
 about. 
 
 One of Mr. Spencer's favourite plans with regard 
 to Ireland, was to revive the forests, planting trees
 
 64 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 wlaerever they would grow ; and Ke was exceedingly de- 
 lighted to observe the immense size the evergreens 
 had attained in this romantic wilderness. The after- 
 noon was so sultry, that the shadow and coolness of 
 the delicious retreat, refreshed both his mind and body. 
 J£ he could have forgotten the beggars, he would 
 have been perfectly happy. Indeed, when he heard 
 the clear, light, musical voice of Lady Mary O'Brien 
 responding to the full rolling brogue, so ripe and rich, 
 that he was convinced it could proceed from none other 
 than the good hearty Priest of Blarney, he seemed to 
 have lost all memory of the past in present enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 His "fair foe," as he had frequently called her before 
 she was married, when as a girl she visited his mother, 
 now introduced liim formally to Dean Graves and his 
 daughters, and the venerable priest whom she desig- 
 nated as Father Jasper. As this was the first gentle- 
 man Edward Spencer had met of a class possessed of 
 so much power and influence over his new coimtry, 
 even his desire to be near and hear every word that 
 dropped from Lady Mary O'Brien's lips, did not prevent 
 his observing the old priest closely. His face was rosy 
 and jovial, not overgrown or sensual, as painters are too 
 fond of representing churchmen; but fresh and fair 
 withal. His eyes were bright, blue, sharp, and inquiring ; 
 his mouth was loosely and carelessly formed ; — an impru- 
 dent mouth, speaking thoughts so freely, that Father 
 Jasper never could have been a Jesuit. He took off his 
 hat to permit the cool breeze to pass through his white 
 hair, and then Edward did not wonder at Ms being
 
 A STOEY OF lEELAND. 65 
 
 what he had heard he was, a man learned in antiquities, 
 and of so charitable a disposition, that he never was 
 able to keep a second coat to his back, — the organ of 
 benevolence being only out-grown by that of venera- 
 tion; wliile large "imagination," and two ugly lumps 
 over his shaggy ,"restless eyebrows, indicated that minute- 
 ness of scrutiny in which people excel who are given 
 to revive the dreams of the past, and make them reah- 
 ties of the present. 
 
 Father Jasper had been educated at St. Omer, and 
 was fonder of introducing scraps of French into his 
 conversation, than shreds and patches of Latin. But 
 all he said and all he did bore reference to the glory of 
 his native land. His genuine, earnest love of his country 
 was quite beautiful to think of; no matter whether you 
 believed what he told you or not, you must believe in 
 him; he meant what he said — ^lie firmly and truly thought 
 that Ireland was formed on the model of Paradise, and 
 was by no means inclined to hold in favour those who 
 cither neglected or insulted it. In one thing he was, 
 indeed, a perfect Irishman : he never entertained the 
 idea that to arrive at truth it was necessary to hear 
 both sides of a question. 
 
 In theory, he would have annihilated every one who 
 was not disposed to honour Ireland as he conceived 
 she ought to be honoured ; but in practice, he would 
 live all liis life on roots, rather than council the death 
 of a chicken. He would attack the legislation of Enir- 
 land towards Ireland, with an ardour and violence which 
 even past crvielties and present neglects could hardly j ustify 
 in such a man — denying, of course, that harsh measures 
 VOL. I.- F
 
 66 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 had been ever provoked; and yet every " Saxon" stranger 
 who visited his beloved Castle of Blarney, was wel- 
 comed with genuine hospitahty to his homely and 
 abundant fare. 
 
 No one ever did the honours of ancient ruins like 
 Father Jasper; and the legendary information to be 
 gleaned from Ids rhapsodies, was so new and deHghtful, 
 that the little party hung upon liis words, following 
 him down the Witches' Stairs — to the veritable Druid's 
 Altar — to the entrance of the Erison and the Well— up 
 the great staircase, and down again — over the verdant 
 pastm'cs, studded with noble trees — towards the lake, the 
 margin of which was one blaze of gold from the blossoms 
 of the yeUow water-lily. Dean Graves and Father Jasper 
 conversed with perfect harmony, the one enjoying the 
 classic, wliile the other delighted in the antiquarian, 
 lore of liis companion. They quoted Irish, and Latin, 
 and French, and " Moore's Melodies," beneath the 
 shadow of one of L-eland's past glories. 
 
 "Is not that charming?" said Lady Mary to Ed- 
 ward Spencer, on whose arm she leaned; wliile Agnes 
 and Elizabeth, the dean's graceful daughters, were 
 gathering wild flowers. "Is not that charming — to see 
 two leaders of such opposite faiths, conversing together 
 and agreeing?" 
 
 "And why should they not?" said Edward; "and 
 why always designate their separate creeds as ojyposite ? 
 Wliy not simply call them different f^ 
 
 " Unfortunately, here they are so opposed, as to be 
 termed opposite, with too much truth," was the reply; 
 " and my right good old friends, although both of
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 67 
 
 liberal minds, would not care to be seen walking in tlie 
 streets of Cork, in the close and friendly converse 
 they are now enjoying in the groves of Blarney. I 
 assure you, I have watched both one and the other, to 
 avert the starting of topics that fiz and explode like 
 bomb-shells, sometimes in the midst of most de- 
 lightful and peaceful conversations. Of course, Father 
 Jasper will ask you to dine with him to-day; and if 
 you are fond of seeing national character, and do not 
 dread losing your own, stay. But I warn you, if you 
 do, you will be immediately identified with emancipa- 
 tors, if not Avith Wliitcboys." 
 
 " And I am an emancipator," said Edward, firmly, 
 and so loudly, that while the young ladies looked back 
 and laughed, Lady Mary exclaimed, 
 
 " Hush; that is one of the quagmires which swallow 
 up, just now, all friendly feeling. I am glad Father 
 Jasper did not hear you, because his exultation might 
 be painful to the dean; and I rejoice that your words 
 did not reach the dean, because I want liim to know 
 you better, before you jar against his prejudices." 
 
 Edward called to mind at that moment the mid- 
 night conversation he had enjoyed with the old clergy- 
 man, and was sorely perplexed by the discrepancy : he 
 might have known that tlie dean would speak more 
 frankly to a Protestant and an Englishman, than he 
 would venture to do, to a woman or a Roman Catholic. 
 
 "Both men love their country," she continued; " but 
 their views upon some great national questions arc so 
 different, that until you have observed us more closely, 
 you would perhaps say, that each loved Ids party ^ and 
 
 p2
 
 68 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 included in tlie broad word ' country,' — as too many do 
 — only those who thought exactly as he did. One thing, 
 Mr. Spencer, I would particularly recommend, though 
 it seems an unnecessary warning to an EngHshman, — 
 do not commit yourself to avy -party more than you 
 have already done." 
 
 " More than I have already done, dear Lady Mary!" 
 he exclaimed; "how can I have committed myself, 
 when I have not a single Irish party feeling. How ?" 
 he repeated, earnestly; but at the moment Father 
 Jasper interrupted the reply. 
 
 " Look," he said, " at the margin of the lake. Do 
 you see a tall, slender figure, with a long pole ; there is 
 a rake at one end of it, and a strong net at the other. 
 Observe how earnestly he rakes^ the sedgy and matted 
 borders. He has made a little raft of diift-wood, and 
 sometimes may be seen steering it, from place to place." 
 
 " Ishe fishing?" inquired the dean. 
 
 "He just is," said Father Jasper; " fisliing for 
 what's more wanted in this country than perch or tench — 
 gold ! We beheve in these parts, that one of the Ma- 
 carthys buried his plate and treasure in the lake, and 
 that poor innocent creature often spends a week here, 
 fisliing for it. He's so harmless, that no one interrupts 
 him; and he lias such faith in some spell or charm 
 he carries about him, that he goes into all spirit-places 
 by moonbeam, or in the dark; fresh or fiisting, no one 
 harms him; and he'd tramp through the thick of the 
 Whiteboys or of the yeomanry, without a ' Where go 
 ye ?' You might have seen his animal as you passed the 
 gate. A Spanish ass, one which I believe your uncle,
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 69 
 
 Mr, Spencer, gave liim; for he had great delight in 
 Masther Mat, and the beast's furniture is a curiosity ; a 
 long backed spade and a rake, all manner and kinds of 
 tools, and every penny he gets goes for them. I had a 
 great dread of his coming here, at first, for those trea- 
 siu'e-seekers are terrible fellows at rooting, not only 
 about, but under, the venerable old Avails; worse than 
 the pigs, and, therefore, the greatest enemies antiqua- 
 rians have in Ireland — except the road makers. Ah ! 
 the road makers! Lady INIary, they'd hammer every 
 Ogham stone in the country into powder-pavement, 
 if they had their own will and their own way. But, 
 as I was saying, I was greatly in dread of him at 
 first, until I entered into familiar discourse with him, 
 and then I found he venerated the ' treasure tombs,' 
 as he called them, and was careful and respectable in 
 his ways and doings." 
 
 The priest went on to tell, how the man had been a 
 schoolmaster, both in the North and South, following 
 Mr. Spencer's late relatives from Donegall to Spencer 
 Court; that he believed he was employed as a sort of 
 tutor to some " young one" of the family — he had 
 heard so; but after " the fever," he turned so light in 
 his head, that he now wandered tlu'ough the country, 
 seeking treasure from amid the ruins of the past, or in 
 those deep waters which neither ebb nor flow — the silent, 
 sleepless lakes. 
 
 The subject of their observation had quitted his oc- 
 cupation, and was approaching towards them, his rake 
 balanced on his shoulder. His dress was of ancient 
 black, worn and patched — but it was patched; and
 
 70 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 Edward Spencer rejoiced tliat tlie follower of Ids 
 family had the projDriety, however poor he might be, 
 to mend liis clothes. There was sometliing peculiarly 
 sweet and wimaing in his air and manner. Large gray 
 eyes, so large as to occupy greater space than eyes are 
 supposed to require, wandered, and then became fixed; 
 and after looking deeply and searchingly for a time at 
 some particular face or object, would wander away 
 again, apparently without being at all enlightened by 
 the scrutiny; the fice was long; the nose, generally 
 the defective feature in Lish physiognomy, was in this 
 instance delicately, and even beautifully, formed ; and 
 the mouth, too, was small, and might have been hand- 
 some, but for an almost perpetual trembling of the lips. 
 
 " Salve, Domine !" said the priest to the schoohuaster, 
 whom, when Edward saw him closely, he could not 
 call old ; for his dark chesnut hair fell abundantly 
 around his throat, giving a peculiar, and rather dis- 
 tinguished air to the head. 
 
 " Salve," he rcpKcd, bowing to the priest and the 
 ladies. 
 
 The good dean shook him by the hand; and leading 
 him to Mr. Spencer, asked him if he had ever seen any 
 one hke that gentleman. His gaze, chill and meaning- 
 less as moonlight, was fixed upon Edward, and then 
 removed to the face of Dean Graves. 
 
 " No," he said, " he never liad." 
 
 " Are you quite sure, Domine? Look again." 
 
 " It may be that I have, a long time ago — a picture, 
 I think. Miss Ellen showed me at Spencer Coiu't." 
 
 " Well — ^yes. And can you not guess, Matthew?"
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 71 
 
 " No," lie answered; " I always guess wrong, now ; 
 I cannot guess." 
 
 " It is the poor master's nepliew, Mat, Mr. Edward 
 Spencer, of England." 
 
 For an instant liis face seemed convulsed; liis lips 
 trembled violently; then, falling on his knees, he bui'st 
 into a loud fit of weeping, kissing the young man's 
 hands with evidence of the deepest affection. Edward 
 was greatly moved, he could hardly tell why ; but it is 
 truly delightful to obtain proof that those of our 
 name and race, to whom we have succeeded, were ho- 
 noured and beloved. 
 
 As the hour was already past at which the priest was 
 to receive liis guests, every endeavour short of personal 
 violence, was used by the good Father Jasper to com- 
 pel all Iris visiters to remain with him for the day; he 
 set forth his fare with the hospitahty of old times — there 
 was a leg of mutton, the largest ever seen in Cork 
 market, fit for the most delicate lady in Ireland " to 
 pick ;" and if that was too much there were trifles of 
 chickens and pickled pork, wine, too, for the ladies, and 
 such wliiskey ! a piper, and dinner laid piping hot by the 
 time they'd get there. The dean and Lady Mary both 
 resisted, but her ladyship again assured Edward ho 
 ought to go ; such scenes, she told him, were almost over 
 even in Ireland — there were few of the old priests to be 
 met with now; and the rude but genuine hospitality 
 was being fine-drawn in every direction, not to mention 
 the destruction of friendly meetings by the increasing 
 bitterness of party. 
 
 " Go," she repeated, " by all means, but do not com-
 
 72 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 mit yourself to a party. I am very generous," slie con- 
 tinued, " to tell you this of those with whom my sym- 
 patliies so entirely go; hut I would not have you 
 trammeled in what I hope may be a long career of use- 
 fulness." 
 
 Mr. Spencer, who could not leave Cork until he re- 
 ceived liis expected letters, determined to take the 
 lady's advice. And having obtained permission — most 
 graciously accorded — to visit her the next day, he took 
 Father Jasper's muscular arm and entered the village of 
 Blarney. 
 
 There are few things in the actual world so touch- 
 ingly beautiful as the respect and affection subsisting be- 
 tween the Roman Cathohc priest and liis flock; those 
 who know and observe the people, cannot wonder at their 
 strength and endurance ; from the cradle to the grave 
 the priest is the peasant's adviser and his friend; he 
 knows all his concerns — not only the great business of his 
 life, but its minutice; his private cares and sorrows, his 
 faults and his crimes, are all in the priest's keeping ; his 
 judge, his advocate, his punisher, he is also his protector 
 — ^very, very rarely his tyrant. Tliose who talk of the 
 luxury of priests' fare now-a-day s, and of its being drawn 
 from the misery of the people, know little of liis way of 
 life ; his narrow means, or the very limited number of his 
 enjoyments. The pomp and circumstance of the Roman 
 Catholic creed take hold of the Irishman's imagination ; 
 and the sympathy and kindness of his priest, win and 
 keep his heart. When an ignorant Irish Roman CathoHc 
 becomes " bad to his priest," he must be utterly lost to 
 good; for he holds no other faith, and has put aside all
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 73 
 
 tliat stands between him and destruction. Sucli, at 
 least, things were five-and-twenty years ago ! 
 
 A very brief notice of the hospitable priest's dinner — 
 plentiful to profusion — may suffice. It was a sort of heart 
 rehearsal of the scenes of the olden time ; when the com- 
 pany was rudely, but plenteously, banqueted first, the 
 vassals next, and the residue given to the palmers and 
 pilgrims, the widows and orphans; who, though de- 
 spoiled of much, felt there was no feasting, of which they 
 did not, in a measure, partake. Tlicre were toasts — 
 the first, " the king," "the only King of England who 
 had entered Ireland without fire and sword;" upon this 
 there was much cheering, and the piper, who was in 
 the room, began to play " God save the king," but ma- 
 (Mated it into " St. Patrick's day," after the third or 
 fourth bar; then speeches were made, and toasts were 
 given, amongst them the health of Mr. Spencer, pro- 
 posed by Father Jasper himself, and in a way so touch- 
 in o^, that Edward felt ashamed of his emotion. With 
 clasped hands and glistening eyes the old priest prayed, 
 that in the young Englishman now by his side the poor 
 miffht ever find a friend ; that all he asked of him was to 
 see for himself, to think for himself, and to judge for Ifim- 
 self ; — all which, of com-se, Edward declared, in a reply 
 which drew down " thunders of applause," he had come to 
 the country determined to do. He was not aware that he 
 had given utterance to any sentiments particularly 
 liberal, and yet for every commonly just sentence there 
 was a round of cheers; cheers, echoed by the servants 
 at the door, and caught up and returned by the mob of 
 carmen and beggars from below; for some moments
 
 74 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 after he sat down this vehement applause continued, 
 and he could not avoid expressing, to a gentleman on 
 his right hand, who had been rather more quiet than 
 his companions, his surprise at the enthusiasm that had 
 followed his words. 
 
 " I am sure I said nothing that common justice would 
 not demand," he observed. 
 
 " That's what has taken the rise out of them," an- 
 swered the person to whom he spoke; "common justice 
 is a most uncommon treat to us — what we don't look 
 for nor expect. Common justice ! upon my conscience 
 after ye're twelve months in the country if you keep in 
 the same mind, and are of the same mind with your 
 words, you'll not wonder at an Irislunan's enthusiasm, 
 when you talk of doing him common justice." 
 
 Mr. Spencer did not rehsh the reply; but the song 
 and the speech, and the steaming, boihng, scorclilng, 
 animating, and most disturbing whiskey punch, circu- 
 lated round and along, and across and over the table. 
 As the evening advanced, the intellect and w4t, the 
 song, the jest, the repartee, and the bitter, desperate, and 
 determined sarcasm that " scarified" without mercy, were 
 each so great in their several ways, that Edward 
 Spencer described the scene as drinking whiskey punch 
 amid thunder and lightning. He never had a very dis- 
 tinct idea how he returned to his hotel that evening; he 
 only remembered looking at the stars, and thinking they 
 were all turned into shamrocks, and making a firm vow 
 against whiskey punch the next morning, wlilcli he kept 
 as religiously as the most temperate could desire in 
 these, Heaven be thanked ! more temperate days.
 
 A STORY OF IPvELAXD. 75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE KETEOSPECT. 
 
 We must consign Edward Spencer to the delights 
 and hospitalities of Cork; wlnle — careless of the " dis- 
 turbed state of the country," giving only slight cre- 
 dence to daily records of fearful outrages, hut placing 
 firm reliance on the fact that, under all circumstances, 
 the stranger is safe, by day or by night, on the moun- 
 tain side, in the deep valley, whether sentineled by 
 soldier or Wliiteboy — ^we journey to Spencer Court 
 more rapidly th^n Betty Doyle, or the evil-thinking 
 Abel Richards have done — although they have pre- 
 ceded us; and, on our way, entreat the reader to take 
 a brief review of the past, that he may the better com- 
 prehend the bearings of the future. 
 
 Perhaps it has been borne in mind, that Spencer 
 Court was inherited by Edward Spencer on the death 
 of his father's eldest brother; his Enghsh property 
 having been derived in right of his mother, who lived 
 to see her only and much-beloved son of age ; liis father 
 had captivated the heart of a young heiress at a ball in the
 
 76 THE whiteboy; 
 
 city of Bath, when Bath was in its zenith. He was 
 called " handsome Spencer" until he was forty, and after 
 that "Old Spencer;" for a free and careless life made 
 him aged before his time, and he died ere he had com- 
 pleted his forty-sixth year; his wife, still in the possession 
 of youth and wealth, when tempted again and again to 
 enter the "holy bonds," looked grave, and shook her 
 head; and being once pressed to marry a second time, 
 by a lady who had urged her own example as a reason 
 why she should do so, saying — 
 
 " I have had three husbands, and been happy with 
 them all." 
 
 She answered, " But they were not Irishmen !" 
 This reply was differently construed by those who heard 
 it; but, whatever meaning she intended her words to 
 convey, she remained a widow, and wore widow's weeds 
 until they were exchanged for the coffin and the sliroud. 
 Mr. Spencer, of Spencer Court, possessed a considerable 
 quantity of land on the borders of Cork and Kerry; 
 land of great extent, but, except in a few instances, of 
 little value, running up mountains and down into bogs, 
 alternately sedgy and stony, at one time covered with 
 the snowy blossoms of the wild-rush, and at others exhi- 
 biting a sole surface of dark bro^vn peat, and long ranges 
 of unprofitable mountain, where, according to a common 
 saying, " the Kerry cow will never look up at a passing 
 stranger for fear she should miss the bite." There were, 
 however, on this picturesque estate, within the folds of 
 the hills, and hid away in the dells and valleys, patches 
 of verdure and cultivation, the more delightful from 
 being unexpected; and as Spencer Court commanded
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 77 
 
 ■ »:*.: 
 
 good views of the magnificent mountains, of" tlie king- 
 dom," it was a desirable residence for a country gentle- 
 man, who had no inclination to rack-rent his laud, to in- 
 terfere with the domestic laws and regulations of the 
 " Wliiteboys," or any other boys, as long as they let him 
 alone — was fond of hunting, and duck and snipe shooting, 
 had a taste for the " pictorial," and did not consider it 
 too far to send to Kenmare or Killarney every week for 
 his letters and newspapers. 
 
 Mr. Spencer, of Spencer Court, was thought as 
 handsome, but not as fortmiate, as his brother; by 
 some pm'chase, or intermarriage in old times, he in- 
 herited a small estate in the North, and upon one of 
 his visits to Derry, had been smitten by the charms 
 of a young lady of Scottish descent, who soon became 
 Mrs. Spencer; and, accompanied by her sister, and a 
 favourite servant, Margery Myler, returned with her hus- 
 band to Spencer Court, bringing with them, also, sundry 
 habits of thrift and forethought that were any thing but 
 popular in her southern home. In due time, however, 
 the cabin-keepers, whether scattered through the glens, 
 or pent up in wretched villages, which, for dirt and 
 misery, when Mrs. Spencer first visited them, were more 
 wretched than the kraals that travellers in the north of Eu- 
 rope picture with wondering disgust, became in a degree 
 more comfortable, and the people better clothed. Mr. 
 Spencer found them regular employment ; and Mat — 
 " Master Mat," a most efficient schoohnaster — educated 
 .the children; and that, too, in a particularly neat cottage, 
 close to the porter's lodge, which, at the end of a "bohe 
 reen," more than a mile distant fit-om the high road, 
 guarded the entrance to the avenue. There could be
 
 78 THE whiteboy; 
 
 no doubt of Mrs. Spencer's desire to serve all wlio came 
 witliin the sphere of her active and acute mind; hut 
 many obstacles arose by degrees to impede her useful- 
 ness. First, she was disHked both by the peasantry and 
 the gentry, because she was a northern, a Presbyterian, 
 and the grand-daughter of a tradesman : then she disliked 
 them, because they were southerns — the peasantry all 
 Roman Catholics — the gentry " proud and stiff" church- 
 goers, without a " bawbee they could legally call their 
 own, if their debts were paid." Neither party took 
 much pains to conceal their opinion of the other ; bad 
 roads and lono; distances fm-nished sufficient excuses for 
 nothing more than the occasional interchange of visits 
 between the ladies of the neighbouring families ; and 
 Mr. Spencer being (for an Irishman) a very stick or 
 stone as regarded every joy, except the joys of the 
 field, and the more rare one, in those days, of seeing 
 every cottier on his estate with a roof five feet above 
 his head that would not let in rain, and a coat soimd 
 and without patch on Sundays, turned a deaf ear 
 towards many of liis lady's complaints; and, above all, 
 towards her solicitations for the preferment of a young 
 man, of the name of Richards, whom, by a consider- 
 able degree of pains and expense, she had at last drawn 
 from the faith of his fathers. " Conversion" was, un- 
 fortunately, one of her schemes for the regeneration 
 of her neiglibourhood — before she had overcome the 
 prejudice against " the blood of the black North" — 
 before time was given to show the advantages which 
 result from cleanHness and thrift, and many cottage im- 
 provements — she set about proselytizing; and thus rcn-
 
 A STORY or IRELAND. 79 
 
 dered tlie priest at once her enemy, and led the people 
 to consider every thing she gave as a price set upon 
 their souls : — unfortimately, Mrs. Spencer could not see, 
 that according to his knowledge, the priest only did 
 his duty by keeping together the flock committed to 
 liis charge ; she became as bitter against hun as he was 
 against her; and this unhappy feehng, retarding the 
 progress of her ordinary plans, was increased by her 
 sister's forming an attachment for a young man of the 
 faith she so abhorred, and of those wild habits wliich, 
 Ion Of after the commencement of the present century, un- 
 fortunately distinguished the " 'squirearchy" of Ireland. 
 Tliis person's name was the very general, but always re- 
 spected one of Macarthy, and, careless and thoughtless 
 though he was, he had some noble quaUties, which, 
 imder other circmnstances, might have formed a fine 
 and useful character. Between him and Annie Cmnming, 
 it was said, a private marriage had been solemnised by a 
 priest or friar of a neighbouring parish ; at least, there 
 was too certain evidence that the gentle and much be- 
 loved woman ought to have been a wife ; and, as such, 
 young Macarthy claimed her ; but Mrs. Spencer de- 
 clared, that if there was a marriage, the difference of 
 their religion rendered it null and void — that she would 
 rather see her sister dishonoured in her grave, than the 
 wife of a " Roman." The yoimg man endured grievous 
 insult and injiuy at Spencer Court, and Mrs. Spencer 
 contrived to get her sister out of the country, Avithout 
 his beinsf able to discover where she had been sent. 
 Tliis unfortunate circumstance increased Mrs. Sj^cncer's 
 unpopularity to such a degree, that her husband thought
 
 80 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 it better to leave Spencer Court altogctlier for a time ; — 
 wliicli tliey did — first going to England, and then to 
 " the Noi-th." 
 
 Yoving Macartliy, disappointed in the affection that 
 mio-ht have saved him, and goaded by the insults he 
 received, ran a sad and rapid race of dissipation, and, 
 some four years afterwards, lost his Hfe in a smugghng 
 aflair at Skibereen, much to the relief of the Spencers, 
 who never would have considered themselves safe in liis 
 immediate neighbourhood. Some said one thing, and 
 some another, as to the fate of poor Annie Gumming. 
 It was well known, however, that a son, to whom she 
 had o-iven birth, had been sent, an infant, to its father, 
 who consigned it and its fortunes to the charge of lais 
 own mother — a woman rendered old by cares and dis- 
 appointment, a widowed dweller in a dilapidated moun- 
 tain house that had once been a residence suited to a 
 lofty and powerful race. By her, however, the charge 
 of the infant had been midertaken as a blessing, rather 
 than a burden ; a report was much credited that its 
 mother had been compelled by her despotic sister to 
 marry a burgher of Belfast, and that she had died a 
 year or two afterwards ; while many affirmed that she had 
 entered a Portuguese convent, and was, for a number of 
 years, " all as one as a saint" in Lisbon. 
 
 Irish improvements need perpetual refreshing, and, 
 above all, patience — untiring patience and good tem- 
 per. Mrs. Spencer imagined that her various changes 
 would have continued just as if she had been on the spot ; 
 and, to get rid of her importunities, Mr. Spencer, who, 
 as his years increased and his habits became more in-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 81 
 
 dolent, would do or undo any tiling to avoid trouble, 
 at last consented that Abel Richards shoiJd act in a 
 capacity half bailiff, half steward — which he himself 
 called *' agent," — during an absence, certainly prolonged 
 by Richards' representations of the state of the country 
 and the bitterness and ingratitude of the people — 
 needful for lois own purposes. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer believed, all the time, that this man, so 
 odious to the inhabitants — first, because of his change 
 of faith, but also on account of his harshness and in- 
 justice — was Avorking miracles among the " poor be- 
 nighted people ;" while, in reality, the only one, who, 
 through evil report and good report, kept steadily on his 
 course, was the quiet schoolmaster, instructing the 
 urchins all day, even in the mysteiies of Greek and 
 Latin, which the Southerns prefer to English and 
 writing, and turning a deaf ear to all Mr. Richards' 
 injunctions to initiate them into. one creed, while their 
 parents professed another. 
 
 "I am, worthy Sir," he would say, "a teacher 
 of the Vulgate — of the common domestic branches 
 of geography, writing, the use of the globes, arithmetic, 
 • and chronology, and wcU-skilled to lead the mind 
 of the tyro into the labyrinths of algebra, and the 
 heights and depths of Greek and Latin; but, wortliy 
 steward, I am no divine; I can read the word of 
 God in black letter and common type; but I am not 
 competent to expound it, nor to raise my voice in 
 prayer, even in a congregation of infants; and, as to 
 your praying and lecturing in this house, appropriated 
 to what is secular and not divine, I will have none 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE whiteboy; 
 
 of it. There is Dean Graves on tlie right hand, and 
 Mr. Dndffy on the left ; and if you want to teach what 
 they, according to your thinking, cannot, — open wide 
 your own door, and minister; here I am master, and 
 master I will remain, imtil dispossessed by the worthies 
 who placed me herein." 
 
 Richards would have been but too happy to dis- 
 possess the domine; but Dean Graves was his steady 
 friend; and so, after a few ineffectual attempts, he left 
 him as much alone as he could leave any one who was 
 peaceably and quietly inclined, — greatly pleased when 
 Matthew's annual visit to his own part of the world took 
 away the reproach wliich a good man ever is to a 
 bad one. At last, after an absence of between seven 
 and eight years, much to the man Richards' dismay and 
 astonishment, the Spencers returned to Spencer Court, 
 bringing with them a little girl of about five years old, 
 whom they called Ellen Macdonnel ; this child, whom 
 they said they had adopted, was treated kindly and 
 affectionately by Mr. Spencer, to whom on wet days, 
 and when there was no company, she was a play- 
 thing and a companion. Mrs. Spencer had become more 
 ascetic than ever, more inveterate against Catholicity, 
 and gave ready ear to aU that Richards told her, of the 
 ingratitude of those who had nothing to be grateful for ; 
 her originally kind nature, incrusted as it was by a 
 frigid manner, became at perpetual war with her pre- 
 judices; where she saw distress, she could not avoid re- 
 lieving it; and then, usually, had the reminder from Mr. 
 Richards, that she was " fostering popery," while those 
 whom she relieved were prevented from feeling as they
 
 A STOET OF IRELAND. 83 
 
 might have felt, by the reproaches she uttered against 
 their religion. 
 
 Mr. Spencer's liberality of opinion unfortunately pro- 
 ceeded from what is by no means common in Ireland — 
 a carelessness of both creeds, declaring in his " convivial 
 hours" (as they are falsely called) that he considered 
 both to be disturbers of the country, and one just as bad 
 as the other. This was the fertile source of perpetual 
 words, tears, reproaches, and storms, between the 
 husband and wife, which they were sufficiently im- 
 prudent to permit the little Ellen to witness; while 
 she, rendered still more observant by the absence 
 of all childish sports, and loving Mr. Spencer more 
 than she did his wife, imbibed much that she would 
 have been better without. Mrs. Myler, the housekeeper, 
 hated the child because of the trouble she gave her, and 
 yet loved her for she could hardly tell what — a certain 
 way she had of not only twining round, but growing 
 into every body's heart; but Ellen Macdonnel's great 
 companion and friend was Master Mat, the schoohnaster, 
 who devoted two hours daily to teaching her " the 
 Vulgate," its accompaniments, and Latin, and generally 
 gave an additional hour to Irish — illustrated by the varied 
 legends and tales which a brain like that of the domine, 
 outrageously overgrown in the organ of imagination, 
 could remember or devise; this was the only education 
 provided for the Yitile protegee ; and yet she throve upon 
 it; her large, wild blue eyes beamed with intelligence; 
 and her playfellows — a ragged mountain pony, "vicious 
 to others but gentle to her," and a huge dog, whom she 
 carried in her arms when she came to Spencer Court, a 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 little curly puppy — could testify that they sooner tired 
 of scampering over the hills and valleys than little Ellen. 
 Sometimes Mrs. Spencer woiJd say, that Ellen should he 
 sent to Dublin to school; but this was speedily over- 
 ruled by her husband, who declared he hated educated 
 women, and must speak to Master Mat not to over- 
 burden her mind. The only tiling he wished her to learn 
 was music, and in this she promised to excel ; Mrs. 
 Graves, the dean's wife, agreeing to teach her the notes 
 if she could come so far to learn them ; which she did, 
 twice a week, flying three miles across the mountains on 
 her pony, followed by her dog, and sometimes by " a 
 runner" to see her safe. A gleeful child she was, fearless 
 of all harm, imbibing with the pure air she breathed a 
 wild spirit of liberty — that dweller of the mountain and 
 the crag — now stopping on the road to twine her hat 
 with heather, or croAvn it with a plume of the wild fox- 
 glove, then diverging from the narrow path, to make 
 her pony ford a stream, or leap a chasm, hallooing to the 
 eagle that soared above her, and cantering after the fox, 
 who had enough to do to escape from her bold, brave dog 
 Brano ; then letting the bridle drop on the shaggy neck 
 of her rough pony, she would clasp her little hands and 
 sing, as she went more slowly along, one of the melodies 
 of her native land, with a sAveetness and a fervour that 
 would make the turf-cutter pause in his work and bless 
 her as she passed ; it was a strange progress to a music 
 lesson — notes learned upon the piano to be practised on 
 the guitar, the only instrument she possessed, although a 
 piano was often talked about during her first year of 
 study. Yet after a time she did so much with tliQ tinkling
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 85 
 
 Strings, that Mr. Spencer tkovight lie liked the guitar 
 better than any music in the world ; but it was not only 
 lessons in music that Ellen learned from her mountain 
 rambles ; she had hardly completed acquaintance with flats 
 and sharps and bass and treble, when Mrs. Graves died; 
 and though a period was put to her lessons, she still 
 visited the glebe, for she was much beloved by the dean's 
 dauo-hters, who lent her books and music ; thus her rides 
 continued with almost as much regularity as during the 
 life of Mrs. Graves. As she grew older her habits of ob- 
 serv'ation strengthened ; she knew every cottage, and the 
 inmates of every cottage in the wild glens through which 
 she rode; the ragged, half-naked children Avould watch, 
 and hurra when they caught the first wave of her plumed 
 hat, for Ellen usually had a little basket slung to her 
 saddle, freighted, if not with halfpence, (which she used 
 to coax from Mr. Spencer), with cold slim cakes, rolls of 
 thin oaten bread, and, if the larder afforded nothing better, 
 crusts and fragments of brown bread ; if any one was ill 
 Ellen was the certain conveyer of wine and medicine, 
 and not unfreqviently of such articles of clotliing as were 
 most needed, and which she used very little ceremony in 
 appropriating for benevolent purposes. Visiting the poor 
 in this way, seeing their wretchedness with the clear, 
 bright, sympathising eyes of youth, observing their ex- 
 ceeding patience under affliction, knowing that Mr. 
 Richards not only exaggerated, but falsified every state- 
 ment he made to her protectors, finding the priest — 
 whom she constantly heard execrated as " the minister of 
 a false and besotting faith," " the enemy to his flock," 
 " the destroyer of their souls," " the agent of sin," — find-
 
 86 THE whiteboy; 
 
 ing this man constantly among the poor, seeing how 
 he comforted, relieved, and advised them, and hearing 
 the gentle, kindly words that fell from his lips, Ellen's 
 power of comparison gained strength by exercise, and 
 although she could not see far beneath the surface 
 in either case, her natural dislike of Richards aroused still 
 more the exercise of a faculty which else might have 
 remained dormant ; and her feminine generosity directed 
 her to respond to the claim of the weak and helpless. 
 Mrs. Spencer had been at this dangerous period of 
 poor Ellen's life, almost continually absorbed in the 
 more gloomy and contracted views of sectarian re- 
 ligion, and that nearly to the exclusion of every 
 natural and generous thought and feeling. A slow and 
 lingering disease, against which she had struggled for 
 years, was gradually draining away the springs of Hfe, 
 and she kneto it; between her sufferings and her abstrac- 
 tion EUen might have continued to do as she had long 
 been doing (except when for some particidar act of self- 
 will her rides were for a time abridged), that is to say, 
 whatever she pleased, had she not one morning offended 
 Mr. Richards past forgiveness by saying, and in a very 
 determined tone, " Tliat for all he said to the contrary, 
 she thought Father Duffy had as good a chance of salva- 
 tion as he had himself — if not a better." 
 
 Mr. Spencer, who was present when EUen hazarded 
 tliis speech, only laughed, and added, " That really he 
 thought she was quite right." 
 
 Richards looked thunder, and took the very earliest 
 opportunity of informing Mrs. Spencer of the opinion 
 she had so fearlessly expressed ; and of insinuating that
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 87 
 
 nothing but tlie interest he felt in the " sweet child," 
 should force him to disturb the " angelic repose which 
 difiiised itself over the mind of such a suffering saint as 
 Mrs. Spencer, but that he feared she (the child) was 
 already contaminated by the scarlet pestilence of the 
 Romish church, and the sooner she was secured within 
 the fold the better." 
 
 Tliis " securing within the fold" was accomplished by 
 EUen's pony having his shoes taken off and being sent to 
 grass, by her being forbidden to pass the avenue gate unac- 
 companied by Mistress Myler,by her reading alone every 
 day a portion of " The Book of Martyrs," and being ques- 
 tioned as to the heresies of the church of Rome every 
 morning after breakfast. But this, bitter as it was, was 
 not all ; Ellen Macdonnel had learned that she was not 
 a stranger, with no tie but that of charity to bind her 
 to the master and mistress of Spencer Com-t. She had 
 learned that she was really the daughter of that Annie 
 Cmnming, who was also the mother of a lad, older than 
 herself, — a young, brave mountaineer, a Macarthy, with 
 a proud eye, and a proud step, far prouder than her own; 
 she beHeved her parents to be both dead; at times she 
 writhed imder the feeling that she was insulted, by not 
 being acknowledged ; she began to feel that she at least 
 was honestly born, yet she had never called her mother's 
 sister *' aimt;" though treated as a relative, she had never 
 been acknowledged as such; when in her mountain rides 
 she made the acquaintance of young Macarthy, and 
 drawn towards him at first by the mysterious bond of 
 natural affection, which in youth is far more potent than 
 in after years, she had once mentioned his zeal and acti-
 
 88 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 vity in procuring lier a young eagle — tlic poor bird's 
 neck was cruelly wrung — and sKe was told that a word 
 spoken of him or to him, would send her a homeless 
 wanderer upon the world ; for the first time, then, he was 
 called her brother, coupled with so gross a distinction, 
 that though Ellen hardly understood it, she thought, 
 and inquired, till the whole truth was forced upon her 
 mind. Though compelled to submit to the mandate 
 of Mrs. Spencer, the opprobrium heaped upon an 
 unoffending boy, and that boy HER brother, her 
 mother^ s son, however different his faith and training, 
 seemed to her such hard injustice, that though she 
 obeyed, she found many subtle ways of evading the 
 command. She certainly did not speak of Lawrence 
 Macarthy, but they sometimes met, both under a degree 
 of fear and restraint, which only cemented their affection ; 
 for old Mrs. Macarthy, the boy's grandmother, was no 
 churl of deep and bitter curses, against "the woman 
 Spencer of Spencer Court," the " Presbyterian heretic," 
 the "trading Saxon who dared to insult the blood and 
 name of a Macarthy." 
 
 As the children advanced in years, their " bringing 
 up" produced different results. Ellen became more 
 thoughtful and refined ; her feeUngs deepened ; La^vTcnce 
 grew more coarse ; more daring ; this change, from their 
 meeting so seldom, was hardly known to themselves; 
 and thus their affection remained undiminished. 
 
 At this period, Ellen's friend, the schoolmaster, was 
 seized with a violent fever, and when he recovered, his 
 mind was even more shattered than his body; it was 
 the first winter that Ellen had been confined to the im-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 89 
 
 mediate domain of Spencer Court ; the little cabin chil- 
 dren and their mothers were continually coming up from 
 the fflens and down from the moimtains to know what 
 ailed Miss Ellen, that they never saw her; and Richards, 
 who could not endure the idea of any one enjoying what 
 he had coveted, but never tasted, tortured their inquiries 
 of genuine Iiish good nature into evil spiritings — work- 
 ing through the " benighted cottagers." 
 
 It must be confessed that Ellen submitted to this re- 
 straint with a very bad grace; it was quite true she 
 ought not to have been suffered to rove at will as she 
 had done ; but every tiling at Spencer Court was either 
 neglected or over done ; at last confinement and vexation, 
 and the working of an "I will and I won't" sort of nature 
 paled poor Ellen's cheek, and made Mr. Spencer uneasy 
 when he looked at her ; he flew into one or two passions 
 concerning want of exercise and sectarian bigotry, went 
 out duck-shooting or hunting, and forgot the matter. 
 But this system did not last for ever. One evening, when, 
 with his legs stretched out before a blazing fire, the master 
 of Spencer Court was thinking how hke the plan of his 
 estate in Donegall were the hills and hollows in the grate, 
 and how much better whiskey pimch was than punch of 
 brandy, and deliberating whether he should stop at the 
 third tumbler, or " mix" a fourth. Mistress Myler entered, 
 curtesied down to the ground, advanced opposite to where 
 he sat, and placing the tops of three fingers of the right 
 hand upon the table, curtesied again — 
 
 "The madam. Sir," she said, and from the pleat of 
 her snowy cap down to the tongue of her shoe buckle, 
 Mistress Myler was precision itself — the most unpo-
 
 90 THEWHITEBOY; 
 
 pular of all qualities in the south ; " the madam, Sir, is 
 in a weak and wavering state this evening, and if it's 
 your pleasiu-e, Sir, she'd be happy to have a few 
 minutes' interchange of sentiments with you." 
 
 " Very well, Peggy," rephed her master, " I'll just 
 mix half a tumbler, and go," 
 
 Mistress Myler looked at her master, and, advancing 
 Still nearer, urged him against delay, as " the madam 
 was really ill." 
 
 " So she has been these three years," he rephed. 
 
 " The master," she answered, " would do what he 
 pleased; but the madam was all but speechless." Upon 
 this, Mr. Spencer sprang up, to the great inconvenience 
 of a cross Scotch terrier, who had been sleeping on 
 the hearth, and who snapped so heartily at liis leg, that 
 he returned the compliment by as hearty a kick, and 
 cursing it, in no gentle terms, for a " Scotch Presby- 
 terian brute," hurried up-stairs. He looked for a mo- 
 ment on the convulsed features of one he had dearly 
 loved, and, thoroughly roused to a sense of her danger, 
 rushed down, directing an express to be sent off unme- 
 diately for a physician, and another for Dean Graves ; 
 careless as he was of rehgious observances, when he 
 feared the end was at hand he turned at once for aid to 
 a minister of the gospel. Having given these brief 
 directions, he returned to his wife's bedside. Ellen was 
 kneehng there, weepiag over a hand whose protection 
 had at times pressed upon her with iron gi'asp ; but she 
 loved it at that moment more than she had ever done 
 before; all her own petulance and wilfulness — her op- 
 position and stubbornness — rose in judgment against
 
 A STOEY OP lEELAND. 91 
 
 her; wliile all Mrs. Spencer's neglect and hardness was 
 forgotten ; the poor lady seemed unconscious of what was 
 passing ; once only, mingled with some half uttered 
 texts of Scripture and snatches of hymns, she said, 
 " Ellen — poor child! — no friend — no mother!" Mr. 
 Spencer poured forth his assujances that Ellen should 
 never want either — that he would provide for her. 
 " Then do it," answered the d3dng woman, " do it^ 
 and don't talk — but do it — and at once." As she said 
 these words, an old female servant entered, and whis- 
 pered Mr. Spencer that the butler had gone off express 
 for the doctor, but that the coaclmaan and all the other 
 *' boys" having gone to a wedding hard by Glen Tlesk, 
 there was no " mankind" of any sort to go for Dean 
 Graves. JMistress Myler suggested that Mr. Richards 
 could pray; but Mr. Spencer roughly replied that, 
 sooner than ^Aa^ should be done, he would pray liimself. 
 
 " I wiU go," said Ellen; " I fear notliing, and 
 there is nothing to fear." 
 
 In a few moments she had saddled one of the 
 hunters, and was flying across the country, followed 
 by her faitliful dog, who wliirled and sprang about 
 in the moonlight, and could hardly keep pace 
 with the speed of the gallant and docile horse, who 
 heeded the young girl's weight no more than if a 
 wild bird had rested on his shoulder. She was quickly 
 on her homeward road, accompanied by the clergyman, 
 whom she urged repeatedly to a more rapid pace than 
 even his well-trained horse desired. They were now 
 within sight of Spencer Court; several hghts were 
 gleaming Hke stars in the heavy pile of building which
 
 j&2 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 loomed upon tlie landscape, its clumneys and gables 
 standing out against the sky. Rapidly they descended 
 into the valley; and the rush of the mountain stream 
 they had to cross before they ascended the rising groimd 
 upon which Spencer Coui't stood, sounded like the 
 murmurs of distant thunder; they could see the splash 
 and foam of the water as it dashed — the unsleeping 
 thing ! — over its rocky bed. 
 
 " Do you know exactly where the ford is, Ellen ?" 
 inquired the dean, as he reined up his horse. 
 
 " Anyhow, Sir ; follow Bran," she replied. Bran 
 had taken the stream a httle below where the clergy- 
 man paused ; they could see this distinctly, for they were 
 so close to the water, that the heated animal wanted to 
 drink. Suddenly, however, the dog wheeled round 
 and returned, and as suddenly sprang, all di'ipping as 
 he was, upon the neck of Ellen's horse. Tlie horse 
 reared and plunged ; the girl threw the dog off, and 
 kept her seat. 
 
 Both the dean and Ellen ui'ged their horses forward ; 
 but the animals would not stir a step ; the Hght clouds 
 that had been floating through the sky were so fleecy 
 and transparent, that the stars sparkled amid their folds; 
 one or two of a more sombre character occasionally passed 
 across the moon; but the night was, on the whole, re- 
 markably clear and calm; there were no large, heavy, 
 drifting clouds to produce the shadows wliich so bewilder 
 the eyes at night; and both the dean and Ellen could 
 see the sheep grazing on the hill-side opposite. Still 
 the horses, though evidently most willing to retrace the 
 path they had descended, Avould not cross the ford, and
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 93 
 
 Bran shook and trembled by the side of his young 
 mistress, who vainly endeavoured to rouse him, by ex- 
 claiming, *' In, good dog, in ! — forward, Brano !" It 
 was of no use ; neither horses nor dog would cross the 
 ford. Suddenly their attention was called away from 
 the animals, whose obstinacy at such a time was so dis- 
 tressing, by a clapping, as if of hands, on the opposite 
 side. Ellen fixed herself more firmly in the saddle, and 
 turned her face towards the dean, who sent a loud 
 "halloo!" across the brawling stream; this was an- 
 swered by a scream — ^loud and long — as of a woman in 
 bitter trouble; it was, in fact, a " keen," a regular 
 " uUagawn" — long and protracted — first loud, then 
 dying away — then swelling loud again ; and while they 
 both gazed steadfastly towards the other side, they dis- 
 tinctly saAv a woman, whose cloak floated behind her — 
 not with the heaviness of cloth drapery, but Hght as a 
 silken web — glide along the bank, to the spot where 
 there was a natural fall of some depth; the fall was 
 clearly visible from the mass of white foam that frothed 
 and spun about in the moonlight, as the water went 
 tossing in mad sport over the rocks. The figure paused, 
 and again they heard the clapping of hands, although 
 then it was more distant, and so faint, that instead of 
 striking the ear, as it at first had done, they were obliged 
 to listen for it. 
 
 Neither the dean nor Ellen spoke; but they felt 
 their horses tremble beneath them ; the sound ceased, 
 or at least they heard it no longer; but the figure, 
 instead of continuino; its course alonn; the bank of the 
 river, stept, as it were, on the ledge of the fall,
 
 94 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 and so glided — on — on — on — towards tlieir side of the 
 stream, amid the dashing of the spray, and the rolling 
 and foaming of the fall — erect — firm — treading where 
 no mortal foot could tread. As it thus passed, it be- 
 came almost transparent — a mere shadow — tossing its 
 spectral arms above its kerchiefed head; while ever and 
 anon the wail and the shriek, fainter and still more 
 faint, seemed fading upon the car, as the mysterious 
 form faded altogether from the eye. 
 
 The horses now dashed throufjh the ford of their 
 own will ; but Ellen's momentary terror did not prevent 
 her looking back. " Tuni, Sir, turn !" she exclaimed, 
 riding close up to Dean Graves — " turn ! She is on 
 the hill now, in the Macarthy pass, as they call it; and 
 now — she is gone — hark ! you can still hear the cry." 
 
 *' An optical deception, Ellen," said the dean, draw- 
 ing his breath heavily, as if a great weight was removed 
 from off liis bosom. 
 
 " No, no," answered the girl; " you know it was not 
 that, Sir ; you say that to prevent my being frightened ; 
 but we heard, as well as saw. I know what it is." 
 
