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 L I E> RA FLY 
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 Of 1LL1 NOIS 
 
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 YESTERDAY IN IRELAND. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TO DAY IN IRELAND. 
 
 IN THREE VOLS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CORK AMA HON. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HENRY GOLBURN, NEW BURLINOTON STREET. 
 1829.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HKlNTriD BY S. AND R. EENTLEY, 
 
 Dorset Street , Fleet Street.
 
 8£3 
 
 CQQSy 
 
 v. 3. 
 
 TO 
 IRELAND'S WARMEST FRIEND, 
 
 THE 
 
 MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE, 
 
 THESE TALES, 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF HER POLITICAL STATE, 
 
 ARE 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Near that famed place where slender wits resort, 
 And gay Pulvilio keeps his scented court ; 
 Where exiled wit ne'er shows its hated face, 
 But happier nonsense fills the thoughtless place ; 
 Where sucking heaus, our future hopes, are bred, 
 The sharping gamester, and the bully red, 
 O'erstock'd with fame, but indigent of bread." 
 
 Poem attributed to Swift. 
 
 It was in the year seventeen hundred and 
 thirteen, or, that we may not be too precise, 
 it was not long subsequent to the conclusion of 
 the Peace of Utrecht, moreover November, 
 moreover a day as dismal as that month gene- 
 
 V(H, I. ■
 
 2 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 rally affords to the inhabitants of Dublin, that 
 a gentleman entered one of the most fashionable 
 houses of resort in that metropolis, alluded to 
 by Swift in the above lines, and well-known to 
 him and his contemporaries under the name of 
 Lucas's Coffee-house. The personage wore an 
 air evidently foreign, although this was evinced 
 more by the elegance and scrupulous nicety of 
 his dress and appearance, than by its differing 
 materially from that of the fashionable crowd 
 with which he now mingled. His stock, his 
 ample capeless coat, embroidered waistcoat, and, 
 above all, his peruque, frizzed and parted into 
 two towering summits, form a garb, with which 
 Kneller's canvass has rendered every reader too 
 familiar to allow here any indulgence in its 
 description. This full dress, more strongly de- 
 noted by a hat, that, even in traversing several 
 streets of the metropolis upon a November day, 
 had never been promoted from its station be- 
 neath the arm to cover for a moment the head 
 for which it was nominally destined, was some- 
 what in contrast with the less courtly costume 
 of the sparks around. The quick eye of the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 3 
 
 stranger soon caught this over-precision and 
 elegance in his dress. He seemed particularly 
 anxious not to attract attention ; and his hat 
 was immediately, and for the first time, placed 
 and pressed upon his lofty friz, thus reducing 
 it to the less aspiring standard of the Hibernian 
 mode. His countenance, to complete his pic- 
 ture, was hearty, open, Irish, with a certain 
 air and a premature bronzing about it, from 
 which he might safely be pronounced a soldier, 
 who had seen more service than his years war- 
 ranted. 
 
 The free and easy manners of that day. still 
 savouring of the times of the merry Charles, 
 rendered a coffee-house or other place of public- 
 entertainment, a kind of free or neutral port, 
 where strangers laid aside at once the hostility 
 of etiquette, and met on terms of friendship 
 and good will — a state of society very different 
 from that which exists in our days, when not 
 to know a man seems tantamount to despising 
 him, and when persons look upon the honour of 
 their acquaintance in some such light as maidens 
 do that of their chastity, guarding it with a 
 B 2
 
 4 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 prudery all as scrupulous and strict. The 
 better bred, nay, even the butterfly fops of 
 those days, such as we find depicted in Wycher- 
 ley and Farquhar, did not esteem their gentility 
 so perishable as, like the hues of an insect's wing, 
 to be brushed away by the slightest contact. 
 The town, a term synonymous with society, was 
 open to all, whether men of fashion or intruders ; 
 and the former felt no fear of being confound- 
 ed in the vulgar crowd, secure of distinction in 
 the inimitability of their lounge, dress, air, and 
 oaths. In our days, if fashionable writers are 
 to be believed, there exists a similar free-ma- 
 sonry of fashion, and the secrets of the "gentle 
 craft' are, it is vaunted, " a marvel and a mys- 
 tery"" to the uninitiated. Perhaps so : but 
 certes, — those invisible fences must be found 
 sadly inefficient, since they impart no more ease 
 to external and mixed life, and since, even 
 with their aids, we stand in need of the closer 
 protection of our grim looks of mutual de- 
 fiance. 
 
 Be this as it may, it was no insult in the 
 year of our narration to wish a stranger good-
 
 CORRAMAHON. O 
 
 morrow, or even to enter at once upon the dis- 
 cussion of the topic of the day with him. Our 
 veteran was scarcely seated, and had just glanced 
 his eye over a number of Pue's Occurrences, 
 a famous Tory gazette of those days, when he 
 was accosted by a young spark, who, after an 
 introductory pinch of snuff offered and accept- 
 ed, commenced the conversation with, "Ha!" 
 at the same time fillipping "the little journal, 
 " what is old Pue at this morning ? Hammer- 
 ing the Tories on the old score, I suppose — 
 their disbanding the veterans of Blenheim, and 
 turning so many captains loose to half-pay and 
 other men's wives. 1 ' 
 
 " It is a general complaint, Sir, especially 
 amongst us military, in these times of peace." 
 