 " You have imbibed wild notions, Ellen, among 
 these mountains. You would persuade yourself it was 
 a Banshee, wailing for poor Mrs. Spencer." 
 
 " I would not, Sir — I would not. None oi them will 
 wail for such new families ; they know better than 
 that; they will cry for the head of an ancient house, 
 though he die beneath a roof of straw ; but they offer 
 no homage to the alien." 
 
 At any other time the dean would have asked her 
 what she meant by " alien;" but, strange as it was, the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 95 
 
 man was less composed than the girl. When they 
 turned into the road leading more directly to Spencer 
 Court, they met a traveller, buttoned up to the throat 
 in a close riding-coat, plying a heavy whip on a lazy 
 horse, too fat either to gallop, canter, or even trot. A 
 youth, also mounted, but on a rough pony, rode by his 
 side. 
 
 *' Miss Ellen !" exclaimed the boy. 
 
 " What, Lawrence!" she answered. 
 
 " Mr. Duify, I beHeve," said the dean, drawing up 
 his horse. 
 
 " Ay, Sir !" was the reply. " I fear we are on the 
 same mission to different houses. Poor Mrs. Macarthy, 
 of the Inch, isji't expected — indeed I must ride hard to 
 overtake her — so God speed you. Sir !" 
 
 "Good night!" answered the dean — "but," he 
 added, " mind how you pass the ford." 
 
 " What ails it?" inquired the priest. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said the dean, " but we found it 
 difficult to get the horses over." 
 
 " An Ullagawn is gone up the liill," said Ellen, In a 
 depressed tone, " which you will find it hard to over- 
 take." 
 
 " God be between us and harm," muttered Father 
 Duffy, crossing himself. Tlie youth also murmured 
 some words of the same kind, and performed the same 
 ceremony. Tlien again they exchanged greetings, and 
 urged their horses on in opposite directions. 
 
 Without further interruption the dean and Ellen 
 arrived at Spencer Court. 
 
 " The misthress has made no fight at all against
 
 96 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 death," said the woman, who, shading the candle with 
 her hand, from " the blast of the door," attended to 
 light them up-stairs. " She's been asking afther you, 
 Miss, and I am sure the breath will not lave her till 
 you're by her side. Oh ! " continued the old creature, 
 talking in a muttering tone to herself, as she sat down 
 on " the head of the stairs" — after they had passed into 
 the chamber of death — " Oh dear, sure it's wonderful 
 how the rich, like her, lets their heart go Avaste, day 
 afther day, day afther day, without loving any thing — 
 at least without letting on they do ; and then they're 
 troubled at the latthcr end, and want to make up for 
 it — but they don't get the time — and why would they, 
 more than any body else? Wouldn't the piayers of the 
 poor go before her — if she had 'em — and clear her path 
 to Heaven ? She'll have a grand funeral, I'll go bail — 
 there'll be more people than prayers, and sorra a one 
 will ever trouble her grave for the sake of the ashes — 
 that's a sure thing. Whisht! I wouldn't say that's 
 not Dinnecn and the doctor. Och, hone ! How many 
 have died of^the faver since harvest, without any doc- 
 toring but death ; and the croak of the raven, or the 
 wild crow, the only cry at their herring ! Oh, wisha ! 
 but it's cowld comfort here — and cowld everywhere; 
 death sends a shiver through the h©use; and though 
 it's little good she did for any one lately — tliey say she 
 wasn't always so. Sure myself hardly knows, and I 
 from another part — the Lord have merey on her ! and 
 God forgive me for the prayer. Tlaey'll be all blind 
 by the time they get home from Gracey Flyn's wedding 
 — ^grate luck they have — a wedding and a herring in
 
 •■ " A STORY OF IRELAND. 97 
 
 one week." She tlien took a pin out of lier " bed- 
 gown," and poked the candle-wick straight, saying, 
 that if INIisthress Myler came out, she'd ily at her Hke a 
 tiger, for not sitting in the dark, as she herself would 
 sit — betwixt death and the devil — to save an inch of 
 lio-ht. 
 
 The crone — who was one of those innumerable 
 hangers-on, to the destruction of thrift and good order, 
 whom it would be much cheaper and happier for 
 master and servants to pension than to keep — having 
 *' settled" the candle, pulled out her " decket of 
 beads;" intermingling her appointed prayers with sundry 
 observations as to the length of time " the misthress" 
 was dying, and exclamations of astonishment as to the 
 tardiness of Dinneen, the doctor, and those who had gone 
 to the weddino". At last, Dean Graves almost forced Mr. 
 Spencer from the room; and, through the half-opened 
 door, came the sobs of Ellen Macdonnel, and the 
 hysteric cries of IN'Iargaret Myler. 
 
 The crone crept into the chamber of death. Both 
 Ellen and the housekeeper were kneeling by the bed-side. 
 
 " I've seen a poorer woman make a pvirtier corpse," 
 muttered Katty; and then she cast a keen, quick 
 glance round the room, and fixed her eyes on some 
 brandy and water which had moistened lips that would 
 soon be kissed by the red earth-worm. She crept Uko 
 a cat to the table, and drank it off. " If that's quality 
 wine, it's cowld — there's no spirit of the mountain in 
 it," she thought; and then looked with more curiosity 
 round the apartment. Mr. Spencer's purse lay on the 
 table, and silver was scattered about where it had 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 been hastily and lieedlessly thrown. Yet, thougli Katty 
 could not withstand the temptation of the " drink," she 
 felt no desire to touch the money, but laid her hand 
 kindly and gently on Ellen's shoulder. " Rise up, 
 Miss agra!" she said, "rise up, and the Lord will 
 strengthen ye. Don't take on that-a-way, dear — nor 
 don't murne ; sure it's a blessin' to be taken before ye'r 
 made to feel ye've lived too long, which fait some of us 
 might do when we are born — with poor Ireland for a 
 country. Oh ! she'll have a grand wake, and a won- 
 derful funeral; so take up yer heart, dear, and don't 
 let the sorrow tramp it." 
 
 But still Ellen and Mistress IMyler wept on, and the 
 crone crept out as she had crept in, stealthily; looking 
 back, she muttered, " To think of Peg Myler — I'm 
 sure it's vinegar she's crying; but my heart aches for 
 the poor young lady. Augh ! she has a throubled look 
 on her. God help us, and I've seen many a purtier 
 corpse, with nothin' but God's ciu'tain above it; but 
 she'll be worth seeing when she's laid out! Augh ! and 
 the poor masther — he'll be twice as good now she's 
 gone; and that's a hard saying of a woman !"
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE OLD PEOPLE. 
 
 In all situations, and under all circumstances, tliere is 
 something terribly appalling in the aspect of death: — 
 to look upon the fair young face robbed of the last tint 
 of Hfe — the rigid brow — the stiff unyielding fingers — 
 the thrilling, " icy cold" of the beloved hps, so lately 
 eloquent of music — of love — of life; and yet, blessed 
 are they who die yoimg; whom evil passions have not 
 corrupted, nor evil thoughts defiled ! Ah ! there is much 
 for which to be thankful, when we kneel by the yoimg 
 death-bed. Still, its silent, stern, rigid power is terrible ; 
 terrible even when we look beyond the grave — the one 
 great certainty of existence! Death is fearful wher- 
 ever met. However high they heap the pyre, however 
 loud the cries, the dark vanquisher is there; though 
 crumbled to the mouldering ashes which the lightest 
 breeze may mingle with the air; scattering instantly 
 and for ever, every vestige of humanity. The aban- 
 doned corpse left alone on the wild heath, or in the 
 tangled and howling wood, if not devoured, perishing 
 
 h2
 
 100 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 by loatlisome degrees ; the rouged, and ornamented, and 
 perfumed remains dressed for the funeral as if it were a 
 feast ! death — death — is the same with them all ! 
 
 Thou2:h in modern times, all classes of mankind 
 " bury their dead," in no country are the customs at- 
 tendant upon the solemn rite so different, or so opposite 
 as they are in Ireland ; the Celt retaining much of the 
 ancient formalities, mingling the old superstitions with 
 the elaborate ceremonies of the Roman CathoHc Churcli, 
 while the Saxon retains the simple dignity which best 
 accords with the reformed faith. 
 
 At the moment when Mrs. Spencer closed her eyes 
 on this world, many of the adherents of the Macarthy 
 were anxiously watching the arrival of Father Duflj', 
 praying he might come in time to administer " the 
 rites of the Church" to the dying mistress of the an- 
 cient walls, within whose enclosures the harp, the pipe, 
 and the wild revelry of Irish hospitality had once held 
 undisputed sway. 
 
 All that remained of the building, which had been 
 very extensive, was a tall, narrow tower, and the lower 
 portion of one side of what originally formed the 
 square of the court-yard, the rude, but stately entrance 
 to which had gone to decay ; the arch had fallen, the 
 marks of hinges and bolts alone telling where the gate 
 had hung ; the lower story of the remaining side was 
 roofed in, and formed the kitchen and "servants' offices;" 
 but the "Ould Madam," as she was called, could afford 
 little money for service ; yet she never wanted such rude 
 assistance as the surrounding poor could render. Tliere 
 were always plenty of " neighbours," and " neighbours'
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 101 
 
 Children," wliohcld it "a labour of love" to runup to " the 
 castle" to help the " Ould ^Nladani" a bit, or rather to help 
 Esther, the rheumatic and ague-stricken creature who 
 had " followed" the family for more than forty years; 
 the people, too, " cut her turf," planted and dug her 
 potatoes, and performed the various acts of husbandry 
 necessary to the cultivation of the few mountain acres 
 left by confiscation and extravagance of the vast pos- 
 sessions which the solitary castle overlooked. Kathe- 
 rine Macarthy had never affected state; yet there was 
 a formal bearing about her in the simple garb of widow- 
 hood, an instinctive stateliness, a halo of old memories 
 around her gray head, and a native command in her 
 deep blue, determined eyes, which bespoke a natural 
 and conscious dignity that poverty had failed to 
 subdue. 
 
 Tlie ill-lighted, and inconvenient rooms of the 
 tower, were considered as state chambers ; the lower 
 being her sitting-room. The rude, geometrical stone 
 stairs led to the bedroom in which she awaited her 
 final summons. The small apartments above were oc- 
 cupied by her grandson ; one, as a sleeping-chamber, 
 another, as a sort of oratory, inasmuch as it con- 
 tained a crucifix, an altar-table, and some devotional 
 books, to which a corner was given, where they 
 were preserved in neatness and good order ; but the 
 walls were hung with old-fashioned implements of the 
 chase; among which along rifle, movmted and studded 
 with silver, two curiously wrought pistols, a pair of 
 beautiful spurs, and a couteau-de-chasse, were the most 
 remarkable. A few books were carelessly piled on the
 
 102 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 shelves of a carved, worm-eaten cabinet, surmounted by 
 a flag staff, round which hung, or rather mouldered, the 
 remains of what had been a richly-embroidered standard; 
 the silk seemingly held together by the golden thread in 
 which the harp-strings were worked, its less perishing 
 nature preserving the fonn so dear to every Irish heart. 
 The rough oak beams which composed the floor were 
 furrowed by time. A chest of the same age and manu- 
 facture as the cabinet, and two equally venerable chairs, 
 composed the furniture of the antique chamber, into 
 which, through a long narrow window, the moonlight 
 streamed. 
 
 The room was calculated to excite much sympathy 
 with the past; and there would have been no evidence that 
 gentle or juvenile feeling found a home therein, but 
 that a cage, containing a little bird, hung within a deep 
 embrasure of the wall. Even in that room, overlookino- 
 the valleys and passes of the district, once the territory 
 of the Macarthy, the murmurs of those who waited 
 and watched beneath might be heard, mingled with many 
 a deep exclamation of sorrow and a half-stifled " Ulla- 
 gawn," echoing the wild cry of the Banshee, which had 
 terrified the dean and Ellen while on the road to Spencer 
 Com-t. The chamber of the dying lady was like the 
 apartment of her grandson, dedicated to gone-by and 
 faded things; the lofty bed, from which depended the cur- 
 tains, or rather the remains of tapestry, converted to that 
 use ; the coverlet, thin and modern, heavy enough for the 
 sufferer who could hardly endure its pressure, yet flimsy 
 and cold for winter; tattered carpets and broken chairs ; — 
 such Avere the clrief " garnishings ;" although a couple of
 
 A STORY OP lEELAXD. 103 
 
 beautiful cliiua bowls, and an engraved glass mounted In 
 silver, stood on the dressing-table. The still living Avreck 
 of this ancient liouse, lay silent — gasping, not struggling ; 
 and yet, with a rigid defiance, refusing to yield to death 
 the trembHng homage, wliich Mrs. Spencer — the woman 
 whom Katherinc Macarthy most hated in the world — 
 had already paid. 
 
 When the priest was announced, the dying woman 
 revived. Her head and heart bent before the only 
 earthly power she acknowledged ; and though her 
 spiritual director remained much longer than was ex- 
 pected — so long that the watchers without whispered to 
 each other, that " The Madam must have felt it sore to 
 make a clean breast, to say nothing of humbling the 
 heart" — still, when her grandson was permitted to 
 enter, she was sufficiently strong to speak, and to bless 
 him with unusual earnestness and fondness; exliibitins: 
 towards the weeping youth, who knelt by the bedside of 
 his only relative, greater tenderness during the last few 
 minutes of her existence than she had shown since the 
 time his insulted and impetuous father resigned him to 
 her care ; for much trouble had iced her natiire, and 
 her ordinary manner was not like the manners of her 
 country. At first, she spoke coherently, but after a 
 short time, her sentences came broken and wild, mingHng 
 the past and present. She spoke to Lawrence of his 
 father — her own, only, brave, handsome boy, with sun- 
 sliine in his eyes, and the spring of a mountain deer in 
 his feet ; of his high, pure blood, glowing through his 
 fair skin, "like the red wine on snow;" HER son, the 
 representative of a thousand princes — and then the tone
 
 104 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 of exaltation sunk, and lier face darkened ^\^th the 
 darkness of a curse, and tlie words hissed forth from her 
 lips; few, hut bitter: — forgetting himself, she said, "he 
 loved" the heretic and the stranger ; he loved but 
 he did not deceive her — he married her; remember 
 that; yet, he was cast forth by the upstart; blown 
 on by the north blast that withered our green fields — ^but 
 your mother was his wife. He did great folly, but no 
 sin ; folly, to mix name and blood with those who had 
 neither — but no sin. Stand before me, boy, that I may 
 look upon the last — last — of our long race !" Her grand- 
 son stood as she desired; but she saw him not; the film 
 of death was over her eyes, and she groped with her 
 spectral hands until her fingers twisted in the long curls 
 of his silken hair; then, disengaging them, she sighed 
 bitterly, and said: 
 
 *'I leave you nothing but our misery; purse, and house, 
 and all, are empty. There is neither silver, nor gold, nor 
 houses, nor land ; — nothing remains to the Macarthy but 
 the wide, cold, stranger world, and the blessings of a 
 crushed and broken-hearted people. Kings and princes 
 once — outlawed and insulted now." She raised her- 
 self suddenly, and extended her arm. 
 
 " Wliy was it, madam ? — not good enough for yoiu: 
 sister — ah! ah! ah! ybwr charities cover sins? — no — 
 no — they are steeped in blood — mildewed with curses ! 
 I never said I'd forgive you ! trample on us ! because 
 we are true to our faith, and dispute with ?/ou strangers, 
 the sod of which we are made. Go, Lawrence, fill your 
 purse elsewhere ! Look, some become brawlers, who 
 might be patriots — I thought to see your father a
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 105 
 
 patriot; — but go, take your father's rifle, my grand- 
 father's sword, the old flag too, wrap that round your 
 body, with the harp next your heart ; so that, if the time 
 comes, you are ready — ! 
 
 "You all see how I die — a Macarthy! — all but 
 nameless — here I sit — a poor, old, bHnd, dying woman ; 
 — but still," and her voice raised to the highest pitch of 
 weakness, screamed forth again and again, " still — a 
 Macarthy. Never forget your name — or your coun- 
 try, Lawrence — never !" 
 
 Tliose who listened without the half-open door — and 
 the excited youth, whose tears dried as quickly as they 
 were shed on his hot cheek — agreed that as she pro- 
 noimced the last word " Never," the wild wail and clap- 
 ping of hands — the cry of the Banshee, that weird and 
 faithful follower who honours antiquity, the voice of 
 lonely sjanpathy, filled the castle, and frightened the 
 owls from their nestings in the ivy. The birds hooted 
 and flapped against the window, and Lawrence rushed 
 to look out into the court-yard, fancying at the mo- 
 ment, so loud and distinct was the "Ullagawn," that he 
 might see the being who at the moment raised "the 
 cry." Tliose who were without came in ; old women — 
 pale and trembling — while young girls fell on their 
 knees and crossed themselves. The dying woman sunk 
 back upon her pillow; the excitement, wliich had 
 given to her countenance a terrible expression, faded 
 from it; and though there was no resignation, a silent 
 calm changed the expression, as by magic. 
 
 " I come !" she said, and the broken, but unsubdued 
 spirit of the old chicftainess was gone ! Then, indeed,
 
 106 THE whiteboy; 
 
 tlie wailing commenced %vitliin the tower — deep and 
 bitter — the women shrieking and tearing their hair; 
 but no shriek uttered by mortal lips, was like unto 
 "the cry" — the agonised cry of the great mystery — be- 
 lieved in as faithfully as the records of Holy Writ ! 
 
 An hour afterwards, Lawrence found himself in his 
 chamber — alone — quite, quite alone — his wild spirit 
 at fierce war with circumstances — ^his hot, high blood 
 beating indignantly in every vein; with all the pride 
 and all the achings after station, that belong of right to 
 old descent ; yet shut out by the then existing laws, from 
 nearly every path that led to honourable distinction ; — 
 brought up like a young eagle by its parent bird, nur- 
 tured in the superstitions of a faith to wliich he clung the 
 more closely, because of the contempt in which it was 
 held by those whom — and Txdth fair show of justice — 
 he considered enemies. 
 
 The whole state of the country is much changed 
 since then ; but there were hundreds of youths in the 
 moimtain fastnesses and the wild valleys of Ireland, 
 who felt as Lawrence felt; who, instructed only by the 
 past, and with but limited knowledge of the influence 
 of moral poAver, believed they had nothing to hope 
 except from wild outbursts of violent resistance; — and 
 whose nobler quahties were so obstructed in their 
 growth, as to become deformities — even as the forest 
 sapling that lacks head room, degenerates into the 
 stunted and distorted underwood. 
 
 Various contending passions shook the mind of young 
 Macarthy, before he had strength to sustain such agi- 
 tation. The disgrace which the gentry affixed to his
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 107 
 
 birth, long festered in liis mind; and tliougli his grand- 
 mother's words reassured him, he Avell knew they would 
 not assure others. For nearly an hour he paced his little 
 chamber, his eyes sometimes resting upon the chest 
 which contained the parchments and mouldering docu- 
 ments of his faded family's honours. His head full of 
 hatred and revenge, against he could not define what, 
 burning and beating; at last, such tears as frequently 
 accompany the high resolve which God pours into the 
 heart, in His own efficient and mysterious way, burst 
 from his eyes; and the more he wept, the more the un- 
 defined feelings of revenge and violence were subdued. 
 Deprived of his only relative, his young heart trembled 
 while it turned towards his sister — ^not the child of liis 
 father, certainly — but the cliild of his mother; of that 
 mother whom, wild boy though he was, he had seen in 
 liis dreams — wondering if Ellen resembled her. Then, 
 when his tears were dried, and his heart was again har- 
 dened, the thought of Ellen, as the " young lady," the 
 favourite and playtliing of a luxurious house — cushioned 
 in doAvn — lapped at ease — nurtured in contempt of 
 his education, and in hatred of his race and his reli- 
 gion — came upon him with frightful force; and her 
 gentleness — ^her fervour — her pure, fresh, Irish en- 
 thusiasm (that bright and earnest evidence of a noble 
 mind) — her sympathy with the poor, were all for- 
 gotten, and he whispered to himself, " Whether Mrs. 
 Spencer lives or dies, Ellen cares not for me ; she can 
 be no sister to poverty such as this; no partner in a 
 struggle for freedom — the gulph is fijced between us !" 
 He little deemed, that at the very moment, Ellen would
 
 108 THEWniTEBOY; 
 
 have yielded up tlie stateliness of Spencer Court — the 
 probable and the real — for one kind pressure of her 
 brother's hand, one fond word from his proud Hps. 
 
 Alas ! they were not the only children born of the 
 same bosom who have been estranged by the injustice 
 of party spirit, or sternly divided by the blind zeal of 
 what was intended not to sever, but to unite. Often had 
 Lawrence turned over the deeds and j)archments in the 
 old carved chest, until he became familiar with their con- 
 tents. But it needed not them to point out the ancient 
 boundaries of the forfeited estates. The idea of leav- 
 ing the old walls was accompanied by so bitter a pang, 
 that he did not venture to think of it a second time. 
 He was overwhelmed by his first great sorrow — it was the 
 first time he had looked on death — and what a death it 
 was, the death of the only relative he had ever known. 
 One to whom the custom of the coimtry had 
 taught him to look with veneration ; a stern — revenge- 
 ful woman; one, almost the last with national feel- 
 ings, and national perfections; one who, if prosperous, 
 would have been widely benevolent and generous to 
 her friends; but whom adversity and wrong had ren- 
 dered harsh and unforgivino-. 
 
 Esther, in all the confusion, had not forgotten *' her 
 darHng yoimg master," and she brought him a lamp 
 and some refreshment. The news that the Madam 
 was dead, spread rapidly; and throughout the night 
 peasants kept arriving within the court-yard, each 
 woman raising the death cry before she dropped on her 
 knees at the entrance to the castle. A crucifix hung at 
 the head of the bed, and the corpse was decked with
 
 A STORY OF IRELAXD. 109 
 
 the usual black ribbons — the flaring candles threw a 
 disordered light upon features which, for the first time, 
 seemed as placid as they were dignified. The priest 
 had prayed, and the han caointhe, or chief keener, had 
 assumed her place beside the head of the bed. 
 
 She was one well-versed in the old history of the 
 family ; and if aught had been wanting to rouse the 
 revengeful and evil passions of a young man, stung 
 by a sense of poverty and degradation, it was the ban 
 caointhes lamentation and recapitulation of Saxon 
 injury and Saxon hatred — into which no view but the 
 one was permitted to enter; and which, appealing to 
 prejudice and hatred only, Avas received as inspired 
 truth by eager listeners. Even the men, who in 
 general suffer the women to " keen" as long as they 
 please without taking note of what they say, now 
 listened attentively; and every time her voice sunk, 
 there was a chorus of Avrathful comments: " Wisha, 
 hear to that now !" "Well! She knows all." "It's 
 all true." "Boys, how do we ever stand it?" "To 
 be put upon as we are !" " Well, glory be to God, we'll 
 wait His time !" 
 
 Her " cry" contained allusions to the liistory of the 
 family — and its leading chiefs for ages — without regard 
 to dates ; rudely, yet not unpoetically, strung together. 
 
 Commencing with the usual question, " Why did 
 you die ?" She framed her replies. " Why did you 
 die? dark-haired daughter of kings. Why? 
 
 " Ask not again ! What had she to keep her from 
 those of her proud race, who are now suns in heaven? 
 Only one bright child, the child of a Macarthy — of him
 
 110 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 her only, only one — the young eagle — struck down by a 
 poisoned arrow, with a broken heart ! A curse on them that 
 broke it ! Only one young boy was left to the lady, whose 
 hair, once as black as the raven's wing, is now soft and 
 colourless as the white cloud upon the Reeks — one 
 young boy ! but his hands were weak, and liis voice 
 feeble. Ah, woe and wail ! he could not keep the great 
 soul from its sister spirits. 
 
 " Dark-haired daughter of kings; why did you leave 
 your castle, the only castle where there still lived a Ma- 
 carthy ? Who now calls out the echoes of broad Ive- 
 ragh? Who fishes the brimming waters of the Laune? 
 Who dwells within the castle of PaHce — the Caislean- 
 va-carthy ? Wliose banner floats over the proud walls of 
 Carrig-a-droid, wdiich the Macarthy built in a single 
 week to pleasure the fair lady of his love. Ah, woe 
 and wail ! 
 
 " The echoes of Iveragh will not repeat the Saxon 
 name. The waters of the Laune are dark from the 
 shadows of the thick trees; and salt, from the tears shed 
 by the enslaved of her noble race. The Caislean-va- 
 cartliy, is wracked by the Saxon's breath; and the 
 banner of Carrig-a-droid is the wing of the hoarse 
 raven. 
 
 " Dark-haired daughter of kings, why did you leave 
 your lands? 
 
 " Hark ! how her spirit laughs. « My lands !' — 
 what lands? The child of a Macarthy — the widow of a 
 Macarthy — the mother of a Macarthy — has no lands; 
 they have taken and spoiled them ! A few fields, such as 
 her people would grant to a gallowglass, were all that
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. Ill 
 
 was left to the blood of Dcrmod Macartliy More, wlio 
 sleeps at Innlsfallen ! 
 
 " Wliere are tlie lands of Carrigrolian? Wlicre those 
 of Cormac Laidir — the strong Macarthy, who built the 
 castle of soft words, and the holy abbey of Kilcrea ? 
 Wliere the lands of liim who set his foot on the neck of 
 the Geraldine ? of loim who humbled the proud Desmond ? 
 the sound of whose voice could bring three thousand 
 true-hearted men to the war cry, Macarthy aboo I 
 
 " Ah, woe and wail! are there no sons of that three 
 thousand, ready and willing — now? 
 
 " Dark-haired daughter of kino;s ! to count over the 
 castles that bore your name, would be to count the 
 sands of the wild sea-shore ; to number those who paid 
 you homage, would be numbering the blossoms of the 
 wild rush upon the evergreen fields, 
 
 " Who wanted, when a Macarthy had bread ? Who 
 sorrowed, when a Macarthy could shield ? Wlio suf- 
 fered that the Macarthy did not avenge? Tlie love of 
 thy race was sweeter than honey. Thy maidens were 
 fair and gentle — fleet and light of foot. Faithful wives 
 and tender mothers — oh, woe and wail ! 
 
 " They are still fair andgentle, but they are not fleet- 
 footed to shun the famine and the fire ; the starving 
 child looks into the weeping eyes of the starving mother ! 
 
 " The dark-haired daughter of kings had lived many 
 days! 
 
 " She saw that the Saxon divided to destroy. 
 
 " She knew that his step was stealthy; that he poi- 
 soned the free springs ; that he pinioned the eagle in his 
 hen-coops, and fettered the red-deer in his sheep-folds.
 
 112 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 That his heart tvirncd away from the Celt; -while his 
 fingers grew to his sword. That he looked upon the 
 mountains and the valleys and said, ' They are mine !' 
 While his lips spoke peace, his breatli kindled the fire 
 in valley and highland. He held out his hand to the 
 Madam ; but she cursed the red palm ; she scorned it, 
 as became a Macarthy. 
 
 " Even in her last hour, a vision arose before the lady — 
 a vision of the future ; bright, with a green and purple 
 glory. And a voice said, ' Live !' And the dark- 
 haired daughter of kings said, ' Why?' And the voice 
 said, ' Behold !' And the vision did not come from 
 afar, nor from over the sea, but from our own land it 
 arose — a vision of peace, of golden harvests, and lowing 
 cows, of dancing and feasting ; the harp, and the pipe, 
 and the grass-green flag — the comicil of kings, and the 
 music of a happy multitude. 
 
 " Ah, woe and wail ! ' Such visions pass away,' said 
 Katherine Macarthy ; ' I close my eyes, and they come 
 crowding round me, as I saw them in my young spring 
 time : I open them, and they are gone — gone — gone !' "
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 113 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE TWO FUNERALS. 
 
 A FEW words more, and the history of the events 
 which preceded Edward Spencer's arrival in Ireland 
 will have closed. 
 
 Within the house of the Spencers, matters were con- 
 ducted with the solemnity, the order, and the propriety 
 befitting the obsequies of a Protestant lady; yet there 
 was a regard to " form," varying in many respects from 
 that which would have attended a death-bed in Eng- 
 land. Much as Mrs. Spencer had been disliked, all 
 who desired to be considered well-wishers of the family 
 called to have a *' last look at the mistress," and the 
 kitchen and servants' hall were amply furnished with 
 refreshments for the humbler classes. The coffin was 
 never left without watchers, day or night, and poor 
 Ellen found it difficult to steal in unperceived to renew 
 the flowers, which, it is said, fade all the quicker from 
 cominir in contact with death. Invitations were not 
 sent to any to attend the funeral, for absence would 
 have been considered a mark of exceeding disrespect. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 An abundant supply was, tlierefore, spread on the night 
 previous to the last ceremony, in the reception rooms, 
 because of the certainty that all Protestants witliin 
 twenty miles — all the gentry and all the tenants — would 
 assemble to pay their last tribute of respect to the 
 dead. 
 
 It was considered a singular coincidence that the 
 mistress of Spencer Court and "the Madam" should 
 have died within so short a time of each other, and no 
 two " gatherings" could be more different, though of the 
 same people, than of those who met to offer civilities to 
 Spencer Coiu't, and the wild disorganised mountain crowd, 
 •which assembled in the court yard and around the ' ' ruined 
 castle," in every variety of misery which an Irish crowd 
 can so terribly illustrate. At the latter, there were many 
 well-mounted and respectably dressed farmers; their 
 wives or daughters on a pilhon behind them, the men 
 gray coated, carrying heavy riding whips, the women 
 shrouded in blue cloaks, and gay-coloured silk hand- 
 kercliiefs tied over their caps instead of bonnets ; others 
 mounted on shaggy mountain horses, whose only halter 
 was a hay band; others, and by far the greater number, 
 on foot, crowding to get some portion of the homely 
 food which was distributed as long as it lasted, or the 
 still more sought for " bit" of tobacco, or glass of whis- 
 key; indeed, the latter was by far the most popular 
 refresliment as well as the most plentiful, for many 
 a distiller of mountain dew had paid liis tribute of 
 honour to the memory of "the great Madam," by 
 sending a keg, a gallon, or a few bottles of spirits to her 
 wake. It was well known to the motley and excited
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 115 
 
 crowd, tliat the funeral of " tlie Madam" and tlie Mis- 
 tress of Spencer Court were to take place on the same 
 day, and about tlie same hour. 
 
 There is a superstition rife amongst the people, that if 
 two funerals enter consecrated ground nearly at the same 
 moment, whichever coffin is interred last, its inmate will 
 be doomed to attend upon the inmate of the first, in pur- 
 gatory ; five and twenty years have swept away many of 
 the old beliefs, but this stiU remains, and, at the time re- 
 ferred to, very dreadful contentions were not unfrequent, 
 in consequence, amongst the followers of the silent dead. 
 The Macarthys had mustered in largo numbers to pay 
 their last tribute of respect to one, whose trials and sor- 
 rows had greatly endeared her to the people; and the 
 old subject of Annie Gumming and young Macarthy's 
 love, and its destruction by Mrs. Spencer, was revived 
 and talked over with much bitterness. The son of this 
 ill-fated affection was the chief mourner at his grand- 
 mother's funeral; he was, as we have shown, a wild, 
 high-spirited, unlettered boy, treading all too rapidly 
 in the steps of his father's latter days. The Macarthy 
 funeral had farther to go than that of Mrs. Spencer; but 
 it was earlier on the road, followed by a long straggling 
 multitude of people of Cork and Kerry, easily dis- 
 tinguished from each other by their very different, 
 physiognomies — the long, lean, dark faces of the Kerry 
 men, contrasting with the round, nut-Hke head and 
 thick, stubbed features of the natives of Cork county; 
 but all intent upon doing honour to one of the " ould 
 ancient families." 
 
 Mrs. Spencer's funeral was somewhat less than a 
 
 l2
 
 116 THE whiteboy; 
 
 quarter of a mile from the place of interment when the 
 mass of persons who followed the widow's remains, 
 came in sight — heaving and tossing down the mountain, 
 like the billows of a cataract after a night's storm. It 
 is usual in Ireland for the poor to give place to the rich, 
 in a manner which happily in England is but a tale of the 
 feudal system ; an Irish peasant too generally lacked the 
 practice of standing erect in the presence of the wealthy 
 who lorded it over him — exacting a serf's homage, 
 without giving a baron's protection; but there were 
 strong and turbulent, careless and dissatisfied persons 
 in the mountain crowd, heated by much talk of by- 
 gone days, inflamed by the ardent liquid (now happily 
 one of the legends of the past), and urged to a ser- 
 vice of danger by a superstitious belief, that it was a 
 duty to save the immortal part of one of an honoured 
 race from thraldom to one whom they had both feared 
 and hated, — for Irish dishke is hatred ! 
 
 There were still wilder men — strangers — beyond the 
 influence of Spencer Court, who only wished to show 
 their attachment to a faction by honouring the remains 
 of one who had a double claim, herself a Macarthy, 
 and wedded to a Macarthy, whose grandson was al- 
 ready remarkable for vigour and beauty, and despite the 
 blot which Mrs. Spencer had sought to fix upon him, 
 the offspring of her o^vn sister ; looking, moreover, able, 
 and willing to dare and do, as his unhappy father 
 had done before him. 
 
 Without further consideration, the resolve became 
 general, that the Macarthy funeral should deposit its 
 silent freight in holy ground before the arrival of the
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 117 
 
 other. The funeral from Spencer Court was preceded 
 by a heavy hearse, moving along slowly and silently; 
 wliile the coffin of the Macarthy, the shell containing 
 literally the " remains" of a woman of delicate frame, 
 was borne on six stout men's shoulders; the bearers 
 paused for brief converse with the determined spirits 
 of the party, and then rushed into what had at one 
 time been the principal road, but was now a deserted 
 high-way, leading in a direct line to the churchyard, 
 while the stately hearse continued to move along the 
 new line of road. As soon as the intention of the 
 Macarthys was observed, the gentry and those who 
 had quitted Spencer Court, became indignant at what 
 they considered an insult offered to one of rank, and 
 determined to prevent it; it was in vain that Dean 
 Graves reminded them of the superstition which occa- 
 sioned the increased speed and agitation of the moun- 
 taineers and glens-men — a superstition which had no in- 
 fluence over the minds of more enlightened men ; it was 
 in vain that several, more constitutionally cool, or more 
 reasonable than others, urged how utterly undignified 
 it would be to enter into a race with the " Whiteboys 
 and Catarans" who composed the majority of the rush- 
 ing crowd, forcing their way with ill-suppressed shouts 
 of triumph ; all was vain. 
 
 Mr. Richards, ever anxious to be a prominent object, 
 was at that time remarkably thin and erect ; he bestrode 
 a gray gaunt horse of immense power, and was loud in 
 his anathemas against those who would dare to insult 
 the remains of his sainted lady, yet imploring them not 
 to enter into collision with the children of perdition.
 
 118 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 A few were for continuing their quiet order of going ; 
 but the majority would not " give in," and the horses of 
 the hearse being urged into a most indecent gallop, the 
 Spencer Court crowd rushed on with them, — some 
 catching the exasperation of the moment, while others 
 ran because others hurried forward. The " short cut" 
 which the attendants on the Macarthy funeral had 
 made, and their being unencumbered by stately trap- 
 pings of woe, gave them the advantage in rapidity of 
 movement, and notwithstandmg that the funeral from 
 Spencer Court had at one time been so much in ad- 
 vance of that from the mountain, the foremost of both 
 parties rushed through the gate and over the walls into 
 consecrated ground, almost at the same moment ; but 
 numerous as were the attendants at Mrs. Spencer's 
 funeral, not one-half of them felt disposed to take part 
 against their friends, and the friends of "an ould an- 
 cient family," — such either slunk away from the gentry 
 or kept behind the hearse, the other party occupying 
 the holy ground, ilouiishing their sliillalas, yelHng, 
 shouting, standing on the tombstones, cHnging to the 
 ivy that enwreathed the walls of the old church, and 
 forming a fortress of determined and half-intoxicated 
 men around those who were digging the grave amid 
 the bones and broken coffms of an ancient race. 
 
 Many of the gentlemen rode in among the people, 
 beating them down with their heavy riding- wliips, and 
 trampHng them beneath their horses' feet; this was 
 hardly resisted at first, though some of the peasants 
 were engaged hand to hand at the time, particularly 
 around the vault where the remains of Mrs. Spencer were
 
 A STOEY or IRELAND. 119 
 
 to be deposited, and wliere a party was endeavour- 
 ing to make a passage for tlie coffin; but it was 
 evident that tliere were many among the strangers 
 who would not endure the blows — which the rich in 
 those days were sufficiently apt to inffict upon the 
 poor ; they clutched their cla'alpines and looked 
 " touch me if you dare," at the few who, well-mounted, 
 struck they hardly cared when or where. If the wi- 
 dower had not been confined at Spencer Court by 
 severe illness, his being so much beloved, and the 
 sympathy always felt towards the sorrow that is before 
 them, would have restrained the people; but the 
 presence of Richards, hated and despised as he was, 
 stirred them still more to wrath; and even if supersti- 
 tion had not urged them to secure the services of a 
 proud presbyterian soul, for her who had departed in 
 the more ancient faith of her house, they would have 
 rejoiced at an opportunity of mortifying one who cer- 
 tainly deserved neither consideration nor forbearance at 
 their hands. In the midst of the tmuult Dean Graves 
 rode up to where Father Dufiy sat, upon his stout 
 cob, waiting the result of the conflict; he raised his hat 
 with the courtesy of a gentleman, and the priest re- 
 turned it; "If you do not interfere, Father Duffy, 
 there will be blood shed," said the dean. 
 
 " You can make your party wait, if you please," was 
 the abrupt and uncourteous reply, " the Macarthys 
 buried their dead in that church-yard before the sound 
 of a Spencer's name was heard in the country." 
 
 " I cannot curb those men. Father Duffy, I have not the 
 influence that you have, and you know it; I tell you,
 
 120 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 blood will be shed unless you interfere. How dreadful 
 it is tliat contention should enter into sacred ground — 
 that we cannot bury our dead in peace." 
 
 " Then why did you suffer that base blood-hound," 
 replied the priest, while he shook his whip at Richards, 
 whose horse seemed inspired with the same evil 
 spirit as its rider, and plunged violently among 
 the people, " why did you suffer him to disgrace the 
 funeral by attending it ? the air is thick with curses on 
 him ; there — you may well say there will be blood 
 shed, he has drawn a pistol — back boys — back — or 
 you'll be murdered outright," exclaimed the priest, 
 riding forward, and really alarmed, when it was too late ; 
 *' back !" he exclaimed; and, then, in their native lan- 
 guage, repeated his exhortation to them to disperse. 
 
 But Richards felt himself in danger — fierce eyes 
 glared on him. He had been twice struck, and women 
 as well as men were ready to hurl stones, plucked from 
 newly-covered graves, at his head. He was an admirable 
 horseman, sitting firm as a Centaur, although his horse 
 plunged like a demon; the crowd pressed around him, 
 yelling and hooting, and threatening, until at last he 
 drew a pistol from his breast, and declared he would 
 fire if they did not give way. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the scene; those 
 who had brought the coffin out of tlic hearse, were 
 knocked down and trampled on; while dozens fought 
 over the silent dead. Dean Graves, at the hazard of his 
 own life, made his Avay among the people, to preserve 
 the body from being cruslied by the multitude. At this 
 moment, a stone hurled from a distance, stiaick Richards
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 121 
 
 on the cliest. The violence of the blow caused him to 
 reel in his saddle, and those who had fallen back at sight 
 of the pistol, now pressed on with a shout of triumph. 
 It was short-lived however, for Richards fired. Instantly, 
 there was a lull — a pause; every voice was hushed — 
 every sound ceased ; the mighty rolling of the mass was 
 stilled — the very echo of the shot was heard, repeated 
 in the mountains; and then came the buzz, and mur- 
 mur — the deadened whisper that young Macarthy had 
 been slain. 
 
 It was well for Richards that he trusted to the bottom 
 and mettle of his horse ; dashing through the crowd, 
 he fled; leaving his friends to fight it out as they 
 best could. There was an instant diversion in the 
 people's object; some, intent on summary vengeance 
 pursued the fugitive; others, remained firm to their 
 first resolve. Again, the mighty noise of the multitude 
 swelled ; vmtil it was echoed by the vaults and ruins of 
 the holy pile. The Keen arose as if to knell another 
 death ; but the youth, whose fate excited all their sympa- 
 thy and enthusiasm, sprang upon a head stone, while the 
 blood flowed from his arm, and entreated to be heard; 
 although his voice was agitated and feeble, his appeal 
 was successful. In a very few words, he thanked them 
 for the love they bore a fallen house, said that he had 
 seen his grandmother's coffin lowered into its grave, so 
 that for which they contended was accomplished; that 
 his hand was only grazed, and that though he should not 
 forget who had given the wound, he hoped the friends 
 of the Macarthy would disperse. 
 
 The Spencer Court party had had enough of this most
 
 122 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 disgraccM contention ; and thougli tliey still stood upon 
 their riglit, wliicli they conceived to have been griev- 
 ously outraged, they were thoroughly disgusted by the 
 violence and cowardice displayed by Richards. No 
 further attempt was made to interrupt the interment of 
 Mrs. Spencer's remains ; the Roman Catholics qidtting, 
 as is usual, the churchyard, leaving the few Protestants 
 to listen to the funeral service, and the simple and elo- 
 quent prayer pronounced by the clerg}Tnan ; " that a 
 better feeling might speedily be manifested in the land, 
 and a spirit of di\TLne charity and mutual love take 
 the place of bitter hatred and fierce superstition." He 
 went still further; he prayed that forbearance and 
 patience might especially find place in the hearts of the 
 little band now gathered round the last abode of their 
 departed sister; that they might remember those who 
 were now crowding over the mountains, flushed with 
 trimnph, and shouting forth their hatred of the ' new 
 race,' were ignorant and uninstructed — the victims of 
 long-standing prejudices; and rather ask, what cause 
 they had given for the revival of such feelings, than 
 employ their thoughts in devising means of vengeance 
 and further injury. 
 
 While tliis prayer was uttered, the clergyman's eyes 
 were raised to heaven ; the events of the morning had 
 shaken the good man's strength, and his voice faltered 
 from its own earnestness. He did not see the in- 
 dignant glances that flashed from eye to eye in his small 
 congregation ; nor perceive that more than one or two 
 stood back, not wisliing that oil should be poured upon 
 the troubled waters.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 123 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 THE MIDDLEMAN. 
 
 The funerals were long talked of, and the animosi- 
 ties they revived still longer felt, in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of the scene. In isolated parts of a 
 country, impressions linger like snow on the mountain- 
 tops — impressions that would have been obhterated by 
 the business or pleasures of active life. Abel Richards, 
 who acted so conspicuous a part in the transac- 
 tion we have recorded, had previously been making 
 his way in the world after the fasliion of the lowest 
 reptiles; wrigghng as a worm; burrowing as a mole; 
 wise, in his own fasliion, as a serpent; poisonous as 
 an adder — the slime of evil deeds tracking his coiirse. 
 As a toad broods and fattens in its rocky bed, so did 
 this man increase and prosper — the base ideal of a class 
 which at one time eat into the very vitals of Irish 
 prosperity — the exacting, the selfish, the merciless — the 
 debasing and debased — middleman. 
 
 " But how," will the Enghsh reader ask, " how was 
 this? — how could it be?"
 
 124 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 How it was we can hardly explain, tliougli we have 
 heard and seen as much of the " Middleman" as most 
 persons; seen the character in all its various grades 
 — from the broad, vulgar, pompous presumer who dared 
 to talk of " his family," who had his thousand acres of 
 the absentee landlord-in-chief, to whom he was a punc- 
 tual paymaster, or advancer of monies, wrung from the 
 thews and sinews of hard-handed men, the blood 
 and bones of a willing people — from him doA\Ti to 
 the middleman, scarcely a remove in education or posi- 
 tion from the poor vassals over whom he was a despot. 
 It would be difficult to believe that any people but the 
 Irish could so long have submitted to the middleman 
 as " a system;" and alas ! when they did attempt to rise 
 against it, from its terrible and intricate ramifications, 
 it involved them in entanglements of false-reasonings, 
 false-judgings, and crimes, which have left an awful 
 curse upon the country. 
 
 Take Abel Richards as a specimen of the class — and, 
 believe us, there have been many worse; a keen, cun- 
 ning man — a steward's son, inheriting his father's earn- 
 ings and his mother's vices — crawling about " the big 
 house" with a bland smile, a quick car, a ready inven- 
 tion — a few pounds ever in his purse — to lend, when 
 profit could be made — to buy, at every seizure for 
 rent, either cow or pig, potato or kish, by which 
 he could make a guinea, a shilling, or a penny — a 
 bow and an obliging lie always at the service of his 
 rich neighbour — a blow and a bite for his poor one. 
 Not but that Abel shirked " the ruffian" whenever he
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 125 
 
 could, especially in his latter days; for he was not 
 given to open stnfe — it did not answer his purpose. 
 He knew that land — " the bit of land" — is the peasant's 
 existence; he has, in nine cases out of ten, no regular 
 employment to look to ; he must have " the bit of land," 
 no matter what he promises to pay for it; he must have 
 it, or beg and starve; if ejected, he dare not seek for 
 ground elsewhere, for if he eject another holder, his 
 own doom is sealed. Richards knew this — ^lie had grown 
 up in the knowledge, and to the calculations which such 
 knowledge brings; at first he got twenty or thirty 
 acres of land into his possession, which he let, re-let, 
 divided, subdivided, until it was said he made the dis- 
 trict " a place of poverty and potato-gardens." Then 
 he was only an under " middleman;" — the middleman 
 of a middleman, who perhaps (the case was by no means 
 rare) was a middleman under yet another middleman. 
 The wretched beings who called him " Master Abel" 
 (that was his_^?-s^ public step), were subject to have their 
 pig, and their bed if they had one, "canted" by landlords 
 — one, two, three, or more. But Abel never " got on 
 swimmingly" ma til he became a con vert — turned his back 
 upon his old faith, and adopted a new, under the foster- 
 ing patronage of Mrs. Spencer. This, for a time, gave 
 him a pusli — a lift with the gentry. All the ill-will his 
 avarice and cruelty had earned, it was very convenient 
 to attribute to "his changed faith." He had been so 
 hated previously, that we may doubt if his " tiuning 
 coat" increased the ill-will; but he made people be- 
 lieve it did, and managed to obtain a considerable
 
 126 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 augmentation of land from an absentee landholder, who 
 had some zeal — and much need of tlie money, which 
 Mister Richards did not fail to procure. 
 
 In due course he made some speeches at meetings in 
 Dublin, wliich " told" with those who have a sufficient 
 quantity of charity to " know" that all who believe as 
 they beheve must be saved, while those who beHeve 
 otherwise, will be— the contrary. While Dean Graves, 
 and other of his acquaintances received his confessions, 
 and ejaculations, and tales of persecutions, with mistrust 
 — in Dublin, he dined with titled ladies, learned to eat 
 Avith a silver fork, obtained various presents of bitterly- 
 worded tracts from those who had the reputation of sanc- 
 tity among their own " set;" while more timid votaries 
 bestowed on him blue and pink book-markers embroi- 
 dered Avith words, which, strange to say, were at decided 
 variance with their practice — thus a lady who would not 
 suffer a " popish" domestic to enter her service, selected 
 the motto, " Charity suffereth long and is kind;" and 
 another, the simple word " Peace," worked in orange 
 silk, as a token of her hatred of the green. At all the 
 little " tea-parties" got up by this mistaken body, Abel 
 Richards was introduced with much ceremony as, " that 
 suffering saint from the south." 
 