 " And are you too one of them, old boy ? 
 Though, I take it, you never left your colours 
 on this side of the strait." 
 
 The dandyism of that day, as of many since, 
 though not exactly of the present one, con- 
 sisted chiefly in an impertinent address ; and 
 presuming on the mild tone and courtly man- 
 ner of the veteran, the young spark was sound-
 
 O CORRAMAHON. 
 
 ing his way to downright rudeness, that he 
 might enhance his modishness before the crowd 
 of a fashionable coffee-house. The term "old 
 boy," however, and the whole demeanour of his 
 new acquaintance, somewhat discomposed the 
 soldier's grave and foreign courtesy. 
 
 "What news from the Grand Mo)iarqueV 
 continued the youth. " How many Te Deums 
 hath Lewis sung in honour of the Tories, for 
 having left him his kingdom ?" 
 
 " Morbleu, Sir !" replied the stranger, whose 
 ideas of urbanity, formed in another latitude, 
 allowed him to carry his forbearance no farther, 
 " a young gentleman gifted as thou art, so as 
 to be able to divine at once the movements of 
 a stranger, need ask tidings of no other than 
 his own impertinence. 11 
 
 As a flush arose to the young spark's cheek, 
 his hand wandered in search of the hilt of his 
 sword, but with a movement sufficiently tardy 
 to permit of timely interference on the part of 
 a companion. 
 
 " Nay, no brawl, Garret ; you forget what 
 is due to a foreigner. 11
 
 CORRAiMAHON. 7 
 
 " Odso, do I, comrade!" rejoined the first. 
 " Know I not the Popery Act, and the pro- 
 clamation against foreign priests and Jesuits ? 
 What wager you, that there doth not lie a 
 black tonsure beneath that French perriwig?" 
 
 " Then is it in old Ireland I am !" exclaimed 
 the wearer of the perriwig, as much astonished 
 as provoked ; " I thought I held a trifling re- 
 collection of the little island. But if this be 
 the way in which a stranger is treated on his 
 landing, I have done with it; I renounce it." 
 
 Master Garret's suspicion of the senior's 
 being a Jesuit in disguise had escaped neither 
 the ears nor the apprehensions of the rest of the 
 company of the Coffee-house. And as, with 
 the majority of the citizens of the Metropolis, 
 the greater part of those present were Orange 
 and No Popery men, the suspicion was greedily 
 entertained by all around. The foreign garb, 
 tone, and exclamation of the new comer, favour- 
 ed the idea ; and this was not removed by his 
 having sunk in his last sentence into a broad 
 Irish accentuation ; a change that was looked 
 on as a fresh artifice to escape detection.
 
 8 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Come, Father Make-Shift, this will not 
 do," continued the youth, urged on by the 
 passive astonishment of the supposed Jesuit. 
 " Despite your brogue and your black stock, 
 you must to the Castle, where we shall rip from 
 you, I warrant, the last rescript of the Pope.'''' 
 
 Many rose at the moment to second the 
 menace, and approve the zeal of its utterer. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! an 1 ye will," exclaimed the 
 accused coolly, " I will with ye to the chateau 
 yonder. Though it is the first time, I trow, 
 that Roger O'Mahon was taken for a Jesuit. 
 Only one request I make, which is, to permit 
 me to disprove my being an ecclesiastic on the 
 body of this whipster that confronts me." 
 
 The hate of a Jesuit was great amongst the 
 honest Hibernians ; but the love of witnessing 
 a combat was still greater. 
 
 " Well offered ! — fair play !" cried many 
 voices, " give the Frenchman fair play." 
 
 The soldier drew his sword under the suffer- 
 ance of the company ; whilst his accuser and 
 antagonist, strange to say, displayed no such 
 readiness. Even when at length he did draw
 
 CORRAMAHON. 9 
 
 his rapier, he blushed and hung down his. 
 head before the presence of his senior. 
 
 " How now, Garret," cried his companion, 
 " what is this ? You, the boldest of our rakes 
 and mohawks, where is your courage fled ? w 
 
 " It is gone at the sound of that name." 
 
 " Nay then, Sir, our acquaintance closes 
 here." 
 
 " Hear me," cried the youth ; and he whis- 
 pered his friend, "by the cross-grained stars, 
 it is mine uncle." 
 
 " His uncle, quotha !" muttered the person- 
 age, as he abandoned his abashed and confused 
 friend. " Then shall the old put serve my 
 turn better than the young blood." And he 
 stood, as he had done speaking, at the stran- 
 ger's side ; received his coat which the soldier 
 had stripped off for the rencontre, and stood 
 his second and supporter in the midst of rather 
 an hostile crowd of witnesses. 
 
 " This is not to be borne !" cried the youth, 
 whom we have hitherto called Garret, attribut- 
 ing the desertion of his companion to his own 
 seeming lack of courage ; " one blow may rid 
 b 5
 
 10 CORRAMAHOM. 
 
 me of a world of trouble, perhaps of my worst 
 enemy." So reflecting, he raised his point, 
 and made no weak nor unscientific lunge at 
 his antagonist. The old soldier, however, was 
 too well acquainted with his weapon, and in a 
 few passes, the sword of the young bully was 
 flung from his grasp, and his life at the mercy 
 of the victor. 
 