 He returned to the neighbom-hood of Spencer 
 Court with added interest in the eyes of its mis- 
 tress ; for there are persons in the world, who, 
 seeing others " get on," take it for granted they de- 
 serve to prosper. Abel's system, under his improved 
 fortunes, was that of the higher grade of middle- 
 man—the agent between the necessities of one class,
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 127 
 
 and the necessities and \dces of another. Sometimes he 
 let two or three acres, or even one — never of coiu'se on 
 lease; the tenant had to build liis own dwelling; tliis 
 in itself stamps the place in the poor cottier's affection 
 — he has kneeded the clay with his hands and liis spade ; 
 he has raised the stones ; he has cut the sods ; he has 
 carried the Avattles; and if liis roof be straw, he and 
 his wife and children have borne it — perhaps as a free 
 gift from " a strong farmer" — on their shoulders, and 
 wrought it into a shelter beneath which he is to spend, 
 he hopes, his life. Few think of this natural love which 
 all men have to the work of their own hands, when 
 they read of an ejectment, and the consequences which 
 follow ; but Abel Richards knew it, and understood it — 
 and knew its value, when it was to be turned to ac- 
 count. There are some who joy to see the harrow pass- 
 ing over the fresh-tilled field; to whom the husband- 
 man's wliistle is sweeter than that of the wild bird ; who 
 pause in the fresh pure air to bless God that He per- 
 mits them to hear the music of hopeful hearts; and to 
 see the seed cast into the earth — a type of immortahty. 
 But Abel Richards w^ould bite his lips with bitterness 
 at the labourer's wliistle, and inveigle the tenant who 
 could pay and -u-ished to pay, into his debt, that so he 
 might have power to raise his rent or cast him forth. 
 
 An act of this kind caused the return of Mr. Spencer, 
 who, after his wife's death, had absented himself from 
 Spencer Court, making Miss Ellen's education a pretext 
 for the change he so much needed or desired, leaving 
 many he had protected, to the mercy of evil-doers ; — 
 he was, however, active, when roused, and this roused
 
 128 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 him for a time. A man who resided many years on 
 the land of which Abel Richards got possession, and 
 had hitherto paid his rent punctually, was induced by a 
 manoeuvre of the middleman to get into aiTear. Watch- 
 ing his opportunity, while the man was in Cork, the 
 agent levied a distress upon his goods, and seized for 
 the rent. His wife resisted, and was committed for 
 assault ; it is true she was liberated in a few days, but 
 she caught the fever in gaol, and communicated it to her 
 husband, and two out of five of their children died of 
 the pestilence. Next " gale" day the poor man was 
 totally unable to meet his rent. 
 
 At this time, the potatoes in the pit outside the poor 
 man's house were distrained on, and the bailiffs were 
 watching to seize him for the costs of a lawsuit which 
 Richards had drawn him into in the extremity of his 
 distress ; and knowing that Mr. Spencer had influence 
 over Richards, who still acted as his agent, he wrote to 
 him the particulars of his case, by the hand of Law- 
 rence Macartl\y. Time, however, passed on, and no 
 answer came ; for days and nights the poor man lay 
 out amid the rocks of Glenflesk, and the fastnesses of 
 the higher mountains. 
 
 Abel feared Mr. Spencer's return before his victim's 
 ruin was thoroughly accomplished, and with the sagacity 
 of a demon he laid a trap for the man. He caused a 
 report to be circulated through the outlawed district, 
 where he believed he was concealed, that his wife was 
 dead ; the man rushed home, was tracked by the bailiffs 
 to his own house, but had time to bar the door — they 
 dared not break in ! But the middleman was not to be
 
 A STORY OF IPwELAND. 129 
 
 baffled; lie said to the bailiffs, " Starve them out; suffer 
 neither bit nor sup to enter the house ; he will not see 
 his children die." 
 
 For three days they endured famine ; on the first, 
 they had a few cold potatoes; on the second, nothing ; 
 on the third, the children cried for food, and the mother 
 looked in her husband's face. As the evenino- ad- 
 vanced, the door opened ; the man, ghastly and despe- 
 rate, stood armed with a pitchfork at the entrance ; he 
 said he would have food for his children, and the 
 life of whoever touched him ; the bailiffs (there were 
 three), it might be they feared, it might be they pitied 
 him, but they suffered him and his wife to drag some 
 potatoes from the store. And when Abel heard it, 
 he knew that now he could issue a criminal warrant 
 against the man for stealing his own potatoes ! He pro- 
 cured it ; but its execution was prevented by Mr. 
 Spencer's arrival. If ever Ellen Macdonnel was greeted 
 as an angel, it was then; if ever she was cursed by a 
 demon, it was then. It was well known that she had 
 accelerated Mr. Spencer's retiim; it was believed that 
 Lawrence Macarthy communicated Avith her on the 
 subject. But the poor man was saved from ruin, while 
 Abel blandly resigned all charge of Mr. Spencer's 
 rents, declaring that however unworthy he believed the 
 man to be, he was but too happy to oblige his old 
 " patron," by proving that he bore him no ill-will for 
 his obstinacy. But the man could not — and did not — 
 forget his dead children ! 
 
 After this occurrence it amazed many that Abel 
 remained in the country; but, strange as it may seem, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE whiteboy; 
 
 he was countenanced by some wlio believed tbe peo- 
 ple in array against him " for liis new faith;" he was 
 still the " suffering saint of the South," " labour- 
 ing in an unproductive vineyard," sowing seed on 
 stony-groimd, and " among thorns." 
 
 It may seem marvellous to those who have happily 
 never mingled with the ultras of either party, much 
 less of both parties, in Ireland, how such a man could 
 not only hve, but proceed in a course of worldly pros- 
 perity — feared by some, useful to many ; useful beyond 
 all telhng to those who required the utmost pemiy for 
 their land — yet despised — hated — cursed ! — wliile tliiev- 
 ing, thriving ! 
 
 In the evil days of which we write, such evil men 
 were considered necessary to the thriftless absentee; 
 necessary to the careless fox-hunting, claret-drinJdng 
 squire, wilHng to pay a middleman for bearing the 
 curses that ought to have fallen on liimself. 
 
 And so Abel Richards went on — grasping together 
 large sums at last ; yet he would still enter the widow's 
 cabin, and if she could not pay him the interest of the 
 two or three pounds lent to her husband before liis 
 death, he would pocket the eggs laid on the dresser 
 for market day, or take the hanks of yarn off the peg, 
 or the basket of cliickens from the eldest girl — not as 
 a " set off" against principal or interest; oh, no, that 
 would be mercy and justice, and Abel Richards knew 
 neither; but as a present, a hoan. ^ox\\\s forbearance! 
 and then as he momited his horse he woidd iliug them 
 a tract and a " blessing." He never distrained an utterly 
 poor man, where he could gain notliing by it. No ;
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 131 
 
 cases of that kind lie contrived sliould be "witnesses to Ms 
 patience and cliarity : but like a fiend, he would watch 
 and wait and so despoil the tenant of every comfort — 
 of his new hat, or his wife's shawl, or his httle pig, or 
 his hive of bees — whenever any such came: nothing 
 was beyond or beneath, too high or too low for his grasp. 
 
 Mr. Spencer became after this, his last absence from 
 Spencer Court, lois own agent and his own steward; 
 and though he lacked perseverance and energy, he 
 was kind and conciliating — -just, moreover, which is the 
 last thing a poor Irishman expects. Ellen, whose 
 mind was older than her years, was liis ahnoner, and 
 if it had not been for the necessary, though frequently 
 injudicious, superintendence of Mrs. Myler, would have 
 been as happy as any luigoverned young lady could 
 have Avished to be. 
 
 The kindness of Dean Graves, and the affection of his 
 daughters preserved Ellen from being utterly spoiled. 
 To Mr. Spencer, Ellen Macdonnel had grown from a 
 play tiling into a companion, riding, singing, reading, 
 and reciting with him; and to him, as was most needed, 
 she was in every respect a fond, a most affectionate, 
 if not altogether a very obedient cliild. 
 
 During the five years that Mr. Spencer survived his 
 wife, Ellen Macdonnel's clear full brow would have 
 been seldom overcast, but for the love she bore her 
 brother, who was never noticed by her protector. 
 Master Mat had become so completely crazed, on the 
 subject of concealed treasure, that he abandoned his 
 teacliing for wandering, and his pen for the pickaxe ; 
 and seldom approached the school-house for weeks 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 together; this was also a grief to her — her wise, her 
 kind, her learned Domine ! To be sure, she had free 
 access to his small store of books, and they were gene- 
 rally speaking, such as a wild, enthusiastic girl should 
 not have made her companions. Ellen, however, must 
 be known as she really was — a creature of warm affec- 
 tions; a lover of all things appertaining to her native 
 country, which she believed had suffered beneath long 
 ages of misrule; earnest and hopeful; determined, rash, 
 with a temper quick enough to be called " violent" by 
 her foes, and "very warm" by her friends. Her position 
 was still as undefined, as undetermined as ever. Some 
 said one thing, some another. The neighbours had long 
 discovered, that her bright chesnut hair was the colour 
 that Mrs. Spencer's might have been in her youth ; that 
 her eyes — deep, violet eyes — resembled those of poor 
 Annie Gumming; that her large, full brow, was like 
 — nobody's ; but her nose and chin, the " very moral" 
 of one they did not care to name. Her figure was 
 small, considering her years ; more active than graceful ; 
 and her movements, at times, more rapid and decisive, 
 than was in strict accordance with good breedino;. 
 But Ellen's greatest charm, was the varying and elo- 
 quent expression of her mobile features ; clear or sha- 
 dowed, tearful, or smiling, as circumstances touched her 
 heart or excited her imagination. In her character, 
 she was brightly and eminently truthful; not feeling 
 her dependance, as an English girl would have done; 
 because dependants swarmed around her, without con- 
 sidering it degradation, or being insulted in a poor 
 country because of their poverty. And yet, '"Nelly"
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 133 
 
 was proud as a princess ; at times, exalted by the 
 highest spirits, while at others, she sank into tears, and 
 a despondence akin to despair. Her natural habits and 
 disposition might have been moulded into mental beauty 
 of the rarest kind; — for she was generous as upright, 
 and brave as true ; while her intense love of her coun- 
 try, exalted her character — as patriotism, apart from all 
 worldly and personal considerations, must ever do. 
 
 Mr. Spencer continued to live undisturbed at Spencer 
 Coui't — indifferent to rumours that occasionally reached 
 him, of evil doings among the peasantry, far off or near 
 at hand. 
 
 Still, the Wliiteboy outbreaks were becoming more 
 frequent, and assuming more organised and determined 
 forms. Several gentlemen quitted the neighbourhood ; 
 but Mr. Spencer's want of energy and activity, increas- 
 ing with his prolonged existence, was his principal safe- 
 guard ; he became also more kindly and good-humoured, 
 — attributable, and perhaps justly, to Ellen's influence; 
 and shocked some of the liigh-pressure people, by a 
 declaration that he was convinced the lower class were 
 not evil movers ; that he wondered how they had 
 borne what they had borne, for so many years ; that 
 their endurance was exemplary, and that disturbance 
 existed only amongst those who were not poverty- 
 stricken. He muttered, also, something which sounded 
 very like " rights of the people ;" and hinted his 
 opinion, that the representative of a certain ancient 
 family had actually committed a breach of the peace by 
 knocking do"\vn his own coachman. These were novel 
 doctrines in those days. He had learned, moreover,
 
 134 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 wliat tilings a landlord might do, and wliat tilings it 
 would be mucli better for liira to avoid. Some said liis 
 conduct proceeded from love of the people, others, that 
 be feared for himself; and many wondered, that Mr. 
 Graves permitted his daughters to companion so much 
 with such a girl as Ellen Macdonnel, whom nobody 
 knew, and who was little more or less than a yoimg rebel. 
 
 But all Mr. Spencer's plans were suddenly over- 
 turned — crushed — extinguished, by a stroke of apo- 
 plexy, which terminated fatally in a few hours. A 
 kindly man he was, without any of the higher or holier 
 objects of our nature, — living an aimless life; yet his 
 funeral was " mighty grand." His heir and nephew, 
 being abroad, did not hear of his death for a consider- 
 able time after the last "palled pageant" had faded; 
 and did not visit Ireland, as we know, until several 
 months after the " melancholy event." 
 
 Some said, it was a great blot on the memory of 
 the " Master of Spencer Court," that he had forgotten 
 to provide for a child of his adoption, who had loved, 
 and tended, and cherished him as a parent. His vnfe 
 had bequeathed her to liis care, and as he never spoke 
 of his nephew Edward Spencer, and invariably treated 
 " dear Nelly" as a daughter, and during the last months 
 of his life, always mentioned her as "his niece;" many 
 expected that the young, favoured, petted creature, 
 would have been provided for ; but at the last " poor 
 Nelly" was forgotten, — left upon the world without a 
 shilling !
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND, 135 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "the sickness." 
 
 Abel Richards had long been a stranger at Spencer 
 Court. Mrs. Myler, tliougli ambitious of being consi- 
 dered " a saint," was of late somewhat averse to be 
 reckoned one of his saints; and though she could per- 
 ceive no harm in much that her late master and Miss 
 Ellen condemned, she appeared to deem herself justi- 
 fied in hating one she had formerly upheld as a 
 martyi'. She manifested, therefore, some surprise when, 
 a few days after Mr. Spencer's funeral, Mr. Richards, 
 unannounced, entered her Httle pai-lour. Having 
 offered a few words of condolence, he suddenly in- 
 quired for Miss Ellen. 
 
 " And what wiU come of the fine young lady now 
 that her friend is gone? What will become of her 
 now? she's too fine for her brother — and for service." 
 
 " Service !" repeated Mrs. Mylcr, looking spitefully 
 over her spectacles at the place where Mr. Richards 
 stood — for he had risen too high in the world to sit in 
 a housekeeper's room. " Service!" she screamed forth 
 again, after a pause, and her thin angular figure dilated
 
 136 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 and trembled with bitter indignation, while her sharp 
 purple nose assumed something of a warm crimson tone 
 from the heat of her displeasure. " Service, Mr. 
 Richards ! — and what right, may I make bould to ask, 
 have you, or the likes of you, to even mention service 
 to Miss Ellen Macdonnel — or any thing else disparaging 
 to her." 
 
 " Why, you say the master died without a will." 
 
 "Good, Sir!" answered Mistress Myler, drawing 
 back her head with a jerk, while she touched the 
 thumb of her left hand with the forefin<?er of her rio;ht, 
 preparing to count his questions and her own replies. 
 
 " And what's to keep her?" 
 
 " I'd be sorry to make an old fellow-sarvint (as for 
 all the ring on yer finger and a silver-gilt watch in 
 yer fob, I must still count you, Mister Richards), I'd 
 be Sony to make a fellow-sarvint and a fellow-sinner 
 an ill answer — but what's that to you ?" and she looked 
 in a steady and determined manner into his face. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing to me, certainly, but from old 
 regard to the family." 
 
 "Ah, bathcrshin, Abel Richards! Regard! no 
 wonder my head is gray, thinking of the wickedness of 
 the world ! Regard for the family, inagh ! You for- 
 get all I know, and all I could tell, only I'd scorn it." 
 
 " Really, my good Mistress Myler, your present hu- 
 mour is most unaccountable, and I must say, unfitted 
 for the time when you ought to bear a chastened and 
 sobered spirit. I inquired after the young woman's 
 welfare." 
 
 " Who do you call yoimg woman?" interrupted
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 137 
 
 Mistress Myler. " I mind the time when you thought 
 she pleased the poor misthrcss's fancy, that you'd go 
 on your knees from this to Cork, to fetch her a rocking- 
 horse — ^young woman, indeed !" 
 
 " I am sure, Margaret, I have heard you abuse her 
 up and down, right and left, so that as the saying is, 
 a black crow wouldn't look the road she went; and 
 now you fly out like a turkey-cock at a civil question. 
 But maybe the fatigue has taken effect upon you, my 
 poor woman, and you're not quite yourself. I ought 
 not to be angry, but remember your fallen state." 
 
 " I scorn yer insinuations. Sir!" retorted the angry 
 housekeeper. " My lips never touched glass this blessed 
 day, and my head's as clear as my heart's pure !" 
 
 " Misguided sinner !" interrupted Richards, extend- 
 ing his arm and throwing up his eyes. 
 
 " Look here," she exclaimed. " I own I have abused 
 IMiss Ellen, and good right I had — a young witch, 
 driving the world through Heaven's windows — but 
 what's that to any one? She was part of the house, 
 and I had as good a right to fau't her, as I had the 
 master or the mistress; but no one else shall dare to do 
 it, when I'm to the fore; and as to what she has, or 
 what she hasn't, it's no affair of any one's. She'll have 
 enough that's honestly come by, not wrung out of the 
 starvation of the poor, or moulded with the dying 
 curses of hungry houseless sinners !" 
 
 " The benighted woman is gone mad," muttered 
 Abel Richards, while his hands trembled so witli anger 
 that he could hardly button his coat. 
 
 "No!" answered Mistress Myler, "she is not — one
 
 138 THE whiteboy; 
 
 tiling or another lias brought her to her senses;" then 
 she added with prophetic gravity, drawing herself up, 
 " the country at this blessed moment is just Kke a kettle 
 on the bile — a kettle that will bile away its strength 
 into the fire, but in so doing put out thejire that set it 
 biling ; mind that, Abel Richards. One that stirs up the 
 poor and ignorant, or those that are neither the one 
 nor the other, into mischief, or puts stumbling blocks 
 in the night time into a clear path : — the Lord forgive 
 them their sins ! and those who remove their neighbour's 
 landmark — sure, you II say ' Amen' when I say the Lord 
 forgive them their sins? Well, good evening to you, 
 my fine gentleman ! it's getting late, and I don't blame 
 you not to stay out after nightfall ; Lawrence Macarthy's 
 a fine young man now, with the mark of your shot on 
 the third — the lucky — finger of his left hand; and the 
 faction has a strong back and a long memory, and 
 them ejectments are fresh in the people's heads. Well, 
 God be praised ! ive have no occasion to draw a boult 
 or hinder the early morning air coming in — the breath 
 of God's blessing it is — ^by shutting the "windows over 
 night. Tlie poor gentleman that's now in his grave — 
 ' Mrs. Mylcr,' says he, ' never heed the bolts ; they 
 never rob; if they've a mind to murder, bolts won't 
 keep them out.' That was a true word; the life isn't 
 worth having that the body must keep watch over to the 
 destruction of its own peace. Oh, a good night, Sir; 
 if the bell wasn't broke I'd ring for one to let you out ; 
 though the ways of the house aint unknown to you. I 
 dare say the young gentleman will come over to look 
 after tilings himself one of these days."
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 139 
 
 Richards waited no longer, bnt with an inward curse, 
 which he cloaked beneath a blessing, stumbled liis way 
 down the stairs as he best could ; starting only once, as 
 the wind from one of INIistress Myler's favourite open 
 windows agitated the cape of the riding cloak which 
 Mr. Spencer would need no more. 
 
 Of all people in the world the Irish are least changed 
 by the poverty of their superiors; there is much of 
 instinctive chivalry in the natural character; a warm 
 sympathy with the poor and unfortunate — ever bestow- 
 ing that, if they have nothing else to g-ive. 
 
 Ellen had never been treated with so much respect 
 and affection by the servants at Spencer Court, as 
 when she was beHeved to be friendless and penniless; 
 the old butler laid the cloth and the best plate for her; 
 the groom, who had many a time grumbled at her 
 hard riding, assured her the horses wanted exercise; 
 the gardener cut for her the few choice flowers that 
 remained ; and she provoked the wiath of Mrs. Myler, 
 by steadily refusing the presents of eggs and poultry 
 which her humble neighbours brought for her as 
 free gifts. But the greatest change was in the old 
 housekeeper's demeanour towards her, " Don't be down- 
 hearted, dear," she would say, " and let the past go. 
 I tell you, when the master comes over, he'll find what 
 I say is true; every thing, he said in his letter, is to re- 
 main as it is ; so make yourself asy, dear." 
 
 Yet nothing could remove the weight from poor 
 Ellen's heart. Whatever people might say, she found 
 herself powerless, where for the last five years she had 
 been powerful — craving for independence, yet shrinking
 
 140 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 from obtaining it by any species of servitude, which 
 in Ireland is always considered dependance. She knew 
 a great deal, but nothing perfectly: natm-al talents 
 she possessed to admiration; a voice of exceeding 
 beauty and an ear of undeviating truth and purity, 
 she had cultivated only as a means of amusement ; 
 Dean Graves and his daugliters were away; so she 
 had no counsellors. A deep and almost absorbing 
 anxiety for her brother, as dear as he was dangerous, 
 was mingled with her every thought; plans or pro- 
 jects, she had none. It was true the heir of Spencer 
 Court had desired that all tilings might go on as 
 usual until he was able to visit Ireland; but Ellen 
 loathed the idea of an Englishman having power 
 there, and resolved, go where she would, to leave the 
 place before his arrival. These various and contend- 
 ing feelings wTOught upon her to such a degree, that 
 a violent illness was the consequence; so complicated 
 and severe it was, that the housekeeper thought there 
 would be another funeral; but this violent attack 
 cemented more strongly the freshly developed love 
 she bore the young and lonely girl; it was a drawing 
 out of her nature, her Irish nature, that developed 
 the sweetness concealed by the rough-coated nut. 
 Ellen lay down on her bed of sickness a wild, rebelHous- 
 hearted girl, rebellious against God's will; but the woe 
 and wearing of weeks, continuing into months, sobered 
 and softened her; and when she beijan to recover her 
 strength, it was to hear that not only starvation, but a 
 fierce and pestilent fever was raging all around them. 
 The winter had been bitter and severe, the spring wet
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 141 
 
 and dreary, the summer cold ; the ever recurring trouble 
 was rife — for the old potatoes were exhausted, the new 
 ones not come in; discontent and disaffection prevailed, 
 wliile scores were lying and dying of the pestilence. 
 This state of things in a comparatively milder de- 
 gree, was neither new nor uncommon; but previously, 
 she had had the means of alleviating the misery which 
 no individual fortune could remove. Now, she could 
 do little but weep. Whatever feeling Mrs. Myler had 
 (her position rendering her griping, while her nature 
 inclined to kindness), seemed absorbed by Ellen; nor 
 was it until two of the domestics of Spencer Court 
 were seized and sacrificed by the "sickness," that the 
 housekeeper aAvoke to its danger. " It was shocking," 
 she said, "to have it coming like a wild baste into 
 gentlemen's houses; all the fault of the quality not 
 being there to keep it out." 
 
 When Ellen gained a little bodily strength, it would 
 have needed more powerful authority than Mrs. Myler's 
 to keep her from her old haunts; first she crept, tree 
 by tree, along the lonely avenue, until she reached the 
 gate-house; here a sheet steeped in lime and hung 
 across the door, would have been a sufficient intimation 
 not to enter, to any one who knew what fear of conta- 
 gion was; but Ellen put it aside, and saw the living 
 child on the breast of the dead mother; while the father 
 was sitting, sliivering and ghastly, beside " the hob" 
 where the fire used to burn so brightly, his fingers ex- 
 panded over the smouldering embers of the " powdery" 
 turf, that here and there emitted a glaring spark, as 
 the breeze from the door stirred the soft ashes. He
 
 142 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 looked at, but did not know her, tliougli he knew 
 that death was Ms companion then — for groans of 
 mental anguish, sterner and deeper than ever arose 
 from mere pain, shook his frame even more strongly 
 than the disease beneath which he was sinking. The 
 cliild dropt its mother's breast, and looking up to Ellen, 
 stretched out its arms towards her. 
 
 " I'll take it, Miss; the sickness is over me, so I can't 
 have it," said the eldest girl, whom she had not previ- 
 ously perceived, and the pale creatiure staggered to the 
 bed; "mother's quite dead now — quite dead: father, 
 mother's gone — clean — clean gone from us. Oh, father ! 
 jewel ! cry — cry, and it will ease yer heart. He's never 
 shed a tear, Miss, since my brothers war buried." She 
 placed the child across his arms, and wailed out, 
 " Mother's gone — mother's gone." 
 
 This recalled the man; he strained the infant con- 
 vulsively to his heart, turned his slow, meaningless 
 gaze towards the bed, and uttered a scream, full of such 
 ringing horror and despair, that EUen covered her ears 
 with her hands, and rushed out of the lodge. For some 
 minutes she leaned against a pillar of the avenue gate. 
 It is astonishing how rapidly tilings fall to decay in L'e- 
 land ; seldom is a nail replaced, until the hinge drops off, 
 or a stone put back, until the waU breaks down; Ellen 
 was, therefore, hardly surprised when the hasp of the 
 gate came off in her hand, and the remaining hinge 
 hung on, in sulky indifference, by a single screw. The 
 dog, half cur, half hoimd, who used to bark with such 
 earnest vehemence if that gate were touched by any but 
 Iiis master and mistress, came out, — the shadow of his
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 143 
 
 former self; his long tail, uncm-led and draggling, liis 
 bristles sticking out, and liis eyes glazed. The animal 
 stalked up to, and smelt at her feet and dress ; then, 
 raising up its gaunt head, uttered a sharp bark followed 
 by a yeU, so unlike liis usual inquiring and insulting 
 tones, that EUen laid her hand on the head of her own 
 stately dog, to prevent his displeasiu'e from falHng on 
 the author of such imearthly somids. The yell, mingled 
 with the damp, cliill air, which the rays of the sun 
 failed to warm, seemed to ring in her ears after the 
 creature had crept away A\dtliin the sheet. Yet, as she 
 looked tlirough the bars, upon the gTcen sloping fields, — 
 the river brightening and dancing in the valley, while 
 beyond, the effect of the Hght and clouds threw varied 
 and ever changing tints upon the mountains, — her spirit 
 recovered its elasticity ; and a gush of thankfulness to 
 God that she was again able to walk forth amid the 
 beauty of her o-vvn land, cheered her, with a rapidity 
 which only youth, and Irish youth, can know. She 
 pushed open the gate, and after walking a few yards, 
 entered the little com't leading to the schooUiouse. 
 
 Weeds had grown up between the flint stones that 
 paved the entrance — small, stubborn, rag weed, and 
 the sappy, staring dandelion, the pusliing, intrusive 
 leaves of the rude nettle, and tufts of rank, spiry grass ; 
 the woodbme hung loosely and trailed from the broken 
 trellice ; and in the very cup of the waterspout, not too 
 high for her hand to reach, a robin had built its nest. 
 At the noise of raising the latch, four sturdy young birds 
 looked down on her, poking out their heads, and ruffling 
 and twistino; in their habitation — as if undetermined
 
 144 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 ■whether they should wage war with the intruder, or 
 trust to their stout pinions and fij away. How damp 
 the room felt ! not close, however, for the opposite door 
 leading into the little garden must have been open for 
 some weeks; weeds had grown up around it — dark, 
 tall weeds; a large yellow frog had been squatting on 
 the hearth-stone, and with its stony eyes, and bloated 
 sides, slouched heavily away as Ellen entered. Crickets 
 were lying dead among turf ashes. The cupboard, 
 where the boys ought to have kept their slates, but 
 where Master Mat stored away his " eatables " in 
 former days, and which had been full of httle, fat, 
 frisking mice, whom he could never bear to destroy, 
 was open, and silent. The blackbird — the sweet song 
 bird, that whistled his wandering master up many a 
 morning at daybreak, had died of starvation ; his yellow 
 bill hanging over the broken blue tea-cup, that once 
 contained its food. The long tables looked hke spectres 
 of fir and deal. The books — thumbed, worn, " Vosters," 
 and " Goughs," and " Read-a-made-easys," with hero 
 and there a sly " Freeney's Adventures," " Valentine 
 and Orson," or " The Adventures of Redmond O'Han- 
 lon," more thumbed, more dirty than any of the others — 
 were damp and mildewed; some piled up, others were 
 scattered on the floor. Ellen walked into the kitchen, 
 where Mr. Spencer had ordered that an old woman 
 should live, to look after the house, and cook " the 
 master's" simple meals; there, the desolation was greater 
 than elsewhere. She cal'ed, " Molly— Molly Geary !" 
 The spiders ran along their huge webs, or crouched in the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 145 
 
 centre of tlie filmy architecture, astordslied and terrified 
 at tlie vibration of a human voice. 
 
 Tlrere was no other indication that her summons had 
 been heard ; with a heart sickened and fainting, as 
 rapidly as it had been refreshed, Ellen passed into the 
 garden. A boy was grubbing up a potato plot which 
 had been already despoiled of the young growth of 
 potatoes — hardly so big as hazel-nuts. He was de- 
 vouring every one he could find ; liis rags hung on liis 
 skeleton limbs ; he started, and would have run away, 
 when he saw her ; but she called the half-idiot child by 
 his " nick-name," Hatty; and then he ran half crying, 
 and crouching to her, like a whipped dog. 
 " Hatty, where is old Molly gone?" 
 *' Purgatory," said the child. 
 " What, dead?" 
 " Ou, ay, long agone !" 
 
 " And where's James, Master Mat's little foreman?'* 
 " Run away from de feaver; but dey say it overtuck 
 liim on de road to Cork — and he's dead; so dey say; 
 and Hatty's glad. He hot me once — me! Hatty 
 O'DriscoU wid de Skibeereen blood of de Reddy 
 O'DriscoU in mee veins — and he only Jimmy White. 
 Ah, death cot him ! — hurroo !" 
 
 " Are — are there any more dead, Hatty?" 
 " Ou, ay, powers o' people — ^yet de food's none de 
 plenty or ! Ye look as if ye oughtn't to be alive yerself, 
 Miss. Dead ! Bedad dey 're all dead — dey war starved 
 first — and den de feaver. Timmy and little Anty, and 
 Mary Moore, dey 're dead; and Molly Bawn, and her 
 sister Essy, and Jim Coyle — no, Jim's alive — and 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE whiteboy; 
 
 Bobby Macheaffy — ^no, de breath's in liim yet. I want 
 liis waistcoat, Miss Ellen ; so I watches where he's lying, 
 and give him a drink o' wather; but he can't last, and 
 den, hurroo ! Hatty '11 have de waistcoat I" 
 
 Sickened and disgusted, Ellen gave the boy some 
 halfpence, and told liim to go to Mrs. Couxtney's shop, 
 and buy a weight of potatoes, or some bread. 
 
 " Mrs. Courtney's funeral's just gone up de hill; but 
 some one else will gi' me de bread — good luck to 
 ye ! White bread and sweet milk for Hatty O'Dris- 
 coU; hurroo, white bread and sweet milk for Hatty 
 O'Driscoll!" and the creature, half fiend half fool, 
 boimded away — ^liis rags and long tangled hair shaking 
 with every movement. Ellen looked around her, and 
 could hardly credit the evidence of her senses. Mrs. 
 Myler had withheld from her, ^vith a kindly feeling, 
 every thing she could that was of a painful nature; at 
 last, she had become so accustomed to the disease and its 
 results, that she ceased to tliink of its horrors, as horrors; 
 and Ellen imagined that the starvation and fever of the 
 miserably memorable year of 1821-2, were not worse 
 than the starvations and fevers wliich, more or less, had 
 visited the country on former occasions. A cold sliiver- 
 ing crept through her frame as she observed the cabins, 
 one by one, that were scattered through the glen, and 
 saw how few signs of hfe were moving about them ; the 
 tell-tale smoke did not arise from more than two or three. 
 About a dozen people were assembled roimd a door, 
 waiting to attend one of their friends to his last home ; 
 poor spectral-looking creatures escaped for a little from 
 the starvation which, if it continued much longer, must
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 147 
 
 overtake themselves. At the floor of another cabin a 
 woman was crouched, clapping her hands and keening 
 violently, for Ellen heard the wail loading the air with 
 sorrow. In several places, on the " sheltered side o£ 
 the ditch," the crossing of poles, and outspreading of a 
 coat or cloak, a patched quilt, or a blanket, showed that 
 the wanderer, who had no home, had laid down there 
 to recover, or to die, as it pleased God; those who 
 feared to admit liim into their own homes having done 
 what they could to protect him from the weather. 
 
 Within sight, was the dweUing — half farm-house, half 
 something better — of Abel Richards, siu'rounded by 
 bams of various heights and proportions, built as they 
 were required; stacks of grain, piles of turf, "duty 
 turf;" and in the fields beyond, were potato pits, ridged 
 out — all the elements of life, preserved imtouched amid 
 a starving people, who said that Abel had gone over to 
 England for a while, in the time of famine, lest he 
 might be induced to sell at a somewhat cheaper rate ; not 
 by any motive of humanity, but by — they hardly knew 
 what. If any thing could have made Ellen arraign the 
 justice of Him, who is justice, it would have been the 
 aspect of fatness and abimdance of that bad man's 
 homestead at such a time. Yet the man they hated 
 they had scorned to rob. His barns continued full; 
 his sheep fed imtouched upon the mountains. 
 
 Ellen sunk upon the broken remains of a rustic seat, 
 and burst into a violent flood of tears. She could not 
 tell, and did not tliink, how long she had wept ; but 
 her attention was roused by the violent motions of 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 Brau, wlio sprang about in strong joy, at sometliing 
 which had given him pleasure. 
 
 She looked up, and saw the very person whom she 
 most wished to see, and yet felt she ought most to 
 avoid ; one, whom though she tenderly loved, she had 
 not of late approved : — it was Lawrence Macarthy. 
 
 " Ellen — dear Ellen ! how is this — why, you are worse 
 than I expected, the shadow of yourself!" he exclaimed, 
 " No, this is no time to tm-n away from me, when 
 death, and misery worse than death, is all about us. 
 Wliat have I done to merit this? and how," he added, 
 passionately, " how can you be so weak, as to credit the 
 false tales of lips to which truth is unknown ?" Ellen 
 continued weeping, but did not extend her hand to 
 her brother; the young man, much moved by her evi- 
 dent distress, leaned upon his gun, and gazed on her in 
 silence. He was not as old by several years as he ap- 
 peared; for a habit of command over every thing but 
 self, and constant exposure to sun and wind, had aged him 
 much, so that Lawrence Macarthy, at two-and-twenty, 
 looked at least four years older. His person had become 
 a model of strength and beauty, so firm set, and active, 
 yet withal so muscular, that few would have cared to try 
 their powers with him in a wrestle for life or death. His 
 carriage was remarkably free, erect, and careless, with an 
 air of too much defiance to belong to a man of peaceable 
 habits. His deep-set eyes might have been thought 
 black ; but they were gray, shaded by thick, and long 
 eyelashes of such exceeding beauty, that they gave a 
 softness, and at times, a sweetness to their expression
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 149 
 
 — sucli as might have become a woman better than a 
 man ; his eyebrows, were straight to severity; his brow 
 was bold, broad, and massive; his nose, tliick, and the 
 nostril, proud and swelling; the upper lip, in general so 
 grievous a mistake in our national physiognomy, was 
 short and curved ; but the mouth was large, and the 
 muscles were loose and flexible — an eloquent, rather than 
 a powerful or determined mouth ; it was a mouth which 
 you feared would hardly give forth in fitting language 
 the hifrh imaoininfjs of a rich and fertile mind. The chin 
 and mouth harmonised well; they were, if not sen- 
 sual, at least lovers of pleasure. Mask the upper portion 
 of the face, and you would conjecture that the lower 
 belonged to a voluptuary; conceal the lower, and you 
 had the index of a hero. At the button-hole of his dark 
 green shooting-jacket, hung an old-fashioned silver 
 whistle ; liis shot-belt, was fastened by a broad buckle of 
 the same metal; and his powder-horn, richly mounted, 
 glittered in the sun. It was evident, that Lawrence, 
 as the glensmen said, " took pride out of his rifle." 
 Like his other accoutrements, it was old-fashioned, and 
 of foreign make; but it was bright and polished; the 
 lock and mountings were of exquisite workmanship; 
 the barrel was long, and smooth enough to joy the heart 
 of a Red Indian. 
 
 "We have written, that he leaned upon his gun ; but 
 he loved it too much to lean upon it ; it rested on the 
 groimd, and he clasped it lovingly witliin his palms — 
 as a treasure or a friend. There was nothing, save his 
 natiu-al bearing and these impleinents of the chase, to 
 distinguish Lawrence Macarthy from the half class —
 
 150 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 neitlier gentleman nor farmer ; liis shooting jacket was 
 worn threadbare, and the other portions of liis dress were 
 those of an ordinary peasant. Although always accompa- 
 nied by one or two dogs, he was too proud to ask leave to 
 shoot on any domain — taking the wild and distant moun- 
 tains and lakes, as his sporting ground. And yet, more 
 particularly during the preceding eighteen months or two 
 years, the neighbouring gentry passed him with scarcely 
 a recognition ; he was as ready to return their haughty 
 stare, as they were to bestow it. His want of popularity 
 with the higher — the dominant class — was amply com- 
 pensated by the devotion of the " Cottiers." Every 
 houseless man, every homeless woman, every bare-legged 
 boy, and ragged girl, blessed him ; the very beggars, as 
 he passed, let their outstretched hands drop by their 
 sides, whispering, one to another, " Sure we'll not let on, 
 it's begging we are, to him, for it would scald his heart 
 to have nothing to give;" and instead of the usual 
 imploring words, and more imploring tones, wished 
 him " a fresh blessing," " a power of good luck," " the 
 top of the morning," or some more deep and hearty 
 prayer, in a voice as cheerful, as if they knew no sorrow ; 
 these greetings he failed not to return. 
 
 Ellen still continued to weep, and he to look at her, 
 until, it might be, the sun shone too fiercely in his eyes; 
 certainly tears gathered there, and (for he scorned 
 them too much to wipe them away) hung upon the 
 long lashes. 
 
 "I see how it is," he said, at last, "you believe all 
 you hear against me, ay, and maybe, in your own 
 mind add to it — "
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 151 
 
 Still Ellen Macdonnel made no answer. 
 
 " Isn't it enough to have starvation and contention 
 abroad, without letting them force from every cup the 
 small, small drop of sweetness, the sweetness of afiec- 
 tion left us in this land of slavery?" he continued. 
 
 " God knows it is," murmured Ellen, " and God 
 knows how bitterly I feel that — desolate as I am." 
 
 *' Ay, Ellen, that is of a piece with every thing else 
 that is done by the rich for the poor in our coimtry ; 
 their charity is to use not to succour; that black-hearted, 
 bigoted beggar, Richards, used to cast up his eyes and 
 talk of his angel lady's charity in bringing up a cast- 
 away. By — if I had been a man when he called you 
 that, he should not have lived to say it again; and as it 
 is, my debts to hun are not yet discharged." 
 
 "Hush!" said Ellen, "there is too much death 
 around us to talk of vengeance ; the Lord has taken ven- 
 geance into his own hands." 
 
 " It has fallen on the innocent then," he said, with a 
 fierce, proud look. " The rich have either fled the pesti- 
 lence, or fortify themselves within their houses, doling 
 out charity with hands palsied in returning pence, but 
 active in taking pounds; like the cold, proud woman, 
 whose fimeral ahnost cost me my hfe. Your young, 
 bright face was a sunbeam in her house, you went 
 abroad among the poor, and came back laden with 
 blessings that reflected upon her, and what did she do 
 to one she was bound to cherish? She left you to her 
 husband — and he — after letting you grow up a woman, 
 the mistress of his house — leaves you to — Oh, Ellen ! 
 bitter is such nurture — accursed such protection."
 
 152 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 *' Stop, Lawrence," she exclaimed, " can you wonder 
 tliat I will not hear you? It is many months since we 
 met, you know how much I loved the only parents 
 I have ever knoAvn, and yet you seem to think it will 
 pleasure me to insult them in their graves. Oh, can 
 you wonder, I again ask you — that I will not hear 
 you?" 
 
 " A very little time ago, Ellen," he said, " and your 
 mind was as free as my own ; you rose, though not more 
 than a child, against the bigotry and intolerance of that 
 proud woman. You saw clearly — you felt keenly — you 
 were all but saved — ^you loved your country, as an Irish 
 woman ought to love it. I have seen your lips blush 
 scarlet with indignation, when you cursed those in- 
 vaders, heart and soul." 
 
 " Then God pardon me if I did, Lawrence. What 
 right had I to curse — I, who have no power to bless ! 
 I do not love my country less than I did, but far more 
 — my own sufferings have taught me more keenly to 
 feel hers. Wlien Mrs. Spencer lived, I o^vn I rebelled 
 against her bigotry and injustice; but surely, if men 
 such as her husband possessed the land, we should have 
 nothing to complain of" 
 
 " Hear tliis !" he exclaimed, Avith a bitter oath, " did 
 I ever think to hear you say such wretched words as 
 these? Have you forgotten what we have read together 
 — the injvu'ies and oppressions of centuries? Have you 
 forgotten what we have seen — the rise of rents, the 
 exaction of heretic tithes? Have you forgotten the 
 infliction of martial law, and insurrection acts? Have 
 you forgotten the tithe book? the Protestant grazier
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 153 
 
 paying nothing for the land that fattens his cattle for 
 the English market ; while the poor Catholic who raises 
 five acres of corn — three for market and two for his 
 own support — is obliged out of this to pay the priest 
 and the minister? Have you forgotten Abel Richards 
 and the starving out ?" 
 
 " No, La"vvrence," she answered. " Nor have I for- 
 gotten the good old man who saved the poor man's 
 family ; though I see you have forgotten that he and I 
 are of the faith you would blacken and falsify." But 
 he heeded her not — he was lashing himself into a 
 fury, and Ellen was unable to quell the storm. He con- 
 tinued, " Even lately, when the sickness has been stalk- 
 ing through the country, the usual tithe has been en- 
 forced for the rotten potato; the tithe proctor and 
 driver take advantage of the famine, bring up the rear 
 of Almighty vengeance, and become in their own 
 persons the last great scourge of the husbandman." 
 
 " Dean Graves has not done this," said Ellen, gently. 
 
 " Because he is afraid — " 
 
 *' He is out of the coimtry, why should he fear?" 
 
 " I tell you nothing but fear makes them human I 
 Do I not know them all? and before long they shall 
 have cause for fear. There's hardly a man — there is 
 no triie-hearted man in the South — who is not a 
 Whiteboy. Believe me, we shall have foreign help 
 as well. Rouse, Ellen — rouse and work — as you once 
 promised to do — our standard ! the Harp — free to 
 soimd, with no crown to crush her full gush of melody; 
 the motto ! — the wi'eath of mingled laurel and shamrock. 
 This fever, this famine, have roused those that have
 
 154 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 been spared; and England, insulting our country, by 
 soliciting food, begging it, for ' tbe starving Irish,' send- 
 ing us back our own meal and potatoes, that never 
 would have left our shores but for her base gold — 
 sending them back to ' the starving Irish,' and then 
 congratulating herself on her charity. Does a mother 
 talk of charity when she feeds her child?" 
 
 " Lawrence !" said Ellen, anxious to divert his mind, 
 and she looked steadily at the excited and panting 
 man who stood before her. " Lawrence ! there is some- 
 thing more than usual stirring, to excite you thus. 
 What new project have you moved in?" 
 
 "It is not new, Ellen. When has it been new for 
 the worm to turn?" 
 
 " Oh !" she answered, " if I could but see a chance 
 of the independence of my country — a chance of her 
 not only gaining but retaining independence — I 
 would die to achieve it — die, to render it a country in- 
 stead of a province; but the unavailing struggles of 
 the past rise before me — the rapine, and miu'der, and 
 distress, and perfidy, that have followed each successive 
 struggle — the unworthy purposes which have actuated 
 some, and the base gold by which others liave been 
 bought — the want of means — of training " 
 
 The impatience of Lawrence Macarthy could brook 
 no more, and he interrupted her — " None know better 
 than you, Ellen, blind as you have been to the devo- 
 tion of one who honoured you by his love, how ably 
 he has trained, and how well he has provided means 
 we never had before." 
 
 In a moment Ellen's cheek flushed.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 155 
 
 "I know what HE says and tliinks," slie replied; 
 *' and I am certain lie believes his own statements; but, 
 as I told you before, and as I told him in the brief in- 
 terviews when, ignorant ahke of his political views and 
 the fecHng he most unfortunately entertained towards 
 me, my dear uncle received him at Spencer Court, I 
 told him then, that though he had motives, he had 
 no means. One individual cannot organise a whole 
 people ; and the last time I saw you together, it seemed 
 to me that hope was the only aid you had received 
 from the stranger. They may hand the dagger to you; 
 but when the time comes, they fail to draw the 
 sword." 
 
 *' Do you tliink if he was not certain of success, 
 he would have abandoned his high position to organise 
 us?" inquired Lawrence. "And you, who could have 
 repaid him for this sacrifice, to turn as you have done." 
 
 Ellen made no reply but moved to depart. Lawrence 
 seized her hand, she raised her eyes to his face. 
 
 " Peace, Lawrence !" said Ellen, with a firmness 
 hardly to be expected from her past weakness, " peace! 
 When last we met, we parted on this cause, and it will 
 part us now." 
 
 *' No, Ellen," said her brother, " but you should 
 remember, it was love for you first drew him to tliis 
 neighbourhood, and stirred his heart to abandon the 
 service of the hard Saxon." 
 
 " I cannot judge of such quick caught love," she 
 answered, with more calmness; " I tell you, there is no 
 strength in him; love for me, if so you call it, could 
 have moved to no such purpose ; it was a wild, and per-
 
 156 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 haps cliivalrous nature, impatient of control, beating for 
 some wild action and celebrity." 
 
 " You do him injustice, Ellen; you wrong bis noble 
 patriotism." 
 
 " Then God forgive me, if I do," slie said, " for if I 
 do, I Avrong that which I honour most on earth. You, 
 Lawrence, love the country ; you see what it might be — 
 but can never be; while your associates see nothing be- 
 yond their white shirts, and midnight plunder." 
 
 " Plunder !" he repeated, indignantly. " They never 
 plimder, they only revenge." 
 
 "Revenge!" echoed a soft, musical voice, close to 
 where Lawrence stood, " Revenge! Ay, Larry boy, it 
 is a grand word to sound, and there is a fine line in 
 Homer about it ; ah ! I dare say you never got into 
 Homer ; but, Larry, tioo you know can play at it ; isn't 
 that it ? It is a bhnd thing, seeing no hght ; and rusliing 
 to destroy until it is destroyed ; you murder me, and 
 my faction murder you — God avenges, where ven- 
 geance is due; ah, boy I God avenges." And Mat- 
 thew, the treasure-seeker, shook his head, while he 
 repeated, "God avenges;" then turning, he addressed 
 Ellen. " Miss Ellen, darling-avourneen, how pale ye 
 are ; are you sick a lana ? sick or well, the blessing of 
 yer masther, and the masther of us all be upon you ! I've 
 seen a deal. Master Lawrence, a deal of the vengeance 
 of both sides, and that makes me pity both. I praise 
 my Maker, I see good in Roman and Protestant, and 
 Protestant and Roman, as well as in the antiquities of 
 the earth. We were a great nation once — dears ; as I 
 can prove by coins and other curiosities ; and we've had
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 157 
 
 a (leal to put up with — a deal ; and times don't mend — 
 no, indeed they don't. No, times don't mend! At 
 Macroom, the dead wait for the living in the streets, to 
 be buried together; and there's no coffins for so many, 
 and they clear them away, without minding. I'm glad 
 to get back to the school for a while," he added, 
 " though like every thing else, it's very lonely." 
 
 Ellen entreated her old preceptor to return with her 
 to Spencer Court; to this he agreed, saying, he was 
 charged with a message from the "new master;" and 
 ready tears sprang to his eyes. " A message from the 
 new master to Mistress Myler, saying he would soon 
 be home — he called it ' home^ " said Matthew, rubbing 
 his hands, " he called it home ; and he's of the right 
 sort, no half-and-half; yes , Edward Spencer of Spencer 
 Court's of the right sort; and not afraid of Whiteboy, 
 or fever — but true. Now don't sneer, La"\vrence — 
 don't! — don't I say put that face upon yerself, it 
 makes you look — " 
 
 " Say it out, Domine, it makes me look ' Devilish ;' 
 I feel as I look, and look what I feel — that's it. So the 
 new slave-driver is in Cork, is he ?" 
 
 " I saw him at Blarney, with the priest; and he dined 
 with the priest ; there's news for you, and news you'll 
 like ! and the boy who drove him told me, he as good 
 as talked treason all the road ; about wishing the people 
 better houses, and the beauty of Ireland ; and his ser- 
 vants in grass-green liveries — tliink of that. Sure no 
 man but a friend to the boys would put his servants in 
 grass-green these times." 
 
 '* Any time," said Ellen, in a joyous tone.
 
 158 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 " You're easy cauglit, poor bird !" observed Law- 
 rence. " Walt till the midsummer gale comes due." 
 
 " Dean Graves is come over, too," said Matthew. 
 
 "And his daughters?" inquired Ellen, eagerly. 
 
 " Ay 'deed, are they, dear ! and another whose sins 
 were heavy enough to sink the ship." 
 
 " Abel Richards?" said Lawrence. 
 
 " 'Deed ay, how well you guessed." 
 
 *' We've had the sickness and the famine," obsen^ed 
 Lawrence, " and now we'll have Abel Richards ; the worst 
 comes last. They say, he's to be the new agent." 
 
 " No, Mr. Spencer will be his own agent ; I heard 
 him say that myself," answered the schoolmaster. 
 
 " Ay, liis own magistrate, to charge, commit, and 
 try; his o-\vn grinder, his own baiUff, his own drover; 
 who doubts it !" said Lawrence. 
 
 " I do," exclaimed Ellen. " Oh, Lawrence, if the 
 heavy hand of sickness had weighed you down as it has 
 me, you would show more mercy." 
 
 "Did you hear when Abel Richards comes down 
 here?" inquired La^Tcnce. 
 
 "'Deed I did; he came at &st as far as Macroom, 
 and was forced to go back to Cork; the man at the 
 inn daren't give him post horses; and the curses of 
 the people fell so tliick about him, to say nothing of 
 the stones, that he galloped back faster than he came ; 
 they heard tell, I dare say, how he kept up the price of 
 potatoes to the poor at the time he was fattening his 
 pigs on the pick of all sorts, until they could tell the 
 difference betwixt a cup and a red nosed kidney; but 
 after all, they said, he'd get down to-night to meet the 
 red coats to-morrow at Kenmare."
 
 A STORY or IRELAND. 159 
 
 " Oil there's no doubt he'll be at his fine flourishing: 
 farm to-night," said Lawrence. " No doubt of it; it's a 
 pleasant prospect, a great deHght, Ellen, to the people 
 who are starving — those the fever has left — to know 
 of the wine that's stowed in his cellars, and the meat 
 that putrifies in his tubs, and to look at the potato pits 
 chock full, and the stacked grain ! And to me, it's a fine 
 tiling for me to stand here and remember that every 
 inch of the land we look on, ought to be mine ; and yet to 
 know, that I couldn't cross a horse of higher value than 
 five pounds, but Master Abel Richards, by "sartue of his 
 turned coat, could take it from me !" The young man's eyes 
 flashed as he spoke, and his voice was so loud, that the 
 schoolmaster put liis hand before his lips ; but the im- 
 petuous youth, dashed it away, and was about again to 
 speak, when a wild shriek burst from the nearest cottage ; 
 Ellen saw a man with a tattered blanket round him — a 
 tall, ghastly creature, tossing his arms, and screaming 
 like a wild eagle; and presently, a girl Avith ahnost as 
 little covering crept out of the cottage, twined her thin 
 arms about him, and led him in. 
 
 " The fever's madness is on poor Davy Byrne, ' 'deed 
 is it;' and no wonder, all he has left out of his house- 
 full, is that one girl ; he had nothing but liis four bones 
 to keep them — ^nothing for them to do. You'll speak 
 a good word for Davy, Miss Ellen, to the new master," 
 said Matthew. 
 
 " Who'll speak a good word for her, I wonder ?" 
 inquired Lawrence, turning fiercely on the meek 
 Matthew. 
 
 " The blessing of the poor, and the grace of God,
 
 160 THE whiteboy; 
 
 Lawrence Macarthy; it's a great thing to earn the one, 
 and to live witli the other — they will speak for .her! 
 the sick will speak for her — and the sorrowful will speak 
 for her — and the poor will speak for her ; because in 
 her prosperity, she was meek and generous. The great 
 God is her friend! — and in her sorest trials He will 
 make all plain." 
 
 " You saw Abel Richards, I think you said," inquired 
 Lawrence, " at Macroom?" 
 
 " 'Deed I did not; I only heard of him, and I did not 
 want to see him." 
 
 " You should have had a last look at him," he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 " Wliat do you mean by that, Lawrence ?" inquired 
 Ellen, rapidly. 
 
 " What I say," he replied. " God bless you, Ellen 
 dear, I've been too long here; we'll meet again — and 
 soon ; good bye, Domine ;" and choosing the highest 
 part of the fence, he sprang over it with the grace and 
 rapidity of an Indian. Ellen turned pale, and trembled 
 so violently, that she was obliged to cling to the school- 
 master for support ; a terrible dread of she knew not 
 Avhat crept over her frame, and thrilled in every vein. 
 She would have recalled him, but she had hardly power 
 to breathe, much less to speak — while the simple- 
 minded treasure-seeker watching his bounding steps, ex- 
 claimed, " What a handsome fellow he is — with the 
 air of a prince. Never could get more Latin than to 
 call me Domine ! no head for fractions — a brave, wild 
 boy. Never read a book I think in all his life, but 
 * Keating's History of Ireland.' "
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. < 161 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BURNING. 
 
 Ellen had been away above two hours, before she 
 was missed by the housekeeper of Spencer Court. Al- 
 ways precise in her dress, Mrs. Myler covered her head 
 with her black-silk hood, took her crook-headed stick in 
 her hand — not that any bodily infirmity obliged her to 
 use it, but she found it needful to keep off the dogs, 
 gather the poultry together, and sometimes to chastise 
 the children who trespassed, or it might be an under- 
 serving wench, inexpert at her duties — and was about 
 to set forth to seek her truant patient, when she met 
 her with her old friend, the schoolmaster, at the porch. 
 At first, her reprimands to the half fainting girl, were 
 so many and so loud, that, to divert the current, Ellen 
 mentioned the arrival of Edward Spencer in Cork : the 
 volubiHty of Mrs. Myler was at once checked. 
 
 " In Cork !" she repeated, " in Cork ! and never to 
 write a line to tell me to set the place in order ; never 
 to put pen to paper to one who was so well respected in 
 the family ; who came with them from North to South. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 Oh', Miss Ellen ! if after all my opinion of liim, lie 
 sliould turn out tlie like of tliat ; but I'll not fuss myself 
 about it — not I ; I'll take it easy ; as lie brews, so lie 
 may bake. I'm not to know lie's come." 
 
 " I told liim I'd tell you," said Matthew. 
 
 " You told him you'd tell me, did you?" she repeated, 
 *' there couldn't be a more agreeable messenger, barring 
 the post; sure it would be no great trouble to the yomig 
 gentleman to write, what liis forbears would have done, 
 though I know I'm only a housekeeper ; and it isn't the 
 fashion now-a-days to respect old servants !" 
 
 " I dare say he did write to you, Mrs. Myler," said 
 the schoolmaster, " I'm sure he did. He's not the gentle- 
 man to neglect an act of good manners to any one, par- 
 ticularly to you, Ma'am ; but 'deed, did I forget to tell 
 you — they shot the Post somewhere near Macroom ; and 
 I wouldn't wonder if the letter was in the bag." 
 
 " Shot the Post !" exclaimed Mrs. Myler, in bewil- 
 dered astonishment; "you are not in dowmight and 
 positive earnest, are you ?" 
 
 " 'Deed am I," replied Master Mat. "The accounts in 
 Cork were so hard of "Wluteboy doings ; houses burnt 
 for having arms, and houses burnt because they had 
 none, and the talk of Whitcboy gatherings tliis side of 
 Macroom, and in all the passes — that the Post refused to 
 go out ; until one fine boy, with the courage of a lion, 
 ,and the faith of a lamb, swore he'd go, and go safe ; that 
 they wouldn't touch him; that he didn't fear them; and 
 bragged grately. Of course, there were them in the 
 crowd til at took the wind of the word to the White- 
 boys, and they won't be bragged over ; so they took
 
 A STORY or IRELAND. 163 
 
 Mm in one of the passes — and sliot him ! Sure I saw 
 his mother and sister, and a power of their people, 
 "bringing home the body ; the poor mother went for it, 
 her lone, into the pass, fearing to bring any one into 
 fresh trouble. A sad and weary load she had ; she drove 
 the car herself, poor thmg ; the gray rocks hanging over 
 her road, and the fox and the eagle looking down upon 
 her trouble; and she found him with a blanket thrown 
 over him, but nothing living near liim ; the rifled bags 
 and torn letters, and his dead horse were there too — 
 thougJi she didn't heed them ; and God gave- her 
 strength while the stars were shining above her, to Hft 
 the body into the car — and there she sat, alone with her 
 dead ! Tlie horse tiimed of himself, and as he was going, 
 all of a sudden she came on a party of the Whiteboys, as 
 good as forty of them ; and they made way for her, 
 parting off each side, to leave the road clear — standing 
 like so many ghosts for her to pass ; but she checked 
 the horse, and stood up and cursed them with the 
 full, deep curse of a widowed mother's heart ; and 
 some would have pimished her, and others would not — 
 and they rushed past her, as fierce and as fast as they 
 could — like a fairy blast — the Lord preserve us ! — say- 
 ing she was mad. The poor horse kept on at the road, 
 and her people met her at the cross ; and it was well 
 they did, for she was lying, all as one as gone, over the 
 body — they thought there were two dead." 
 
 " Oh, the hay thins !" exclaimed Mrs. Mylcr, " to 
 murder the boy that trusted them." 
 
 Ellen turned pale, and thought — " If such acts 
 herald their struggle for liberty, what will their liberty 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 be? Arc you sure it is true?" she said. "It is so 
 unlike any other outrage, Matthew; so cruel and so 
 aimless." 
 
 " Ah, Miss, dear, it's all true; they've been gaining 
 power one way or another, and it's mighty hard, so it is, 
 for men like them to have the power and be hindered 
 from using it. They've been terribly driven, Miss Ellen. 
 First, the way their very souls are rack-rented out of 
 them; and then, starvation — and the fever — and all 
 together leading to madness ; for the heart can go mad 
 as well as the head ! I tliink there's a line in Homer 
 about it. But they're driven on, as I was saying, by 
 starvation, and rack-renting, and tithes; rising against 
 the high rents, fighting inch by inch for the bit of land, 
 and enough Ipng waste all around them of bog, and 
 mountain, and slob — fine reclaimable places to make 
 tAvice as many comfortable. One can't get at the rights 
 of that, or understand the bother they're making 
 through the country about peace-preservation acts, 
 insurrection acts, expense of the constabulary, pro- 
 secutions, martial law, and them little things ; but shoot- 
 ing tlie Post — the poor brave fellow doing a duty that 
 did harm to no one ! When I heard it myself, and found 
 how they were seizing every beast they could put their 
 hands on, I thought it best to leave Daisy in Blarney, 
 in Father Jasper's barn ; for I was unasy in myself 
 about the people and the poor little scliolars, and Miss 
 Ellen, Avho always strengthened me to think of; and 
 having provided for the beast, I set out alone, knowing 
 nothing would hurt me, and I hung any little holy 
 thing I had about my neck as a safeguard — and well
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 165 
 
 it became me to do so, for one-half of the country is 
 dead, and the other half — mad. God look doAvn upon 
 them, benighted and bothered as they are — not knowing 
 what they are after." Master Mat continued talking- 
 after Ellen had sought the quiet of her own little cham- 
 ber. 
 
 When Mrs. Myler had clearly ascertained that the 
 young master was in Ireland, and might be home that 
 very night, she repaired to the housekeeper's room, and 
 after sundry inefficient attempts succeeded in forcing the 
 bell to ring — which it did at last, in a rapid, unnatural 
 manner. Mat went on talking and musing, and then 
 talking again — heedless of the flapping of bare feet 
 along the passages, and the throwing open of doors, 
 until the handles rang again ; nor did he heed the 
 exclamations or the tones of inquiry, or the electrical 
 dictations of the housekeeper, who was guilty of the 
 folly of expecting a disorganised Irish household to 
 fall into order at once; quite forgetting that she herself 
 had been almost as neglectful of her duties to the best 
 rooms, as the servants had been of theirs. 
 
 " It's asy talking for you, Mrs. Myler, Ma'am," expos- 
 tulated the cook, "to talkof mykilHng turkeys to hang. 
 Faix, it's the fox, bad cess to him, that hmig the last of the 
 turkey -hens over his sho wider this very morning ; they're 
 grown as tame as nagurs, the ugly devils, since the fever 
 tliinned the country, and such of the poor boys as are left 
 alive haven't strength to throw as much as a stone afther 
 them ; Bran has never left Miss Ellen since she took 
 ill, and the poor tarrier's not worth a traneen ; the hens 
 are walking 'ottomies, for Mr. Carey wouldn't give us a
 
 166 THE WniTEBOY; 
 
 grain of oats, to save our lives ; and he cramming tlie 
 ould coacli-liorses up to folly, and not a pufF in 'em. I 
 wisli I'd had the luck not to let Miss Ellen see the beau- 
 tiful pair of duty ducks the Widdy Murphy brought this 
 morning, along wid a basket full of chickens ; but she 
 turned 'em off, saying, she wanted 'em worse herself than 
 we did; and sign by it, the %\'iddy sould them to a 
 Cork joulter for eightpence a couple in the avenue, 
 under the sight of my own eyes, and the lovely ducks 
 for tenpence — the ducks war so fat, that the widdy 
 kep' the sun off 'em for fear they'd turn to an oil ! 
 There's no use, IMrs. Mylcr, in expecting me to cook a 
 dinner for the young masther. I'll not turn my back 
 on any girl in the counthry for cookery, biled, roast, 
 brlled, or even sally-lunn, or shm-cake, but I can't cook 
 out o' nothino-." 
 
 *' There are some hams and a tongue in the saw-dust, 
 dry packed," said IMrs. Myler, whose increasing bewil- 
 derment lowered her voice. 
 
 " There was — and good right I have to know it — 
 I Avent hunting everywhere for the weary cat and her 
 kittens ; and, maybe, she and her black brood didn't 
 riddle mee hands, and they soft out of the first scald 
 of mee praskeens and tidy aprons; and bee the same 
 token, ]Mrs. Myler, it's often ye promised mee new 
 rowlers ; and we haven't so much as a skreed left — 
 since the time the cows broke into the drying-g-roimd, 
 and we ating our bit of dinner, and swollowed bodily 
 the last holland sheets; it was a judgment upon you, 
 Mrs. IMyler, Ma'am; as long as ye'd suffer us to dry 
 the clothes on the furze bushes the sunny side of the
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 167 
 
 meado-w, tlie never a thing came across 'em ; but you 
 must have a north bleach green, with props and poles 
 in it like a gallows green. Small blame to the poor 
 cattle to come and look at such an imnatural tiling." 
 "But the hams, Molly?" said Mrs. Myler. 
 " Sure the cat made her bed beside 'em; and betwixt 
 herself and the jumpers, they didn't lave as much as 
 would trap a mouse." 
 
 " And why didn't you tell me this?" 
 
 " ^Vliere was the good of vexing you? Sure, who'd 
 drame of the yoimg gentleman coming here without 
 proper letting on; and the country in such a state. 
 Taix, one would think the quality fancies they've notliing 
 to do but order things in from the butcher's and baker's, 
 the way they do in Dubhn. If he's any way particular 
 in his ating ! he'll be hungry enough. We've salted down 
 the last pig, as you know. Ma'am, to plase Miss Ellen, 
 who grudged them the potatoes ; and barring the boys 
 can fmd a rabbit, or a trout (dirty trash) in the river, 
 or a draw or two of pigeons from the pigeon-house, 
 there's nothing but the kitchen stock; and both the 
 pickled pork and corned beef is gone rusty." 
 
 '* Tliere's something broke the few bottles of sherry 
 left after the poor master's funeral," said the old butler; 
 " but there's a quarter cask of claret, and another of Ma- 
 deira — not touched." 
 
 " And the whiskey, Morty ?" inquired ]\irs. Myler. 
 
 " The ground's mighty soft under the cask of rale 
 Cork," replied Morty, with a very grave face, " so I'm 
 thinking it has leaked a Httle." 
 
 " Oh, Morty, Morty !" ejaculated Mrs. Myler.
 
 168 THE AVHITEBOY; 
 
 " Oil, as I'm a living sinner ! death before dislionour !" 
 answered the pompous old butler. " I'd scorn it, IMa'am; 
 and it under my care." 
 
 " Tlie Lord look down upon us !" ejaculated the house- 
 maid, " the rain has been beating in through all parts of 
 the roof, and to save the beds I put them top 'another, 
 so they're all soaked through." 
 
 It was quite true that the pestilence which overspread 
 the country, seemed to have laid a bhght even upon sticks 
 and stones; people thought only of preserving life, and, 
 careless of property at all times, they became still more 
 careless then. Mrs. Myler indeed was one of the best 
 of her class in this respect, she was habitually careful; 
 but Ellen's illness, her increasing years, dread of " the 
 sickness," and the incorrigible habits of the under ser- 
 vants, had done more to make Spencer Court unHke its 
 former self in a few months, than it would have required 
 as many years to do in an EngHsh dwelling, where all 
 goes on as orderly and as carefully when the master 
 is away, as it does when he is present. 
 
 " After all. Ma'am," said the housemaid to Mrs. 
 Myler, when she came to count the blankets and finally 
 arrange about a bed-room, " they say below, things 
 ain't so bad, after all ; the coachman and groom declare 
 the horses are up to any thing, and being a young- 
 gentleman he'll think a deal of them, no doubt; the 
 dogs are wonderful, the men say, and a fine shot (as I 
 dare say the master is) can bring home liis own dinner 
 any day. If the carpenter, as well as poor Jemmy 
 Gore the smith, had not died last week, we'd have had 
 the windows made as good as new ; but God help us !
 
 A STORY OF IRELAXD. 169 
 
 after all our trouble sure there's every chance of his 
 never reaching the house aHve — think of the poor 
 post-boy — I'll say nothing — the "VVliiteboys, I'm tould, 
 are book sworn against all landlords; and indeed it 
 would be only right to let the poor young gentleman 
 know this," and she glanced with a peculiar expression 
 towards the housekeeper, to see how she received the 
 intimation. 
 
 " Give a hint, indeed !" exclaimed the Northern, 
 " give a hint is it, Biddy, to a gentleman not to come 
 to his own estate because of the lear of a pack of beg- 
 garly marauders, in dirty white sliirts and black faces; 
 black sheep, enagh ! that arc afraid to look the holy 
 sun in the eyes ! disgrace Ireland to the young English- 
 man for ever, and he coming with his heart full of 
 kind thoughts like his uncle towards us, by telling Mm 
 his throat will be cut on the journey ! I wonder ye 
 haven't more pride in ye for the land of your birth ! 
 His uncle lived through all the battery — the Rock- 
 ites, and Wliitefeet, and Starlights, and Moonlights, 
 and peep o' day devils ; Biddy, as you know, ever 
 since he lost the poor mistress — never, since he turned 
 Abel Richards off, was a lock turned on the hall door; 
 he was afraid of no one." 
 
 " Nor no one of him," said Biddy, drily, thinking 
 that was the secret of his safety. 
 
 " That doesn't sound respectful of even a dead mas- 
 ter," said the housekeeper, bridling; "and you should 
 imnd your words, Biddy Doyle, though God knows 
 it's the truth; for if he'd get into a bit of a pet vnth 
 any of the boys he'd warn them to leave the work, and
 
 170 THE whiteboy; 
 
 they'd just stand tlicir spade in it and walk away, tlien 
 come "back quite natural tlie next morning, and no more 
 about it." 
 
 Biddy agreed tliat lie was tlie best master " that 
 ever stood in shoe-leather," that he was a wonder; and 
 in proportion as she praised and arranged the room, 
 heaping turf upon turf on the fire that blazed upon 
 the hearth, so did Mrs. Myler's loquacity increase, and 
 Biddy, presuming on her condescension (for she kept 
 the " lower servants," as she called them, at a much 
 greater distance than did IMiss Ellen), ventured to say, 
 " Why, then, Mrs. Myler, Ma'am, if I may make so 
 bould, there's one thing I've often thought I'd like to 
 know — what put such bitter black blood betwixt 
 yerself and Mr. Richards, ould Abey, the baste, and 
 he of the same religion and all." 
 
 " Ye'd like to know, Biddy, I dare say," answered 
 Mrs. Myler, and she did not speak it bitterly, " and 
 ye'r an honest girl, and I'm sure safe and silent, 
 for you know all that's working through the country 
 and yet never mention it; yet I'm not going to tell you 
 — no — nor no one else. I call no one of my rehgion 
 whose — but no matter — there — if ye drag the quilt 
 that way, it's into ribands ye'll shred it. Afraid of 
 coming to his own estate, indeed !" muttered IMrs. My- 
 ler, as she struck her walkmg-stick rapidly on the floor, 
 preparatory to another journey through the house, 
 into rooms where fires had not been Ht for a year, 
 and into closets where old china and plate were to be 
 dusted and cleaned forthwith. 
 
 There was a universal confusion everywhere, save in.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 171 
 
 Ellen's little cliamber; a sort of panic seemed to have 
 seized on the servants, who kept running against 
 each other at every door and every tiurning of the 
 long gloomy passages, and fancying that the rusliing 
 of the rapid river — the sound they had been ac- 
 customed to so long that they had usually ceased 
 to hear it — was the noise of carriage-wheels ; and 
 every thing went wrong, the very chairs and tables 
 seemed to stand in the way on piu'pose; the supply 
 of candles in the house was so limited that the butler, 
 having furnished forth the stately necked silver candle- 
 sticks with long, yellow, narrow candles of home manu- 
 facture, found that none could be spared for domes- 
 tic use; but Irish invention frequently makes up for 
 the want of forethought ; escalop shells were in several 
 instances filled with grease, and cotton or tow wicks 
 ' set therein, and they flared away with a gliastly light 
 in pantry and kitchen ; torches of bog- wood were placed 
 ready for kindling by the side of the blazing hall fire, 
 so that they might be ready at a moment's notice. 
 As the night advanced every thing seemed to assmne a 
 more comfortable appearance; the house warmed; for 
 though nominally summer, it was more like an Enghsh 
 November than an Irish June. 
 
 " I'd rather he'd come by night than by day," 
 thought the housekeeper to herself, " if he will come to 
 the South first — wliich is a great pity. I'd be ashamed 
 the first tiling he saw at his own gate should be the 
 fever- sheet, or may be the corpse itself going — alone 
 a'most — to the grave." 
 
 The schoohnaster remained for some tune in the pas-
 
 172 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 sage, heedless of the bustle that was around him ; and 
 after the excitement caused by his account of the murder 
 of the post-office messenger was over, he was left unques- 
 tioned, and alone. Tliis would not have been the case 
 at any other time, but the servants had a new interest. 
 As with all Roman Catholic servants in Ireland — 
 the exception being perhaps one in fifty — the house- 
 hold of Spencer Court sided with the disturbers; 
 there was not a domestic within those walls, except Mrs. 
 Myler, -who would have appropriated a flirthing to his, 
 or her use; they were honest, ci\al, industrious; but they 
 were of the " hand,'' and could have looked upon burn- 
 ing or murder with indifference, if commanded by the 
 powers they obeyed. 
 
 EUen sat in her room alone ; it was a pleasant little 
 room, communicating with a sort of French closet in which 
 she slept ; the window, boasting the rare adornment of a 
 balcony, overlooked the garden. Ever and anon the soimd 
 of an opening door, the shrill call of the housemaid, the 
 answering gruff voice of the deaf butler, or an all- 
 powerful command from the lungs of INIrs. Myler, echoed 
 through her chamber; but she heard them not, her 
 thoughts were preoccupied. Ellen's life had been de- 
 voted to thought for others ; but now, circumstances 
 compelled her to think of herself. We have said, that 
 brought up as Ellen Macdonnel had been, the sense oi 
 dependence — mere dependence — did not press upon or 
 weigh her down as it would have done other girls, with 
 as high a spirit, who had been differently circumstanced ; 
 ahnost every one around her lived in the same man- 
 ner, more or less ; but tliis had not interfered with the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 173 
 
 growth of other and most delicate feelings. Her illness 
 followed Mr. Spencer's death so rapidly, that in the ab- 
 sence of Dean Graves' family, she had had no one to ad- 
 vise with as to her future life. Their return was a great 
 comfort to her, and she resolved to write to Miss Graves 
 that very evening, or go to the Glebe the next morning, 
 if she were able. She knew, that whatever she wished 
 to do, her only earthly tie — Lawrence — would for many 
 reasons oppose ; and her feehngs towards him, were of 
 old affections, and new fears. She tried to guide her 
 pen, but could not ; she had never felt her loneliness — 
 the entire desolateness of her state — so bitterly, as on 
 that evening. She sat opposite the window, shivering 
 — although a fire was heaped high upon the hearth — 
 shivciing, and weeping ; the misty atmosphere without, 
 assumed a crimson hue as the sun-set ; and then it faded 
 into the deep, cold gray of twilight, through which she 
 could hardly distinguish the outlines of those glorious 
 mountains which had been to her as famiKar friends. 
 " Friends !" had Ellen any such ! were there any who 
 would launch the bark upon a world of which she knew 
 so little ! were there any who would, as an act of free 
 grace, do for her, what those over whom the grave had 
 closed were bound by every law, human and divine, 
 to have done, and did not ! leaving her, lovely, 
 young, and unprotected, the sport of fortune; a crea- 
 ture, the poetry of whose character had been elevated, 
 not subdued, by her late bodily and mental suffering; 
 whose noble, brave-hearted part- taking with the op- 
 pressed, had led her to confide in, and side with, what she 
 nowbeHcvcd was the influence of an unseen party, work-
 
 174 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 ing upon poverty ; wliose heart yearned for sympathy, even 
 more than for knowledge; whose free spirit loved hberty ; 
 whose heroic nature could both dare and do ; and yet, 
 was restrained by a moral consciousness, a sort of 
 natural right-judging, which made Lawrence Macarthy 
 only that morning reproach a spirit that was far loftier as 
 well as purer than his own. There were reasons — one 
 especially — why she could not accept the shelter of Law- 
 rence's ruined home. How often she wept, and even 
 wished that he had been content to tiU the few remain- 
 ing acres of the once princely possessions of his house; and 
 then, she could have worked, have hvcd and died with 
 him; or, in open, honest, bold-faced war, she could 
 have followed a soldier's precarious fortimes into another 
 land, where his principles would have permitted him to 
 take service. But now — alas ! alas ! he was the most un- 
 fitted of all creatures to protect her. 
 
 Tlie evening had long deepened into night, yet still 
 she sat and wept : looking out into the darkness. Her 
 attention was roused by a bright and sudden flame 
 shooting upwards; it could not be, she thought, very 
 far from Spencer Com-t. She stept to the window and 
 saw what, at the moment, she hoped might be a bonfire, at 
 the foot of one of the nearest mountains. She thou2;ht 
 she heard the winding of a horn, and an halloo. She 
 opened the casement; and then, certainly and distinctly, 
 she heard a horn blown not very far distant, answered 
 by another, and another. With trembling eagerness 
 she watched the progress of the fire: after the first 
 rush of light into the sky, it burnt low and red, and 
 then gradually rose and rose like a pyre, spreading
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 175 
 
 above and around, increasing with fearful intensity. 
 After a wliile slie could see dark figures pass, catcliing 
 for an instant the brightness of the light; and, so still 
 was the night, that she heard the halloos, the yells, and 
 the horns, issuing their terrible warnings, or caUing 
 to the mountain-dwellers. A dreadfid thought took 
 possession of her mind, and chained her to the spot; 
 where she continued to stand without the power to 
 withdraw. 
 
 " Tlie boys are early at work tliis evenin', Miss," 
 said Biddy, from the garden, in an imconcerned voice 
 as she looked up at Ellen, " and your's is the only windy 
 in the house that has so fine a view. Miss, dear; Mrs. 
 Myler and the rest are podgering away at the work 
 witliin. Bedad, if the young master comes home to- 
 night, he can't but say that Abel Hichards' house 
 makes a fine bonfire to welcome him." 
 
 La"\vrence Macarthy's words rang upon Ellen's heart; 
 she could hardly articulate. She fixed her eyes upon 
 the conflaoTation waxing; strono;er and stronger; it was 
 the nearest approach the Fire King of the Whiteboys 
 had yet made to Spencer Court. 
 
 "Well!" continued the housemaid, "he gave many 
 a one a cowld death. It's a hot one he'll have himself." 
 
 " Surely, sm^ely he is not there !" exclaimed Ellen. 
 
 "Oh! murder. Miss, they wouldn't be the fools to 
 burn the house and he not in it," was the cool reply. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe Ellen's sensations; 
 her heart beat violently. 
 
 "I wonder," said the girl, "would they have been
 
 176 THE WniTEBOY ; 
 
 SO soon down upon Black Aby only for tlie word of 
 tlie soldiers that's to come into Kenmare, to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, mercy ! what a howl was that !" exclaimed 
 Ellen, pressing her face into her hands. 
 
 " Ah, ah !" laughed the girl below, " it was a strong- 
 cry, sure enough. Well, Miss, he was no friend of 
 yours, and — whisht." She sprang upon a wheelbarrow 
 that was under the window, and light of foot and limb, 
 swang herself into the balcony. " If any thing — I 
 mane any questions were to be asked — sure you and I, 
 and that half-witted Master Mat, could well prove an 
 aHbi for Mr. Lawrence; sure, I saw him with you all 
 this evenino-." 
 
 " Mr. Lawrence !" repeated Ellen, drawing herself 
 up proudly. " Mr. Lawrence ! how dare you suppose 
 he could be concerned in such an outrage as that." 
 
 " Outrage! I call it justice, Miss Ellen; and so will 
 all the counthry. What's come to her at all," she 
 muttered, as the moon at full, bursting through the 
 clouds, shone upon Ellen, showing her white and rigid 
 as marble. " God bless us, is it dead standing she is? 
 Well," continvied the girl, lifting her in her arms and 
 laying her on the sofa, " well, I never see the likes o' 
 that. With the glory of that fire through the country, 
 to think of her taking on so for the burning of ould 
 Richards !"
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE AV ARMED ADDER. 
 
 " On, ]\Iiss, dear!" exclaimed Biddy, wliile wiping 
 away the tears that rolled over her thick rosy checks 
 with the rough back of her stubbed hand. 
 
 "Oh, Miss, darling! it's yerself that has frightened 
 the life out o' me; I had a wonderful drame last night, 
 and sure as the stars are rowliug above us, it's read to 
 me, as clear as a printed book — it is indeed ; bedad an 
 deed, I'd rayther see ould Aby burnt ten times over wid 
 fire and faggot, than see you lying there, for all the 
 world like a lilly of Inchegeela ; thanks be to the Al- 
 mighty ye'r coming to yerself again. Miss, though sorra' a 
 tliiifle of colour betwixt the faver and the fright is there 
 in yer sweet cheek. Oh, then. Miss Ellen, you that has 
 laming and feeling both, can you think it any dctremint 
 to see the flames of that nagur's house, mountin' up to 
 the heavens; carrying his scarlet sins to the judgment, 
 and telling with their fiery tongues of his wickedness." 
 
 " Of their own wickedness, Biddy; of their own mad 
 wickedness ! Oh, may Heaven pour a different spirit 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE TTHITEBOT ; 
 
 into the hearts of this people," she continued, fervently, 
 "and teach them to respect law !" 
 
 " Wliisht, Miss, -wliisht !" said the girl. " Sure you 
 couldn't expect them to respect what they know nothing 
 about ; the poor never hear of law, except from the man 
 that distrains their bit of land, sends them to gaol, or 
 houseless and homeless through the world !" 
 
 Ellen felt hardly able to reply, yet she murmured, 
 
 "I must show you the folly, to say nothing of the 
 wickedness of such doings, when I am able. But think, 
 what to-morrow, what a week wiU. bring into tliis 
 heart-broken district ; abeady has the harrow of pesti- 
 lence and starvation passed over it ; but then will come 
 the loosened soldier ; the arrest of the innocent, as well 
 as the guilty ; and the burning of poverty's last shelter — 
 the — the — there, I can talk no more about it, it drives 
 me mad." 
 
 " God help us! how wild you look Miss, darling, 
 but sure," and she advanced close to Ellen Macdonnel, 
 and spoke into her ear, "sure you must know, dear, that 
 we're not always to be tramped into the earth; sure 
 they say the French are for us, an' the Americays; 
 but, oh, murder ! to think that I haven't as much as a 
 drop of vinegar to keep the weakness off her ! Drink this 
 water, jewel! faith, I fetched it myself this morn- 
 ing from the blessed well, on purpose to be more refresh- 
 ing in yer room, and it sparkhng up out of the earth 
 like diamonds. It's a poor case I haven't a drop of the 
 vinegar, though all the gooseberry -wine turned into it last 
 year, all in spite to Mrs. Myler, who couldn't find it in 
 her heart to give it enough of the sugar — ^north fasliion !
 
 A STOET OF IllELAXD. 179 
 
 "but sure it's gone over the country for tlie fever ; she'd 
 never grudge the poor papists the vinegar any way ! 
 Tliere, jewel, don't keep looking at that fire, don't bo 
 harassing yerself watching it ; it'll soon be gone now, 
 and sorra' a rat even in it, that isn't out of pain long ago, 
 sure that's a comfort — better that, dear, than have them 
 running through the world with their pison. Oh, 
 "wisha ! a weary on it for a fire, and they'll keep 
 such a shillooing through the country about it. There, 
 don't ye see it's slacking down now. I wish the curtain 
 would draw, and then I could shut it out from yer eyes 
 that will look at nothino- else !" 
 
 It was cmious to see the affectionate tenderness that 
 Biddy displayed towards her " young Lady," and con- 
 trast it with her recklessness of life ; but this was no 
 new reading of Irish character, under similar circum- 
 stances. After some delay, and nuich persuasion from 
 Ellen, who longed to be alone, she left her ; promising 
 to return in less than an hour, to see how she was 
 getting on. 
 
 The fire ! the fire ! Ellen could not shut it out, even 
 when she closed her eyes, and pressed them down with 
 her fingers — still, it blazed before her. Sometimes, the 
 river would catch its brightness, and look like a stream 
 of lava passing into darkness — a mockery of the war- 
 spirit, darting its arrowy tongues into the sky, flinging 
 out flakes of crimson, in fierce sport with destruction ; 
 throwing up burning brands amid the wreathing smoke, 
 and returning them to earth in stars and sparkles of 
 refulgent brightness. Oh, that terrible fire ! barn, and 
 haystack, ricks of " duty turf," and furze, and stacks of 
 
 n2
 
 180 thewhiteboy; 
 
 various grain, legions of " duty fov/1," were turned into 
 ashes ; the potatoes, which Abel Richards would rather 
 have let rot than sell to feed the poor — his cruelty thus 
 mastering his avarice — were roasted in the smoulder- 
 ing pits. The Whiteboys danced round the flames 
 like wild Indians round a prairie fire. On — above — 
 around — it went ; the old gray horse burst forth before 
 the fire reached his stable, but Avas shot by those who 
 had sworn no living thing should escape from Abel 
 Richard's house, or holdings. On — on — ^up, andaroimd 
 — crackling and screaming to the hills — to the stars ; a 
 wild, wrathful thing; folding and unfolding itself, in 
 the many hues of the tyrant element ; hissing and 
 grappling in fierce combat with the material world over 
 which it triumphed. The poor, gentle, stalled cattle ; 
 their voices of agony were lost in the savage yells of 
 vengeance. On — on — encircling all within its grasp — 
 the a^'cnger ! the terrible, fearless, lawless avenger ! The 
 mad riotinof of the fierce untameable element — the at- 
 tendant demon of revolt — was rendered still more terrible 
 by Ellen's imagination ; she knew that all the property in 
 that bad man's house, had been wrought by fraud from 
 the labour of white slaves ; that he had drunk human 
 tears, inhaled the sighs of his fellow-creatures, as others 
 inhale sea breezes, to gather strength. Misery sent no 
 pang to his heart — and death ! he would sneer at the 
 hollow eye, and the bony hand, and say, " it was good 
 for the poor to be at rest." Yet, still, a text of Scripture, 
 one of the laws of the great lawgiver, seemed written 
 before her eyes, and was sounding like a trumpet in her 
 ears, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saitli the Lord.'*
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 181 
 
 And oil ! to send the sinner into eternity 'with all liis 
 unrepented crimes ! And by whom was this done ! Ellen 
 at the moment forgot all the provocation ; the families 
 driven forth to starve; the insults heaped upon a faith 
 which, delusive though it may be, is dearer — far dearer 
 to the Irishman than Hfe; the wliine, the cant; the hy- 
 pocrisy ! She forgot all ; for the result — the fearful 
 result was before her ! 
 
 Lawrence too, where was La^vrence? Indignantly 
 as she had repelled the insinuation of the girl, her heart 
 beat violently, when she again questioned herself as to 
 where he was at that moment — if possible, worse agony 
 to think of, icho was his companion. She started from 
 her seat as her ears again tingled from the blast of a 
 horn; at first softened by distance, then, crashing nearer 
 among the mountains, it sounded like a curse; she 
 withdrew her hands, and there — suddenly — in a mo- 
 ment — before her — on the balcony — now in the room 
 — dripping from the river he had forded — staggered, 
 more dead than ahve — Abel Richards ! 
 
 " Hide me ! as you hope for mercy, hide me !" he 
 exclaimed, falhno- on liis knees before Ellen. " I have 
 escaped by miracle; and before this they know it — 
 No — you must hide me here — there isn't one of the 
 servants who would not shout at me, point me out to 
 those who have burned me out of house and home — 
 they won't suspect the sister of Lawrence Macarthy of 
 harbouring me. I'll leave you all I have in the world 
 if you save my life," he continued, grovelling at her 
 feet. " I'll make ye a heiress. Listen ! There were
 
 182 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 lies told of me to you — oli, I always loved tlie ground 
 you walked on !" 
 
 " Wretcli !" exclaimed Ellen, diseno-ao-ins: lier dress 
 from his grasp, while the bitterest contempt mingled 
 with thankfuhiess that he was not destroyed. " Stand 
 bach. Now follow — and you can conceal yourself 
 in the north closet." 
 
 "No, IMiss Ellen, no — they fancy that Myler is my 
 friend, and may think I am hid there — but in your 
 room I shall be safe. Oh! as you hope for mercy, 
 don't betray me. I'm not fit to die yet — I'm not, in- 
 deed. I'll make restitution — I will — I'll give up all 
 for you to do what's pleasing to you through the 
 country, if you'll save me — ^this one night !" 
 
 Language, could not express her contempt, as he 
 crouched and writhed before her. 
 
 " I'm sorry I did not stay in England ! Tlie country 
 was so disturbed, I came to look after my little pro- 
 perty. Sure I can go there" — he pointed to the re- 
 cess where Ellen slept. 
 
 " No," she said, " not there." 
 
 " There, then." He pointed to what in Ireland is 
 caUed a hanging press, in wliich ladies suspend their 
 dresses. 
 
 Ellen opened it. " Go in." 
 
 " You will bar the window," he whispered, trembling 
 from cold and terror. 
 
 "No," she replied. " That would indeed excite suspi- 
 cion, to bar a window that has not been barred for years.'* 
 
 He entered the " press."
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 18 
 
 o 
 
 **You will not betray me, IVIiss Ellen, dear," lie 
 muttered, clasping his hands, and shuddering. " You 
 will not. I have been a brand pluckt from the burn- 
 ing before now. I have still enough left to reward 
 you. But not a word," he added, half wliimpering; 
 "not a word, even to Myler. She's back-sHding, Miss 
 Ellen — she's backsliding ; the lust of the eye, and the 
 pride of hfe; it would do you no good to betray a 
 poor suiner — a hmnble, faithful servant of Him — " 
 
 " Peace, peace I" said Ellen Macdonncl, interrupting 
 him, wliile, pale and agitated, she looked, in her long 
 wliite dressing-robe, more like a spectre than a hving 
 woman; "this is no time for blasphemy !" She had 
 hardly spoken when another horn sounded, and though 
 it was more distant than the last, Abel sunk upon his 
 knees. 
 
 " Shut me up," he muttered, " shut me up ! the 
 boards are so thin — and stop — promise. Miss Ellen, you 
 will not betray me ; do but swear it to me and you 
 shall have all I have in the world. I call God to wit- 
 ness if I leave tliis house ahve I'll make you rich — 
 promise, swear — oh do, do — in pity — in pity !" 
 
 " There is no need," replied Ellen Macdonncl, with 
 the liigh and pure dignity of manner, which dignity of 
 purpose never fails to impart; " there is no need to pro- 
 mise, you are beneath an Irish roof, and you have asked 
 protection of an Irish woman.", She shut-to the frail door, 
 and clasped it; her weakness had vanished — the mind's 
 strength had conquered the body's weakness. But as 
 she paced the room, she could hear the low-hearted
 
 184 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 creature, now muttering a half disjointed Scripture 
 plirase; then whispering out the reward he would give, 
 mingled witli an entreaty for safety. Ellen paused ; she 
 thouglit over the past ; she recalled the smooth , oily, sleek, 
 bowing Abel Richards of her childhood ; ready with a 
 toy for her pleasure, when she was in favour; and an in-, 
 suit, when she was out of favour; and then, the " con-' 
 verted" Abel Richards, with sad bewailment at iris fallen 
 state ; and a keen eye, and griping fingers, playing on 
 Mrs. Spencer's peculiar views, for liis own advancement ; 
 then, the growing tyrant, cringing to the rich, and grind- 
 ing the poor — ^yet aping sanctity. Once, he had even 
 talked to her of love ; she shuddered when she thought of 
 that; and now, having escaped as by a miracle, from the 
 mad vengeance which had fallen upon many who far less 
 deserved it, he appeared in all the native hideousness of 
 his low and grovelling nature — the nature that devours 
 the poor ; that turns a deaf ear to the hungry ; that 
 utters to disobey the sacred commands of God — with 
 holy words and polluted lips. There he was, trembling 
 with fear; his eyes glazed, his lips parched; peeping, 
 through the chinks of the few boards that sheltered liim, 
 to see the glare of liis burning house ; knowing that if 
 he were tracked, nothing could save him; and that one 
 word from her — one whisper — would seal his doom ! 
 All this passed Avith the rapidity of lightning through 
 Ellen's mind. She could hear his teeth chatter, as his 
 huge form lay curled up into a narrow compass. Sud- 
 denly, her door shook, and she perceived that by a \Ao- 
 lent effort Abel became suddenly still as the death he 
 feared to meet — she opened it, and her faithful dog
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 185 
 
 Stalked into the room ; old as lie was, and though he had 
 lost much of his activity, he was as sagacious as ever. He 
 entered, and looking into his lady's face, uttered a low, 
 sharp bark — or rather a sound between a howl and a 
 bark — with every hair on his neck bristled; he turned 
 to the " press," and sniffed long and loudly, then raised 
 his head to his mistress again, as if to say, " What 
 means this ?" 
 
 " Down, Bran, do^wn sir," she said; yet the entrance 
 of the dog at the moment, was such a relief, so positive an 
 assurance of protection, that she threw her arms round 
 his neck and rested her cheek on his head. The creature 
 returned the caress by licking her fingers. " Good dog 
 — down friend — down" — she repeated. But Bran was 
 not so easily satisfied; he walked to the window; the 
 burning had then fallen into a low, bright, glowing 
 heap, small and concentrated, you might fancy it the 
 eye of some fabled monster glaring from the moun- 
 tain pass upon the valley and the river; the dog looked 
 at it silently, then raising his head to the full, bright 
 moon — Queen of the Sky ! for not a cloud floated near 
 her — he howled a sort of chaunt, as if telling her of the 
 evil he had "witnessed, — stately and stern as a lion he 
 turned round and without another glance at liis mis- 
 tress, laid down opposite the " press," placed his nose 
 between his rough paws, and resolved to watch and 
 wait; for his eyes remained imclosed, and his position 
 as firm as if he had been carved in marble. 
 
 Presently Biddy entered with a bowl of whey suffi- 
 ciently large for a bath. " I left you like a hly, avour- 
 neen," she said, " and I find you like a rose. I'm
 
 186 THEWHITEBOY; 
 
 tliinking it's all over yonder, Glory be to God ! Well, 
 I'll say no more, since it ain't plasing to you; but go 
 to bed, dear — sorra a wink Mrs. Myler will let on one 
 of our eyes this blessed niglit — barrin' yours. And all for 
 a master we never saw, and never may see — for lie's 
 had warning out of tlie country by tlic liglit of tire 
 moon, if lie's tlic sense to take it." 
 
 " He lias bad no warning, Biddy." 
 
 " Isn't tliat," and she pointed to the fire, " warning 
 enough for his sort, though I'll not deny his goodness 
 in many ways, forgiving rents, and the hke. But, jMiss, 
 the ould acres will roivl back to their places, I'm tliink- 
 ing, if the boys can hold on — there, I'll not be vexing 
 you. Oh, the weary on it ! — sure it's not sitting down 
 to read on a book ye are, this time o' night; go to bed, 
 a lannan ! and God bless ye — ye won't ! Well ! now I'll 
 beheve what my sister Betty Doyle used to say ov ye 
 before she went to England — that you war the most 
 resolute young lady in the comitry." 
 
 After much entreaty, Ellen persuaded the girl to 
 leave her; but before she did, she looked again towards 
 the scene of frightful devastation. 
 
 " It's blue, and gray, and mouldly-looking enough, 
 Misther Abel's place is, now, any way ! It's the poor 
 innocent birds and beasts that was in it, I'm thinking 
 of; — maybe there won't be a shillooing through the 
 country ! and a dale they'll find out by it ! Well ! my 
 heart riz wid the b-laze ; but it has sunk wid the embers. 
 Now if Mr. Lawrence — " 
 
 " If you do not go to bed yourself, Biddy," inter- 
 rupted Ellen, " if you do not go directly to bed, I beg
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 187 
 
 you will hold your tongue; you see how ill I am, and 
 yet you will go on talking." 
 
 " Thath! well, sure I oughtn't to do any thing to 
 vex you, dear; sup the whey while there's any heat in 
 it^ — come Bran." 
 
 "No, Bran will stay with me to-night; go at once, 
 Biddy." 
 
 " Ye're afeered of something. Miss Ellen, dear, or it's 
 not keeping Bran with ye, ye'd be," said the keen- 
 thinking girl, as she S"svung the door in her hand. 
 
 " Afraid! no, I am not afraid; I have been protected 
 all my life by the Power that protects me now," re- 
 plied Ellen, and she looked as Biddy thought, "bright 
 as an angel." " I am not afraid — ^but — but my old 
 friend shall stay with me ; for company, only for com- 
 pany; won't you. Bran?" 
 
 And Bran arose and put his nose, and a long, cold, 
 hard, grizzled nose it was, into Ellen's hand, and re- 
 plied in liis own way by a long drawn sort of " sough." 
 
 " To tliink of that!" said the housemaid, as she was 
 leaving the room, " to think of that ! If the baste hasn't 
 the understanding of a Christian." 
 
 Ellen had no watch to tell the passing hours, no 
 glittering time-piece to mark the golden numbers. 
 The clocks of the house differed so Avidely that she 
 could rely on none, and yet it was a rehef to hear them 
 croak or bell out the untrue time. 
 
 Whenever Richards attempted to move or speak. Bran 
 bristled and growled, and the coward became silent. 
 " Short as a Summer night in June," is a poet's line; it 
 was not short to Ellen ! Now, nothing but a pall of
 
 188 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 smoke, marked wliere tHe fire had blazed so briglitlj; 
 tlie country was silent and lonely as a churchyard at 
 midnio-ht; there was no sound of life on hill or vallev. 
 Ellen tried to read, but fancied she was surrounded by 
 eyes watching her every movement; she was too be- 
 wildered even to calculate as to how Abel proposed 
 leaving the house. It might be that her sense of hearing 
 was not as acute as usual ; but the dog e\'idently heard 
 something in the garden which she saw not, for he 
 arose and walked towards the window she had shut 
 down ; but his hair did not bristle ; on the contrary, he 
 laid down his ears and whined, looked back at Ellen 
 and moved his tail. 
 
 *' What is it ?" murmured Abel Richards ; and then 
 Bran gathered his lips from off his gums, with a fierce 
 growl, and resumed his watch. Ellen had no time 
 left for conjecture, for a rough hand shook the win- 
 dow, and the form of a man who pressed his face against 
 the glass became visible. " Your promise," again mut- 
 muttered Richards ; and again the dog bared his gums, 
 and growled. 
 