 " Am I Jesuit now, you dog P" was the 
 paean of the latter. 
 
 " A hand skilled to homicide is no dis- 
 proof of your belonging to that fraternity, 11 
 sullenly replied the discomfited youth, whilst 
 one or two voices in the crowd still announced 
 their adhesion to the accuser. 
 
 " Nay then, if you will see the priest's ton- 
 sure, there it is," cried the senior, taking oft' 
 his peruque, and displaying a scalp bald 
 enough ; and moreover, indented with a huge 
 furrow, which the sabre of an enemy had mani- 
 festly cloven. " I bear marks of the masses 
 I have said, and many a saint hath uttered 
 less worth v ones. 1 '
 
 CORRAMAHON. 11 
 
 " Where got you that piece of martyrdom, 
 old saint ?" asked one of the suspicious. 
 
 ** In Flanders, Sir Orange, from a big- 
 breeched follower of thy saint William's. 'Twaa 
 the last blow Mynheer ever struck, I promise 
 you." 
 
 " Hear the attainted rebel vauntingly confess 
 himself. Look to him, all true men ! 11 cried a 
 voice, and, despite of a partial feeling excited 
 in the stranger's favour by his gallantry and 
 good humour, there was a manifest wish and 
 movement in the assembly to detain him. He 
 himself seemed passive, and, what tended to 
 disarm the fury of the suspicious, ready to 
 submit himself to legal arrest or examination. 
 
 In the moment of hesitation, he who was 
 first introduced as the companion of Garret, 
 the discomfited youth, and who had deserted 
 him, in order, from seeming generosity, to act 
 second to his foe, stepped forth. 
 
 " Gentlemen, 11 said he, " it is either law or 
 custom, that a person should not be twice tried 
 for the same offence; and as we have already
 
 12 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 allowed the stranger that by battle, in which 
 he has cleared himself fully and magnani- 
 mously, what would you more ? Jesuits are 
 given, as we all know, to poignards and poison ; 
 but seldom get their skulls cracked on the field 
 of battle." 
 
 " Ay, but he is worse than a Jesuit, an 
 avowed Jacobite. And we are the Williamites 
 to " 
 
 " Fair Sir," said the veteran, " instead of, 
 as you propose, attacking an old soldier in the 
 rear, I pray you, do me the honour of placing 
 yourself in the position of that young gentle- 
 man who has just picked up his sword." 
 
 The Williamite addressed was, however, an 
 honest cit, who offered to play a bout at quar- 
 ter staff' with the Jacobite, but would have 
 nothing to say, as he vowed, to cold iron. 
 
 " Come, come, gentlemen,''' resumed the 
 mediator, " it has been many an honest man's, 
 and above all, an honest soldier's fate, to have 
 fought on the wrong side. This soldier, ami 
 both soldier and Pat he is, 1 11 be sworn " 
 
 " Without being forsworn, honest English-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 13 
 
 man, if I may judge from your accent and 
 your frankness,'" said the stranger, as he held 
 forth his hand. 
 
 " Had the ill luck to have been born a Jaco- 
 bite." 
 
 " Some trifle of that sort of luck, on my 
 faith." 
 
 " And the hard fate to have been driven 
 abroad, to serve a foreign monarch for honour 
 and for bread." 
 
 " There you have it again." 
 
 " Ay, a wild goose, I warrant you," re- 
 marked one in the crowd, such being the name 
 »liven to those who had emigrated after the 
 capitulation of Limerick, and to convey whom to 
 the Continent in British ships was one of the 
 terms of that capitulation. 
 
 " But hold you, my good spokesman, ere you 
 speak more of my hard fate: — Which is it 
 better to serve honourably a foreign potentate, 
 or rest a slave beneath your own p* 
 
 " The b y Jacobite," cried more than one. 
 
 " Nay, if you mar my pleading, comrade, 
 I give you up to the Philistines."
 
 14 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Not a Goliath of them that I could not 
 slay. But soft words are better than long ra- 
 piers ; so talk them, — talk them over, master. 
 Only, touching my cause or my fate, make only 
 such concessions as become a true Irish heart to 
 offer." 
 
 The long parley seemed to have abated the 
 zeal of the crowd, and this, with the despair 
 of witnessing another combat, had decreased 
 their numbers. Moreover, a different scene of 
 interest for that night, attracted both the gay 
 and the zealous elsewhere. To the suspicious, 
 who still lingered, the spokesman declared his 
 name to be Major Willomer, of my Lord De- 
 loraine's regiment, and that he would be an- 
 swerable for the suspected person. The Wil- 
 liamite frequenters of the Chocolate-house pro- 
 fessed themselves contented with this declara- 
 tion on the part of a servant of the Govern- 
 ment ; and in a few minutes the veteran re- 
 mained free, to thank his new friend and cham- 
 pion. 
 
 " Verily,"' 1 said O'Mahon, " I am infinitely 
 indebted for your interference, Sir. I scarcely
 
 CORRAMAHON. 15 
 
 thought that one of my name, on his first land- 
 ing on his own soil, would have needed the 
 protection of an Englishman and an enemy." 
 
 " An enemy ?" 
 
 " So was it. We, the Irish regiment of 
 guards of his Most Christian Majesty, had a 
 slight affair at Ramilies with Lord Deloraine's. 
 I remember them, a mounted, slashing set of 
 cavaliers — " 
 
 "Ay, -ay; all beaus and captains, even to 
 our youngest ensign. ' Sdeath, what a licking 
 you gave us!" 
 
 " Do you say so ? and yet we lost the field. 11 
 
 " True ; the Frenchmen did take to their 
 heels, and what had you to do, but — " 
 
 " Run ! out with it. You are devilish com- 
 plimentary. — And yet I thank your courtesy. 
 At least we did our duty, which, wherever 
 victory turn, is the brave man's consolation." 
 
 " True, brother soldier, 11 cried Willomer 
 with enthusiasm ; " that sentiment deserves a 
 bumper to hallow it. What say you, shall we 
 cement our acquaintance with a bottle ?" 
 
 " I am not given to potations," said O'Mahon,
 
 16 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " especially of late ; but as both friend and foe, 
 I can't refuse your challenge." 
 
 " What shall we have, tent or canary ?"* 
 
 " No Spanish drugs for me. I am for vulgar 
 claret." 
 
 " I am afraid," said Major Willomer, who 
 piqued himself on being a roue, a beau, and a 
 bon vivant of the first class; " that we shall not 
 here have choice of the trois cutis of St. Evre- 
 mont, which, no doubt, the petils soupers of 
 Paris have rendered you a connoisseur in." 
 
 " I cannot say that I ever heard of them," 
 replied CMahon, to the astonishment of his 
 
 * It may not be uninteresting to Hibernian bon vi- 
 vans, to learn tbe comparative prices, and consequently 
 estimates of wines a century and a quarter back. 
 
 By an order of the Lords Justices Berkeley and Gal- 
 Iowa y, issued in tbe year 1700, for fixing- tbe prices at 
 which wine should be retailed in Dublin, the following 
 
 appears : — 
 
 s. d. 
 
 White Wine, per quart ... 1 2 
 
 Claret 12 
 
 Canary 2 
 
 Sherry 1 8 
 
 Portugal and Spanish, except Tent 1 2 
 
 Tent 2 6 
 
 Rhenish 1 +
 
 CORRAMAHON. 17 
 
 companion, who was not aware, that wines, like 
 prophets, are least honoured or attended to in 
 their own countries. Major Willomer had 
 gathered his information from the perusal of 
 the fashionable French writer whom he named. 
 The chef de brigade, OWIahon, had frequented 
 the living society of the French metropolis, 
 and gathered r.one. 
 
 The veteran was deaf to all modish and 
 dandy topics. Willomer therefore recurred to 
 Flanders, in the interminable campaigns of 
 which war-beloved land, Chef CMahon found 
 a theme so sweet to dwell and to dilate on, 
 that two bottles of the vulgar claret had dis- 
 appeared in time, if not short, unnoted. 
 
 " Shall we discomfit any more of these 
 Frenchmen P' 1 asked the Major, causing the 
 empty bottle to tinkle with his nail. 
 
 " Rather let us beat a retreat in good order. 
 Let's see: it is now twenty years since I trod 
 the Green Isle ; what has it been about, all 
 this time ? What is its progress ?" 
 
 " The crab's march, I opine; retrograde and 
 crawling "
 
 18 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " And trodden on. But, I pray you, no 
 more of such similies. — Let us talk of the hu- 
 manities, as our chaplain used to say, when- 
 ever a topic of politics or religion stirred our 
 mess-board. So I say : talk we of the huma- 
 nities, — the polite arts, — we may judge a coun- 
 try's progress on no better grounds. I come 
 from the land of Despreaux and Racine — whom 
 find I here to match them ?" 
 
 " A legion — not to stir from this, your is- 
 land : there's Tory Swift, just made the Dean 
 of your Saint's Cathedral, and Steele, and com- 
 rade Farquhar, who hath oft shared my tent 
 in Flanders." 
 
 " And yet, I warrant, ye had not a corps 
 dramatique and comedies, to relieve the tedi- 
 ous interval betwixt siege and battle in that 
 country." 
 
 "No, r faith: Dutch wenches, greasy cards, 
 and nine pins, formed the materiel of our in- 
 tellectual amusements. And yet I doubt if 
 we should have exchanged Farquhars convi- 
 vial face and jest o'er a flagon of Rhenish, for 
 all the ambulatory court stage and magnificence
 
 CORRAMAIION. 19 
 
 of Louis." The wine had restored to Major 
 Willomer his frankness, and made him almost 
 lose sight of his purpose to flatter and win the 
 good graces of the veteran. Perhaps, how- 
 ever, in this he succeeded best, as he grew 
 more natural and sincere, even though less 
 obsequious. The artful as often gain their 
 purpose in despite of their art, as by its aid. 
 
 " Well, well,'' said O'Mahon, not displeased 
 at hearing the literary pre-eminence of his 
 native country vindicated ; " we must have one 
 ready means of judging. The city that boasts 
 a Viceroy, must surely possess a stage. What 
 is the popular play of the time ?" 
 
 " Gad's my life, what a question ! Where 
 have been your ears ? Or, have you never 
 read the Guardian nor e'en the Post-Boy ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Tut, the enormity of your ignorance causes 
 me to forget its excuse, — your expatriation. 
 And yet is it possible, that even in France, 
 in the capital of that Tory-loving and beloved 
 Monarch, thou hast not heard of Addison's 
 Cato r
 
 20 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 u A noble subject." 
 