 *' Ellen! Ellen!" was breathed through the window; 
 — it was Lawrence Macarthy ! 
 
 " Oh, do not open it," said Abel, in a voice surpressed 
 by terror. 
 
 Ellen turned her head towards him, and though she 
 spoke low — too low to be heard without — Richards 
 heard her, " Be still, and you are safe." 
 
 " Will you open the window, Ellen," exclaimed 
 Lawrence, impatiently shaking the massive frame, " I 
 have not a moment to stay." Before Ellen's trembhng
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 189 
 
 jiands could undo the hasps, her brother had forced 
 them back. He was greatly excited, large drops stood 
 upon his brow, his face was flushed, and his eyes were 
 blood-shot. jijiir.i 
 
 " Why do you look so at me, Ellen; and how comes 
 it, you are not in bed ?" Ellen pointed to where the 
 smoke was wreathing against a sky, just lighting into a 
 pale, bright gray — an intimation of the first dawn of 
 morning. " Ah, you are not strong enough for such 
 a scene ; but it was justice — pure justice ; if it had not 
 been — ." Suddenly, the dreadful thought flashed upon 
 Ellen, that if Lawrence, her brother, had been a mover 
 in the terrible events of that night, he was about to 
 criminate himself, and that in the presence of his 
 greatest enemy — his enemy, under her protection ! 
 
 " Do not talk of it, dear Lawrence, I know you were 
 not there;" she said, rapidly, " had nothing to do with 
 it ; knew nothing of it. But tell me what you do 
 here, what you want of me." 
 
 " Not there ! — not have to do with it !" he exclaimed, 
 indignantly, while his eyes flashed. " Why you have 
 heard me swear a hundred times that I would have my 
 revenge ; and yet, Ellen, I have missed it !" Ellen trem- 
 bled, and thrilled in every limb; her blood tingled, her 
 head whirled round. 
 
 " Peace ! you will send me to my grave with this mad, 
 and wicked violence !" she said, wildly. " Besides, it is all 
 a vision — a fable — a lie — a dream ; you were not there ; 
 you were asleep, and dreamed it. You are intoxicated; 
 I see you are ; you can hardly stand — you reel and stag-
 
 190 THEWniTEBOY; 
 
 ger; tliere, I saw it — I saw it the moment you came in." 
 And slie tlirew lierself on his bosom. 
 
 " Mj poor sister ! my gentle, well-loved, and once 
 heroic sister !" he said, pushing back the hair that had 
 fallen over her throbbing temples, " indeed I ought 
 not to agitate you thus; ' but the fox is burnt out; and, 
 though he has escaped, it is only for a time.' " Ellen 
 placed her hand on his lips. " Can you understand me," 
 he said, holding her from him, " can you be calm for a 
 minute ?" 
 
 " Yes, quite, if you v/ill come out of this close room," 
 she replied. " I am suffocated !" 
 
 " No," he answered, obstinately, "not an inch from 
 this will I move, unless you wnll let me lay down there 
 for half-an-hour to rest, for I am weary ; they would 
 rush into it before the fitting time ; I wanted them to 
 wait, but they would not." 
 
 " I knew," she exclaimed, " you did not urge it." 
 
 " I wanted no half work," was his reply. " The time 
 was not fully come ; the soldiers will be all over the 
 country before this day's noon ; they have no proof 
 against me." 
 
 " Speak low, dear Lawrence," said Ellen, " or come 
 into another room." 
 
 " Why should I speak low," he answered, raising his 
 voice, " or go any^vhere else ; I can hardly move my 
 limbs; but I have these papers," and he drew them 
 forth, " of our lists and passes, and one or two letters ; 
 and if they were found, we should all be shot or hanged; 
 every tree would bear fruit then. I know not where to
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND, 191 
 
 conceal tliem, for my ruins will be closely searched, and 
 I have brought them to you, sister, and charge you to 
 guard them with your hfe, if you value miner 
 
 Ellen took the papers. She glanced timidly round 
 tjie room, and saw, or fancied she saw, the cold gray 
 eye of Abel Richards gleaming through a cre"\dce. 
 
 " Why not burn them at once," she said, advancing 
 them towards the flame of the candle. 
 
 "You are surely mad!" exclaimed the fierce Law- 
 rence, grasping her arm; "they are of inestimable 
 value and importance ! Bm-n them, indeed ! You 
 know not what you say ! guard them, I charge you by 
 the memory of your poor sacrificed mother, as you 
 would your life; safer; for, like myself, Ellen, for 
 your life you care little ; but as you would guard your 
 faith and honour! My hfe, and the lives of many 
 brave friends of our country, are now in your keeping. 
 You tremble, and change colour. 1 know not where 
 else to bestow them, Ellen, or would not trouble 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, Lawrence !" she exclaimed, " you cannot 
 think I feel any thing I can do for you to be a 
 trouble !" 
 
 " I may reclaim them in a week — or in less, perhaps 
 — for our brave friend — " 
 
 " No — " interrupted Ellen; " I will hear no word of 
 him, under any pretext whatever, Lawrence; and you 
 must not speak another word. Would it not be well?" 
 she continued, in a half whisper; " would it not be 
 well for you to wash your face and hands in the next 
 room? the morning will be here in an hour, and it
 
 192 THE WniTEBOY ; 
 
 would look ill if you were met with such — " she was 
 going to say " blackness," but changed it into "' soil' 
 on your face. This is some of the water of the 
 Blessed Well, and will refresh you." 
 
 " No, Ellen," he answered ; " I am hardly worthy of 
 that water now; they say it washes blood in, not out !" 
 
 Ellen shuddered. Lawrence had sat down, and 
 his appearance strongly confirmed what she had said to 
 him at the wildest hazard. Pie seemed more and more 
 overcome and stupified each moment. Still, her self- 
 possession did not desert her. Withdrawing beyond 
 the range of Abel's eye, she rustled at an old cabinet, 
 which she unlocked and locked, as if placing the 
 papers therein; while, in fact, she concealed them in 
 her bosom; and in answer to his last words, she re- 
 pHed, " I told you you were raving, Lawrence, and I 
 wish I could calm you." 
 
 *' You can, Ellen; watch just for half an hour, while 
 I sleep. I am so worn, even ten minutes' sleep will re- 
 fresh me. All the people in the house are staunch, 
 except Myler, so I care not who sees me go or come. 
 Half an hour ! — that will do. Here ; my father's 
 watch will tell the time ; and if all the red-coats met 
 me at daybreak, what then ? I have been shooting ; 
 shooting rabbits! Yes! — half an hour; there's my 
 gun ; not more than half an hour !" 
 
 Before he had finished speaking, he leaned from the 
 chair on which he sat, across to the old-fashioned half 
 sofa — half bed — and in a moment sunk into a sleep 
 deep and profound. The dark crimson curtains that fell 
 from the canopy, shaded, without concealing his fca-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 193 
 
 tures, wliicli tlic bright liglit of the lamp placed in 
 strong relief. Ellen sunk npon a scat, so as to com- 
 mand the room; she placed the watch upon the next 
 division of the tripod the lamp stood upon, and having 
 examined the priming and loading of the gun, she laid 
 it on her lap. 
 
 Bran maintained his original position, and nothing, 
 except the heavy breathing which indicated the 
 fatio-vied sleep of the Whiteboy, gave evidence of life 
 within that chamber; for Abel dared not speak or 
 move. Ellen did not venture to think of what the 
 future might be ; she fixed her mind steadily upon 
 her sacred bond to shelter her great enemy, when 
 he demanded shelter ; and she felt that she must 
 leave the working out of her perplexity and danger to 
 the Almighty. The events of the day were dancing 
 wildly through her brain — she could place nothing in 
 its right position ; at last she murmured a few words 
 of prayer within her mind, and was comforted. The 
 hand was moving, she thought, slowly round the dial, 
 and the light rushing rapidly towards morning. 
 
 Without making as much noise as would scare a 
 throstle from its nest, the attentive and kind-hearted 
 Biddy entered to see if the " young lady wanted any 
 thing," and started -with astonishment when she beheld 
 the sleeping Lawrence ; Ellen put her finger to her lips, 
 while Biddy clasped her hands. 
 
 " It's tired out of his life, he is," she whispered to 
 
 Ellen: "and so it was for him you war waiting! 
 
 May the saints watch over him, for he's standing up 
 
 for our rights ! Off must he be in less than an hour? 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 THE whiteboy; 
 
 Well — I'll go do'wii, for we're waiting still for tlie 
 young master — and keep every one to the otlier side 
 of the house ; only, for the love of glory, let him be 
 away in time. Mr. Lawrence there — and she watching 
 liim — the two lone birds of the world !" and the girl 
 stole away as quietly as she had entered. 
 
 But a few more moments remained to the sleeper: 
 how long they seemed — and how the Hght increased. 
 At last she awoke him, and he rose with the suddenness 
 of one accustomed to a rapid reveillee. He looked 
 a different creature after steeping his face in water. 
 Then he warned her again to remember that lives — pre- 
 cious lives — Hves upon which depended the salvation of 
 their country, Avere in her keeping. She Hstened — 
 pressed liis hand between her own — and gazed from the 
 window upon his rapid and energetic course, until a 
 sudden bui'st of glory from the rising sim, forced her to 
 withdraw her eyes, and when she looked again, he 
 had disappeared. 
 
 The loud growHng of the dog warned her that her 
 unwelcome prisoner was stirring. A determined 
 movement of an arm that had gained strength with 
 daylight, loosened the fastening, and Abel Richards 
 glared up at Ellen Macdonel. There remained but 
 few traces of the servility of the slave ; but there was an 
 evident increase of insolence in eyes, never respectful to 
 women. He knew that he was still in EUen's power, 
 but he also knew that she was in Ids. He could hardly 
 master his thirst for vengeance; yet he tried to frame 
 his words. 
 
 Ellen knew liim ; and she listened silently to the half
 
 A STORY OF IRELAXD. 195 
 
 muttered prayer and entreaty wliicli crept from liis 
 lips. Still slie said -witliin lierself, " I have done 
 right — I have not betrayed — I have not violated the 
 hospitahty of my comitry." 
 
 Richards began entreating, as the morning advanced, 
 that she would devise some plan for his escape. Tliis 
 ghe could not do ; the contending emotions of past 
 hom's, had overwhelmed her; and the preservation of 
 the papers from Abel, whose gaze was perpetually wan- 
 dering towards the cabinet, seemed more necessary to 
 her than existence. 
 
 "Is he gone, Miss?" said Bridget, whose approach 
 tliis time had not been noiseless. "Is he gone? Oh, 
 Wisha ! glory be for that, any how. There's a set of the 
 beggarly poHs — and a magistrate on the road — and 
 they'll cross the strame at the bottom of the meadow. 
 Mrs. Myler's closing the window for fear they'd be 
 axinfj somethino; to eat, and so little in the house. I'll 
 be back in five minutes. Miss, dear." 
 
 " Now!" said Ellen, throwing open the doors of the 
 press; " now — go." 
 
 Abel did not need a second summons. 
 
 " Along the walls — to the fir plantation — and in that, 
 to the river. You will meet tliem; and may God so deal 
 ivith you as in this matter you deal loith meV^ 
 
 Just escaped, as he was, from imminent and deadly 
 peril, and all through the honom'able feeling of the 
 noble-hearted being who stood before Mm, Abel 
 would have been worse than a demon to have planned 
 at that moment a ruin that would have destroyed all 
 she — lone and desolate as she was — held dear. The 
 
 02
 
 19G THE "VVHITEBOY; 
 
 delight of newly-given life was w^tli lilm; the fresh, 
 pure breeze of morning rushed around him. He glanced 
 at the cabinet ; but still he felt his position to be not en- 
 tirely safe. In words, he blessed Ellen, and though she 
 shuddered at such a blessing, it is but natural to believe 
 that when he held up his hands towards her, after slid- 
 ing from the window, that once — once — perhaps once 
 only, stimulated by continuing peril, and appalled by 
 the danger from which he had almost escaped, — sur- 
 prised into gratitude by an excellence which, if he could 
 not understand, he could marvel at, he meant really 
 to express that which his words implied. 
 
 Ellen must have swooned, for when consciousness re- 
 turned, she was on the floor, and Bran was licking her 
 face. Was it a dream, or was the past reahty? At first, 
 the truth broke gradually on her mind ; — the fire — Abel 
 — Lawrence ! Strange voices came from the glen of 
 the river. Eaising herself, she crawled on her knees 
 towards the window. Armed men were in sio-ht; some 
 she fancied moving towards Spencer Court. The 
 papers ! pressed as they were upon her heart — still she 
 might not be able to preserve them. The thought, rapid 
 as lightning, rushed through her brain, and rising with 
 difficulty, she left the room.
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 THE LOVE-HOPES. 
 
 The afternoon of a soft, warm, breezy day, was 
 drawing towards evening. Beneatli tlie thick yet ten- 
 der shade of an avenue of fragrant lime trees walked a 
 lady and gentleman, too much absorbed in each other 
 to note external objects. The Lee — the loveliest of the 
 many lovely rivers of Ireland — floated in silent glad- 
 ness within a few yards of where they loitered. A 
 full chorus of sweet voices of sino;inc:-birds freifdited 
 the air with melody — the fragrance of the richest wild- 
 flowers had been pressed out by a herd of cattle pass- 
 ing along an adjoining meadow to the farm-yard, from 
 whence were heard the cheerful lilt of the milkmaid, 
 and the merry laugh of the cowboys. The landscape 
 was closer than Irish landscapes usually are, and but 
 that the gate through which the wanderers had passed 
 into the avenue, hung upon one hinge, and the pillars 
 were leaning in opposite directions, Edward Spencer 
 might — if such a matter could have occupied a portion 
 of his thoughts — have fancied himself in his own pros-
 
 198 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 perous county, instead of in tlie wild and picturesque 
 land of Ms fair companion — Lady Mary O'Brien. 
 
 He had, however, either forgotten that he had for- 
 warded an announcement of his intended arrival at 
 Spencer Court on the previous evening, or was alto- 
 gether heedless of the anxiety the preparations for his 
 visit must have occasioned the good Mrs. Myler and his 
 expectant household. He was evidently intent on one 
 object, and had no thought to bestow upon aught else. 
 
 " But will you not hear me?" he exclaimed, while 
 attempting to regain the hand the lady had withdrawn 
 — not from a spirit of coquetry, but because at the 
 moment she was really and seriously displeased. "Will 
 you not hear me?" he repeated. 
 
 " No, Sir," she replied, " I will not. Tliere is 
 notliing you can say on this subject that can be either 
 agreeable or right for me to hear. You have broken 
 your promise ; made solemnly to me when we met, as 
 you know, accidentally, at Clifton; tliat no matter 
 where we might again meet, no matter how frequently, 
 when or where, upon that subject your lips should be 
 sealed for the next twelve months. Is it fair, is it 
 just, is it honourable to pursue me here? to watch and 
 txail, and track and follow me? I met you at dinner, 
 and then you assured me you were to leave town 
 immediately. I trusted to your word, and was en- 
 tirely myself, because I believed in you. But when I 
 found though your letters had arrived, that day after 
 day you lingered where, owing to my brother's illness, 
 I am compelled to remain, until he is sufficiently well to 
 return home — when I find that I cannot leave his bed-
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 199 
 
 side in the house of the old friend who offered us this 
 refuge out of the noise of the excited town, without 
 being waylaid — " 
 
 " "Waylaid I" repeated Edward. 
 
 " Certainly. I can find no other word to express my 
 meaning; and if it offend you, how much more must 
 the act offend me. You have degraded me by tliis 
 persecution : you make me fear what even servants may 
 say if they see me walking with you." 
 
 " We have known each other from childhood," ob- 
 served Edward in a softened tone, " and before you 
 became another's I loved you." 
 
 " You never told me so," she replied. 
 
 " But jou knew it." 
 
 " The past has nothing to do with the present," she 
 answered, " at least," she added, after a moment, " the 
 past of our yoimg days; but the past of my woman's 
 life must have its control over my present and my 
 future. Unless, for at least a year, we can meet without 
 reference to — to the interdicted subject, we shall not 
 meet at all. I see you mistook my unconstrained con- 
 fidence in your promise, for a changing, perhaps a light 
 mind." 
 
 " I should hardly expect forgiveness from above for 
 such a sin as that" exclaimed Edward, passionately. 
 *' You hght-minded ! Oh no, I know the depth and 
 earnestness and purity of your heart too well for that." 
 
 " I am," she continued, without heeding his inter- 
 ruption, " often light of word. Of a naturally cheerful 
 spirit, and I would fain hope, a grateful mind ; thankful 
 for the good given, and the evil spared; I may seem
 
 200 THE AVHITEBOY; 
 
 forgetful of the great sorrow of my still youug life;. 
 l3ut it is not so. He is often before me — by my side, not 
 as a phantasy, but palpably ; often I bear bis voice, so 
 low, and sweet, and solemn; and if I sing or say what 
 would have have given liim pleasure, or feel one of tlie 
 higher and holier emotions of our better nature, then 
 my heart beats more quickly, with the hope that the 
 communion of heavenly with earthly spirits is no fancy 
 — that he sees and sanctions what he so deeply loved." 
 
 " Another loved you longer and as tenderly," mur- 
 mured Edward. 
 
 The tears in the lady's eyes flashed before him. 
 
 "You are selfish," she said, coldly; "when I am 
 thinking of him, you are thinking of yourself. If you 
 cannot simply be my friend during the next twelve- 
 months we must meet no more. I wonder," she con- 
 tinued in a voice of more intense displeasure, " I won- 
 der, with this band upon my cheek, and my sable 
 "weeds, that you dare persist. You know that when in 
 your mother's house I never loved you ; never re- 
 garded you, save as a brother." 
 
 " But you know such was not my feehng. From 
 you, INIary, I first learned to love the land upon which 
 we both stand. You were the first who opened my 
 eyes to the wrongs inflicted by my country upon yours. 
 You made me resolve, if my uncle's property ever be- 
 came mine, to adopt your country as my own. So 
 firm was this resolve, that if you had still been the wife 
 of another, for your sake I would have cast my for- 
 tunes here. You have been many months your own 
 mistress, and yet "
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 201 
 
 " No more !" she said. *' If you had avoided tliis 
 topic, we might have taken counsel together for the 
 good of this poor people; we might have thought with, 
 and for each other; but your perseverance has pre- 
 vented this. I cannot trust you." 
 
 " If you will only say. Lady Mary, that at the end 
 of one, or even of two years, you will be mine — if you 
 will simply say yes to this, I swear to you most so- 
 lemnly, that I will never, during the interval, intrude 
 upon you a single allusion to the hope upon which my 
 existence depends. Oh, you know not what it is to 
 drag on life without hope." 
 
 " Do I not," she answered, in a voice trembling with 
 emotion. "Do I not! Alas! I have no sustaining 
 hope for this world now. My natural buoyancy of 
 spirit supports me ; and my national contentment and 
 sense of the demand society has upon the yoimg to 
 contribute to its happiness, call upon me to forget 
 myself; but when the day is done, and I retire into 
 my own heart, then indeed I am alone — alone, utterly 
 and hopelessly — a creature who amuses without being 
 amused — who scorns to ask the sympathy of tears, and 
 whose heart is indeed buried with the past. With 
 such feelings, could I make you the promise you re- 
 quire, when, at the end of the appointed year, I may 
 be as I am now?" 
 
 " You assured me you would struggle against this," 
 said Edward. 
 
 " And I do," she repHed. *' What you offer would 
 tempt any one whose heart was not buried as mine is, 
 in the deep sea. My father's difficulties, and his late
 
 202 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 sorrow on my eldest brother's account, are crushing liis 
 liead, untimely white, into the grave. My narrow 
 means insult my rank, and confine me to the mere 
 necessaries of life. You would at once make me rich, 
 and mistress over the people I yearn to serve; yet, 
 though I honour your generosity, and appreciate your 
 love, I cannot return it. Leave me for a year; and 
 believe, that if ever I give this hand again, it shall be 
 yours. So far I promise, but no farther." 
 
 He bent liis head, but made no answer. 
 
 " Edward," she added, " you seek a strange fortune 
 — a hand without a heart — a woman of another faith 
 — dowerless — and proud." 
 
 The young Englishman now poured forth liis en- 
 treaties for a promise that the lady would be Ids wife — 
 at some period — any period — no matter how distant: 
 but notliinoj could change her determination. No one 
 who knew Lady Mary only in society, would have 
 imao-ined the brio-ht beautiful creature so full of wit — 
 so seemingly inconsistent, to be so steadfast — so liigli 
 in principle and purpose. Edward's forgetfulness of 
 all other engagements; his importunity, encouraged as 
 it was at first by Lady Mary's frank and unconstrained 
 bearing; his sudden and earnest protestations of affec- 
 tion ; had quite a contrary effect to that for which he 
 hoped. Their interview ended by her determination 
 not to meet him on any terms, or under any promise 
 lie might make during the next twelve months; but 
 she consented to receive his letters. He gained this 
 point by a marvellous exercise of tact. He represented 
 the difficulties he should meet with (she knew they
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 203 
 
 ■were more numerous than lie anticipated); and pro- 
 mised only to write when he wanted advice as to the 
 management of the people on his estate in these troubled 
 times, or when perplexed by the readings of law 
 and justice, wliich seemed to him so different from 
 what are considered law and justice in England. Their 
 casual meeting had revived all the passion of his early 
 days, for the only woman he had ever loved with the 
 intense earnestness of his calm deep heart. Edward's 
 love was neither one of fancy nor of fashion — it was 
 part and parcel of his existence. He loved Lady Mary 
 before he knew what love was, her marriage struck 
 him as with a mental palsy, all Ms faculties seemed 
 for a time suspended, but he never breathed his disap- 
 pointment to any living creature; he removed a tress 
 of hair from his bosom, and replaced it there when he 
 heard she was a widow. He said truly that he first 
 loved Ireland for her sake; he might have added, 
 that her sHghtest word was graven on his heart ; that 
 when, as a boy, while she was httle more than a cliHd, 
 spending her school vacations at liis mother's house, 
 though he seldom played with her, he would treasure 
 up every flower she gathered, repeat witliin himself the 
 songs she sung, and trembled if she but touched his 
 hand. Tlie man's intercourse with the world never de- 
 stroyed the feeling, though his habitual self-control 
 diminished its apparent power; wlrile she, seemingly so 
 gay and thoughtless, nourished a memory which had 
 been the romance of a few short months — a Juliet pas- 
 sion — as sudden, as intense, and yet all enduring. 
 All that has been written in song, or told in story, of
 
 204 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 love and its effects, falls far, far short of its reality. 
 Its evils and its blessings, its impotence and its power, 
 its sin and its hoKness, its weakness and its streno'tli, 
 will continue the theme of nature and of art, until the 
 great pulse of the universe is stilled. Arising from the 
 depths of misery, descending from heaven the most 
 direct and evident manifestation of a divine and self- 
 sacrificing spirit, it is at once the tyi-ant and the slave. 
 Happier as the latter than as the former, for the per- 
 fection of love is obedience; the power of obeying 
 what we love is, at all events, the perfection of woman's 
 happiness. And so Lady Mary had found it during the 
 brief Hfe of him she mourned beyond the power of 
 words to express. 
 
 When Edward Spencer parted from her that even- 
 ing, it was with a determination to do something — he 
 did not at all know what, but something — that would 
 surprise her into love ! The reasoning and motives 
 that effect ordinary women, could have no effect with 
 her. She embodied the wild high romance of her 
 country, with a feeling still more liigh and more holy; 
 the more fascinating, because it was not manifested by 
 any outward show of sentiment or exhibition of grief. 
 
 The romance of the one was deep and as fervent as that 
 of the other. An ordinary observer could have fancied 
 them formed to constitute each other's happiness; but 
 wliile Edward had been captivated by the Irish maiden's 
 brilhancy, she had not been touched by his worth. 
 Had he been less perfect, she might have loved him ; 
 for certainly her husband, to whose memory she was so 
 devoted — brave and distinguished though he was — had
 
 A STORY OF IRELAXD. 205 
 
 yielded to outbvirsts of temper, and fits of despondency, 
 that would have tried, and perhaps shaken, the love of 
 an ordinary "woman. 
 
 Edward Spencer had taken a boat to the lady's 
 temporary retreat on the banks of the Lee ; and when, 
 after two painful interviews, he resumed his seat, the 
 whole scene Avas as tranquil and beautiful as though 
 the oars of the rowers dipt in the waters of an enchanted 
 lake. 
 
 " We heard strange news, plase yer honour, from 
 one who had it a mmute agone from a travelHng 
 'ooman. All Cork's astir wid it before this," said one 
 of the men to Edward Spencer, who neither heard nor 
 answered. But Irish loquacity is not easily checked, 
 and he continued: "Why, then, maybe yer honour's 
 strange to the country?" 
 
 "His honour's no such thing," interrupted a third 
 person, whom, if Edward had observed, he would at 
 once have recognised as the Blarney car-driver. " His 
 honour's no such thing; and more betokens, he knew 
 Abel Richards better than yerself Didn't he ' crass' 
 mth him and the sweet lady he's just been visiting, 
 God bless her !" 
 
 Mr. Spencer heard that^ and felt his cheek flush. 
 
 " That's just the way, Jim," continued the carman, 
 who sat where he ought to steer; " that's just the way 
 the flowers do be growing — the nettle be the side of the 
 primrose, and the bouchlawn forenint the violet." 
 
 " Is it himself," said the younger rower in a lowered 
 tone, " that's the nettle?" and his eye glanced towards 
 Edward.
 
 206 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 " Faix no; but Abel Richards, tliat was." 
 
 " And none to saj, ' rest liis sowl !' Oh, then, isn't 
 it shocking for any one to Hvc through five-and-forty 
 years of this Hfe, and lave no one behind to say, ' rest 
 his sowl!'" 
 
 " Whose soul?" inquired Edward. 
 
 " Tlie sowl of that flinty-hearted nagur, Abel 
 Richards, plaze yer honour, whose place tuck fire 
 yesterday evening, and burnt him and every tiling be- 
 longing to him, stock and lock, barn and brick, cattle 
 and fowl, last night — so I heerd tell." 
 
 " And I'll go bail, they'll set the report about that 
 it was the Whiteboys' doings," said one of the oarsmen. 
 
 " Sorra a sui'er thing than that you ever said," was 
 tlie comment of another. 
 
 " Abel Richards," repeated Edward Spencer. " Did 
 you say burnt to death?" 
 
 " Musha, ay. What else? and small loss. Tlie fire 
 took what the starvation left. Though, while there's 
 so much false swearing in the country, and the soldiers 
 ready for murder, I wouldn't be surprised if some poor 
 innocent boys war liimg for it !" 
 
 Tlic account of the burning, with a lengthened cha- 
 racter of Abel Richards' extortions and injustice, was 
 eagerly and carefully repeated to Edward Spencer, who, 
 at any other time, must have noted how utterly careless 
 the nan-ator was of murder, and how completely, like 
 Biddy Doyle, he identified himself with the party that 
 considered destruction a duty. 
 
 " Setting a case," he said, " that they did consort 
 together, and pimish the hard-hearted ' reprobate,' who
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 207 
 
 had ' massacred' tlie country witliout judge or jury, for 
 many a year, who could say wrong tliey did? Sm-e 
 tlicy knew well enough there was no justice for them; 
 nor never would be, wliile things staid as they were." 
 
 Edward would have combated, with as much judg- 
 ment as kindness, tliis opinion, but his mind was other- 
 wise occupied. At one moment liis spirits sank, and 
 he who had been so full of enthusiasm for the country 
 a few brief days before, though he would not confess it 
 to himself, wondered why, in defiance of the coimsel 
 and wishes of his friends, he had ventured to Ireland 
 when it was in its present " disturbed state." Yet this 
 was but a passing thought; his determination to do 
 " something" that should win the approbation and love 
 of her who loved her native land with the untarnished 
 affection of brave descent and unchanging truth, rushed 
 tlirough liis mind, and was succeeded by a return of 
 the right principle, of affording protection and careful 
 watchino; to those who " laboured on his land." The im- 
 connected fragments he had heard of the outbreak near 
 Spencer Court, wloich at any other time would have 
 stuTcd him up to inquiry, and induced observation, 
 passed ahnost imheedcd; and quitting his boat, he was 
 walking mechanically towards the hotel, when the car- 
 man, taking advantage of a crowd which impeded IVIr. 
 Spencer's progress, whispered, 
 
 " Plaze yer honom- !" Edward turned round hastily, 
 for he was in an irritable humour, and became annoyed 
 at being followed, and there stood Darby. " One that 
 wishes yer honoiu' well, bid me give tliis to ye yester-
 
 208 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 day morning, but I didn't." He presented Edward 
 witli a twisted scrap of paper. 
 
 " And wliy did you not?" said Mr. Spencer. 
 " Bedad, Sir, because there was no occasion. I 
 •knew ycr honour had countermanded the horses ye'd 
 ordered the night before; and I says to myself, ' His 
 honour's a resolute gintleman,' says I, ' and one that, if 
 ye tell him not to do a thing would be sure to do it, 
 just to show he's resolute;' but any way, ye wouldn't 
 have reached the place last night. We settled all that 
 safe for yer honour; for if any thing" — he drew close 
 to Mr. Spencer, so close as to speak almost in his ear — 
 " if any little accident had happened you just through 
 a mistake, when the boys' blood was up (and they're 
 liable to accidents), we'd have been fairly heart-broken ; 
 fixix I wouldn't have bothered yer honour at all A\'ith 
 her ' bit of writin,' only for the promise I made her; 
 and maybe yer honour'll give it back to me now. 
 It's all one, for it's as much as I could do to read it, let 
 alone yer honour." 
 
 " And did you dare to read a letter directed to me?" 
 inquired Mr. Spencer, as much perplexed as provoked 
 at the coolness and strangeness of the man's communi- 
 cation. 
 
 " Ah, thin, sure, Sir," he answered, "if I didn't read 
 it, how would I know what was in it?" 
 
 Edward could hardly forbear smiling at the naivete 
 or impudence of his acquaintance, who seemed to think 
 himself privileged to thwart his movements and read 
 his letters. And while he was debating what to say, 
 Darbv exclaimed.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND, 209 
 
 " Whisht ! it's not manners for me to be discoorsing 
 tills way, we might be suspected — and Lord save us, 
 if there isn't the soldiers!" Darby did not wait to 
 finish his sentence, but lost himself in the mob, who 
 were inspecting preparations for the departure of a 
 coach for the west; in more than their usual numbers, 
 and strange to say, in almost silence. 
 
 They saw the guard was doubly armed, and they 
 intimated their knowledge of the fact to each other, 
 rather by signs than words. When the horses were to, 
 and one passenger inside, a policeman took his station on 
 the roof of the machine, liis appearance was greeted 
 by a yell as of a hundred demons, which did not 
 cease nor diminish until the coach drove off; then 
 there was a bustle in the streets, usually so encumbered 
 with masses of idlers. The beggars forgot to beg, and 
 asked for what the Irish always covet — news. Some 
 said one thing, some another; but all agreed that there 
 had been a dreadfid deal of destruction. Each shop 
 door had its little knot of such zealous talkers that there 
 seemed no hsteners ; let the news be what it might, all re- 
 joiced to have something that was new to talk about. A 
 stranger in Ireland is always astonished as much as at- 
 tracted by noticing pretty, and really modest faces look- 
 ing out of open windows; young ladies who blush at 
 being stared at never scruple to stare their eyes full, 
 and Edward tliought he never saw so many respectable 
 females in his Kfe before, gazing from their houses into 
 a public street. Every casement was open to catch " the 
 news," and fair necks bent forward, and ringlets floated 
 without control ; there was more anxiety manifested to 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 hear what was going forward than horror at the greatly- 
 exaggerated circumstances detailed with such eloquence 
 and gesticulation. Presently a detachment of miHtary 
 marched into the street where Edward lingered, fol- 
 lowed by a much larger gathering of fierce and excited 
 people ; shaking their dissevered rags in mockery, point- 
 in 2: their lonff fino-ers which starvation had rendered 
 ileshless towards the self-possessed soldiers, hooting and 
 execrating them as they continued their even tramp — 
 tramp — tramp — and shouting out in their emphatic 
 idiom and harsh voices, most bitter taunts mingled 
 with sarcasms keen as cutting: inquiries as to the 
 amount of bravery that was required to murder a 
 woman, or fire " a house full of cliildre." Any one 
 would have Imagined that it was they who had perpe- 
 trated the late crimes, instead of being made the instru- 
 ments to punish them. 
 
 Edward could hardly beHeve that this was the same 
 mob, consisting of the self-same helpless people, who 
 that morning had whined forth their sohcitations for 
 " a halfpenny for God's sake, to help the price of a 
 weight of potatoes to save us from starving." 
 
 Suddenly several, flushed, heated, and strange men 
 appeared amongst them; men who seemed to hav6 tra- 
 velled a long way, and who grasped their shillalas with 
 strength and determination. Mr. Spencer did not see 
 in what direction they came, but his quick observant 
 eye recognised three or four such amongst the crowd. 
 Some spoke loud in their native language, others low 
 and whispering; but whatever they commiuiicated 
 had the effect of immediately stopping the human tide ;
 
 A STOET OF IRELAND. 211 
 
 tlae soldiers were permitted to continue their march 
 free from the insults and excitation which was convert- 
 ing the smile of disdain into the frown of revenge, and 
 impelled apparently by one feehng, the crowd directed 
 their course along the Mall in the direction of the gaol. 
 Tlie suddenness of this movement was afterwards ex- 
 plained to Edward — they had learned that several 
 Whiteboys were in custody and were about being com- 
 mitted to the comity prison. This accounted at once 
 for the diversion which allowed the military to proceed 
 on their way. 
 
 " There'll be more murders done than the upset of a 
 post-boy, that's neither flesh nor fowl, as a body may 
 say, Mr. Spencer, dear !" exclaimed the rich brogue of 
 Mrs. Coimsellor Hackett, who grasped liis hand and 
 shook it as heartily as if she were his godmother, 
 and had not seen him for at least twenty years, " that 
 there will dear, or the burning of ould Richards 
 either — though he's not burnt they say; so the black 
 gentleman (it's not manners to name the other word) 
 hasn't got him yet — the ugly turncoat. Doesn't it 
 prove the slavery the country's in, to see them 
 red coats marching through its heart's blood afther 
 a bit of a fire that's out these twice twelve hours? 
 And then having it for a cloak just to hunt the poor 
 innocent mountain boys and string them up like red 
 herrings ! Oh, Sir, don't look at me that way, as if 
 yer heart was turning against the people, afther my 
 taking as good as forty oaths you were one of us, and 
 the counsellor grigging me, as if I got no strength 
 for my words out of the ' grass greens,' to fay notliing 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 of a lady tliat shall be nameless. "Well, I hope you'll 
 be as happy at the end of twenty -five years as me and 
 the counsellor, that never would have a word, only a 
 little syllable now and again, when he puts too much 
 stiffness in his fifth tumbler — not that it does him any 
 harm, only on account of keeping up his dignity. 
 And, indeed," she added, with something of an offended 
 air, being too much occupied "with her own eloquence 
 to observe the EngKshman's flushino- cheek or indiirnant 
 glances, " indeed, if ye'd taken a turn in the court- 
 house ye'd have seen worse sights than the counsellor 
 in his glory. It's work enough he'll have at the 'sizes, 
 defending the poor boys after this — the cratures that 
 have no friend in the law but himself! hard work, and 
 a trifle of pay that wouldn't powder his wig; next, 
 neighbour to nothing, as one may say, only for the 
 prayers — the holy prayers, Mr. Spencer, of the poor, 
 that are showered down on him. And as I say to him 
 sometimes, ' Phill, darling, never heed the pay, the 
 prayers will tell up in the long run — and they'll be less 
 wanted when the time comes.' " 
 
 Edward bowed off Mrs. Hackett as poKtely as he 
 could, and on regaining his apartment at length, he 
 found a note from Mr. Graves, who, despite the dis- 
 turbances, had gone down to the country on the day 
 originally fixed for liis departure. The letter was wise 
 as kind, inviting him to his house, saying that he 
 thought his presence in the neighbourhood just then 
 might be productive of great good, and reiterating his 
 old request " not to judge harshly of the people." 
 
 Edward Spencer had hoped much from his interview 
 with Lady Mary; but any further attempt to win her
 
 A STORT OF IRELAXD. 213 
 
 to a promise or extort one from lier in lier present mood 
 would completely destroy whatever hope he still che- 
 rished. His zeal in the country's cause had been mar- 
 vellously overshadowed during the last few days by his 
 love — the very love Avhich now stimulated him to 
 plunge at once into the troubled district, where he 
 beheved it was his duty to be. He was certainly 
 strengthened in tliis resolve by his earnest and entire 
 desire to be of use ; to protect his tenantry ; to throw 
 liimself into the breach as it were; and not without a 
 sudden hope to find himself in some delicate and pecu- 
 liar position where he should be obhged to ask the 
 ad^dce of one so thoroughly acquainted with the coun- 
 try as Lady Mary O'Brien. 
 
 . As to his mtnage^ it had been in strange confusion. 
 One of his servants, a stupid, burly, lout, who 
 had never been sober since he landed in Cork, took 
 occasion to say, he was very sorry, but it occurred 
 to him that he had a mother and four sisters de- 
 pendant on his exertions, and so he would rather go 
 home: he would relinquish a month's wages sooner 
 than remain in the country. The other, a delicate 
 sentimental coxcomb in livery, did not give warn- 
 ing, but demanded increased wages " to pay an in- 
 surance on his life for the benefit of his family." This 
 cool impertinence Mr. Spencer resisted by giving 
 him his dismissal, and applied to the landlord of the 
 hotel to recommend him servants, who would at all 
 events suit him for tlic present : which he had done, 
 with the gratuitous observations upon those he had 
 parted with, " that though they were mighty neat in
 
 214 THE AVniTEBOY; 
 
 tliemselves, lie'd defy any of tlie Irish servants to be 
 more idle ; and that it was exceeding troublesome for 
 the peace of a house, to mix them ; it was so natural 
 for them to hate each other. It was better," he in- 
 sinuated, "to have them all English, or all Irish," that 
 like every thing else, there could be no medium, " they 
 must all drive the same way, or there'd be murder 
 amons; them." 
 
 Certainly notliing could be in richer contrast than 
 liis past and present attendants; the former, quiet, calm, 
 independent — building their own respectability on 
 their own foundation; understanding perfectly the 
 compact of " pay me my wages, for which you shall 
 have as small a proportion of work as is necessary to 
 keep my place, if it be worth my while to do so !" Nei- 
 ther their foot nor voice was ever heard, they seldom 
 disappointed their master, nor ever hurried themselves; 
 never were guilty of a rudeness to a well-dressed visiter, 
 and never felt an emotion of gratitude towards their 
 employer. And Edward was deep in his preparations 
 when a gentleman of the highest possible Tory prin- 
 ciples called upon him, and drew such a picture of 
 the hopeless atrocity of all who belonged to what, 
 in Ireland, may justly be called the opposite faith ; 
 urged the doctrine of proselytism or extermination 
 (he did not seem to care which) so vehemently; 
 talked so long and so loud; that Edward, always 
 given to dreams, passed a miserable night. At one 
 time he was guided by the angel of mercy, who had 
 taken the form of Lady Mary, into a vast arena where a 
 multitude were assembled : too late to save a number of
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 215 
 
 unliappy beings whom Abel Ricliards and tlie pope bad 
 tied to a stake, and bad fired tbe faggots tbat surrounded 
 it. Again, be was dancing a mad reel on tbe beatber, 
 to music produced by invisible musicians; and was 
 awakened at six o'clock by James, wbom be bad told 
 not to call bim tiU eigbt. 
 
 His new people, particularly bis " personal" servant, 
 were in a fever of anxiety from morning till nigbt. 
 His " man" bad ab-eady estabbsbed bis position 
 among bis associates by reference to bis master as 
 "a born gentleman from bead to foot every turn 
 of bim sbowed wliat be was, saying tbank ye, even for 
 a bottle of tbat dirty trasb of soda water, and letting liim 
 eat fresb meat every day — but tbe one — in tbe week;" 
 bis very existence seemed to depend upon bis master's 
 smiles, and notbing could induce Edward to overlook 
 bis blunders, but tbe ready wit witb wbicb be accounted 
 for tbem. He was always disappointing bis master, 
 yet always in baste to do wbat be bad left undone, 
 never took into account bis own exertions, was noisy 
 botb witb foot and voice, but declared before be bad 
 been twenty-four bours in bis service, tbat "be only 
 wisbed be bad an opportunity of travelling barefoot from 
 Cape Clear to tbe Giant's Causeway to serve so good a 
 master and (wbat an Irishman always over-values) so 
 raale a gentleman."
 
 216 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 THE INDUCTION TO OUTRAGE. 
 
 Settling accomits and departing from an English 
 and an Irish inn are two very different things. At the 
 former all matters are well ordered and in time; the 
 packing-cases and carpet-bags are moved with so little 
 noise that they appear to have moved themselves ; 
 nobody helps any body, for all seem to know their 
 own work — and do it, not from any interest they take 
 in the voyager, but simply because such is their busi- 
 ness. At the latter, nothing is ever precisely arranged, 
 and, certainly, never in time. The sundries are stirred 
 by an immense degree of noise and bustle ; for here 
 every body will help every body, and nobody has a 
 rightly defined idea as to his OAvn particular Hne of duty. 
 Then the waiters are, each and all, so anxious that the 
 traveller should be comfortable, and " sit asy," and on 
 the right side to see "the beautiful country, God bless 
 it!" and hope that the Aveather will " hould up," and 
 that " the teems o' rain won't be bothering liis honour;" 
 with a direct question as to "When his honour will be
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 217 
 
 travelling this road again?" and " Maybe lie'U be back 
 soon," — and all this proceeds from a natural and perfectly 
 unaffected desire for the good of a stranger. Tliey do 
 not, to be sure, cherish the feeling for any great length 
 of time, but it is strong enough while it lasts; and it is 
 sometliing to know that you excite even momentary 
 interest in the Kving, beating, hearts of those you meet 
 in your every day journey ings tlirough a rugged 
 world. 
 
 John Bull cheats in sober earnest ; Paddy does it for 
 fun. It comes, as far as the stranger's mere pocket is 
 concenied, to pretty much the same thing in the end. 
 
 Paddy coaxes out the smallest of silver coins, with his 
 most winning smiles, his most brilHant wit, or most 
 insinviating himiour; John aims at half-cro"\vns and 
 half-sovereigns, not with smiles, but frowns, not with 
 wit, but grumblings, and if honestly and perfectly 
 satisfied, never says so -with a cheerful countenance; 
 wliile Paddy, if not sufficiently remunerated still blesses 
 *' yer honour," hints that he " knows it's yer honour's 
 intention to remember he has a wife and a housefull 
 of httle children at home praying this very minute 
 that yer heart may soften, and that the prayers of the 
 poor may make you an asy bed in heaven;" and if 
 an evident difference of opinion exists between you — 
 he thinking he has not been sufficiently recompensed, 
 while yovi consider he has been paid " twice too much" — 
 Paddy smiles complacently on his small exchequer, and 
 then, as the sigh rises from his heart, adds to the 
 last blessing he bestows, the earnest prayer, " that times
 
 218 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 may mend, and not be so hard on the poor ever and 
 always." 
 
 The number of sei'vants at Irish, are usually nearly dou- 
 ble the nmnber of those at English, inns ; but then half 
 the amount satisfies the one that would satisfy the other, 
 and you get all the blessings for nothing, with an influx 
 of ideas in tropes and figures, — combined with such 
 racy humour as can be foimd in no other country mider 
 the smi. By a single figure of speech they elucidate a 
 fact or produce a fiction; and by a word or two judi- 
 ciously spoken, place a subject in so ridiculous a hght, 
 that you laugh frequently against your own will ; always 
 against your judgment. If the stranger's sojourn at 
 the inn has been but of a few days, it is most likely 
 his departure will be wailed as a misfortune, he hears 
 murmurs on all sides of " Ah, then, it's not often we've 
 the blessing of such fine company, good luck to your 
 honour, and God send ye safe back." " Success to ye 
 wherever you go, and may yer heart grow fighter and 
 yer purse heavier the longer you live." " God bless 
 you. Sir, and mark you to grace and bring you here 
 safe and soon." Even the ^'■sculleen" the little boy 
 "about the place," who does every one's business, and is 
 scolded for every one's neglect — even he, the barefooted 
 urchin whose curly head was never covered by a hat, 
 and whose feet are swift and sure by day or night to do 
 the bidding of all who please to command — even he 
 lingers mtliout, in the hope of recei^ang a stray six- 
 pence, and gives his prayer whether he receives any 
 thing for it or not.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 219 
 
 In England, tlie landlord is ever at liand to bow his 
 most respectful adieus ; but in Ireland, lie may be off 
 witli tlie hoimds, or out shooting, or fishing, or gone to 
 lais country-house, or to the sea-side; or somewhere 
 that prevents his seeing after Ms own business — support- 
 ing one of "his party" at a parish election — in short, 
 •anywhere but where Enghsh notions say he should be. 
 Mr. Spencer, however, was fortunate; for his landlord 
 was on the spot, and singularly seiwiceable in clearing a 
 passage for him through the beggars, who were more 
 vociferous and importunate than ever. He got rid of 
 them by a ruse, giving the " head waiter" a guinea to 
 divide amongst them, thus directing their attention to 
 him. His Tory friend of the past day, leaning into the 
 carriage- window, entreated him to wait vmtil evening, 
 and then he could have the escort of some troops who 
 were going to Killarney ; but he assured him of his sense 
 of security and laughed at his fears; upon wliich his 
 acquaintance retreated with a shrug of despair. 
 
 Some little delay arose from the restiveness of one of 
 the horses, Avho, to Edward's siu'prise, were evidently 
 high-spirited, well-fed creatures, though restive and 
 impatient, and any thing but regular roadsters; and 
 though the harness was not bright it was sound and 
 strong. The door and steps were crowded by all con- 
 nected with the hotel ; the beggars in a state of fearful 
 excitement and insubordination, surrotmded the waiter, 
 who had not yet changed the guinea into " testers" for 
 their accommodation. More than once Mr. Spencer 
 looked among the crowd for Darby the car-driver,
 
 220 THE wiiiteboy; 
 
 but instead, he saw tlie blooming face of Mrs. Coun- 
 sellor, enshrined in a bonnet of pea-green silk, while 
 her ample shoulders were envelojDed in a pale blue 
 shawl figured over with many colours. There she 
 stood, kissing her hand and waving a handkerchief; 
 taking advantage of the withdrawal of the beggars, and 
 the exchanging a horse that contented itself with kick- 
 ing for one more peaceably disposed, she in her turn 
 darted to the window. 
 
 " God bless you, Mr. Spencer! don't fear, dear, the 
 people are all lambs, and sure you'll not let them be led 
 to the slaughter. They'll be stringing them like bades. 
 Sir, only w^e depind on you — our trust is in you, Sir. 
 What would we have faith in, if not in the grass- 
 greens ? Don't let them Orange devils put their com- 
 etlier on you, don't Sir, for the love of mercy, listen to a 
 word they say. It's asy to bring a poor man to nun in this 
 country, and call it bringing him to justice; just always 
 keep in mind that the poor have no friends." And then 
 in an instant changing her tone, and darting a look full 
 of the most fiery scorn upon a pale creatui'e, who with 
 her child hanging on her bosom, stretched out her ema- 
 ciated hand to Edward Spencer, she exclaimed, "Keep 
 out of the way of my feet, Mary Mulcahy; I'm 
 ashamed of ye, ye brazen-face. I declare I'll have ye 
 taken, so I will, to dare to meet the daylight with yer 
 sin in yer arms." 
 
 The pale creature pressed her child more closely, and 
 Mrs. Counsellor continued, " Is it a crown piece you've 
 given her, Mr. Spencer ! Oh, then, it's fine time the
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 221 
 
 beggars have, tliat ouglit to be whipt out of tlie streets. 
 You don't knoAV her as I do, or you would not encou- 
 rage her." 
 
 " Why," said Edward, " you yourself, my good lady, 
 told me just now, always to keep in mind that the poor 
 had no friends." 
 