 " 'Fore Gad, too, Booth is here : the Roscius 
 of the day, — the Cato — the play hath made his 
 fortune, as well as Addison's. And the Whig 
 citizens here are wild in running to witness 
 and applaud the piece. It should be in the 
 bills this night. ,, 
 
 " Let us wander thither, 1 ' said O'Mahon. 
 " The theatre is my old kill-time. And I 
 would fain witness a representation in the me- 
 tropolis here, ere I betake myself to native 
 Catherlogh." 
 
 " Such, then, is your destination,"" said Major 
 Willomer. " Strange that it is mine own. Our 
 regiment is quartered in Catherlogh. I have 
 just returned from a month's visit to nay friends 
 in England, and purpose riding in a day or two 
 to join my corps." 
 
 " Then we may jog thither amicably to- 
 gether, and fight a fresh battle in Flanders 
 every mile." 
 
 During the latter part of this conversation, 
 the two gentlemen had quitted the coffee-house, 
 and, under the guidance of Willomer, they had
 
 COR RAM A HON. 21 
 
 taken their way up the street still called, and 
 deservedly, George's Lane ; after which, con- 
 tinuing Aungier Street, in which the theatre of 
 that day was situated, they found themselves 
 in all the crowd and bustle of its approach. 
 
 Both were great, so very great as to impress 
 Chef O'Mahon with an high opinion of town 
 and company. The same observation awakened 
 Major Willomer to a recollection of what his 
 converse with the veteran had totally for a mo- 
 ment dispossessed him, viz. of the day's being 
 the fourth of November, the anniversary of the 
 birthday of King William. 
 
 " Cato we shall not see this night, my good 
 friend, r> said the Major. 
 
 " And why ?" 
 
 " 'Tis one of the Orange festivals, the birth- 
 day of your old enemy, the Great Deliverer, as 
 they here call him. We might have noticed 
 his newly-erected or re-erected statue deco- 
 rated for the nonce.* Orange and green will 
 
 * Some time previous, as the Journals of the day in- 
 form us, the Statue of King William had met with one 
 of those overthrows, to which, in its present situation, it is 
 to he feared, it will he always liable. It was re-erected ; 

 
 22 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 have a tussle. And the theatre is one of 
 Paddy's favourite arenas for strife. Shall we 
 enter ?" 
 
 11 But yes, now that we have advanced so far. 
 The expression of popular feeling, too, is some- 
 what new to one who has long inhabited o'er- 
 courteous France, where it is against etiquette 
 even to applaud. A theatrical riot will be a 
 novelty to me. - " 
 
 " What play shall we have, though ?" asked 
 the veteran, as they entered. 
 
 " Rowe's Tamerlane is always the one upon 
 these occasions. And if party run high at the 
 time, Dr. Garth's Prologue is always added, by 
 way of hot seasoning, or spice for the Papists.'' 
 
 O'Mahon showed some impatience ; but such 
 was the crowd, that it would have been impos- 
 sible to recede. And Major Willomer and his 
 friend accordingly occupied places, when they 
 awaited the commencement of the piece. 
 
 The Dublin theatre of that day does not 
 merit or require any accurate description at 
 
 and, by way of pendant, a ducking-stool was set up be- 
 twixt Ormond and Essex-bridge, for the punishment of 
 the said Statue's female enemies.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 23 
 
 our hands. It may be supposed not to have 
 rivalled in magnificence its successor of Crow- 
 street, which Kemble and Siddons trod, and on 
 which the writer of this, in the enthusiasm of 
 youth, and with delight since unequalled, has 
 watched the developement from year to year 
 of the matchless talents of O'Neill. The theatre 
 in question, however, was garnished on this 
 night with a theatre's best ornaments, — a 
 crowded assemblage. And this appeared not 
 only in pit, and box, and gallery, the still 
 received places of an audience, but even the 
 proscenium, (I beg pardon for the word,) or that 
 portion of the stage which rests discovered 
 before the curtain, was thickly occupied, accord- 
 ing to the privilege of that day, by benches, on 
 which sat the very elite of the beaus of the 
 metropolis. In this they seemed to have occu- 
 pied what might be truly called the post of 
 honour, for it was one of peril. The said beaus, 
 as the cockades of some, and the habiliments 
 of others denoted, were Orange all ; whilst 
 those in the gallery were already beginning 
 to display hostile sentiments by word of mouth,
 
 24 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 or by such significant emblems as copper Ja- 
 cobuses, discharges of orange-peel, and masti- 
 cated tobacco. 
 
 " Phipps" seemed the rallying word for that 
 day of the Tory Irish faction. And such cries 
 as " Phipps for ever !" — " little Constantine '« 
 the lad !" burst at intervals from high, and pro- 
 claimed the rising vivacity of the gods. Their 
 idol, like so many of his kind, since consigned 
 to oblivion, — if, indeed, CurraiVs having made 
 use of the name to cover and convey his philippic 
 against Lord Clare, do not rescue it from that 
 gulph, — was Sir Constantine Phipps, who in 
 that year was accused by the Irish House of 
 Commons of an attempt to subvert by bribery 
 the Whig majority in the Common Council of 
 the metropolis. The circumstances are not 
 sufficiently interesting to readers of the pre- 
 sent day to be detailed. Suffice it. that at that 
 period, although Swift compares the squabble 
 to a game of cherry-stones, they caused the 
 greatest excitement and disturbance in the 
 capital, and that the conspiracy of the Jacobite 
 Chancellor put the worthy Corporation of Dub-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 25 
 
 lin into so permanent a panic, that it seems not 
 to have subsided to this day. 
 