 " Oh, ay, the poor fellows they pick out, you under- 
 stand, for their party to sacrifice, not such rubbish as 
 these, that tliink no more of pushing against a lady's 
 bran new shawl, than they would of a stone wall." 
 
 " Bedad ! yer ^vrong there, ma'am," said a dwarf, 
 who dragged his deformities, only half hidden by his 
 rags, from beneath the carriage, "we know a lady 
 when Ave sec her, whether she has a bran new shawl or 
 not, and though my eyesight's very good — the Lord be 
 praised for it ! — the sorra a lady I'm looking at now," 
 and he fixed his large animal eyes vipon the woman, 
 who only remembered the poor when they were of her 
 "party." 
 
 " Sir," said, the landlord at the opposite window, 
 "we're all right now, we've got another horse. There's 
 the priest of Blarney bowing to you." 
 
 Edward took oiF his hat, and stretched his arm out to 
 shake hands with the hearty and friendly priest. The 
 greeting was brief; and the landlord had only time to 
 add, " I had much pleasure in appointing the post-boy 
 you wished for," when the horses dashed forward. The 
 crowd shouted, the landlord bowed, the multitude 
 at the door bowed and curtsied, and the last glimpse 
 Edward had of Mrs. Hackett was her substantial hand 
 wavino; her as substantial handkerchief Edward threw
 
 222 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 himself back; and in doing so cnxslied a basket tliat 
 liad been tlirust into the corner of the carriage, and 
 Avhich, upon examination, he found to contain a cold 
 chicken, bread, bisciiits, cakes, a- bottle of wine, ham; 
 in short, pic-nic provision for two days' campaigning, 
 provided without order or charge by the provident 
 landlord ; a common occurrence in Ireland, and one 
 sure to be appreciated when the comfortless,- state of 
 provisions at the country inns five-and-twenty years 
 ago is held in remembrance. On the road from Cork 
 to Macroom nothing attracted Edward's attention, until 
 he obtained a distant view of the tower of the Abbey 
 
 ^f Kilcrea, looking over the green trees that cluster in 
 
 I'firout of the time-honoured pile. 
 
 The post-boy lessened his speed, as if conscious that 
 the gentleman took an interest in antiquities ; and the 
 servant, in reply to his master's question, told him 
 what it was, and seemed very anxious that he should 
 turn off the high road to visit it, informing him that 
 Master Matt, the ould follower of his honour's family, 
 was everlastingly " rootin^" after treasure there, and 
 that it was a fine place " enthely." Edward was, how- 
 ever, now as anxious to get forward, as he had pre- 
 viously been to delay, and on went the horses with as 
 much speed as if they had not travelled a mile. 
 
 Some little time before his arrival at Macroom traces 
 of the fatal disturbances he had heard of were but too 
 distinctly visible. The blackened and still smouldering 
 walls of a cabin, which had evidently been burnt by 
 the military, arrested his attention. A ghastly-looking 
 dog, of large size, wounded and bleeding, sat gazing at
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 223 
 
 the ruins, perhaps the only survivor of the wretched 
 household. Further on was a still more distressing 
 evidence of martial law; a group of women were 
 wringing their hands, howling, and weeping most bit- 
 terly over the inanimate form of a man, who had evi- 
 dently met with a violent death. 
 
 Edward ordered the driver to stop. " They mur- 
 dered him hke a dog, without judge or jury, for 
 nothino"," was the only explanation he could receive. 
 " Tliey murdered him under the tree his father planted, 
 and where his children played." He inquired the 
 cause, but coidd obtain no fact. " They took him out 
 of liis bed and miu'dered him — in the sight of his wife ; 
 whose arms they untwisted from round his neck — icitk 
 a bayonetr He saio that this was desperately true ; for 
 though she was in a swoon on his body, her hands were 
 cut and bleeding. 
 
 It was a scene that made his senses reel, and Ms firm 
 heart tremble. He collected himself sufficiently to in- 
 quire the name of the place, of the man, and at what 
 liour, and by whom, the act of violence (he could not 
 consider it an act of justice) had been committed, and 
 noted them down; then, leaving the weepers some 
 money, he ordered the postiHoai to drive fast — faster — 
 into jMacroom. It was really agonising to recall tliis 
 scene, and contrast it with the natural beauty of the 
 country; Edward closed his eyes, as if to prevent ex- 
 ternal objects distracting his ideas, and endeavoured to 
 collect his senses. That there must have been provoca- 
 tion, he entertained no doubt ; but he felt indignant at 
 the unnatural combination of justice and cruelty.
 
 224 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 As tliej drove into the straggling town of Macroom, 
 every creature seemed in a state of confusion and dis- 
 tress, such as it is impossible to describe. A sort of 
 half-maniac, half-idiotic insanity appeared to possess the 
 people, while the military, evidently waiting for orders, 
 wore an air of defiance and ferocity, before which some 
 crouched, and at which others laughed. The multitude 
 appeared to consist only of two classes of persons, 
 paupers and soldiers. It was with difficulty that the 
 carriage drew up to the inn door, and there Edward saw 
 one or two gentlemen endeavouring to make their way 
 through the crowd, so as to get round the corner of the 
 building into the gate leading to Macroom Castle, — at 
 that time the residence of one of the most hospitable 
 and worthy representatives of the old class of Irish 
 country gentlemen. 
 
 " Clear the road for the justices of the pace" shouted 
 an herculean model of the class half knave, half fool, 
 and whole beggar. " Clear the road for the pjice, or 
 the soldiers will do it with grape shot and bagganetts.'' 
 
 " Fire and soord — fire and soord to drive out star- 
 vation!" shouted an idiot; and then suddenly fixing 
 his eyes on Mr. Spencer, he exclaimed, "There's a 
 pale gentleman — a strange pale gentleman, that looks 
 pity at us. Give us a halfpenny to buy pratecs : we're 
 all quiet as lambs if ye'll give us the maaley pratecs." 
 
 Edward asked to be shown into a private room, but 
 was told there was not one in the house ; they were all 
 occupied by gentlemen and officers, and visiters belong- 
 ing to " the castle." He entered the least crowded, and 
 found a scat at a window looking over the stable-yard,
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 225 
 
 that was backed by tlie fine old trees of Macroom 
 Castle. He took out tlie memorandum lie bad made 
 of tbe incident on the road, and tlie name of the person 
 killed, and was considering liow he should proceed with 
 the inquiry he had determined to institute, when Iris 
 name was pronounced by the well-remembered voice of 
 the good old clergyman. 
 
 " I thought it most likely you would pass through 
 to-day," he said; " and that alone would have brought 
 me to Macroom, if other and more painful duties had 
 not demanded my presence here. It is many years 
 since I have known the country to be really in a state 
 of such frightful turmoil; not one or two cases of in- 
 sxuTection, but all is in commotion. You have, of 
 course, heard of the destruction of our fellow-voyager's 
 house. He himself was escorted to Macroom Castle — 
 popular feehng is so greatly against him — by a party of 
 soldiers. We are all going in there to hear news, and 
 to take examinations. You miist permit me to intro- 
 duce you. Do not feel any delicacy at entering a house 
 which is open to every sti'anger, and the hospitality of 
 which — the moment a scout had informed its master of 
 your arrival — would have been forced upon you before 
 you had time to change horses. Macroom Castle is 
 literally ' the Hotel of the West.' Besides, you will 
 see much that you ought to see ; all our gentry, that is, 
 those who are in the country, will be there, and it Avill 
 be well for you to know them." 
 
 Edward could not avoid mentioning the terrible scene 
 he had witnessed. Mr. Graves shook his head. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE whiteboy; 
 
 " Very sad — very sad," lie said. " "We must inquire 
 into it; but depend on it, it was provoked." 
 
 " Provoked, Sir," repeated tlie young Englisliman, 
 Indignantly. "Provoked! wkat provocation could 
 justify violence sucli as tliat? It seems to me a case of 
 murder." 
 
 " We will inquire," replied tlic dean; adding, " it is 
 a strange request to make to an Englishman, tliat lie 
 sliould keep cool; but I see it is a necessary one for 
 you. You will find individuals of only one party as- 
 sembled bere, and all influenced, more or less, by tbe 
 state of tlie country." 
 
 " But surely both parties arc interested in tlie pre- 
 servation of tlie peace," said Edward. 
 
 " We would liope so. But tbe sooner we make our 
 way into tbe castle tbe better," was tbe reply. 
 
 Knowing tbe dean's benevolent feelings towards tbe 
 people, and bow entirely be deserved tlieir respect and 
 affection, Edward was surprised and grieved to observe 
 tbat tliey avoided liim ; and if tbey did not impede bis 
 progress, did not make way, or facilitate liis object. 
 Usually ready to bless, few blessed liim tben. Hints 
 were murmured tbat be was " consorting" "witli tlieir 
 enemies; and tbe mob outside tbe castle gate seemed 
 inclined to force its way into tbe enclosure — indeed 
 so great was tbe pressure against the entrance, tbat tbe 
 man witbin hesitated about opening it. 
 
 " You are astonished, I see," said Mr. Graves, " at 
 the strange looks and cold salutations I encounter. It 
 is only when under some momentary excitement they
 
 A STORY OF IRELAXD. 227 
 
 receive me tlius. Tlie Irisli cliaracter, constitution, 
 feeling, principle, call it what you will, admits of no 
 medium thoughts — no deliberative reasonings. ' Tliose 
 who are not with us, are against us,' is their motto. 
 They never look, or believe in any one xoho looks, at both 
 sides of a question." 
 
 Tliis was said in an under tone; and while the 
 clergyman's steady eye met the daring, the angry, 
 the sinister, or the hiimble gaze of people, in various 
 stages of excitement — suddenly an elderly gentleman 
 advanced slowly towards the gate. There was an in- 
 stantaneous change in the manner of the crowd. Those 
 who had hats, took them off; those who had none, pulled 
 their forelocks and scraped their feet; the women mut- 
 tered prayers in English and Irish ; the boys shouted — 
 and then there was a general '•' Whisht, 'tis himself that's 
 in it — Wh-is-ht!" and all was silent. There was a 
 mingUng of dignity and freedom, the jovial look of the 
 hunting field with the pohsh of the courtier, in the gen- 
 tleman's carriage and presence. Nodding famiharly to 
 Mr. Graves, and lifting lois hat to Mr. Spencer, he 
 stood for a moment so as to be seen by those without — 
 giving them time to perceive that his bearing was firm 
 and good tempered — and then said, " Well, boys, and 
 what do you want now ? Not potatoes, for you had a 
 fair allowance of them this morning." 
 
 " God bless yer honour, we had full and plenty — 
 God increase your store. If all was Hke you, there'd 
 be no want in the country," was the immediate re- 
 sponse. " And sure only for your honour, we would 
 have been dead alive with the hunger long ago." 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 " And yet you will not suffer my friend, tlie dean, 
 (who, by tlie way, is your friend as much as he is 
 mine,) to pass in, though he has a strange gentleman 
 with him. I am quite ashamed of you." 
 
 " Oh, Sir, that wasn't it at all ; by no manes, yer 
 honour. We war just waiting to see the man yer 
 honour knows is in it, and that oughtn't to be there — 
 that we might rise a good yell at him, yer honour." 
 
 " And why do you want to do thatf inquired tlie 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Why? Why then it's yerself. Sir, that needn't 
 ask that, for it's the first time yer honour's castle gate 
 ever opened to him." 
 
 " Boys," said the Master of Macroom. " Boys, is it 
 now, for the first time, you have to learn, that what- 
 ever a man's faults or sins may be, lohen lie is in distress 
 the gates of Macroom Castle are never shut against him?" 
 He spoke in a clear distinct voice, and it was responded 
 to by a loud hearty shout ; the shouters leaping in the 
 air, tossing up their hats, whirling their shillalas, and 
 shaking their rags in a frenzy of delight. Taking ad- 
 vantage of this momentary excitement, Mr. Spencer 
 and the dean walked into the avenue, and the master 
 continued, 
 
 " Any violence on your part must operate against 
 you, because it will prejudice tlie gentlemen who meet 
 here to-day — ^not to injure you, but to protect them- 
 selves; it will prejudice them against you." 
 
 " But that fellow within. Sir, will be pisoning ye 
 with all sorts and sizes of lies. Sure there's as good as 
 a score of poor innocent boys sent out of the country
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 229 
 
 tliroiigli his means in the last five or six years, to say 
 nothing- of tlie houseless and homeless craythurs that's 
 wandering and hungry through his villany; and if he 
 had his way and his will, sorra a one standing at this 
 gate this blessed day whose skull he wouldn't send to 
 keep company with them poor monnuments over the 
 ould coort-house — of the fine boys that suffered for 
 shortening the days of ould Hamilton. Sure, it's a sin 
 in a Christian country to see their white bones in the 
 air. 
 
 *' And my beautiful boy one of them, and to lose liis 
 young life for such an ould man?" exclaimed a withered 
 woman, clapping her hands, and concluding her sen- 
 tence with an ullage wn, in which several voices joined. 
 
 "This is very extraordinary!" whispered Edward 
 Spencer to Mr. Graves, "glorying in their relationship 
 to a murderer." 
 
 " They would not confess to any kindred yrith. a 
 thief," was the reply; " they would thank God that all 
 their people were poor and honest, and that if they did 
 get into misfortune, it was not for what they need be 
 ashamed to own. They have a sort of fatality-feeling 
 about murder, thinking it is before them — their destiny 
 — and, alas ! too frequently, their duty. Listen." 
 
 *' I think," resumed the Master of Macroom, " that 
 I have been sufficiently long your friend to be trusted, 
 and am not likely to see any injustice done to you." 
 
 "Injustice !" repeated a stalwart-looking fellow, strong 
 of mind and hmb, with a concentrated expression of 
 countenance — an expression implying more firmness 
 than fierceness. " Injustice ! oh, death aUve, Sir ! if
 
 230 THE WHITEBOT 
 
 you give any attintion to liim or Ms we are all done 
 for. Sure, you know I wouldn't tell yer lionour a lie ; 
 and I coidd prove an alibi for every man tliat black 
 villain will mark — I know I could ; but what Ave're all 
 willing as life to stand to, is, if yer honour would just 
 listen to us, and not mind liim or his at all. Sure, yer 
 honour, when an alibi is proved everything going before 
 is disproved; and sorra a one of the gentlemen will 
 stand aginst yer honour, if yer honour only chooses. 
 Sure, ye'r the top of the country, we all know that. 
 Isn't it plain, yer honour, that if the boys accused 
 warn'tin it, they warn't — isn't that plain. Sir?" 
 
 " Very — but not true. How do you know against 
 whom informations may be sworn ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir, that's asy known — every one he has a 
 spite too — and that's every one he injured; and sorra a 
 one hardly in the country that he has not done an ill 
 turn to." 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed the master, with a wave of liis 
 hand, " but the country cannot remain in its present 
 disturbed state ; nothing can be attempted to hft you out 
 of the poverty into which you are plunged until this 
 'fever — this terrible tumult — subsides. Nothing can be 
 done for you, while the lives of those who would give 
 you bread are endangered by coming amongst you." 
 
 " True for you. Sir; but sure we never do hui't or 
 harm to man or mortal, barring they keep on at us, and 
 then, Sir, then you know how long we trust in the 
 Lord, and shut our mouths against both starvation and 
 words, and chain down our hands and look our misery 
 and hunger in the face. Oh, Sir, none knows this
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 231 
 
 "better than yer honourable self, and sure you won't 
 turn ao;am' us now." 
 
 The gentleman was visibly affected, for it was im- 
 possible to look at the impassioned speaker and not 
 feel. At last he said, 
 
 " I'll never turn against tliose who conduct them- 
 selves peaceably; but you must respect the laws, and 
 leave it to them to judge and punish. Your violence 
 will destroy you in the end." 
 
 "Ah yah!" he exclaimed, "the law that punishes 
 one side rewards the other without thinking of justice; 
 the judging ever and always leans to the power; and 
 if violence destroys us in the end, peaceableuess has de- 
 stroyed us without an end. You mean well to us. Sir, 
 and so does Mr. Graves, I'll own that, but you are not 
 one of us — God forbid you war. Oh, then ! I wonder 
 the roof of the Caislean-i-FhIiom isn't raised right up 
 from its walls this blessed night with the lies of Aby 
 Richards — he'll swear against every man he has a grudge 
 and a spite to in Munster; and he's as deep as he's 
 dangerous." 
 
 " You speak," interrupted the Master of Macroom, 
 " as if the burning of Mr. Richards' house was the sole 
 instance of outrage. You, Jem Murphy," and he fixed 
 liis eyes on the speaker, "know better than that. Have 
 you forgotten the poor post-boy's murder ; the forcing 
 open house after house for arms; the destruction, and 
 riving, and marauding; the threats, and night disturb- 
 ances ? I tell you once and for all there must be an 
 end of it, and if reason won't do it, force must." 
 
 "There never was a finger raised in the country
 
 232 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 against ycr honour, or one belonging to you — I ask 
 yer lionour's self, is there ever a lock turned upon one 
 of yer honour's doors? and it isn't turning away from 
 us you'd be?" said Murphy, in a whining tone. 
 
 " I'll never turn from either friend or foe," said the 
 gentleman. " You know how steady I've been to you; 
 you know that nothing ever turned me, as you call it — 
 and nothing ever shall turn me — " There was a shout, 
 which the gentleman instantly quelled by exclaimmg 
 " Silence," in a voice that could have been heard a 
 very long way off. " Hear me to the end," he said, 
 " nothing shall change me, but your own violence 
 and disregard of the laws of your country. I warn you 
 most earnestly not only against any act of violence, 
 but against assembling in a manner that will lead to 
 violence. If you commit an outrage I cannot save 
 you. Go home peaceably, and by so doing prove that 
 no outrage can be laid at your door; go home, if you 
 would save yourselves and your families from ruin." 
 
 There was a dead silence. " Go home, my friends, 
 qulctl}', I entreat you," he repeated. "Go home; I 
 can gain nothing by this advice — on the contrary, boys, 
 I shall be a loser," and the look of stern and even 
 haughty command which his expressive features had 
 assumed was chano-ed for one of infinite humour: " I 
 shall be a great loser; for you "\vill go home, and in- 
 stead of a parcel of idle lazy vagabonds being swept 
 away, you will be coming for the cutlings for the gruel, 
 and the drop of wine for Molly and the new baby; 
 and I shall have you all down upon mc for potatoes, 
 and blankets, and thatch, and wattles and some-
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 233 
 
 tiling to pay the priest, in as great numbers as if the 
 soldiers had never paid you a visit. I really think you 
 had better stay and be shot." 
 
 This ironical advice had more effect upon the miser- 
 able yet mirth-loving mob, than the gentleman's reason- 
 ing. They liked the jest and the jester, and they se- 
 parated, at least for a little time, with sundry exclama- 
 tions of " Wliat a mighty pleasant man his honour was, 
 and sure it was a great blessing intirely to have the 
 like of him in the country;" and so they took his advice, 
 imtil moved by some new excitement, or, made to thmk 
 differently by another speaker, they re-asscmblcd and 
 forgot the coimscl of their best friend.
 
 234 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 CHAPTEll XIV. 
 
 THE SPY. 
 
 J 
 
 It is always mucli easier to get a nuraber of Irish 
 country gentlemen together for amusement tlian for 
 the dispatch of business — mere business; and though 
 the lives and properties of many were at stake, yet the 
 meeting bore too close an affinity to abstract thought 
 to be very interesting to the majority, who gradually 
 strolled off to inspect the kennels, bet upon some fa- 
 vourite horse in " the master's" stables, or dip a line in 
 the beautiful river Sullane that waters the domain, or 
 for any other purpose that might wile them away from 
 Serious occupation. 
 
 Edward was surprised to perceive that those who 
 lingered in the dining-room were much more full of 
 mirth and mischief, than care or concern; and more 
 ready to jest, than to look grave, upon the state of the 
 country. They all, however, shook him cordially by 
 the hand, and it was his fault, but not theirs, if he did 
 not feel as much at home with them in five minutes as 
 he would have done with his own countrymen in as 
 many months.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 235 
 
 Before the entire party — who, after various mes- 
 sengers had been dispatched for them, came dropping 
 in by twos and threes — were assembled, he took occasion 
 to tell liis host of the outrage he had witnessed on the 
 road. 
 
 " My dear Sir," exclaimed one who was amusing 
 himself by tossing fragments of oaten bread into a dog's 
 mouth, " the fact is, you are new to the country, and 
 do not understand our ways." 
 
 Edward turned so abruptly round on the speaker, 
 while his deep intelligent eye inquired, more eloquently 
 than words could have done, the meaning of what he 
 had said, that the dean laid liis hand on his arm. 
 
 " The feUow, depend upon it, deserved what he got, 
 or he would not have got it," added the speaker. 
 
 " But his Hfe has been taken. Sir," repHed Edward; 
 " and surely the military are not suffered to rough ride 
 through a country, and butcher whom they please." 
 
 " Really, Sir," said a bkistering, burly, jovial-looking 
 'squire in top boots, a blue coat and buff waistcoat, 
 " Really, Sir, where we have so much to investigate 
 that is important, I cannot see the use of occupying' 
 time about what is not — bothering and confusing one 
 thing with another." 
 
 " Easy, easy, my good friend," interrupted as jovial 
 and good-tempered " a spark of the Emerald" as any 
 in the hall. " Easy, I say. From the notes Mr. 
 Spencer made on the spot, which our reverend friend 
 the dean has just shown mc, I'm thinking it's one of 
 my tenants that's shot, and one that never was a gale 
 behind; and I must have it seen into immediately."
 
 236 THE WHITEBOY; ^ 
 
 " But, Sir," observed Edward, " what does it matter 
 wliose tenant lie was — lie was a man and a subject." 
 
 " A Papist rebel, I'll go bail," interrupted a voice. 
 
 " Well, Sir," said Edward, " and if he was, he had 
 as good a right to the protection afforded by the laws 
 of his country as either you or I — he had a right to a 
 fair trial." 
 
 " Bathersliin !" exclaimed the same rou2:h and thun- 
 dcring voice. 
 
 " I do not understand what the gentleman means," 
 observed Edward, with a look of inquiry to the dean, 
 who only smiled. 
 
 " What do you mean by calHng a tenant of mine a 
 ' Papist rebel,' " said the gentleman who was, with 
 Dean Graves, looking over Mr. Spencer's notes. 
 
 " What I say," repHed the county colossus, as, striding 
 forward from amid a group who indulged in the bad habit 
 of standing round the fire, or the fire-place, he marched 
 across the room, and looked the querist full in the face. 
 " A Papist rebel, I'll go bail," he repeated; " and as to 
 such a fellow having a right to a fair trial, or a trial of 
 any kind, I deny it in toto. A trial ! Cock a Papist up 
 vnth. a fair trial indeed ! If I had my own will and 
 way, I'd soon quiet the country: I'd shoot 'em like so 
 many rats !" 
 
 " I dare say you would," observed the person he ad- 
 dressed, and who seemed rather to shrink from comino- 
 in contact with one who appeared to Edward half 
 giant half savage; "but you wouldn't like a good 
 paying tenant of your own to be shot, Mr. O'Driscoll." 
 
 "It shall certainly be investigated," repeated Ed-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 237 
 
 ward ; and his quiet, calm, determined tone had a pecu- 
 liarly clear and impressive sound, following, as it did, 
 the rolling thunder of the giant's brogue, and the sharp 
 clamour of the eager speaking of the past minute. " I 
 ask not concerning any man's faith " 
 
 " Don't ye though?" interrupted the giant. " Bedad, 
 my hoy, you've a great deal to learn then." 
 
 " I ask not," repeated Edward, looking steadily at 
 O'Driscoll, " concerning any man's faith, but I demand 
 justice ; and I will certainly have this (as it seems 
 to me) murder investigated. If you, gentlemen, will 
 assist me, I shall feel obliged ; if you will not, I 
 shall certainly go at once to DubHn, and compel an 
 inquiry." 
 
 " The devil you AviU," exclaimed Mr. O'Driscoll, 
 looking over his huge spectacles at Edward, whom 
 (having entered only the previous moment) he had not 
 been introduced to. Then, speaking loud enough for 
 all to hear, " Who the deuce is he ?" he was told, 
 and his ruffled feathers were smoothed in a moment. 
 He advanced towards the young Englishman with his 
 gigantic arms outstretched, seized his unwiUing hands 
 within his own, and crushed them in his fervent grasp ; 
 slapped him on the back, declaring he was the very 
 cut for a steeple chase, and then demanded how it was 
 that he, who came " from the right sort, and had good 
 wholesome Protestant blood in his veins, should make 
 such a ' bother' about shooting a fellow in such times 
 as the present, when it was needful and necessary to 
 prove the power of the law?" 
 
 Edward would have shown that the power of the
 
 238 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 law was in its justice, but his new acquaintance pre- 
 vented liim. 
 
 " Sure, my dear boy," Ire said, " if ye Lave a fancy 
 for it, that's enough about it. I'd never gainsay any 
 fancy of one of so fine a family as yours. We'll have 
 the officer, and the dragoons, and all of them in at once, 
 only — it's a quare humour you took in yer head, I 
 must say. Englishmen are mighty quare in such little 
 things. I thought it was some friend of Jack Towns- 
 end's who raised the ■pullalew^ because the boy was 
 one of his tenants. Faith, I'd be sincarely obligeed to 
 any one who would shoot half-a-dozen of mine in the 
 same way, I know that ;" — and he laughed heartily and 
 loudly at his own admission; and then, in as loud a 
 voice, asked the Master of Macroom what they had 
 best " file into" first; whether they'd have Abel up, or 
 take further examinations as to the post-boy affair; or 
 get whatever sliine he'd got out of " Pether the Peeler." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Edward, " for interrupt- 
 ing you, but it struck me that ' Peter the Peeler,' was 
 mentioned by one of the people at the cottage as being 
 there at the time." 
 
 " Nothing more likely. We'll get tlic truth out of 
 Peter." 
 
 " It will be the first time then, I believe," said the 
 dean. 
 
 *' Look here, Mr. Spencer, and mind what I'm telling 
 you!" thundered O'Driscoll, "don't mind a word the 
 parson tells you. Only I have such a respect for the 
 Establishment, I'd never enter his church ; he's not 
 worth a farthing, he's no spmik in him; he's a mode-
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 239 
 
 rate man — tliink of tlaat ! Sure I once heard Kim call 
 a priest his christian brother." 
 
 Now this did not appear at all monstrous or im- 
 proper to Edward, though it was followed by a laugh, 
 and a " No, no, no" from many a lip. 
 
 " That's what he gets by his EngHsh liberalism ; 
 think of Father O'Hay being the dean's ' christian 
 brother !' Oh, Mr. Spencer," he continued, after ano- 
 ther roaring laugh at his own words, "if your aunt 
 had heard him say that, I give ye my honour it would 
 have killed her; though the best of the joke is he did 
 say something — poor dear woman ! — almost as bad at 
 her funeral, when he had us all praying for the skirling 
 devils that poured over the hills and did us out of the 
 first earth. It was a cowardly thing of Richards to 
 fire and run that day ! But don't mind the dean, Mr. 
 Spencer — look — I give you my honour, this blessed 
 minute, if he was turned out into the street of Macroom, 
 the mob, that he's always temporizing with, would cut 
 him into smithereens ; and if it wasn't out of respect for 
 his cloth, we'd cut him up in another way; Sir, he hasn't 
 as strong ' a back' in the country as a field-mouse." 
 
 The dean smiled his usual placid smile at this charge, 
 made half in jest, half in earnest, and the Master of 
 Macroom Castle said he was certain Mr. Spencer had 
 never heard of the memorable funeral, and had no idea 
 "what was meant by a " strong back." 
 
 Two or three gentlemen whose manners were courtly 
 as courteous,, men of polished address and admirable 
 breeding, now suggested to the master of the house 
 that, as Mr. Spencer was a stranger, and seemed very
 
 240 THE WHITEBOT 
 
 anxious on tlie subject, it would be as well to inquire 
 at once, into wliat he bad that morning witnessed — for 
 that tbey bad mucb to get tbrougb before dinner. 
 
 " Ay, do it all before dinner," exclaimed O'DriscoU, 
 rolling himself into a chair, which, substantial as it was, 
 creaked and groaned beneath his weight, " or leave it 
 till to-morrow; one can't be bothered with business 
 after dinner, like a Dublin shop-boy." 
 
 In a few minutes the company were arranged in 
 somethins: Hke form. The master of the castle — as the 
 square tower of the once extensive fortification is still 
 termed — sitting on a magisterial-looking chair at the 
 upper end of the table. The usual clerk was absent on 
 business, but a dashing young fox-hunter, smelKng of 
 the stable, and habited in a "bang up" and an orange 
 cravat, undertook his office, heading the purposed 
 examinations with a pen and ink sketch of a gallows. 
 Before he had time (as he would have said) ''to furnish 
 it," "Peter the Peeler," a well-known and bitterly- 
 hated spy, was ushered into the room, the secretary 
 -pro tern, giving Edward a push in the side with his 
 elbow, followed by the observation that " Now they'd 
 have a regular run." 
 
 He was a slight but muscular man; his face, of the 
 regular Cork fashion (so diiferent from the long, nar- 
 row, sallow, black-eyed faces of Kerry), had high cheek 
 bones, sunken eyes — bright, investigating, and hard as 
 gray marbles; projecting brows, receding forehead, a 
 head conveying an idea of remarkable endurance, 
 firmly supported by a red coarse neck; the mouth was 
 wide and projecting, and the nose short, thick, and
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 241 
 
 abrviptly tenniiiatccl. His long frieze coat was tlirown 
 back, and in the belt tliat girdled his waist beneath the 
 " big coat," were a brace of pistols and a cutlass. The 
 glance he cast round the room was sudden, and stealthy 
 as a cat's. It was evident that he at once saw all who 
 were present; the only person he looked at a second 
 time was Edward Spencer. 
 
 " Well, Pcther, honest boy, how are ye?" said Mr. 
 O'Driscoll, taking off his spectacles and wiping them 
 on the cuiF of his coat, "how's every bit of ye that's 
 in it ? Here's a strange gentleman, Pcther," and he 
 winked at the company, "here's a strange gentleman, 
 Pcther, that will be glad of a Httle help from you in a 
 small matter; he's an honourable man, Pether, and 
 won't want you to sin your soul, in any very bad way ; 
 so you'll let him off moderately — eh, Pether?" 
 
 " Ah, Mr. O'Driscoll, Sir, you ever and always have 
 your joke; ye never can let a poor boy like myself 
 alone." 
 
 "Pether, ye never got your snug little place, nor 
 that big coat, or boots instead of brogues, nor that fine 
 bran new beaver, that his honour of Macroom needn't 
 be ashamed to wear of a Sunday — by being let alone, 
 Pether!" 
 
 "Ah, yer honour's mighty pleasant, I'll say that for 
 you," replied the "peeler." 
 
 " Have ye seen any of the ghosts of the boys we sent 
 out for the benefit of their education, Pether?" 
 
 " Sorra a one, yer honour." 
 
 " NoAv, 'pon your word," inquired the young gentle- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 242 THE whiteboy; 
 
 man who had been sketcliing the gallows, " did you 
 never see a ghost?" 
 
 " Misther John," said Pether, " not to he making 
 you an ill answer, I don't see what business it is of 
 yours whether I did or not. I'm too busy with the 
 living to think much of the dead." 
 
 " Bravo, Pether, spoken like a man," persisted Mr. 
 O'Driscoll, who imagined he was doing Mr. Spencer a 
 favour by drawing out the informer, whom, like some 
 others of the party, he used and despised. " So all that 
 little story of Mary Malloy, whose husband was hung 
 by mistake, was an invention — eh, my Pether ?" 
 
 The man's red complexion instantly sunk into a dusky 
 yellow. He seized, with both his hands, the top rail of 
 a high chair beliind which he stood, opened liis mouth 
 and gasped at the air convulsively; — it was like the ex- 
 piring breathing of a stranded shark, into whose vitals 
 a harpoon had been deeply struck. He raised his hand 
 to liis throat, and after a struggle, though the words 
 gurgled and faltered on his wliite lips, he was heard 
 to say, " Don't, Sir, asy — asy wid me, for the love o* 
 God. I thought, Sir — I hoped he was guilty; and. Sir, 
 sure if he wasn't — if he wasn't, gintlemen — there's 
 many a one sent out of the world innocent, as well as 
 him. Many a one, as you know yerself, Mr. DriscoU, 
 Sir ; and if it was the last word I had to spake — " 
 
 " There — we'll speak no more about it," said the 
 master of the castle. 
 
 *' Best way !" observed Mr. O'Driscoll, putting on 
 his spectacles, apparently without noticing the emotion
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 243 
 
 of the wretched man, " there's no use in crying after 
 spilt milk, is there, my Pether?" 
 
 "It was blood, Sir — spilt blood — woman and 
 cliildre' too ! I beg yer honour's pardon," continued 
 the man, addressing the master, " but would you order 
 me a glass of whiskey ; there's something gripping mee 
 throat, and it's only the whiskey washes it down." 
 
 He eagerly drank oif the liquid poison, that was 
 speedily procured, and then bowing respectfully to Ed- 
 ward, inquired in a changed tone, " What he could 
 have the pleasure to do for his honour ?" 
 
 The master of the house having looked over the 
 few notes that Edward had made in the morning, asked 
 Peter, if he had been out with the military. 
 
 " I was." 
 
 " And where did you take them?" 
 
 " Not very far. We went out about two in the 
 morning, for a rason I had, that one who knew about 
 the post-boy was in a place near Kilcrea." 
 
 *' And did you find him?" 
 
 " We did not." 
 
 "Any trace?" 
 
 " Sorra a trace, except a pair of big brogues in the 
 house, and the marks of the bare feet that fitted them 
 in the bog at the back of the pigsty." 
 
 " Did you follow the track ?" 
 
 " As far as it would go. They said in the house 
 they were all doAvn with the feaver, and the soldiers, 
 who fear the sickness more than powder or shot, wouldn't 
 turn into it." 
 
 "And what then, Pether?" interrogated Mr. O'Dris- 
 
 k2
 
 244 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 coll, "wlio kept swaying about until he impelled his 
 chair close to the table, upon which he rested his 
 elbows, "What then? you're not one to take the sol- 
 diers out for nothing." 
 
 " It discourages them, Sir, if one takes them out for 
 no good," he answered, " and so we went himting 
 afther arrms." 
 
 " Did you find any?" 
 
 " Troth we did, in a barn, under the thrashing floor. 
 We got a fowHng-piece and two horse-pistols at Jem 
 M'Swiney's, close to Inchira Hill — Crookstown they 
 call it now — and from what I hear there was more of 
 the same sort thrown into ' the Bride.' I wouldn't go 
 bail but some of the arrms taken out of Mr. Townsend's 
 house, had a dip in that purty strame, and are lying 
 there still." 
 
 "Had you any disturbance with the people at 
 M'Swiney's?" 
 
 " No ; there war no men in it, at all, Sir, only the 
 women and childre'; and they all swore they knew 
 nothing about the arrms, or any thing else. They war 
 all bad in the feaver too. One girl said some strangers 
 laid the arrms there when the ould man drove his pigs 
 to Cork — you never can get the truth out of them. 
 The arrms are outside, your honour." 
 
 " Very good, Pether. Then what road did you come 
 home ?" 
 
 "What road? by Coolomer; where I had good 
 rason to think I'd hght upon another bird's nest." 
 
 "In whose little place?" demanded the gentleman 
 who was annoyed at his tenants being molested.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 245 
 
 " In Ignatius Doyle's, plase ycr honour." 
 
 *' I thought, Petei'," said the gentleman, advancing, 
 " I gave you fair warning before, not' to meddle or 
 make with any of my tenants?" 
 
 "You did so, your honour; but it wasn't only the 
 thrifle of arrms — I had good rason to believe that 
 Doyle was one of the first and foremost in the burning 
 below Macroom, at Mr. Richards ; and it's well known 
 that some of the boys who was at that, have papers 
 that, if we could only get hoult of, would let us into 
 the rights of whose in, and whose out, through the 
 whole counthry. It's well known to your honours that 
 the head and strength of the Whiteboys isn't in the 
 poor cabin keepers and mountain runners — not it in- 
 deed ! Ignatius is a well-larned boy, and has a first- 
 cousin housemaid at Spencer Court, and another tra- 
 veUing the world as child's maid with a lady; in troth, 
 there's some brother, or sister, or cousin of Igg Doyle's 
 in every Protestant house in the country. Igg is 
 mighty well larned." 
 
 " Was, you mean, for he is dead," said the land- 
 lord, looking steadily at Peter. 
 
 *' Musha ! yer honour don't say so," answered Peter, 
 with a well-feigned look of astonishment; "they war 
 scrimigen widin the little place, himself and two of 
 the solegers — and I had no mind to go in." 
 
 " I suppose," said the landlord of the unfortunate 
 Ignatius, " i/ou were afraid of the fever then." 
 
 " Musha, then God knows I was not. I went in 
 with the sargeant first, and Igg was laying on the bed — 
 a wet praskeen about his head — and I pointed him out,
 
 246 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 and his wife began sclireeming and roaring, and swore 
 lie was dying; and thej lifted him on to the floor, and 
 searched the house, and never a skreed or scrap of any 
 thing, written or plain, could they find; and then he 
 began aggravating the soldiers, and I come out — and 
 so — that's all I know about it." 
 
 " And you heard no screams, no entreaties for 
 mercy?" said Mr. Spencer, in a tone of inquiry. 
 
 " Oh, bedad, Sir, wherever there's a soldier I'm sure 
 to hear the screams. They'd as soon see a fire enter 
 the house as a soldier." 
 
 " You remember this," persisted the gentleman, 
 " you entered my tenant's house, you find liim ill in 
 bed—" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir — but it's my thinldng he 
 was wounded in some of the night skrimmiges," said the 
 informer. 
 
 " No doubt; and died of his wound while you and 
 the soldiers were there. I'm quite up to you, you see." 
 "Oh, Sir, I've nothing to do with it. I can show 
 my employers part of the information I received. I 
 did my duty in taking the military there ; and am not 
 accountable for any thing that tuck place betwixt 
 them. I've seen half-a-dozen men shot of a mornin<T, 
 •without such a bother about the blaguards." 
 
 The latter part of his explanation was given in a 
 tone of testy insolence, that provoked a reproof from 
 the presiding magistrate — a sharp and keen reproof, 
 which had an admirable efiect upon the party, who saw 
 that "the master" was in earnest; and when tliis was 
 the case, no one chose to trifle. Even Mr. O'Driscoll's
 
 A STORY OF lEELAXD. 247 
 
 liuge Momus-like countenance assumed a steady and 
 thoughtful aspect; and the clerk pro tern, mended his 
 pen and ^\T:ote ^^gorouslJ. The landlord and Mr. 
 Spencer (to whom much courtesy was sho-wn) agreed 
 that the soldiers should be examined, and Peter was 
 ordered into a separate room wliile the examination 
 proceeded. They failed, however, in making out a 
 case against the men. They all declared that the man 
 was dying when they entered; that they only used 
 *' necessary violence" towards those who endeavoured 
 to prevent their searching the cabin, and removing 
 Doyle from where they imagined, from his clinging to 
 the spot, papers or arms were concealed; that a pistol 
 went off in the struggle, but with no intent on their 
 part to fire. And Mr. O'Driscoll, and several other 
 warm supporters of the principle that 
 
 " They shall keep who hare the power," 
 seemed to think it a most wonderful and praiseworthy 
 outstretchinfy of the hands of Justice towards her sister 
 Mercy, that the commanding officer was bovind to be 
 answerable for the appearance of his men, if any pro- 
 ceedings were instituted against them by the relatives 
 of the late Ignatius Doyle. 
 
 Edward was marvellously perplexed and pained. He 
 felt that " Irish justice" and " justice to the Irish" meant 
 not one and the same thing. He had seldom, perhaps 
 never, been in an assembly of finer specimens of his 
 fellow-men ; there was a frankness, a spirit, a boisterous 
 joyousness, about them, that, under other circmn- 
 stances, would have stirred his spirit, and warmed his 
 very heart ; but without, were a starving and disaffected
 
 248 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 multitude — a multitude of creatures by nature as frank, 
 as joyous, and as brilKant as those who (with half-a- 
 dozen exceptions out of twenty or thirty) seemed to 
 care nothing for their sufferings or crimes, beyond 
 the effect such sufferings and such crimes might pro- 
 duce upon themselves. Edward was fond of weighing 
 and comparing, and was more prone to pause and 
 think, than to act. " If these," he thought, " are the gen- 
 tlemen of the country, I do not knoAv how I shall get on 
 — at least Avith them all." And then lie remembered 
 they were seen under peculiar circumstances of excite- 
 ment ; he recalled with pleasure what he had heard 
 " the master" say; and began to appreciate the " wild" 
 high breeding even of "the clerk;" again, he thought for 
 an instant how unfortunate that such men were nursed 
 in prejudice, and fed with the poisoned food of party; 
 and when his eyes met those of the good clergyman, in 
 one look his spirit drank in so much of christian love 
 and charity, that he recalled the moonUt deck, the 
 soothing sound of the billows, and the words of the 
 good man entreating him to patience and forbearance. 
 It would seem that youth and age perfectly understood 
 each other; there was between these two a sympathy 
 so great, that without the disturbance of words they 
 interpreted each other's thoughts — they believed each 
 in the other's truth, uprightness, and honour ! It was 
 by an instinctive faith that this feehng pervaded their 
 minds; and let no one disbelieve in this sympathy of 
 honourable souls — this welling forth of the heart's con- 
 fidence — this trusting — blessed to give, blessed to re- 
 ceive ! Let no cold sceptic in human faith and human
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 249 
 
 goodness, turn suspiciously away from the open, lionest 
 trusting the true heart feels for heart as true — although 
 experience may not have been yet brought to test it. 
 There are some in this wide world whom It is a down- 
 right heresy to doubt; there are others, from whom all 
 kindly instincts turn loathingly away. Cheered and 
 cahned by the kind looks of his reverend friend, Ed- 
 ward was disturbed by the announcement, that it would 
 now be well to take the depositions of Mr. Richards.
 
 250 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE MIDDLEMAN A WITNESS. 
 
 Abel Richakds was possessed of considerable dra- 
 matic talent. He di'cssed to admiration whatever he 
 wished to appear; and though his strong and evil pas- 
 sions frequently disturbed the calm and stolid expres- 
 sion of his countenance, yet its Mawworm look, when 
 he entered the well-filled room at Macroom Castle, was 
 perfection itself His hands were folded, his head was 
 bent, his eyes were half closed: his was the martyr 
 aspect of one who, during the past week, had submit- 
 ted to the scourge and the cord, and sundry beatings 
 of the breast, and resolved to carry his stripes into 
 society, and descant upon them as people do upon good 
 fortune. 
 
 And here again was another reading of a national 
 character — the national character of a versatile people — 
 so versatile, as to require being long known to be at all 
 understood — more consistent to inconsistency, than to 
 aught else; and yet more steadfast, more enduring to 
 their great points of faith, than any nation upon earth. 
 
 Some of the gentlemen, too proud to recognise the
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 251 
 
 middleman save as a necessary wliipper-up of acres and 
 tenants, nodded to him encouragingly, and sucli saluta- 
 tions he returned most respectfully, for they were made 
 by " the first men in the county." Others, heheving 
 that he was what he desired to be considered — the vic- 
 tim of a persecution arising from his change of faith — 
 advanced kindly, but still with an air of superiority, 
 and shook him by the hand. In return for these salu- 
 tations he muttered a few sentences, of which Mr. 
 Spencer could only hear the words, "brand from the 
 burning" — " highly favoured" — " merciful providence" 
 — "humble martyr" — "deep gratitude" — "christian 
 fortitude" — "butcherly papists." Others, again — of 
 whom Mr. O'Driscoll Avas the leader — threw at the 
 man a sort of tallyhoing welcome, which resembled 
 the salutation of a pack of young hounds to an old 
 fox, from whom they expect " sport," and whose escape 
 they are consequently determined to prevent. This 
 greeting he accepted Avith a hideous attempt at an 
 enduring smile ; but met the eye of the dean in a far 
 diiFerent manner as he extricated his hand from the 
 pressure of Mr. O'Driscoll's, who had the usual county 
 propensity for dislocating fingers with an hospitable 
 shake. His hesitation of manner — not exactly know- 
 ing whether to advance or retreat — betrayed that he 
 felt his equivocal position more deeply than might Have 
 been supposed. 
 
 "I am very glad, Mr. Richards, you were preserved," 
 said the clergyman, advancing towards him, " it was a 
 great mercy — one not to be forgotten." 
 
 "Never, Sir, never!" he replied, "never to be for-
 
 252 THE whiteboy; 
 
 gotten. All, Mr. Spencer, Sir, your lot is cast in 
 troublous times; you remember my warning, Sir, in 
 Cork, when I had the holy happiness of laying my little 
 tributes before you. Ah, Sir ! I did not then think 
 how nearly I was being made a brand for the burning — 
 but the hand, THE hand was outstretched! If an 
 accident, which I thought in the blindness of my 
 carnal nature was injurious to my worldly interests, and 
 disturbed my poor narrow plans, had not occurred, 
 and detained me — and that too, privately, at Inchegeela, 
 I should have been in my own home. I came upon 
 it when it was consuming, and mercifully. Sir, foimd 
 shelter beneath the roof of Spencer Court." 
 
 " Come tell us all, Aby — how was it?" inquired 
 Mr. O'DriscoU, " did you pass through the scoun- 
 drels?" 
 
 "No, Sir, I give thanks, not through them, I skirted 
 them; I heard the moans of the perishing animals; I 
 heard the taunts, and the jibes, and the insults they ad- 
 dressed to me; I even looked in the faces of some who 
 gazed only on the fire, and — whom — I can identify." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure, you can!" interrupted the ever 
 jovial O'Driscoll. " I hope some of my devilish bad 
 tenants were among them. Now, 'pon your honour, 
 weren't some of my Skibbereen boys, who never pay a 
 farthing, and whom I daren't eject, in the thick of it ? 
 Look ! I'll give you as fine a mare as any in the county 
 equal to sixteen stone — ten poimd better than the gray 
 seventeen hand ould stager that's burnt — if you'll put 
 into the black list three names that I'll give you. And, 
 Aby, it will be a national benefit — it will be a blessing
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 253 
 
 to the comitry to be rid of tliem ; it will stand against 
 all the lies — I mean all the truths you tould these six 
 months." 
 
 "Oh, Sir, may the Lord forgive you!" replied 
 Richards, casting up his eyes, " but you are only in 
 jest, Sir, nothing more; yet it's awful jesting — it's 
 awful, Sii', uncommon awful, under the circumstances. 
 Those I can identify I will identify, that's all; though 
 sooner or later I shall be the sufferer — I know that. But 
 I have been — " 
 
 "A brand plucked from the burning, isn't that 
 it?" laughed O'Driscoll. " I'm sure you must have 
 been a pile of brands, for I have heard you brand your- 
 self after tliis fashion fifty times a year at least !" 
 
 "Pleasant, Sir, always pleasant! You have much 
 to be thankful for in that charming flow of spirits. 
 Mighty pleasant," muttered Mr. Richards. 
 
 " But here's Mr. Spencer, dying to know how it 
 chanced that you ran to earth at Spencer Court." 
 
 " I should be glad, indeed, to hear it," said Edward; 
 " but did not like to intrude my inquiries when I 
 understood Mr. Richards had to make depositions." 
 
 " Faith, that's not bad — that just chimes in with the 
 master — who looks pistols and bullets at me, whenever 
 I disturb the gravity of an investigation. We manage 
 in Ireland to mingle law and love, and jest and 
 murder, abduction and reduction, whiskey and pistols, 
 courtship and matrimony, wit and starvation, most 
 lovingly together. There's a spice, a zest, a flow; a 
 runniniif fire of all thinsfs — in and out, round and about
 
 254 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 US — a llasliing and a splasliing — tliat you never find 
 anywhere else; everywhere Ave mingle all things." 
 
 "Not quite," said Edward, "there are some things, 
 which in all other countries are mingled; yet here, I 
 perceive, are as distinct as the waters of the arrowy 
 Rhone and Geneva's Lake. You do not mingle your 
 religions or your politics." 
 