 To give vent to feelings agitated by these 
 things, was the chief incitement which drove 
 the good people of Dublin to their theatre. 
 Indeed, the audience of London itself in those 
 days founded its critical judgments and delight 
 as much on politics as upon taste. And " Cato" 
 was not a little indebted to this for its immo- 
 derate success: the Whiggishness of the senti- 
 ment it was, more than the dramatic force of the 
 piece, that outweighed all the cavils of Dennis. 
 If theatrical taste was thus modified in London, 
 in Dublin certainly it was, and might, more 
 pardonably, be even more so; and it was less 
 to enjoy the beauties of Rowe's poetry, than 
 the aptness and force of its allusions, that such 
 numbers flocked to the representation of Ta- 
 merlane. 
 
 The tumult somewhat subsided as the hour 
 of commencement was at hand : it gave wav 
 to suspense. The performance of the play 
 itself would not have discontented the Tories — 
 they were prepared even to consider it as a 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 20 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 triumph. The prologue was the aggravating 
 point which the Williamites insisted on having, 
 and which their antagonists were prepared to 
 prevent. 
 
 In this state of things the curtain rose. No 
 actor presented himself to speak the prologue ; 
 and the Prince of Tanais, one of the characters 
 of the piece, made his appearance, and began — 
 
 "Hail to the Sun " 
 
 His address to the celestial luminary went 
 no farther, being cut short by the shouts and 
 execrations of those in the pit, and on the sides 
 of the stage. The gallery called aloud that he 
 should proceed, but their battery of cries and 
 missiles was too remote to protect him. 
 
 " Here is a scene," quoth O'Mahon, *' that a 
 few musquetaires would arrange a merveiUe.'' 
 
 " The remedy," replied Willomer, " seems 
 not preferable to the disease." 
 
 " Mais voyons, sacrebleu /" exclaimed the 
 Chef : " See, there is my young friend of the 
 coffee-house — qu'il est brave main/c/ian/." 
 
 The Prince of Tanais had in fact retired,
 
 CORRAMAHON. 27 
 
 leaving the stage clear for combatants more in- 
 terested than he was, to struggle upon. The 
 Williamite bloods immediately took possession ; 
 and one of them, who proved to be the lately 
 discomfited antagonist of CTMahon, with play 
 in hand, began to recite forth to the audience 
 the desired and detested prologue.* 
 
 There was, as may be supposed, not much 
 of it audible. Willomer and CTMahon, how- 
 ever, occupying seats near to the stage, caught 
 its import. The latter recognized his master, 
 Louis, as 
 
 -The Turkish monarch crown'd, 
 
 Like spreading flame, deform'd the nations round/' 
 
 And the exultant straining of the spokeman's 
 voice rendered intelligible, in spite of the din, 
 the following lines illustrative of the glorious 
 Revolution of William, under the name of 
 Tamerlane : — 
 
 * Some journals of that day assert, that it was Dudley 
 Moore, Esquire, who performed this feat. The docu- 
 ments which afford the materials of this story, furnish it 
 a different hero- 
 
 c 2
 
 28 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Some abject states for fear the tyrant join ; 
 Others for gold their liberties resign, 
 And venal Princes sold their Right Divine. 
 Till Heaven, the growing evil to redress, 
 Sent Tamerlane to give the world a peace. 
 The Hero, roused, asserts the glorious cause, 
 And to the field the cheerful soldier draws : 
 Around, in crowds, his valiant leaders wait, 
 Anxious for glory ■ and secure of fate, 
 Well pleased once more to venture on his side, 
 And prove that faith again, which had so oft been tried. 
 The peaceful fathers, who in senate meet, 
 Approve an enterprise so just, so great; 
 While with their Prince's arms, their voice thusjoin'd, 
 Gains half the praise of having saved mankind." 
 
 The tumult was excessive, and the gods find- 
 ing their lungs ineffective, were preparing to 
 descend to close conflict, when a well-directed 
 shot of some soft missile struck the bold spokes- 
 man even in the very organ of utterance, and 
 instantly cut short his prologue. It was a day 
 of evil omen for poor Garret O'Mahon, thus 
 twice discomfited, and twice left friendless ; for 
 the shouts of triumphant laughter that burst 
 from the gallery at his disaster, were echoed 
 involuntarily by his very companions and par- 
 tizans. Even zealous as they were for the glo-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 29 
 
 rious Revolution, a blow in the mouth, a stun- 
 ning, and at the same time an innocent blow, 
 was far too comic, and rendered the stricken 
 person far too foolish to allow of the seriousness 
 of the by-standers. Williamites and Jacobites 
 all joined in a chorus of laughter. Party spirit 
 was for the instant suspended at the expense of 
 Garret, and the mortified and reluctant pacifi- 
 cator made his retreat in a humour of misan- 
 thropy, capable of impelling a man of more 
 sensibility to verse or suicide. 
 
 France had been called a monarchic absolue, 
 temperee par des chansons. This regime would 
 seem admirably to suit Ireland, so striking is 
 the affinity betwixt the great and the little coun- 
 try ; so mirth-loving and light-hearted are both, 
 so fond of an epigram, that they are ready at 
 any time to barter their liberty for it ; and so 
 enamoured of a jest, that even the fiercest re- 
 sentment is instantaneously sacrificed to the 
 laughter it creates. As however, in order to 
 render a nation capable of enjoying a jest, it 
 would be requisite previously to give them food 
 wherewithal to support the system, and such a
 
 30 CORRAMAHON, 
 
 trifle of education as might lift them a degree 
 above the brutes — preliminaries which it seems 
 not in the power, if in the contemplation, of the 
 rulers of Ireland to impart to her — I fear she 
 must yet remain what she is, une monarchic con- 
 stitutionelle, temperee par des gendarmes.* 
 
 I borrow the expression from Chef O'Mahon, 
 who soon quitted the theatre, accompanied by 
 his new friend. " Tamerlane" had proceeded — 
 nay, every one said that peace was altogether 
 restored — it was, however, such an uproarious 
 kind of tranquillity, so very Irish a peace, that 
 the French guardsman, his ears yet bearing in 
 recollection the I'everential stillness which reign- 
 ed in the royal theatre at Versailles, commanded 
 too as much by the majesty of Racine's verse, 
 as by that of the Monarch's presence, had risen 
 in disgust. 
 
 The conversation between the new acquain- 
 
 * The great and infallible nostrum of the magisterial 
 Sangrados of Ireland for curing all ills in her body 
 politic, is the gendarmerie. The word is naturalized 
 Irish of the nineteenth century. Mr. Grant made a 
 most honourable stand against this unconstitutional prin- 
 ciple, for which those gentlemen called him Miss Grant.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 31 
 
 tances, as they wended the same streets home 
 which they had lately paced, turned on the 
 national manners and fate of the Irish. Wil- 
 lomer, though a man of shrewdness, cared not a 
 rush for any kingdom or party. It was evi- 
 dent, when arguing, that he was either mocking 
 or cajoling ; so ready was his assent, on so nice 
 a shade of difference was his dissent founded. 
 He put warmth at times, it was true, into his 
 replies, but it was the mere warmth of paradox. 
 His mind was elsewhere bent : it would be diffi- 
 cult to say on what. He was apathetic ; and yet 
 he adhered to his new companion, flattered and 
 paid him that attention, which man may not 
 with dignity render to man, except a consider- 
 able interval of age or rank separate one from 
 the other. In this case there was not sufficient 
 of either to warrant the one in paying any de- 
 gree of deference to the other. But that this 
 was produced more by design than respect, was 
 evident from the forgetful and capricious manner 
 in which the tone and deference were shaken off. 
 The conduct and character of Major Willomer 
 perplexed the honest Irish soldier, into whose
 
 32 CORRA.MAHON. 
 
 breast suspicion was the last sentiment to enter. 
 The commerce of conversation, however, becomes 
 neither profitable nor fair, when zeal is bartered 
 for paradox and trifling. Chef O'Mahon felt 
 so, and, turning short, asked, " Who, pray, is 
 the young man that had first the impudence to 
 insult me, and the stock undiminished after his 
 defeat, to commit the same impertinence towards 
 an audience of his countrymen ? You seemed 
 at first to have known him, Major." 
 
 " Oh ! a mere chocolate-house acquaintance. 
 A stranger here, like yourself, I picked up the 
 first puppy I could find for my diversion ; 'twas 
 an unfortunate selection, and, 'fore Gad ! I had 
 seen the man bold ere he met with you, and of 
 a proper bearing.'" 
 
 " How was he named ?" 
 
 " I forget, 1 ' was the reply, after a pause. 
 " To set the old fellow after the young," mut- 
 tered Willomer to himself, " and have it end 
 in a reconciliation, were to lose both stools ; 
 and one I absolutely want." He then conti- 
 nued aloud, " Strange ! that I should so soon 
 forget the cursed fellow's name."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 33 
 
 "It matters not," replied the Chef; "only 
 it struck me that I had heard you call him 
 Garret." 
 
 " What a singular prelude to a beau's name ! 
 It is the domicile, verily, of some few of the 
 wits, my acquaintances ; but as to their claiming 
 to be Christians by such a title — " 
 
 " It is a good, and an old name of baptism," 
 said O'Mahon ; "it sounds before mine own 
 name in mine own family, if I be not mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " That was, no doubt, what put it on your 
 tongue, v ' said Willomer. 
 
 " Parbleu ! and perhaps so, - " was the remark 
 of the unsuspecting soldier, as they parted. 
 
 c 5
 
 34 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Some days subsequent to the events just 
 related, Chef O'Mahon and Major Willomer 
 urged their horses in company towards Car- 
 low. They had arranged not to pursue the 
 direct road thither, but to take their course 
 by the sea-coast southwards, which would lead 
 them through the beautiful regions of Wick- 
 low ; whence, without much circuit, at least 
 with not more than the scenery would well 
 repay, they might regain their mutual point of 
 destination. 
 