 " No, no! We do not want to mingle them," was 
 the reply; they were the only serious, earnest words 
 Mr. O'Driscoll had spoken. 
 
 The single sentence uttered by Edward Spencer, 
 produced a sensation throughout the room, of" which 
 he was perfectly unconscious; but the dean well knew 
 that from those fcAV true words, much scandal would 
 arise, and much doubt be excited as to the real state of 
 the young Englishman's opinions. There was, how- 
 ever, no time for speculation or thought upon any 
 topic — partly from a desire to get the business over, 
 and partly from a knowledge of the minuteness of the 
 straws over which Irish society so frequently stumbles. 
 
 The master set to in good earnest with Mr. Richards, 
 who commenced his narrative in a low tone of vulgar 
 cant; but as he warmed to his subject, hinting occa- 
 sionally at his " past persecutions," and his different 
 suspicions and hatreds of various persons, he came out 
 in his real character; dark, cimning, determined, cloak- 
 ing his vengeful feelings beneath the guise of justice; 
 stating the reasons why he thought such and such per- 
 sons were deep in the disturbances; until, while his 
 brows gathered into a storm-cloud, and his closed lips
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 255 
 
 — and hands clenclied with the crudest detenninatlon 
 — proving the deadly nature of his feehngs — he de- 
 nounced Lawrence Macarthy as the great fire-brand — 
 the arch conspirator — the cliiefest amongst them all. 
 He stated his firm belief that Lawrence was the one, 
 the invisible, Captain Rock; — the unseen, unknown 
 agent, principal mover — every thing, in fact. Nerved 
 into strength of declamation by liis bitterness towards 
 the young man, whom he himself had nearly murdered, 
 he continued to pour forth his violence, until, forgetful 
 of his assumed character, he sealed all with an oath, 
 so deep and dreadful, that some, albeit not over 
 scrupulous in asseverations, shuddered, wliile the laugh- 
 ing colossus, extending his heavy arm across the table, 
 shouted, 
 
 "Capital! — thank you for that, Aby; — there you 
 were yourself, my fine fellow ! Never turn the whites 
 of your eyes again on me for my Hght oaths, wliich 
 are as gossamer to this ! Wliy, what a revengeful re- 
 probate you are! The old leaven — the old leaven^ 
 that's it, isn't it? I say, you must turn monk; there is 
 nothing but the round dozens and hard work at 
 Gougane-barra, or Rome itself, to rub out such black- 
 ness ! That was an oath ! Swear it again, Aby, I'll 
 give ye ten pounds if you'll only swear it again !" 
 
 But Richards did " turn the whites of Hs eyes," and 
 clasp his hands, and mutter about the "weakness of 
 the flesh," — going so far as to hint that he -wished 
 to retire for the soothing comfort of private prayer. 
 And then, recalled to his real nature by a question 
 from Dean Graves, he answered that as the country
 
 256 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 had been under martial law for some time, there had 
 been no difficulty in searching the old owl's castle in 
 which the young Macarthy lived, among the moun- 
 tains, and that notliing had been found there, except 
 indeed the sash and epaulette of a British officer, and 
 a couple of handkerchiefs, not marked either with the 
 Macarthy initials or Macarthy crest, wliich the old Ma- 
 dam Macarthy was so fond of putting on every tiling. 
 
 An officer, who was present, expressed Iris firm 
 belief that the Whiteboys, during the past year, had 
 been subjected to a much more strict discipline — a well 
 organised military tutelage — than had ever directed 
 them before; and added that this conviction led him 
 strongly to doubt Mr. Richards' statement, that Ma- 
 carthy was their Icadcr-in-chicf — a young, impetuous 
 man, utterly ignorant of the great principles of military 
 movements, who at the very best, could only carry on 
 in his own person a guerilla or brigand sort of war- 
 fare, shooting from behind a crag, or surprising, in an 
 untenable position, a party weaker than his own. It 
 was, he continued, known that an officer, connected 
 witli an old family, had altogether disappeared some 
 months, perhaps more than a year ago; and circum- 
 stances led more than one person at the war-office to 
 believe that his wild nature had found home and em- 
 ployment amongst the disturbers of Munster. 
 
 Still Abel maintained his point. Lawrence Macarthy 
 was nowhere to be found ; "he had ' good reasons,'" he 
 said, " for knowing that he was right." In the crowd 
 about his house, he only recognised the face of one 
 man, Ignatius Doyle (this created a sensation, as he had
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 257 
 
 not heard the Peeler's evidence), the voices of several 
 others (he gave their names) ; but he had proof, cer- 
 tain as Hfe or death, that Lawrence INIacarthy was the 
 chief causer of the destruction that fell upon his pro- 
 perty, and that papers of the utmost importance had 
 been in his possession, 
 
 " He knew," he said, — " at least, he had seen them pass 
 from Macarthy's hands into the hands of another person." 
 
 " Who was that person ?" 
 
 He looked fixedly at the dean for a minute, and 
 then glanced at Edward Spencer. 
 
 " It was a person — a woman — a girl — in fact a yovmg 
 lady ; he did not know if it would be agreeable to Mr. 
 Spencer to have it spoken of, but she was generally con- 
 sidered a relative or connexion of Mr. Spencer's ; he 
 saiu them transferred from the hands of Lawrence Ma- 
 carthy into those of Ellen Macdonnel." Upon this 
 statement, both the dean and Mr. Spencer rose. 
 
 " It has so happened," said the young Englishman, 
 " that Ihave never seen my kinswoman. Miss Macdon- 
 nel ; nor did I till tliis moment consider what has sud- 
 denly occurred to me, that the Macarthy of whom you 
 spoke is vmfortunately her half-brother; but from all I 
 have heard, from all I believe of this young lady, she is 
 perfectly incapable of acting in concert with any one 
 opposed to her faith or her allegiance. I shall see her 
 within a few hours, and am assured I shall be able to 
 prove to the Master of Macroom Castle and the present 
 company, that Mr. Richards is labouring under an illu- 
 sion. 
 
 " I am very certain, Sir, that you will not sec the 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 young lady," said Richards, decidedly, " "wltliln a few 
 lioiu's ; that is. If you expect to see her at Spencer Court 
 — she was not there tliis morning." 
 
 "May I ask how you came to be so informed?" 
 inquired Mr. Spencer. 
 
 " The house was searched for her and the papers," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " And did you dare, had you the audacity to insti- 
 tute a search of my house, under the idea that my rela- 
 tive concealed illegal papers therein ?" said Mr. Spencer, 
 his cheeks flusliing, his eyes sparkHng, his shght grace- 
 ful figiue expanding with indignation. 
 
 Several of the gentlemen rose ; O'DriscoU shouted a 
 " Bravo !" that shook the ceihng, and " the Master" called 
 " order:" it was faintly though, very faintly, for there was 
 no one in the room who more sincerely appreciated the 
 spirited bearing of the Enghslmian. Several of the 
 young men clapped their hands, and then whispered each 
 other in dismal tones, that it was no use — Richards 
 hadn't the " pluck" to draw a trigger. It promised to 
 be a jest to these youngsters, but it was earnest to Ed- 
 ward. " If," he added, " you imagine you can fasten 
 this slander upon a lady, you are mistaken ; I am the 
 representative of her nearest kin; and as such, feel it 
 my duty to protect her." 
 
 " I must confess," said the Master, " it seems to me 
 gtrange that Mr. Richards should distinctly state that 
 Lawrence Macarthy was the chief agent in the destruc- 
 tion of his house ; that he, in point of fact, meditated 
 his murder; and yet, that he saw him place papers of 
 such importance in the hands of Miss Macdonncl."
 
 A STOET or IRELAND. 259 
 
 "Ay, riddle us tliat. What were you doing, my 
 Aby, when the young rebel gave his sister the papers?" 
 inquired Mr. O'Driscoll. 
 
 " I — I," stammered Abel Richards, " I — I was look- 
 ing on, and praying to the Lord !" 
 
 The dean cast upon him a look of mthering indig- 
 nation, it could hardly have been believed that so gen- 
 tle and benevolent a face could have given expression 
 to such deep scorn at the man's hypocrisy. 
 
 " Poaching on my friend Pether's groimd — spying — ? 
 eh, my Aby? Was it through the architecture of a 
 turf rick you looked, or out of a potato pit, or with 
 yer eye stuck in a crevice? You had always a sort of 
 second sight, and could see what no one else could, 
 I'll say that for you." 
 
 " A truce to this," interrupted the Master. " Mr. 
 Eichards must inform us how he came to witness this 
 extraordinary transfer." 
 
 Very imwillingly, and with sundry dttours from the 
 truth was the statement made. " How, escaping from 
 the brightness of the flames that would have betrayed 
 him, he forded the river and found himself in a state of 
 extreme exliaustion and dismay beneath the shadow of 
 Spencer Court; that, knowing the evil inclinations of 
 all therein towards him, he dared not enter ; that he crept 
 to where the moon threw the shadows darkest, but 
 discovered that every point except the one where he had 
 crossed was guarded, as the Wliiteboys had posted scouts 
 to prevent escape at each comer of the building ; he had 
 seen two whispering within a yard of where he stood, 
 and that had he not crouched into a recess caused 
 
 S2
 
 260 THE WniTEBOY; 
 
 by a projecting buttress be •would bavc been discovered; 
 tbat, observing a light in jMiss Ellen's window, in- 
 spired by a sudden hope, be entered and entreated her 
 protection." 
 
 " And received it, I am sure," said the dean, " tbougli 
 you must confess tbat of all men living, you bad tlie 
 least reason to do so." 
 
 " Sbe concealed me," be replied, drawing a long 
 breath, " and I hardly know who came or who went, 
 (though, craving Mr. Spencer's pardon, every inmate of 
 his bouse, as I discovered that night, is a fire-brand)." 
 
 " Permit me, Sir, again to doubt you," said the ex- 
 cited Edward. " They are the same who served my 
 uncle faithfully for a number of years. You will have 
 the goodness to remember, gentlemen, that Miss Mac- 
 donnel gave this person the protection he desired, 
 though, if I understand Dean Graves aright, he is per- 
 sonally offensive to her." 
 
 " She certainly stowed me into a cupboard," said the 
 caitiff, " where had there not been a providential open- 
 in-^- for breathino; I must have been suffocated. I 
 prayed fervently, and her fierce dog put me in bodily 
 and continual terror of my life ; my clothes were drip- 
 ping wet, and I had no creature-comfort of any kind." 
 
 " Except protection, Sir, the protection of your life," 
 observed " the Master." 
 
 The traitor looked embarrassed, but regaining his 
 self-possession, continued: "Presently, Sir, the Avin- 
 dow shook as with a sudden thunderbolt, and Lawrence 
 Macarthy covered with blood entered, he was moreover 
 disguised^ had taken more stimulant than was good for 
 soul or body, and she told him so. She made every
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 261 
 
 effort to get him out of the room, for she did not wisli 
 mc to hear his words." 
 
 Edward, who had resumed his seat, rose, and re- 
 questing tlie chairman's pardon, begged to observe that 
 he did not think ]Mr. Richards had any right to alhide 
 to what Miss Macdonnel thought, which he could not 
 possibly understand, that he was very certain she could 
 never (supposing Mr. Richards' statement to be true) 
 have believed that any human being would have been so 
 base as to owe his life to her, and then inform as to what 
 passed in the sanctuary wherein that life was saved. 
 
 Richards also rose, and bowing round the circle ap- 
 pealed to them, whether a sense of " public duty" should 
 not compel a man to a task, which else would be be- 
 yond all endurance ; adding, he would sooner have died 
 than impHcate a lady; and then he stammered and 
 hesitated, receiving no returning smiles, until the " go 
 on, Sir," of the chairman forced him back, when he 
 briefly related what is already known to us. He made 
 the case as violent and as bad against Lawrence Macar- 
 thy as he possibly could, for the evident purpose of 
 exculpating himself as much as possible by showing a 
 necessity for his treachery; he pictured his own indi- 
 vidual agony, his " wrestling Avith himself," his burning- 
 desire when he saw the papers marked with the life- 
 blood of so many whom he loA'cd, to v>a'est them from 
 the Whiteboy's hand; but then " the weakness of the 
 flesh" restrained him. He even related with fiend-like 
 joy Lawrence's determination to speak loud when his 
 sister entreated him to speak low; and he told this 
 ■without one renjembrance of a grateful nature towards
 
 262 THE whiteboy; 
 
 lier, wlio, ratlier than violate the laws of hospitality, or 
 iDreak a promise she had given, risked her own destruction, 
 and the destruction of one dearer than herself. The deep 
 unvaunted generosity of Ellen IMacdonnel had been 
 thrown away upon a soulless hypocrite ; and to add to her 
 exceeding merit, she knew that it would he so. He told 
 also that Lawrence " fatigued with bloodshed — slept ; 
 that he felt as if the sword of Judith had been committed 
 into his hands; he could have bound him then — but — " 
 
 " But what restrained you?" inquired the Master. 
 
 " The Lord's time was not accompKshed," whined 
 Abel Richards, " and his sister placed his rifle across 
 her lap — and her eyes upon where I lay — and her dog 
 watched with her." 
 
 " My poor, poor ERcn !" murmured the dean, " what 
 she must have endured if only a tithe of this be true !" 
 
 " I give you my honour," said O'Driscoll, " it's 
 mighty quare; let's get to the end, and then I'U tell 
 you my mind, my Aby." 
 
 " The end comcth," quoth the man; *' Lawrence 
 awoke, and went his way in peace ; and not long had he 
 been gone, sauntering — as he always does — as if intent 
 on nothing but innocent diversions after birds or rabbits, 
 when I heard the roll of a distant drum, and sundry 
 shots, and my heart awoke, and I could have shouted 
 ' the sword of the Lord and of Gideon,' but I refrained, 
 and shd me down from the window, and found the 
 mihtary; and the kindliness of my nature restrained my 
 tongue, so that at first I said no word of Spencer 
 Court." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," interrupted the officer who
 
 A STORT OF lEELAXD. 263 
 
 had before spoken; "but I think, if I mistake not 
 what I heard this morning, that you woiild inmae- 
 diately have returned there, but that knowing it was 
 the residence of an Enghsh Protestant gentleman, it 
 was some time before you could make the necessary 
 affidavit to warrant a search." 
 
 "Ah! perhaps so," said the pHant Abel; "my 
 poor head wanders — the delay was fatal — the young 
 lady and the papers disappeared. I think. Sir," to 
 Mr. O'DriscoU, " you were so kind as to say you 
 would give me the advantage of your opinion." 
 
 " Ay, that I wiU," said the colossus, " and I only 
 wish that my heart was round yoiu' neck this minute, 
 for it's as heavy as a mill-stone." 
 
 An instant " buzz" went roimd the room. The ex- 
 traordinary elocution of the uneducated but weU-born 
 "Munster giant," was generally followed by shouts 
 of laughter. But there were times when no one dared 
 laiigh at what he said, however strange might be his 
 words. Tlie fire of liis eyes — the iron-like clenching 
 of his fists — his well-known violence — restrained the 
 brave, thoughtless, and reckless fox-hunters of Cork and 
 Kerry. After he had expressed this extraordinary wish, 
 from wliich Abel shrank, he slowly unbuttoned the old- 
 fashioned cufis of his coat, and turned them back, so that 
 his bony Tv-rists and the cord-Hke veins of his hands, were 
 fully exposed. He then seized the collar of his coat, 
 and, as it were, shook himself into it. He was posi- 
 tively agitated, trembled, and then drawing himself 
 up, he prepared to speak, amid silence rendered breath- 
 less by these strange preparations.
 
 264 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 "There's none of you gentlemen liere but know my 
 principles. I'd carry fire and sword — battle — blood — 
 murder, and sudden death through the country — for 
 the salce of my principles. I'm Saxon to the backbone, 
 barring my name ; and yet I am as proud of my name as 
 I am of my principles. I'm no great speaker, and would 
 rather any day knock a man down than argue with 
 him. But there are some things I must speak. I 
 knew that girl's mother,"" he paused — he thrust, his 
 forefinger into the ample folds of his cravat, the muslin 
 rent at once, and the swelling of his throat, now com- 
 pletely exposed, proved that some violent emotion was 
 raging within him — " I knew Annie Gumming," and 
 his voice sank wliilc he added, " I never forgot her. 
 I've checked my horse in many a day's coursing, when 
 she Avas dead and gone, to listen to the wild singing 
 of her child, or to see her bright smile as she'd canter 
 along the mountain road, to my friend the dean's over 
 there. I've looked in her face as she grew towards 
 womanhood, until I dreamt her mother was before 
 me. I've watched her charities, and blessed her for 
 them, though she did them to Papists. Gentlemen, 
 you who know my principles, will understand how I 
 feel to have Annie Cumming's child set by such a 
 wolf as that. Now easy, boys, and stand from about 
 me, to give me breath." 
 
 " I am certain," said Edward Spencer, " that it is a 
 fabrication from first to last." 
 
 "No — no!" exclaimed half-a-dozcn, and one con- 
 tinued, unmindful of his blunder, " Lawrence Ma-
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 265 
 
 cartliy is well known — rebel blood lias ran in his 
 veins three hundred years /" 
 
 "It's not that" resumed Mr. O'Drlscoll; "I don't 
 care if bis head was over the court-house to night, 
 before to-morrow, just for his father's sake; but haven't 
 you the hearts of Irishmen in your bosoms, to feel what 
 SHE did? Why, that young Irish maiden performed 
 a deed of honour which you can't match in your col- 
 lege books. I sec it all; every soul in that house 
 would have sent HIM, crouching there, to blazes, if 
 she had but raised her finger towards his hiding-hole. 
 Yet she preferred endangering her own and her bro- 
 ther's life to a breach of hospitality, or a forfeiture of 
 her word. Glory ! is there no shout in yer throats 
 for such a girl as that?" 
 
 Tlie electric spark kindled, and in that very room 
 a wild hurrah and a clapping of hands was raised for 
 her — so loud as to be heard by the people outside the 
 gate. It was a burst of national generosity and gal- 
 lantry sweeping away all petty feeling for the moment ; 
 it was the generous impulse of generous nature. The 
 Master of Macroom called " Order — order," while he 
 wiped his eyes, and vehemently reproved the temporary 
 clerk, who had shouted louder than any, and who, 
 caught in the irreverent fact, sat down to plunge his 
 pen in the ink with greater diligence than ever. 
 
 " Afther that," said O'Driscoll, quite comforted and 
 cahned by an ebullition of feeling which might have 
 caused the walls of a modern mansion to tremble as 
 with an earthquake ; " Afther that, I'll toll Aby 
 Richards what I think of him."
 
 266 THE WHITEBOT; 
 
 "I tliink," lie began, " I tliink," lie said again, "but 
 liis eyes souglit the man in vain ; Ricliards had taken 
 advantage of the momentary tumult to slip out of the 
 room, not caring to wait for the promised " opinion." 
 
 One shouted, "broke cover," another, " stole away;" 
 but when the door Avas opened by those who resolved to 
 hunt him, so decided a smell of roast meats and savoury 
 dishes entered, that an universal feeling prevailed, that 
 a good day's work had been accomphshed, and they 
 could determine what steps should be taken to bring to 
 justice those who were really impHcated, and also for 
 the discovery of the papers — after dinner. The dean vo- 
 lunteered to find Ellen Macdonnel; and many expressed 
 a conviction that they should be able to hit upon a 
 means of enforcing subjection, and tranquilhsing the 
 country before the next morning ; while others — old, 
 tliiiiking men, shook their heads, and sighed.
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 THE PREPARATIONS. 
 
 A DINNER of any kind, but an Irisli dinner in par- 
 ticular, is at open war with tliouglit ; and as the claret 
 and whiskey punch circulated freely, and each man was 
 expected, if not obliged to fiU his glass, there was little 
 time for reflection. Edward greatly wished to arrive at 
 Spencer Court, but foimd his "leaving" would have been 
 considered a direct insult to the most hospitable house 
 in Munster. Dean Graves told him, that Ms presence 
 there might be useful; and when those who had doubted 
 the young Englishman's " principles," saw him toss off 
 a bumper to the " glorious, pious, and immortal memory 
 of the great and good King Wilham," they became 
 convinced he was " one of them." Thus was he micon- 
 sciously pledged to the two opposing parties ; at 
 Blarney, he had drunk a toast he did not understand ; 
 and at Macroom, he was not aware that drinking the 
 health of a cool-headed ruler, a great — if not a good — man, 
 could be any thing beyond a tribute to a memory wliich 
 excited his admiration without inducing his sympathy. 
 The evening waned on; toasts were proposed and songs
 
 268 
 
 THE WniTEBOY; 
 
 were sung. One, wlilch Mr. O'Drlscoll gave in a full 
 rich tenor, and which filled the room with " a pleasino- 
 melody," was called for twice ; it commenced as follows : 
 
 "Oh, what is Dan Macarthy, or what is old Jim Nash? 
 Or all who ere in punch drinking by luck have cut a dash ; 
 Compared to that choice hero, whose praise my rhymes perfume;. 
 I mean the boast of Erin's Isle, Eould Barry of Macroom." 
 
 Barry's great excellence lay in drinking more whiskey 
 punch than any of his friends ; and the humour (dull 
 enough), in directing his wife, when he retired to rest, 
 to " mix him" a gallon jug of punch to moisten his lips 
 — as people in modern times, call for a bottle of soda 
 water. Edward had no taste for the sentiment : and 
 seeing that the dean, and several who seemed the most 
 steady of the company had withdrawn; that at last the 
 Master himself, pleading urgent business, and promising a 
 " quick return," had absented himself ; and that those who 
 remained were drawing more closelyround the table, dis- 
 missing claret as "too slow," and calling for '' screeching^' 
 hot water, and fresh tumblers — he also contrived to escape, 
 and half opened the door of the room they had occupied in 
 the morning : but seeing "the Master" and several strangers 
 there in earnest conversation, he closed it; not however 
 before he had caught sight of Abel Richards, more 
 erect than usual, which ho thouo-ht boded no fjood to 
 the cause of cither justice or mercy. New as he was to 
 the country, his impulse was to request permission to 
 enter; and he would have done so, had he not observed 
 that the dean was one of those who was grouped around 
 the mysterious circle. Twice he put liis hand on the 
 handle, but his national reserve forbade it; and at last
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 2G9 
 
 lie inquired of a servant " if tlierc "was another sitting- 
 room r 
 
 The man looked somewhat offended. " To be sure 
 there is, yer honour, plenty of sitting, and sleeping 
 rooms too — only when we have all the county here, we 
 make bould to put up a few beds, shake do^vns, or any 
 little convanyinces that way, for the quality. Oh, 
 bedad ! it's in Macroom Castle, long life to his honour ! 
 that there is full and j)lenty of sitting-rooms, Sir — only 
 these two, laid out for sitting in, just now. Sir, for 
 the rasons I have explained to your honour ! God 
 bless you. Sir, though the castle is big enough for a 
 troop of horse, we've every bed in the town taken 
 for our company, borrowed or bought, yet a quarter 
 of the gentlemen, the young pleasant ones, won't look 
 for a bed at all — find one under the table, or out on 
 the grass — and then a dip in the river, and they're up 
 to any thing." 
 
 " You must be very tired," observed the young 
 Englishman, moved by the memory of the grumblings 
 and black looks of the servants in Berkshire, that suc- 
 ceeded a ball or a hunting breakfast." 
 
 " Oh, Lord, no. Sir," answered the broad, grinning 
 Munster face. " Oh, Lord, no. Sir! the poor master 
 do be tired sometimes — and more's the pity; but no such 
 place in the county as this. Sir, for man or beast, or 
 divarshin — full and plenty; and if we die in the ser- 
 vice, lashings of pipes and tobacco at the wake, and his 
 honour's self lading the head to the grave ! No wonder 
 we'd lav down our life for him — the Lord make his 
 bed in heaven, I pray on my bended knees day and
 
 270 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 niglit ! and good reason I have, me and all belonging 
 to me, living under liis lionour tliese two liundred years 
 and more. And it's liimself that's the moral of a good 
 landlord. There isn't a gentleman in all Ireland that 
 might not take pattern by him; and indeed, Sir, I'd 
 be sorry you, or any strange gentleman Uke you, could 
 be led to think that such landlords as Mr. Richards are 
 the run of the country — they're as Master Matt, your 
 honour's own schoolmaster, says, the exception, not the 
 rule. And it's true for him — the best landlords, as a 
 body may say, have the blood and bone of the country 
 in them." 
 
 " I am glad to hear one of your class stand up so 
 bravely for the landlords," said Ed>vard; " very glad." 
 
 " There are G;ood landlords all throuo'h Ireland," 
 continued the man; " and I've travelled a great deal in 
 my own country, as well as in England, with the 
 Master, and known many fine, good gentlemen, who 
 keep at home — God bless them for it ! — and hear and 
 see with their own ears and eyes; but, Sir, the way of it 
 is, that one had man makes more noise in the world than 
 tioenty good ones ; and when once a cry begins, all take 
 hold of it, and shout it on. Why the Master here is 
 like a kino- amono; 'em. Never a bolt was ever drawn 
 on the castle since I was. born, or my father before me; 
 and he has the hearts of every one of us in his hand, to 
 tlirow or toss about as he likes. And why not ? 
 Doesn't he deserve them 9 Never distrained upon a poor 
 man yet — never increased the hardship it was the will 
 of God to visit on a widow, or a fatherless child — never 
 asked whether a boy, like myself, went to mass or
 
 A STORY OE IRELAND. 271 
 
 cliurcli on a Sunday, as long as we did go, and kept 
 tJie day quiet and holy ; only if any suspicion was out 
 against us, send for tlie priest, and inquire into it — and 
 friendly he has always been with his reverence, a rale 
 priest, whose vestments were made in the foreign 
 coimtries where he got his learning. Oh, svu-e if there 
 wasn't good landlords m it, Ireland couldn't have held 
 out so long — the middlemen are the worst, that have 
 no stake in the country, only make all for themselves — 
 and those that never look on us can't love us." 
 
 " You are not in a very loveable state, just now," 
 said Mr. Spencer, half smiling. 
 
 " God knows that's a true word for a stranger; but 
 it never holds on long. Sir. We'll be asy enough 
 soon — some of us too asy." 
 
 " Suppose," said Mr. Spencer, " that your Master 
 was to distrain iipon a man who would not pay." 
 
 " Every poor fellow pays the Master that can. His 
 land is not let more than half up to its value, so that 
 they make their own of it. Well, nothing hinders the 
 paying of his honour's rents but the sickness, or if the 
 tenant gets into any of the troubles that do be running 
 through the country." 
 
 " Well, suppose he distrained imder these circum- 
 stances?" 
 
 " But he would not, Sir. Sure I told your honour 
 he was one of the good landlords; and did any one 
 ever hear of a good landlord distraining upon a poor 
 creature because he had no power to pay, and turning 
 him on the cold stones of the world's hiQ-h road for 
 what was his misfortune?"
 
 272 THE WniTEBOY 
 
 " Certainly not. But suppose a tenant Tvould not 
 pay, although he could." 
 
 " It's mipossible, Sir," was the only reply Edward 
 could elicit. 
 
 "Then I am to believe, that if arrears of rent are 
 due, the Master — " 
 
 " Forgives the whole of it — that's just it, Sir, the 
 easiest and the pleasantest way, and helps them on a 
 bit," interrupted the servant. " But there's some not 
 as well hked as the Master, and yet far superior to Mr. 
 Richards, who's not his way inclined; and if they 
 don't get their rent, why they talk very hard about it, 
 and won't Hsten to reason." 
 
 " And what follows?" 
 
 " Why they talk again, and threaten hard entirely." 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 " Oh, bedad, I don't know, Sir. They keep on at 
 the threatening; and are mighty exact not to let the 
 debt increase, and the like of that." 
 
 " Well?" 
 
 " Well, Sir, they threaten mighty hard entirely; 
 but if they've any mind to remain in the country, just 
 to be easy and comfortable, they dovit do any thing more 
 than thatr 
 
 " I understand," said Edward. 
 
 " Of course an honourable gentleman like yourself 
 would understand it. And think how cruel it is to be 
 drove from the only tiling that keeps life and soul 
 together — the bit of land ! Ah, yer honour ! if all 
 gentlemen were like the Master, and the other good 
 landlords, it's quiet enough the country would be;
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 273 
 
 only one or two Ijad ones upset tlie whole place — and 
 a hard name sticks to many that don't deserve it. 
 And God bless you too, Sir," he added — while find- 
 incr his hat for Edward, who said he would take a 
 stroll in the moonlight — " your servants say you're a 
 noble master. It was mighty lucky yer getting rid 
 of them English, Sir, in Cork: didn't understand the 
 counthry. Sir. I ask yer honour''s pardon," he continued, 
 folio-wing Edward to the door, " but if ye turn that 
 way, ye'll see a raal Irish jig danced: there's a piper 
 in the barn divartin' the servants and followers with the 
 music." 
 
 "Dancing!" exclaimed Edward, "and the country 
 under martial law, and the town full of troops, and all 
 disturbance." 
 
 " Oh, Sir," answered the man, as he brushed the hat 
 with the cuff of his coat, " sure if we waited till the 
 country was quiet, Sir, we'd forget the sound of the 
 pipes and every step we had in the world long ago." 
 
 Macroom Castle is any thing but a handsome or pic- 
 turesque castle. Patched and added to, at different 
 periods, weather-slated in some places, and overgrown 
 with ivy in others, it lias a certain air of Irish negli- 
 gence, Irish strength and Irish mismanagement about 
 it, similar to that wliich, with few exceptions, is ap- 
 parent to strangers in most of the still inhabited dwell- 
 ings of its class. The moon shone full upon the square 
 massive building, and the lights within gleaming and 
 sparkling from amid the deep green shining ivy, or out 
 of the blue slates, had a strange appearance to Edward 
 Spencer ; particularly when, directed by the rippling of the 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 Sullane to its banks overhung with noble trees, be looked 
 back and viewed tlie castle through the boughs and 
 foliao-e of the " Wilderness." At intervals the breeze 
 bore the festive sound of the " imion pipes," to wliich the 
 thoughtless servants and retainers were dancing in one 
 of the out-offices ; while through the open windows of 
 the banqueting-hall came the song — only half articu- 
 late — the wild shout at some favourite toast, and the 
 wilder lauc-hter. There was no sound from the town — 
 except once, when the blast of a bugle caused several 
 windows to be thrown open, and questions asked; Ed- 
 ward was certain they were questions from their tone, 
 but he could hear no words. 
 
 The river was running calmly at his feet; catching 
 occasionally the reflection of a distant light, and mur- 
 muring, as it passed, to the reeds and sedges that 
 impeded its progress. The shadows of the moon are 
 as capricious as a maiden's fii'st smiles of love ; now all 
 light, anon all darkness — blackness, in truth, at times ; 
 then coming out more blandly and sweetly than ever, 
 full of gracious and gentle lovehness — and even the 
 more prized for their uncertamty. Lovers have written 
 sonnets to her midnight majesty time out of mind, and 
 before then, Edward Spencer had perpetrated verse, 
 behoving Mary the most poetical of all names — the 
 sound of all dearest to his ear : no music was ever so sweet 
 to Mm as the music of that gentle name. And yet the 
 Mary of his affections was not so very gentle; the 
 vigour and earnestness of her nature had more of the 
 spirit of the eagle, than the wooing of the dove — 
 and so he thought was more suited to his taste; but
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 275 
 
 wliat did tliat signify ? Surely moonlight is to lovers 
 a heart-aching light; or instead of tliis fancying and 
 recalling, and almost hopelessly speculating on the fu- 
 tm-e, he would have dwelt upon the stirring events of the 
 few past hours. At last, liis poor cousin took posses- 
 sion of his thoughts, and he blamed himself for having 
 permitted her to remain so long in a state of uncertainty 
 as to her after prospects. He felt that if she had been 
 drawn into this dilemma it was in a great degree his 
 fault. He should at once, as his uncle's representative, 
 have seen that she was properly placed, away from all 
 associations that would have harmed or degraded her. 
 He longed to speak with the dean, and learn more about 
 the child of Annie Cmnming: of that "Annie Gum- 
 ming" who had had the power of transforming the 
 Orson into the faithful lover, whose rugged natxu'e was 
 so softened even by a memory long past — a memory of 
 one so completely sacrificed, as lumdreds have been, to 
 party purposes — party animosities — party disputes. 
 Tlien his mind wandered to the scenes of the day. Turn 
 the matter over wliich way he would, he could not 
 imderstand why of necessity the Protestant must hate 
 the Catholic, and the Cathohc the Protestant. Abroad, 
 he had seen tliem hve together with the utmost love 
 and tenderness — in England, they were friends ; but he 
 had observed enough to prove to him the intense bitter- 
 ness with which, singly and in masses, they regarded 
 each other in Ireland. He hoped Ellen was a Protestant ; 
 he hoped her brother had not attained a rehgious as 
 well as a pohtical ascendency over her mind; — and he 
 almost hoped that the tale of Abel Richards was a fabri- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 cation. Still he did not like to give up tlie conscious- 
 ness of Ellen*'s heroism ; it was something for his mind 
 to rest on — the real almost exceeded the ideal; it was 
 a proud thing, misguided though she might be, to have 
 such a kinswoman. He absolutely wondered if she were 
 pretty; yet avoided a reply, for on this subject Edward 
 Spencer was fastidious; his idea of womanly beauty 
 being connected with exotics — refinements of all kinds, 
 and, above all, small white hands and delicate feet — 
 creatures of feeling, and sentiment, and poetry, rather 
 than constituted as women too usually are — "to be, 
 to do, and to suffer." No, Ellen could not be lovely, 
 but she ought to have been cared for: it made him 
 ashamed to think she had not been cared for. And 
 where was she now? the dean had promised to find 
 her; her absence looked like fear — fear of the power 
 Abel Richards had acquired. 
 
 His train of thought or reverie, half waking and 
 half dreaming, was disturbed by hearing something 
 trail through the waters, a little below the bank on 
 which he reclined. At first he thought it might be a 
 swan he had aroused, but he remembered how noise- 
 lessly the bird floats. Some wild animal — a badger, or 
 otter next occurred to him, and he walked slowly 
 towards the noise, only, however, to see a man stooping 
 over something that was dripping from the stream. 
 Edward spoke, and the stranger, laying down what he 
 was examining, advanced towards him. 
 
 " I have been waiting, Sir, about the place these 
 two hours for Dean Graves, with a bit of a message 
 from one he knows," said the mild voice of Master Matt,
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 277 
 
 the treasure-seeker. " Can you tell me if liis reverence 
 is in tlie place still?" 
 
 Edward at once recognised him, and the poor fellow 
 was almost wild with joy. 
 
 " I've got it, your honour — I've got it now. My 
 head was full of the one thing. I trod on a four-leaved 
 shamrock this morning — here it is — as I was on my 
 way here, and knew I'd be sure to find a treasure; 
 and like a bhnded mole, I thought but of the treasm-es 
 hidden beneath stones and under waters — not of a 
 living jewel — and I've been raking the river since the 
 sun went down, thinking of the dean ; and at last I got 
 up something so heavy, and it was but an old hat, with 
 an eel in it. I hate eels. Saint Patrick tm-ned the 
 serpents into eels, they say. It's a Popish superstition, 
 but there's truth in it — 
 
 ' Eels of a morning, 
 
 Are a dead man's warning,' 
 
 But the shamrock brought me to you — God bless 
 you!" 
 
 He spoke in his usual tone, wliich seemed but the 
 echo of a voice, so low and cliime-like were its intona- 
 tions; and liis face was more like a shadow than a sub- 
 stance, beneath the tree — it was so wliite and spectral. 
 
 Edward offered to find the dean, concluding that 
 ^Master Matt brought some tidings from Ellen, and 
 commenced questioning the schoohnaster closely, but it 
 was useless — his perceptions seemed quickened by her 
 name. " Tliere had been," he said " sad doings at 
 Spencer Court — soldiers and disturbance. If the young 
 master had been there it could not have happened; but
 
 2 / 8 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 no one minded an old man like him, or Mrs. Myler, or 
 the servants. To sack and rack a Protestant house, as 
 if it had sheltered rehcls ! No wonder his hair was 
 white! and poor Mrs. Myler in fits, one fit after 
 another, declaring she'd go back to the north. How 
 could she live there — and Miss Ellen to go away — Oh, 
 times were terrible !" 
 
 " But where was Miss Ellen gone?" 
 
 " Mrs. Myler could not tell." 
 
 "Could he?" 
 
 The schoolmaster paused, then said: "Do not ask 
 me — I cannot tell you — you might not be her friend, 
 for you have never seen her — God bless her I" 
 
 Edward turned towards the castle closely followed by 
 Master Matt. They met the dean ; he was coming to 
 seek Edward Spencer; the young man left the school- 
 master and the clergyman together, and returned to 
 watch the moonbeams playing on the waters of the 
 Sullane, and to muse on the past and speculate upon 
 the future. 
 
 The lights were disappearing one by one in the 
 castle, and the noise if not as continuous was more 
 violent at intervals — expiring, it might be in convul- 
 sions. Presently the schoohnaster, followed by the dean, 
 passed him, and he could not avoid gathering from 
 their conversation that the treasure-seeker had lost a 
 letter entrusted to his care ; his anguish at this seemed 
 beyond all description ; he moaned and wept helplessly, 
 while the dean was evidently too distressed to console 
 him. " Could you not conquer your mad propensity," 
 he said, *' until your mission was ended? Could you
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 279 
 
 not refrain and keep your tlionglits fixed on tlie duty 
 you had undertaken?" 
 
 *' Tliey "will wander," was tlie reply, as lie clasped liis 
 hands on his forehead. " I tell them to keep quiet, 
 and at home, but they will leave me. I pinned it in 
 the bosom of my coat with a silver bodkin, a rare 
 curiosity, and buttoned it tight and kept it close ALL the 
 way here, but in stretching the rake I burst the coat, 
 and forgot my darling's letter which she charged me to 
 give into no hand but yours, and that privily and with- 
 out words." 
 
 If a letter had fallen upon the tide it was of course 
 swept onward by the stream and gone irrevocably ; but 
 in reply to the dean's entreaties to be told where Ellen 
 was, and how she was situated, the master would only 
 say: " Siie told it to yer reverence all in the letter, and 
 said I was to speak no word." 
 
 It was in vain the dean entreated liim to judge for 
 himself. 
 
 " Your reverence," he said, " knows that I have no 
 judgment, that it has pleased the Ahnighty to take 
 it away; that I comprehend feebly like a child, and 
 understand only as a child — I cannot judge. She told 
 me, ' Speak no word about me — but give this — and 
 bring an answer as you know how.' I will speak no 
 word about the child; it may bring her evil; the 
 shamrock was not for good." 
 
 Dean Graves knew that all argument was useless, for 
 Matthew spoke the truth — ^hc had no reasoning powers 
 left; tears poured down his forlorn face, and he sobbed 
 bitterly. At last the dean said :
 
 280 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 " Go whence yoii came, or wliere you know, and tell 
 tlie truth, tell her also, she has friends." 
 
 The schoolmaster's face brightened. " I know that^'^ 
 he said, and suddenly outstretching his arms upwards, 
 he sank on his knees, and in a tone of deep pathos said, 
 " God and his angels are her friends !" 
 
 Edward heard and saw this for he had joined them, 
 and it stung as a fresh reproach into his heart : — truly 
 she had had no others. 
 
 " Tell her, my dear Matthew," said the clergyman, 
 while he pressed the chilled hands of the schoolmaster 
 within his own, " not to fear, but to come to me to the 
 Glebe as soon as she can." 
 
 " Yes," he said "that I will;" and eager as a child 
 after a new employment, forgetting, or at least losing 
 the bitterness of his past regret, he girded himself for 
 the journey and left the domain of Macroom Castle — 
 how, Edward did not understand ; the dean seemed sadly 
 troubled with apprehension that Ellen's letter might 
 contain somethin^r which in the excited state of the 
 country he should not like to fall into the hands of 
 any party, but more particularly their o^vn — and they 
 talked the matter over until a servant told the clergy- 
 man that " the Master" wanted to speak a few words 
 to him, in liis own room. 
 
 Edward was again alone ; sometimes three or four of 
 the company came to the door, and stood and talked 
 and laughed, but the revel and the riot, the hot debate 
 and the wild song, had more fascination for them than 
 the holy light of the waning moon ; the night in truth 
 was past, and the damp and shroud-Hke air clung coldly
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 281 
 
 around him ; the river was more distinctly seen and a 
 mist hung above — a gray thin mist — and Edward turned 
 over the large water-lily leaves, and looked into the 
 stream hoping to find that which had been so carelessly 
 lost. Tlie blackbird, whose shrill reveille sounds from 
 his golden throat before the sun arises, or the other 
 wood-birds shake the globules of dew from their feathers 
 — the "royal blackbird" was stirring among the boughs, 
 thinking of waking, and watching with half open eye 
 the coming Hght — it will not be long before he meets 
 and greets it so as to woo it to greater speed ! 
 
 There was an increase of existence as the morning ad- 
 vanced — a murmuring of young Kfe — a wliispering 
 amid the insect world — a hmnming, mysterious voice 
 from beneath broad leaves, and out of deep-mouthed 
 flowers. If the blackbu'd led the wood chorus, there 
 were many birds to follow; the thrush bm'st into his 
 eloquent music, and the gray wood-pigeons cooed — not 
 loudly, as at mid-day — but lowly mutterings of love to 
 their fledged, but attending, broods. Still the air was 
 chill; and Edward, really fatigued, resolved to inquire 
 for his room, or bed, or whatever sleeping provision 
 had been made for him. 
 
 He was returning to the castle, when he started at 
 hearing his name called from out of one of those huge 
 masses of Portugal lam-el, with which Irish gentlemen's 
 domains abound. He had not time to inquire who this 
 was, or what the new mystery might be, when, after a 
 prehminary " Wliisht," which he had learned meant 
 "silence," he heard: "Mr. Spencer, yer honour — 
 whisht — will yer honour whisht ! — stop, and good luck
 
 282 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 to ye. Seem to be singing a song, minding notliing. 
 They seen me in the kitchen; but they didn't know 
 I had a Httle private business wid you. Sir, I'm Darby, 
 that provided your honour with a post-boy of the right 
 sort — a devil for driving, and a rock of sense. Just 
 divart yerself mth a bit of a tune, or any thing that way, 
 till ye get below the great tree that bends so over the 
 path that you can't get past, but are forced to go romid 
 it. Do, Sir — and God bless you — and be quick." 
 
 Edward smiled as he obeyed the command. In a 
 few minutes he had gone round the bough that, as he 
 had been told, he could not pass, and foimd liimself in a 
 miniature jungle of brush-wood, from which Darby 
 emerged. 
 
 " My heart's light to see yer honour — and God bless 
 you; but my heart's heavy for all that. My poor 
 cousin Sir, Ignatius Doyle, you know — and you so 
 good as to stop, and give them money — God reward 
 you, and prepare a bed for you in heaven." The poor 
 fellow turned aside, and sobbed heavily. 
 
 " Was it your cousin who was killed in some way, 
 that does not clearly appear?" 
 
 " Faith, Sir, it was," answered the man. " I knew 
 if any one could find the truth, it would be yer honour; 
 and some other time I'll insense you into the rights of 
 it. It's the way we're all murdered — but it's not bear- 
 able for me to be taking up yer attintion. Heaven 
 above knows he was as innocent as a new-born babby 
 of any harm to any one. If they massacray all that 
 have a mind to stand up for themselves, they'U mas- 
 sacray the whole country. But our time will come yet.
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 283 
 
 The caiise of my troubling yer honour is — that I have 
 a hit of a letter from one you know, and one all the 
 world blesses; and I want yer honour to cast yer eye 
 over it just at once." 
 
 Edward thought it was more than probable the 
 letter was of the same nature as the last brought to 
 him by this volunteer post-man, and said, crushing it 
 within his hand, " Very well, Darby, I'll read it when 
 I can see — it is impossible to read any thing by tliis 
 gray light." 
 
 " I'll settle that in a minute," was the ready re- 
 joinder. " There's always a live coal in my pipe, and 
 a whisp, or a dry stalk of hemlock, is bright by night — 
 but I won't have the hemlock," he continued, tossing 
 one of its over-gro^vn and sapless stems into the water, 
 " the dead pine is ready to blaze at a spark — and hem- 
 lock has an ugly name to read a lady's letter by." 
 
 No sooner said than done. " The live coal" was 
 blown into a flame, and a bough of a pine, which had 
 been smitten by lightning or decay, and hung from the 
 tree, broken and kindled within the same moment. 
 The effect was such as a painter might envy to see — 
 the deep and rapidly-rolling river, the gray mist, half 
 shrouding a landscape where, through the dimness, the 
 trees stood out in quaint unearthly forms; the wild 
 anxious look of poor Darby, bending forward with the 
 flaring torch; while Edward, turned more than half 
 away, saying, 
 
 " I am worn and weary, and will look at it after I 
 have had some sleep." 
 
 " And is that the message I am to take back, yer
 
 284 THE whiteboy; 
 
 honour, aftlier wearing every rag of skin off my feet, 
 and breaking my heart, to he in time ; and not stopping 
 at my own mother's sister's son's wake to draw a pipe, 
 or take more than one glass of whiskey with them that's 
 so near and dear to my heart's blood? Is that the 
 message yer honour gives me to take back to her lady- 
 sliip?" 
 
 " Whose ladyship?" inquired Edward. 
 
 " Lady Mary 0''Brien her own self," was the reply. 
 
 *' And why did you not tell me that before?" he in- 
 quired impatiently, unfolding the crumpled paper, and 
 trembling with impatience. 
 
 " Yer honour never axed me, and more betoken 
 when I gave it you, you scrunched it, as if the taste of 
 her fingers had never been on it. Sure it wasn't in 
 nature to suppose here I'd be, and my own flesh and 
 blood and bones murdered beyant, unless I had strong 
 rason. Well, glory be to God I one wants grate faith 
 intirely to sign the holy sign of the cross on one's 
 bossom, and say ' God's will be done,' afther all one has 
 gone through this blessed day." 
 
 Darby talked on, half articulating, half muttering, 
 but Mr. Spencer heeded liim not. His attention was 
 rivetted on the note; and yet its words were but few — 
 it said: 
 
 " I am more than half distracted. After you left 
 this yesterday, I received intelligence which makes the 
 movements of the military now at Macroom a matter 
 of vital importance to one very, very dear to me. 
 
 "I am certain you will be stopped on your way to
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 285 
 
 Spencer Court at Macroom Castle ; they will be but too 
 glad to have you amongst tbeni — at least I cling to the 
 hope that such is the case. If the clean should be one, so 
 much the better; try and interest liim in preventing 
 any portion of the troops from searching Glen Flesk. 
 I do entreat this on my knees, and if you can direct, or 
 aid in directing, them anywhere else, I will never for- 
 get it. I would not have my father know my anguish 
 for worlds. 
 
 " In the deepest anxiety, yours." 
 
 A little below was added in a still more tremulous 
 hand — 
 
 " I hardly dare confide in the dean. Oh, that I had 
 but hope ! — I am sure you will forgive me. Do you 
 know where Ellen Macdonnel is?" 
 
 Edward was overwhelmed with contending feelings 
 — pangs of the bitterest jealousy shot through his heart. 
 Could it be possible that Lady Mary had so deep an 
 interest in any one of those misguided men who were 
 obhged to seek shelter in the mountain fastnesses of the 
 country? But to do him justice he was stirred by a 
 far higher and better fecHng. His nature was as chi- 
 valrous as sensitive, and he felt proud at having been 
 so trusted by one he dearly loved. He thrust the letter 
 into his bosom and strode hastily towards the castle 
 without remembering his torch-bearer. 
 
 *' Yer honour, what will I tell her honoiu'?" inquired 
 Darby, following. 
 
 " That her bidding shall be done," was the emphatic 
 reply; " but I mil write."
 
 286 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 Darby still followed liim. Mr. Spencer turned 
 roimd and tossed hiin a guinea. 
 
 *' God bless you, Sir," he said, " but it wasn't for 
 that I followed you; only, as I am going raytlier a 
 dangerous road before I'll get back to Cork, and if a 
 line of writin' was found on me, it mightn't be pleasant 
 for those who wrote, or those who ought to read. Can 
 you give me a token — an eagle's feather for strength, 
 or a hawk's for danger, or a curlew's for flight; but yer 
 honour's in all sacrets, and knows all signs a dale better 
 than the poor car boy. Why not? Have ye any of 
 the miletary pass words?" 
 
 Suddenly the not very distant beat of the drum, a 
 sharp and quick reveilli, startled both Mr. Spencer and 
 Darby. 
 
 " Bad luck to yer noisy nothing of a body and your 
 dirty skin ! You're all noise and no time," muttered 
 Darby, skulking, at the same time, into a thicket of 
 evergreens; for several people, among whom the accou- 
 trements of one or two soldiers glittered brightly, were 
 passing and repassing in front of the hall door. 
 
 " Are you on the move?" inquu-ed Edward of a cor- 
 poral who stood at the entrance. 
 
 "Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Where to?" he said. 
 
 " Don't at all know, Sir." 
 
 " Is yom' commanding officer here?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 The hall was nearly full ; and some of the hard 
 drinkers of the night — men whom Edward had not ex- 
 pected to see on their feet for at least a week — were in
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 287 
 
 full possession of their vigour and spirits. He mingled 
 with them, and saw the Master of the Castle, with un- 
 dimmed eyes, and renewed energy, talking with his 
 usual animation to an officer and one or two other gen- 
 tlemen. The words " Glen Flesk" struck upon his 
 ear — ^upon Ms heart — and he could not forbear in-- 
 quiring what they meant. 
 
 " Some of our friends are on the road to that glen of 
 the outlaw," was the answer; " there wiU be warm 
 work there before noon, I tliink. We shall unearth 
 more than one fox, and shoot more than one traitor."
 
 288 THE whiteboy; 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE TEMPTATIOX. 
 
 The information communicated to Lawrence Macar- 
 tliy by his sister, after tlie lapse of some hours from the 
 time of his leaving Spencer Court, was of such a nature 
 that he did not feel safe in the neighbourhood of his 
 o^vn dwelHng. Month after month, he had been growing 
 wild and reckless ; (having nothing to lose except a Hfe 
 of which youth is so much more careless than age) ; and 
 if there chanced any outbreak — such as that organized 
 and hoped for by the friend he had committed to 
 Murtogli's care — he had all hope of gain. Still such 
 was his respect for the honours of hospitality, that 
 when his first burst of astonishment and dismay, at 
 being so completely in the power of Richards, had sub- 
 sided, he kissed the pale cheek over which tears were 
 streaming, with more tenderness and brotherly affec- 
 tion than he had ever evinced towards her before. 
 
 " Villain as he is," exclaimed the youth, " I would 
 not have had him given an easy prey into my hands by 
 a sister's treachery. It was a great opportunity, Ellen,
 
 A STOEY OF IRELAND. 289 
 
 to revenge the shot, tlic Avrongs to yourself, the continu- 
 ance of bitter injuries, and still more galHng insults he has 
 heaped upon me, the ruin and misery he has wrought to 
 hundreds. Whenever I have resolved to become as you 
 would wish me, that man has invariably crossed my 
 path — Hke a fiend, to tempt me to fresh violence, fresh 
 hatred of the race he springs from." And then he 
 paused, with darkened brow and clenched hands, until, 
 as if strengthened and brightened by a new idea, he 
 looked into his sister's face with a changed countenance, 
 and sat down by her side on a rock that effectually con- 
 cealed the entrance to one of the strongest holds of the 
 wild and lawless bands of the South. 
 
 " After all," he said, " after all, Ellen, since you have 
 managed to get the papers, so invaluable, clear of Spen- 
 cer Court and in safety, I do not see that there is much 
 harm done. The proof against me at present rests 
 solely on Abel Richards' word, — you have but to 
 manage skilfully, admit having sheltered him, and deny 
 altogether having seen me, and all will be right. Dean 
 Graves knows you so well that he will never doubt 
 your Avord, and his moral influence is paramount with 
 others; the hypocritical oaths of Richards will not 
 weigh against yoiu- single word, Ellen; and the story is 
 so improbable, so much more like one of the ballads 
 or romances Master J.Iatt used to tell us, that no one 
 will give credit to the tale. No one in the country 
 would incUne towards the ruffian at all, except just now, 
 when love of destruction has taken more than usual 
 hold on our rulers. I really think the sooner you get 
 back to Spencer Court the better: you'll be looked 
 
 VOL. L U
 
 290 THE whiteboy; 
 
 after, and that quickly. I sliall not keep out of tlic 
 way; wliy slioukl I? I tliink I see Abel Richards' 
 accursed face when you deny his oath. You have only 
 to be firm, Ellen — ^but I do not fear you." 
 
 But when the brother looked into the sister's face he 
 did fear; her tears had ceased; her cheeks had flushed; 
 indio-nation was struggling with astonishment at the 
 supposition that she would dehberately state a falsehood. 
 " How strange it is," she said, " that you can think I 
 did right in affording shelter, when it was asked, to our 
 greatest enemy, and yet cannot feel that I should most 
 shamefully sin were I capable of uttering so entire a 
 ■falsehood." It was grievous to see how the spirit of 
 cunning and dissimidation had sapped away and cor- 
 rupted truth in a nature brave, but mismanaged from 
 the cradle: how he could value, according to his 
 feehng, the high honour, and yet see no wrong in the 
 mean lie! "God knows," persisted Ellen, "how 
 earnestly and truly grateful I am, that your hands are 
 imstained by blood: how I pray that the time may 
 not be far distant when, withdrawn from tliis lawless 
 life, you will seek your own honour and your country's 
 good by worthier means." 
 
 " Silence !" exclaimed La^vrence, in one of those 
 abrupt fits of passion he had latterly lost all power to 
 control; "the scene of the past night is as a wild 
 dream. I was mad — insane — intoxicated, from first to 
 last, or, -with all my hatred of Richards, I would not 
 have rushed as I did at such uncertain and brutal re- 
 venge ; but my great peril now is frorn tjou. I dare 
 him to any proof without your evidence. He may say
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 291 
 
 what lie pleases, but if you contradict liim, I am safe: 
 and not I only, but tlie friend of our cause, who has 
 given up every tiling that man holds dear for the sake 
 of our trampled country — for the sake of a love wliich 
 your cold northern nature has liitherto denied." 
 
 " You know," interrupted Ellen, " that I told you 
 the papers are safe. If so, what has he to do with the 
 matter?" 
 
 " True !" he said, " it concerns me only — at least for 
 the present; though you well know he is the hinge 
 upon which events must turn. You know that we — ^lie 
 and I — are so Hnked together in all tilings for Kfe or 
 death, that if the outbreak tarries, we must triumph. 
 The discontent of the people is at its height; if its pur- 
 pose can be directed, I repeat, we triumph. Ellen, 
 on my life it was not I who first proposed tliis bm'iiing, 
 though revenge on Abel Richards was too sweet to be 
 withstood. The words I spoke were, I repeat it, mad- 
 ness. You would not convict me on their evidence — 
 7/ou would not." 
 
 "I Avould not — I think I would not," she rephed; 
 *' but you spoke them. Oh, what a fearful strait am 
 I reduced to ! Had I uttered but a word, no power 
 could have saved that bad, bad man; he would have 
 been hurried, with his weight of sins upon liis head, 
 into the Almighty's presence. And you, Lawrence, 
 fierce, mad as you were — and my promise given to 
 shelter him — it is almost impossible he can forget that 
 I saved his life." 
 
 " Wlien r/ou forget your kindred to your brother, to 
 the only living thing that claims you, is it matter for 
 
 U2
 
 292 THE WIIITEBOY; 
 
 wonder tliat lie may forget," he replied, passionately; 
 and tlien with hitter irony continued: " Irish indeed — 
 you are not Irish. The Scotch hlood of your mother, 
 your Saxon breeding and refinement, have driven all 
 feeling far, far from you ! Well, go hack to your lux- 
 iiries, and denounce the last of the Macarthys — your 
 own brother — so that, at the next sunrise, a price will 
 be set upon his head. Don't cling to me, idiot!" he 
 added, forcing her from him as she twined her arms 
 round him: " You know where the papers are; so sell 
 us all at a good price. Louis deserves this for his love, 
 as much as I do for my kindred." 
 
 " LaAvrence," said Ellen, roused by this outrage from 
 her tears and weakness, " I will not go back to Spencer 
 Court. I will conceal myself — anywhere ; I will obtain 
 means to leave the country; I will call upon the Al- 
 mighty in mercy to take my life, sooner than it shall be 
 spared to injure you; but I will not lay falsehood on 
 my soul." 
 
 " And what signifies your remaining away," an- 
 swered her brother scornfully; " of what use is it? 
 Richards may say what he likes — you are not there to 
 contradict Mm. His word will be taken; while your 
 breath, your simple statement — fiercely panting as they 
 are for sacrifice on sacrifice that needs so little form — 
 your girlish word would be believed, and save me ! 
 The dean, who boasts of nursing you in the truth, 
 would vouch for that." 
 
 " He knows me better than you do," was Ellen's 
 answer; and then she spoke no more, but listened with 
 a woman's true and loving patience to all he said —
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 293 
 
 fierce, bitter, violent, sarcastic — all by turns. She 
 called to mind bis peril; sbe remembered the peril of 
 the "wild, uncertain, unorganised cause to which he 
 was pledged; she remembered also the danger of one 
 whom she first knew when quite a childish girl, whose 
 nature was "half error, half romance;" and so she lis- 
 tened to words and taunts, that at any other time, under 
 any other circumstances, she would have repvdsed and 
 buffeted, as an eagle beats down the snow that drifts 
 across his airy pathway. Lawrence was richly endowed 
 with the national gift of eloquence; words flowed 
 with ease and power from his lips, although untutored 
 in courtly language; and, combined with his wild and 
 unrestrained habits, were a considerable degree of 
 cunninrf (we can give it no more elevated name), and a 
 carelessness, reckless and vinprincipled, as to the means 
 by which a desired end was to be obtained. 
 
 Ellen had written to Dean Graves by the hand of her 
 old schoolmaster, revealing no secret that was not 
 strictly her own; and yet the probable result of tlie 
 letter, coupled with her brother's violence, confused her 
 more and more. She dreaded to tell him what she had 
 written ; and while endeavouring to collect her thoughts, 
 and subdue the tumult that was beating in her brain, 
 Murtogh, Lawrence's foster-brother, burst in upon them 
 full of news as to the movements of the soldiers, and 
 anxious for the safety of the only living creatvu'c his 
 rude rou^h heart clunf^ to in the world. It is notorious 
 that, though many thousands of the Whitcboys knew 
 the assembling stations, the pass-words, the vital secrets 
 of illegal associations — formed by desperation born of
 
 294 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 misery, ratlier than suggested by any political object — 
 and were jaerpetually tempted by the offer of rich re- 
 wards to betray their comrades; yet they remain se- 
 crets unto this day. The evils resulting from this 
 fideHty are to be deplored; but the fidelity is, in itself, 
 so extraordinary a proof of strength and firmness, that it 
 commands instinctive respect. Such steadfastness is not 
 the growth of a light-minded people — of a nation of 
 triflers. 
 
 Lawrence and Murtogh conversed apart in low and 
 earnest tones : the latter ever and anon eyeing Ellen as 
 if suspiciously, while her brother evidently regarded 
 lier with changed feelings. Or was this the result of 
 her own fevered and disturbed imagination ? Did the 
 river foam and sparkle ? — did one mountaineer after 
 another rush from amid the adjacent underwood and 
 doAvn the hills, and gather round her brother, the last 
 man still wilder in appearance than the first. Were 
 their voices hushed and low, suppressed by a sense of 
 danger, as if their words — as if the very air they 
 breathed were fettered? Sometimes they whispered in 
 their native language, under-tones of defiance mingled 
 with emphatic descriptions of a danger, sudden and 
 violent, and hard of escape. And did Lawrence, then, 
 remembering that his friend, in whom they all trusted, 
 was in peril more imminent than his own, command 
 Murtogh to seek and save him, even to the spilling of 
 his own blood; wliilc the devoted foster-brother only 
 felt how hard it was to be separated from the one thing 
 his natm-e clung to, though he flew to do his bidding? 
 
 Was it, poor Ellen ! was it a distempered imagina-
 
 A STORY OF lEELAND. 295 
 
 tion whispering that the strong arm of the law was 
 outstretched to avenge the wild doings of Limerick, 
 Clare, and Tipperary — the midnight gatherings of Kil- 
 kenny — the hm-nings and secret outrages of Waterford 
 and Cork — was it outstretched to avenge all these, 
 strengthened by a soldiery eager with their aid? She 
 pressed her hands over her eyeballs, yet still stars 
 floated before them; stars and streaks of fire, and 
 fountains of red — red blood; and a cry that made 
 her heart-strings sliiver crept through her ears, filling 
 them at last with the roll of drums and shrill brayings 
 of trumpets, and then the cry again ; and the banshee 
 of the Macarthies waved her arms, and walked over 
 the waters that rolled beneath her feet. Then the 
 hard voice of her brother spoke of her insultingly, and 
 coupled her name with treachery; and she would have 
 spoken if she could, but her voice was gone ; she had 
 no power to utter a sound or to move hand or foot. 
 And then she was upHfted by some invisible power, 
 and she felt as if all things connected with this world 
 were over ; and from a burning heat she became deadly 
 cold — the coldness that ices the blood, stagnates it as it 
 flows, and then trickles and tingles through the half 
 lifeless frame. There might, or there might not, have 
 been seeming unconsciousness, but she felt conscious — 
 conscious of the presence of what she at any other 
 time would have considered an tinreal existence — the 
 presence of the countless multitudes who, bodiless, sha- 
 dowless, are still floating in olu' atmosphere, present at 
 all times — it may be to see and understand, and feel
 
 296 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 for us: tliey regarded her with eyes of sympatJiy and 
 tenderness; and yet she knew them not; she sought 
 in vain for any she had known, but there were none; 
 one came so very close to her, and folded its almost 
 transparent wings above her head, and looked down 
 upon her, with such soft clear eyes, and such a sym- 
 patliising expression — could it have been her mother ? 
 The dream, or vision, or fancy, be it what it may, was 
 kind and soothing; the ideal Avas so different from the 
 real, the untiaie from the true, that again the current 
 of her blood flowed on, and the extreme heat and bitter 
 cold, were alike gone, and her spirit self-returned to 
 its present home. 
 
 She heard the mutterings of hard voices in Irish, 
 mingling laughter and curses together, telling of pro- 
 jects frustrated and plans successful; and then, close to 
 her side, the low " hushowing" of a well-known lullaby 
 which mothers and nurses sino- to their children : 
 
 " Avourneen sleep, for good angels are near; 
 Avourneen sleep, there's nothing to fear. 
 The cross on thy hrow, and the cross on thy breast, 
 AVill hushoo my darling to peace and to rest. 
 Sleep ! while the stars are bright ! 
 Sleep! 'tis a svnnmer's night! 
 
 Avourneen sleep! there's nothing to fear; 
 
 Avourneen sleep ! for good angels are near !" 
 
 Biddy Doyle was by her side, but where she was 
 she knew not. She lay upon a bed of clean straw, and 
 her head rested on Biddy's lap, who rejoiced " at her 
 coming to herself again," and would not suffer her to 
 speak, but continued talking, telhng her all the time
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 297 
 
 that she must be kept as still and quiet as death itself, 
 yet spoke of every thing most likely to arouse her at- 
 tention. 
 
 But it did not escape Ellen's perception (which 
 seemed to have suddenly and at once returned) that 
 there were strangers in the room, or enclosure, and 
 that arms, a gun and other weapons, leaned against the 
 walls. Moreover, she felt assured that she was no 
 longer at liberty to go and come — that she was, in fact, 
 a prisoner.
 
 298 THE WHITEBOY 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE SHELTER OP THE GLEN. 
 
 The mornlno; that followed tlie nisjlit -wliicli had 
 been so full of interest and mystery to Edward Spen- 
 cer, was at first still and calm, but after sunrise tlie 
 atmosphere became close and misty; the quiet, calm, 
 suffocating " feel" that whispers of a coming thimder- 
 storm, rendered all nature languid and seemed to over- 
 load the moments as they crept hea^aly along. I^, 
 would be impossible to imagine any thing more in- 
 tensely still ; — the valleys were so silent, that the mur- 
 murinirs of the little silver rivers, more than half dried 
 by the intense heats of the preceding days, could be 
 heard on the heights above Glen Fleslc; the cattle in 
 the lowlands clustered together wherever they found a 
 tree to shelter them ; and the sheep, still more timid, 
 huddled beneath the shadows of the chffs and huge 
 gray stones; the soaring eagle returned to liis station, as 
 if fearing that the hurricane which gathered, cloud upon 
 cloud, would, when it came in its might and power, be 
 too much even for his daring pinions to bear up against
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 299 
 
 — still lie did not shrink from tlie approacliing storm 
 like the birds and coneys that were his food, or even like 
 the tame herds of the valley, but stood firmly, turning his 
 head occasionally round, on one of the boldest pinnacles 
 of Crohane, the chief of the wild and sterile hills, that 
 — composed of broken and rugged rocks, patches of 
 heather moor and moss, all varying in their eleva- 
 tions — stretch away on the west side, from north to 
 south of the glen. 
 
 It is necessary that we should become intimately 
 acquainted with this picturesque neighbourhood, and 
 also with the more Avild and sterile pass of Kaim-an- 
 eagh. Glen Flesk is a gem of glens — a thing of wild- 
 ness and beauty which every traveller ought to visit — 
 not only because of its seclusion and variety of rock, 
 river, and wood, but because of the romance and ad- 
 venture, the struggle and the bravery of those who, 
 from time to time, have made it their hiding-place. 
 
 The Annemore, forms the western highland of this 
 lovely glen ; it is not so lofty as its statelier neighbour 
 the Crohane, yet it deserves its name nevertheless — 
 Annemore signifying the mountain of difficult passages ; 
 but its sides are equally precipitous, showing continued 
 ranges of dark rocks, rising in terraces, one above the 
 other, interspersed with heath and patches of coarse and 
 most scanty pasturage. Sometimes the little Kerry cows 
 mount to these spots, and excite the astonishment of 
 the few passing strangers, as to how they got there, or 
 how they can possibly get doAvn — wild mountain crea- 
 tures, as adventurous as goats and as sure-footed. The 
 flats of this valley, along the low grounds and beside
 
 300 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 the river, arc ricli in pastures and tillage; and some- 
 times, stretching up a fissure, are found patches of cultiva- 
 tion promising a due reward for the care bestowed by 
 the cottiers who inhabit the lowlands. 
 
 At the period of which we write, the dwellings were 
 not as numerous or as well cared for as they are now ; 
 but at all times they were picturesque from their situa- 
 tion, and the number of beautiful trees, that without 
 the aid of landscape-gardening grew in the most fitting 
 places — in fact they could not grow in that charming 
 glen without adding considerably to the beauty of sur- 
 rounding objects. The valley was also interesting as 
 being inhabited by the almost unmixed and primitive 
 race of Celts — strono^ in their attachment to their 
 native glen, ready for a "spree" or a popular commo- 
 tion, hating the Saxon as much as misguiding dema- 
 gogues could desire to see him hated, ripe for a foray, 
 and enjoying the "fun" of a pattern-fight with the zest 
 and gout of practised " boys," on all occasions that 
 were fitting: and what occasion was not " fitting," if a 
 row could be produced between friends or foes? 
 
 Those who dwell continually within sight of God's 
 magnificence, who see His mountains, the resting-places 
 of His clouds, who hear His echoes shoviting to each 
 other from the caves and crags, who watch torrent 
 sporting with torrent until they mingle in the foaming 
 river instinct with a mysterious Hfe — who feel the un- 
 fettered wind playing round their heads, and with 
 unwinking eyes watch the fiery arrows of the leaping 
 lightning; — those who wake and sleep amid the terrors 
 and wonders of creation are not so willinir as those who
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 301 
 
 breathe the cahner breath of lowland plain and enclosed 
 vallev, or the still more slavish air of pent-up cities 
 and disciplined factories, to yield the ideas (if not very- 
 extensive, a dearly-cherished stock), which have des- 
 cended — of late often their only heritage — for centuries 
 from father to son. If you w^ant to change the opinions 
 of an unlettered man, you ought to change his employ- 
 ments and liis localities : — you may chain an eagle at a 
 moimtain's base, but as long as he sees the mountain 
 he will struggle to soar into freedom. A Glen Fleskean 
 would not take your purse, but he would not — we write 
 of two-and-twenty years ago — consider it any sin to rive 
 and ride your horse, to seize your gun ; commit any 
 "little act" which could be construed into faking, not 
 stealing ; always save and except in the case of strangers 
 — for stran^rers in Ireland bear a charmed life. The 
 only knowledge of law he had was of its oppression 
 — for where it did not in reality oppress, he Avas taught 
 to believe it did. Restraint from Celt to Celt would have 
 been endured ; but the restraint of Saxon over Celt, has 
 ever been unbearable — more particularly to the Irish 
 cragsman. Every one is willing to sympathise with, 
 or make allowance for, the pectdiar habits and customs 
 of the Scottish Highlander — his hatred of the lowlands 
 is considered part of his nature; his "black mail" fur- 
 nishing subjects Avorthy of the painter's skill; and his 
 fidelity to the faith of his fathers lauded in song and 
 story ! Our Irish Highlanders are surely quite as deserv- 
 ing of sympathy ; — their history as full of incident, and 
 their attachment to the faith of their fathers as Avorthy 
 of praise.
 
 302 THE WIIITECOY; 
 
 But tliG splendid tartans of the Scottisli Higlilanders 
 have gained them as much popularity in England as 
 their cliivalry. Sympathy has been more gracious to 
 the tartan than to the rags of the poor Irish peasant. 
 
 It is pleasanter to dwell upon rugged scenery, than 
 upon rugged truths; the lion has his lair, the fox 
 his den, and the eagle its eyrie, and there can be httlc 
 doubt that our natures partake through hfe of the 
 character of our early associations. This should bo 
 borne in mind as an act of justice towards those we 
 judge. 
 
 Glen Flesk, as we have said, is like many other Irish 
 glens, noted for the ready refuge it has frequently afforded 
 to outlaws; in truth, to all sorts of " boys," who, for a 
 time, or under peculiar circumstances, found the open 
 plain a dangerous locality. The legendary landmark 
 of the glen is the well-known Pldl-a-dhaoun, or the 
 demon's chiF. It is a succession of precipitous rocks, 
 feathered, rather than clothed, with foliage, with here 
 and there a miraculously rooted tree, gaining nutri- 
 ment you hardly know how, and yet throwing its 
 branches far and wide over the gray rock from wdaich 
 it seems to spring. The succession of rocks forms the 
 face of the Crohane mountain, where the valley opens, 
 as it were, to admit the beautiful river, and give full 
 scope to its graceful windings beneath banks, in some 
 places liigh and picturesque, at others sloping to the 
 water's brink. The old Kenmare road runs between 
 the Flesk and the base of the mountain. Half way up 
 this dangerous, and in stormy weather almost inacces- 
 sible ascent, is shown an indentation in the rock, called
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND, 303 
 
 Lahhig Oweii, meaning " tlie bed of Owen;" tlic said 
 Owen liaving been a most notorious rapparee and free- 
 booter in old times. It might be imagined that this 
 spot, once so noted as a place of outlaw refuge, would 
 be avoided by others as likely to excite attention; but, 
 on the contrary, the Crohane and Annemore mountains 
 have always been the resort of such as were obliged to 
 seek concealment; and any one who has passed a week 
 of long summer days exploring such of the fastnesses as 
 are attainable by lowland feet, would wonder how it is 
 possible to discover those who seek momitain sanctuary, 
 remembering that, no matter what the reward may be, 
 every man, woman, and child, would suffer death 
 sooner than give up to the law, any, who had the least 
 desire to escape from it ; indeed, the bare fact of wish- 
 ing to " escape the law," is quite sufficient to call, not 
 only Irish sympathy, but Irish ingenuity to the rescue. 
 Owen the Outlaw was, it is said, betrayed by a man 
 called Reardon, who sought, by tliis act, to gratify pri- 
 vate reveno;e, and succeeded in " murdering" his friend 
 in the glens of Inveleary, to which he had enticed him. 
 He also, with savage ferocity, beheaded his victim; and 
 the reproach of this deed remains to his descendants, 
 who are but little trusted, and are still reproachfully 
 termed Reardan na ocecui, " Reardon of the head." 
 The whole district is full of traditions. A behef in fairy 
 lore and witchcraft mingles with religious faith, and 
 imparts a more than ordinary degree of wildncss and 
 superstition to the habits and feelings of the primi- 
 tive residents. They know little of the worldly doings 
 of their countrymen beyond the glens ; and, as is the
 
 304 THE WHITEBOY ; 
 
 case almost uniformly with the peasant population of 
 Ireland, place implicit reliance on the statements of 
 their clergy — while exercising keen perceptions, Avith 
 which they are amply endowed, in doubting and in- 
 vestigating whatever comes to them from any other 
 source. 
 
 A most commandingly placed wreck of the past — 
 which must perpetually recall to the peasant the tales 
 of former times — is still an object of interest to the 
 stranger. Killala Castle, an old fortalice of the O'Do- 
 noghue, was erected to guard this once impor- 
 tant pass ; and many a night had the treasure- 
 seeker spent in circling its walls, and hunting for 
 the riches he imagined must be concealed in the 
 immediate neighbourhood of the guard-chamber, be- 
 neath which it is believed one of the race of Irish 
 giants lies entombed. Every step through this ro- 
 mantic locality is full of beauty and interest, whether 
 visited when the sun shines upon its lovely scenery, or 
 when the storm adds its might to the majesty of the 
 mountains ; but the giensmen are grown of late so much 
 like their neighbours, that the imagination must go 
 back to the excited Whitcboyism of our period to sec 
 them transformed into Irish Guerillas — resolved to 
 protect whoever sought shelter in their mountain fast- 
 nesses. 
 
 It was evident that the mihtary had received infor- 
 mation that some one they desired to secure Avas 
 secreted in the glen, and the extraordinary anxiety 
 evinced by Edward Spencer that another route should 
 be pursued by the soldiers, afforded subject for much
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 305 
 
 speculation to tlic Master of Macroom and liis friends, as 
 to xuhy Mr. Spencer's views could be opposed to theirs. 
 Information as to all military movements was so rapidly 
 conveyed, and became known to tlie people in distant 
 districts in so extraordinary a manner, that unless plans 
 were formed and carried into execution without being 
 breathed of to those who were the agents therein, they 
 were frustrated cither previous to the onset or termi- 
 nation of the undertaking. Numberless delays occurred 
 before the detachment that was to scour Glen Flcsk 
 was able to leave Macroom, and much astonishment 
 was expressed as to Mr. Spencer's motives for urging 
 the most trifling reasons for further delay. 
 
 The approach of the elemental strife, the muttering 
 of the thunder first disturbed the death-like calm 
 in which Glen Flesk had reposed for many hours, 
 seeming at one moment to proceed from the pin- 
 nacle of a rock around which the electricity had 
 been discharged, while at another it swept along the 
 arch of heaven, cloud after cloud, blackening and 
 brightening as the forked or sheet lightning mingled 
 with the feverish air. 
 
 In the fissure of a rock which commanded an exten- 
 sive view, and yet when looked at from the road ap- 
 peared only a long deep crack, two men were seated, 
 evidently in very different situations of life, and yet on 
 terms of equahty — both were nearly the same age, but 
 the greatest possible difference existed in their appear- 
 ance. One reclined completely within the ample crevice, 
 and had so arranged himself as to use a portion of the 
 more elevated rock as a table, upon which rested a 
 
 VOL. I, X
 
 306 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 brace of pistols, primed and loaded, and a flask of 
 gunpowder ; in one side was a division tliat held 
 ink, while a few sheets of writing paper were placed 
 before him. The dehcate hands, a brilHant ring, 
 and the w^ell cared-for hair of a fair colom- and silken 
 quality, no less than the indescribable well putting 
 on of the blue " big coat" and peasant gear of the 
 district, intimated any thing but a glensman ; while his 
 companion, who was evidently on the look-out, and 
 heeded neither heat nor cold, wet nor dry, storm nor 
 sunshine, was stretched along at his feet, his hands 
 grasping the edge of the precipice, and his chin resting 
 on his hands, so that his large shaggy head, if seen at 
 all from the road, must have looked like a clod of turf, 
 a lump of withered furze, or a bunch of embrowned 
 heather. The large blue eyes of the gentleman whom 
 Murtogh invariably called " Captain," looked heavy 
 and weary; his elevated, but compressed forehead, was 
 wliite and feverish, for heat drops stood upon it, which he 
 frequently removed with a silk handkerchief; and there 
 was a mingHng of wdldness and fervour in the expression 
 of the upper part of his face, that did not at all harmo- 
 nise with a sensual mouth — still there was energy of pur- 
 pose, and the wild freedom of " / will" in the rapid and 
 loud tracing of his pen, and the determination which 
 contracted his rather extensive eyebrows. 
 
 Murtogh " of the Strong Hand" was few removes, 
 perhaps, from a savage. Keen, cunning, revengeful, 
 cruel, but faithful, watchful, and undevlating in his 
 few attachments — superstitious to positive weakness; 
 his dark, deep, blood-shot eye, that never quailed at dif-
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 307 
 
 ficulty, would tremble amid tears of terror at tlie mention 
 of a ghost, or a tale of supernatural agency. He seemed 
 (besides liis faith) to entertain but two other ideas, or 
 even thoughts — Ireland was liis country, and Lawrence 
 Macarthy was his foster-brother. How he came to be 
 separated from him at a time of danger, and attending- 
 upon a comparative stranger, was a mystery only to 
 be solved by the knowledge that such was LaAvrence 
 Macarthy 's desire. The storm was as welcome to Mur- 
 togh as the sunshine; unless, indeed, it occurred at some 
 particular time — some festival or unlucky day. Such, 
 however, was not the case on the day alluded to at the 
 commencement of this chapter, and consequently the 
 hardy mountaineer did not deign to notice the huge 
 drops of rain that fell like giant's tears from the full 
 clouds ; although they had compelled his companion to 
 mthdraw still more closely into the cave of the over- 
 hanging rock; a movement noticed only by a scowl 
 of Murtogh's deep fiery eyes. Like all hardy crags- 
 men, he had a thorough contempt for any one who 
 sheltered from the elements ; and like all Irishmen, 
 sometliing closely allied to the same feehng towards all 
 of feeble or delicate appearance. His father had been 
 hung by martial law, while he was yet an infant ; his 
 brothers had been transported for Whiteboyism, which 
 caused Mm-togh or Murtogh's party to take summary 
 vengeance upon those who had borne witness against 
 them. His mother wandered through the country in a 
 state of half insanity, generally a scarcely covered mendi- 
 cant, whining for halfpence, or meal, or potatoes, at 
 every door; but in times of popular excitement, a fiend, 
 
 X2
 
 308 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 a fury — ^losing all self-command, and thirsting, as much 
 as any tigress, for human sacrifice. Sometimes Mur- 
 too-h affected not to understand English, but the truth 
 was, he spoke it imperfectly — thinking in Irish, and 
 translating his ideas for the captain's benefit. The 
 latter covered his face with his hands, so \avid were 
 the flashes of hghtning in the dark and narrow space 
 to Avhicli he had retreated; the act was noted by the 
 keen Murtogh, who muttered something not particu- 
 larly complimentary to the captain's bravery. 
 
 " What are you saying?" inquired his sviperior, in the 
 tone, if not of an Englishman, of one who had spent 
 much time in the coimtry of the Saxon. 
 
 " That yer honour's not fond of flame," was the 
 reply. " I've seen the lightning scorch Macarthy's eye- 
 lashes, and he wouldn't wink." 
 
 At that moment a blast of the fire-king's breath struck 
 a tall slender birch-tree, which, with its shininc; bark 
 and quivering leaves, and young bright look, as it stood 
 beside a sturdy but grovelhng oak Avhich extended its 
 thick and lumpish trunk first in one direction, then in 
 another — had seemed the young Aj^ollo of trees. It was 
 wonderful to sec the white light shimmer and shiver 
 amid the sapful branches, which in an instant it 
 blasted, and burnt, and tossed to the storm as unworthy 
 of further trouble, peeling the bark off the bleeding 
 body, and then leaping from its prey to the rock, which 
 it shattered into a thousand fragments, that went 
 hurling and tumbling into the valley below. Wliilc 
 the Spirit of the Clouds, so fierce and mysterious, so 
 abrupt and all powerful, was buried fathoms deep in
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 309 
 
 the mountain, Impregnating the air with a dense and 
 siiiFocating vapour, Murtogh raised himself a little on 
 his elbow, and with his right-hand crossed himself on 
 both brow and breast, and then resumed his position. 
 The storm now chamred into a hurricane of wind and 
 rain. The torrent poured and whirled in such a 
 mamrer, that the glensman could discern nothing be- 
 neath but drifts upon drifts of rain and mist — clouds of 
 water in perpetual movement, now of a deep lead 
 colour, and then of a pale gray — on and on they swept, 
 impelled by the rushing winds. 
 
 " What a dreadful storm. Murtoa;h !" said the c;cn- 
 tleman, folding his cotamore still more closely round 
 him, chilled by the damp raw air, and so oppressed by 
 the state of the atmosphere and his own pecidiar situa- 
 tion, as to be scarcely able to breathe; " what a dread- 
 ful storm, Murtogh ! is it often as bad as this ?" 
 
 Murtogh rolled himself over and over, so as to get 
 nearer his companion, and answered, " Dis is a noting, 
 Sir — a little fire and noise, and some fog." 
 
 " Why, look at that tree," said the young man, 
 pointing to where a tortured branch of the stricken 
 birch, held on to the shattered stem by a long line of 
 the bark, was twisting in the wind; " the bough seems 
 to wave a notice to us, that we may be so served at a 
 
 moment's warning." 
 
 " Or widout it," said Murtogh, " be dad and dad, 
 captain, we may get no warning at all ; why would we 
 be better off den our naighbom-s?" 
 
 *' If," muttered the captain, " they would but com- 
 bine — if any thing hke a simultaneous rising was tjr-
 
 310 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 ganisecl, our long-promised help would soon arrive; 
 but before tliey are up in one place they are do^vn in 
 another, meeting by moonHglit and separating, satisfied 
 with burning a house, or murdering a farmer, or draw- 
 ing a man's coffin on a door." 
 
 " And isn't dat doing a grate dale?" whispered Mur- 
 togh, who, with his habitual freedom, had diawn liimself 
 up close to the gentleman; " sure for every one we send 
 off, we have one tyrant or one wake heart de less ; and 
 if de boys of all Ireland kep on true to dat, sure we'd 
 soon have de land agin, — finish all dat we don't like 
 dat's in it, and let none we don't like come in it — 
 dat's de plan." 
 
 The young man made no reply to this, but the 
 contrast between the sun-dyed brown of his companion's 
 (or attendant's, call him which you please) face, and 
 his own pale thin features, made him seem more de- 
 jected than ever. 
 
 " Dere's a good many aAvay, one place and de oder," 
 persisted Murtogh, " and a power and all dead, God 
 bless us ! who tought demselves sure enough of dere dirty 
 lives dis time twelvemonts ; and dere would have been 
 more but from two or tree turning off from dere work 
 — dey'll do so no more; a turner back is woi*se dan if he 
 
 never came on." 
 
 Whether tliis was, or was not a hint to his less deter- 
 mined associate, it is impossible to tell, but ho changed 
 the subject immediately by observing, " The Macarthy 
 said you would tell me what luck you had at the last 
 drawing ?" 
 
 "Grate luck, be dad and dad, captain, only for one
 
 A STOKY OF IRELAND. 311 
 
 ting dat I can't forget. I had been wid de boys to 
 Lanty Lurgan, de sclioohiiaster's, who ^vrites do notices 
 for us, he's such fine laming — he says to us, ' Boys, yc 
 have noting to do wid de government, lave dat to de 
 counsellor, but get rid of do landlords and de mid- 
 dlemen, and don't lave one aHve in de place dat 
 brakes yer laws; if de bit o' land is taken contrary to 
 de laws — no matter who it's by,' he says, ' you know 
 your duty.' " 
 
 " Suppose," Interrupted the captain, " your own 
 brother was to take land from which a tenant had been 
 ejected for not paying his rent, what would you do?" 
 
 "No broder of mine would ever do a ting like dat," 
 growled Murtogh. 
 
 "But if he did?" 
 
 "AVliere's de good o' saying what couldn't be?" re- 
 plied the half savage. 
 
 "But it might be; brothers are not always ahke; 
 suppose it was — what would you do ?" 
 
 " Dey'd not ax me to do de job," he answered, with 
 indifference. 
 
 "But you'd warn him?" 
 
 " He'd get our reg'lar warning." 
 
 " But in such a case, wouldn't you prevent it ?" 
 
 " I couldn't, captain, I couldn't. If he went agin' 
 rules, why I couldn't help him." 
 
 *'But, Murtogh, you could prevent it, by giving 
 information." 
 
 Murtogh sprang up as if he had been shot, looked 
 steadily at the captain, while his frame quivered with 
 passion, and then in a voice of apparent agony said,
 
 312 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 " Ocli, captain, what did I ever do to you to make ye 
 tliink I'd turn informer ?" 
 
 " I did but jest, Murtogli," said the stranger, "I did 
 but jest." 
 
 " It's an unnatural joke den, be dad ! and I'd rader 
 yer honour didn't try it on me agui. Sure we prove 
 every day dat we've no care for Hfc or death — dat we'll 
 live in a master's house and ate his food for seven years, 
 and yet not put away de gun dat's pointed at his heart, 
 if he brakes our laws, and turns out an ould tenant for 
 a new one." 
 . " Suppose the old tenant won't pay ?" 
 
 " Sure every boy would pay if he could." 
 
 "Not always — suppose he was a scoundrel." 
 
 " Don't make me mad again, captain, wid yer sup- 
 posings. What's dat to me ? if my oath is marked 
 down in heaven, and I'm under command — broder, 
 fader, friend — it's all one." 
 
 " Ah, ]\Iurtogh, you're a fine fellow, caring for 
 nothing but the ' wild justice of revenge,' I see," an- 
 swered the captain. 
 
 Murtogh did not quite understand the words, and 
 said, " Say dat again, iv you plaze." 
 
 " I said you cared for nothing but the wild justice of 
 
 revenge." 
 
 "If one takes my life," he answered shrewdly, " by 
 taking all I have to keep de Hfe in me and mine, it's 
 raale justice to take his for it. But I'll own to de re- 
 venge," he said, rubbing his liead violently with his 
 hand, " I'll own to de revenge. I'm ready night or day 
 to * attind when called on/ — it's all one," and he eyed
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 313 
 
 his questioner closely and suspiciously, not certain as to 
 his meaning. 
 
 " Well, go on with Lanty Lurgan's opinions — the 
 story of your luck," said the gentleman. 
 
 " Oh, Lanty 's a fine man ! has a power o' know- 
 ledge, and sure if he, a priest's broder's son, would join 
 us, it's asy known we're in de right, every way. Sure 
 when de like o' dem dat has larning is for a ting, 
 what call have we to stir only as we're bid. It's a fine 
 ting to have de hkes o' dem to stand up for us, and by 
 us, and sure it's dey have all de weight of it on dem- 
 selves; and so bee de same token, says Lanty, 'Who 
 shoidd I see at de last fair, where I wint to sell de little 
 pig dat I tuck from de Widdy Murphy for her son's 
 quarter's Latin, and to buy mee Httle things for mee 
 little school — who should I see swaggerin' trough de 
 fair, in a bran new baaver and top-boots, an' de price of 
 de cow he distrained on from one of us by de Black- 
 water — but Japers Connel ; and by de same token he had 
 a hulldog in his breast; and, boys, he got notice on his 
 own house-door twice; and once, an' he on de road home 
 afther making his soivl, De ' Silent Foot' put anoder into 
 his hand to tell him he must quit do land he tuck over 
 Riley's head, or suffer for it — for he had de two crmies 
 on himself.' " 
 
 " Riley of the Stream ?" questioned the captain. 
 
 " De same, captain, dat was transported, and his bit 
 o'land tuck from lus broder; ' So boys,' says de school- 
 master, ' it's all fair and round as eggs, dat his account 
 must be made up quick ; he got his notice like any gin- 
 tleman, and dat tree times ; and after dat de boys
 
 314 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 mind de rule, ' to attind when called on ;' ' and now,' he 
 says, ' we ought to draw lots whose to do de little job out 
 of de way at once, for it's bad example afther de notice, 
 to see liim swaggering about ;' de last fellow of de kind 
 we got shut of, de Blackwater boys did it for us — and 
 now our turn to do it for dem. Well, it was all ' attind 
 when called on,' and de lot fell on Paddy Lacey." 
 
 " Why I thought it was you had the luck !" inter- 
 rupted the gentleman. 
 
 Moving a little so as to turn his back in a degree to 
 the storm, Murtogh took no notice of the interruption, 
 but continued: 
 
 " Well, Paddy was overjoyed, because liis sister was 
 to be married de same night to a Blackwater boy, and 
 it was mighty convanient to 'attind when called on;' 
 and get de fun of de wedding altogeder — and he says 
 to me, ' I owe you a kind turn, Murtogh, for de ahbi 
 you swore to, last 'sizes, for my fader's broder-in-laAv — as 
 bould as a ram.' ' Oh ! dat's noting,' I says, laughing, 
 ' betwixt friends, noting at all; it's grate fun, a doAAmright 
 raale alibi, swore and proved through as good as forty 
 oaths, in an' out — boddering de big wigs, just when dey 
 tink dey have it all dere own way ; de poor boy trem- 
 bling in de dock wid de rope round his neck, and no 
 more trouble to de law, but to pull it ! When in comes 
 forty witnesses to prove de ahbi ! Oh, it's raale glory ! — 
 and de faces of 'em !' 
 
 " Well, though he'd no more mind his call den shoot- 
 ing a rat, he tought a dale of, as he called it, poor fellow, 
 my parjuring my soivl for his fader's broder-in-law — and 
 more, on account of fearing to go nigh de priest, to
 
 A STORY OF IRELAND. 315 
 
 get ase in his o^\ai mind — through a pilgrimage, or 
 somcting like dat. ' So come wid me,' he says, ' now, 
 de girls at de Blackwater are as fond as yersclf of 
 music ; and we'll settle Connel at de same time ; only 
 remember, I'm first, and you're second.' " 
 
 " You had never seen Connel, had you ?" inquired 
 the captain. 
 
 " Och ! no, he never did harm to me or mine; I had 
 no call to the man at all, and was as innocent as any 
 babby of an ill thought towards him or his : — praise be to 
 God ! But^ I had aK his marks ; and so I quit, wid 
 Paddy Lacey, and mighty pleasant walking it was, as 
 any one could desire, falling in wid our own boys now 
 and agin, changing our little pass-words, and hearing 
 de news — mighty pleasant; only once, when we had a 
 meeting at a place beyond Macroom — dey call it by de 
 name of Kilcrea — all de boys in dere white sliirts." 
 
 " Were you there?" inquired the captain. 
 
 " Sure an' I went near it," he answered, shuddering, 
 " but couldn't get to it, on account, Sir, of de spirits, 
 and de tousands o' dry bones piled to all etarnity in de 
 holy ground. Why even Master Matt has no call to 
 Kilcrea — devil a bit — after ten at night ! De fom-- 
 leaved shamrogue he carries in his breast lets liim into 
 sacrets, and so he wouldn't touch a stone. I couldn't 
 go; though Lacey did. I knelt down by de first arch 
 of de bridge to keep de water betwixt me and de 
 spirits, and said every prayer ould Madam Macarthy 
 ever taught me, when I used to be playing pitch and 
 toss and hurley wid de yomig master long ago — and 
 she'd make us both kneel down (God be good to her !)
 
 316 THE WHITEBOY; 
 
 and say over tlie patlier and tlie aves, and then curse 
 de Orangemen. Oli, it's she was de fine woman en- 
 tirely — and de grate saint !" 
 
 " I remember Lawrence telling me you were afraid 
 of spirits," said the young man, carelessly; "but the 
 Kilcrea meeting was a great loss. Every man that 
 night swore the OATH at the altar, and bent his knee 
 over the tomb of Artliur O'Leary. It seemed," he 
 said, sigliing, " a gathering for a great purpose. You 
 ought to have been there, Murtogh." 
 
 " One can't have luck right and left," said Murtogh, 
 " as I know to my cost. If do daylight was in it, I'd 
 ha' been dere too, but I can't abide bones. When 
 Lacey came to me I was more dead den alive, for fear 
 of de spirits. But we had fine company into Cork, 
 just for a spree, and den de next morning we found 
 our ground; and I wanted to get it over quick; for 
 de man never did noting to me ; only Paddy paid me 
 de compliment on account of de good turn I tould 
 you of." 
 
 " And did you find Connel at once?" 
 
 " Bee Gorra ! we did not. He was gone to Kil- 
 kinny; and wc war bound to follow him dere; but 
 hearing he was to be back de next night, we tuck our 
 fill of de whiskey punch, and do dancin' dat night at de 
 wedding, and lay about de place, inquiring for work de 
 next morning," 
 
 " And you caught him, did you?" inquired the 
 young man, in a tone of voice which would lead to the 
 behcf that he would have been better pleased if the 
 man had escaped.
 
 A STORY OP IRELAND. 317 
 
 " We did. Dere was a little grove o' trees close to 
 his gate inside, and a high hedge opposite. We liid 
 under de hedge — and Paddy saw him come riding 
 down de road. I tought, as he came up at a canter, 
 dat we had no luck, for his eldest boy ran up de avenue 
 and unfastened de gate. It was as much as Paddy 
 could do to keep hisself from shootin' de young blaguard, 
 but tree or four of de young ones had got into de 
 grove o' trees, and pvit dere little faces over de ditch, 
 shouting ' Fader, fader.' And he pulled up, and tossed 
 over his hat among 'em ; and it was half full of play- 
 tings for dem; and faix I'll not deny dat de shout of 
 dere joy made meeself unasy, just at (ie minit, an' I 
 forgot how he acted contrary to our rules — taking and 
 keeping land over our heads — I forgot all. ' Paddy,' 
 says I — ^bang went de shot, his bald head was de mark, 
 and Paddy wasn't de fool to miss it — dere was no need 
 of a second ! Dat was my last draw, and but for it I'd 
 have had a shout at black Aby's burning ; only dat was 
 done in a hurry : ye may fire a shot in a hurry, cap- 
 tain, but it's mortial bad not to tink and get all safe 
 at a burnin', for it wakes up de counthry." 
 
 " And — and — did you shoot the children?" inquired 
 the captain, and it might be that the keenness of the 
 mountain air made him shudder. 
 
 IMurtogh turned towards him a look of intense disimst. 
 
 " Shoot de childre ! is it shoot de cliildre ye said, 
 Sir? be dad any one who has been a sojur has no heart 
 in his body — shoot de grawleens; yarra ! is it murderers 
 ye\l have us he, captain ? The Lord forgive ye !"
 
 318 THE WHITEBOY. 
 
 " And did no one see you? It was day, I tliink 
 you said?" 
 
 " Ough, ay ! plinty saAv us; but sure tliey are all sworn 
 in; they knew it was all according to our law; sure 
 where's tlie good o' thinking about it ; he brought it on 
 himself; he had !as fair warning as ever a man had in 
 liis life, and there's the end of it; he had a mighty fine 
 funeral — for barring he was hard on the tenants he was 
 good to the poor." 
 
 " Did you go to the funeral?" 
 
 " I did not ; I never care to hear an ullagawn any more 
 than to see ould bones." 
 
 There was aJong pause. 
 
 *' Is that another clap of thunder?" inquired the cap- 
 tain, at the same instant starting to his feet, and then 
 wincing as if from extreme pain. 
 
 Murtogh was instantly at his old post, but this time 
 his head projected considerably over the chfF, not so as 
 to distinguish objects, any effort to do that would have 
 been unavailing, but evidently placed to catch any 
 sound that the dense atmosphere permitted to ascend. 
 
 " Again!" exclaimed the captain, " that is not thun- 
 der," he added, and his nature seemed as if called 
 by some sudden and mysterious power into active life. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
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