 Both men of information and travel, subjects 
 of conversation were not lacking ; neither was 
 the will, nor the talent to discuss them. The
 
 CORRAMAHON. 35 
 
 first remark of either, however, to which I 
 think proper to call the attention of the rea- 
 der, was one of Chef O'Mahon's, upon entering 
 the then wild gorge, well known as the Glen of 
 the Downs. Tamed, as the noble defile has 
 been of late with roads and banqueting-houses, 
 and ornamental cottages, the approach to it is 
 still wild. One hundred and fourteen years 
 since, it must indeed have been a scene of rude 
 magnificence. 
 
 ** Do the Rapparees haunt these regions ?" 
 said Chef OMahon. 
 
 " O' my faith, I cannot answer,"" replied Wil- 
 lomer ; " the land is perfect terra incognita to 
 me — and lovely it is, as ever that which Raleigh 
 explored. It wanteth bvit a gold mine to be a 
 perfect Eldorado." 
 
 " That too it hath, if tradition speak sooth. 
 But I tell thee, comrade, the coined gold that 
 clinks behind my saddle interests me more than 
 all the uncoined ore of Lagenia. Therefore, 
 spake I to you of these same Rapparees. Hear 
 you ought of them ?" 
 
 " They are extant, verily. Knaves, like kingl,
 
 36 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 never die. It was but a few days since, I saw 
 in the diurnals, that two Roman and Roman 
 Catholic bishops, sent by your good friend, the 
 Pope, to occupy episcopal seats in this his Holi- 
 ness's kingdom of Ireland, had been landed at 
 Kinsale, but were discovered, and handed over 
 to the authorities of Cork, to be dealt with as 
 the law ordains." 
 
 " Poor prelates ! they will be re-shipped for 
 their pains, if indeed, they be not kept pri- 
 soners." 
 
 " What a notion you have of the law under 
 which you have come to live !" said the Major. 
 " The poor prelates will be hanged, that is, 
 would be but — " 
 
 " Hanged I 1 ' said CVMahon ; u but finish me 
 your but?'' 
 
 " But that the Rapparees have rescued them." 
 
 " And well done, in sooth, for a set of ras- 
 cals who could have gained nought but blows 
 and blessings for the feat.' 1 
 
 " Hush !" said Willomer, ** more circum- 
 spection here. There are more spies than Rap- 
 parees to be dreaded. And even if the latter
 
 CORRAMAHON. 37 
 
 manned this pass, are we not three mounted 
 cavaliers ?" — Major \Yillomer 1 s domestic rode 
 behind them. 
 
 " Mounted doubtless, but unarmed : I have 
 not told you another adventure that befel me in 
 Dublin, another delightful sample of the times. 
 My pistols, mine old companions through all 
 the wars in Flanders, which I valued as the 
 last gift of a gallant friend, had rusted, grown 
 out of order, during my long sea-voyage ; I 
 took them to an armourer's, a rogue dwelling 
 nigh to the Castle — I should have suspected 
 the vicinity — and he seemed more than ordina- 
 rily civil on perceiving their rich and foreign 
 mounting. When I sought them of him again, 
 however, the rogue was altered. He talked of 
 his perils ; of the proclamation ; of his oath to 
 deliver arms to none but sure men,— and in 
 short, refused to return me my poor pair of 
 pistolets, unless I proceeded forthwith before 
 a magistrate, to take in his presence the oaths 
 of supremacy and allegiance. I grew wroth 
 with reason, blustered, and, I believe, swore; 
 the citizen declared his life in danger from a mad
 
 38 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Jacobite, and an emissary of the French King, 
 who had come with French pistolets to as- 
 sassinate him. A crowd collected, an Orange 
 crowd; we had before encountered such an one. 
 Parleying continued : and the armourer verily 
 did produce to me a list of some dozen of my 
 Catholic countrymen, to whom alone arms were 
 permitted. Some were permitted to carry pis- 
 tols; others were highly favoured with the 
 grant of carrying a fowling-piece; whilst to 
 others by name were accorded the mere privi- 
 lege of wearing a sword.* Methought, that 
 at least was the right of every gentleman. But 
 it was not mine. I found ; my name was not 
 in the list. I was astounded. The armourer 
 stretched forth his grasping hand for my sword 
 also ; this very rapier by my side. Catinat had 
 worn it." 
 
 * March 23, 1700. A proclamation was issued, for- 
 bidding all Catholics to have arms, except 95, whose 
 names are enumerated; of whom, five are allowed a 
 sword only ; eight, a sword and pair of pistols ; the rest, 
 sword, pistols, and a gun. In the November previous, 
 all licences to carry arms granted to Papists, had been 
 called in.— See the Flying Post, and other Journals of 
 the time.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 39 
 
 " How did you rescue it from the Orange 
 armourer ?" 
 
 " His touch did not dishonour it. My pa- 
 tience, on seeing my sword in jeopardy, was not 
 so exemplary as when it was denied me, being 
 a Papist, the privilege of taking soup or coffee 
 in peace. I drew the blade, struck mine ar- 
 mourer upon the teeth, to their discomfiture ; 
 and as I waved it to open a path before me, 
 the Orange crowd acknowledged the virtue of 
 the talisman, for they fled in all directions. 
 I, soon hearing the gallop of horsemen from 
 the Castle, followed their example, and sped, 
 till I was ensconced in mine hotel." 
 
 " You should have informed me of this cir- 
 cumstance ere we left the metropolis. It may 
 turn out to be of serious consequences." 11 
 
 " O 1 my faith, I was ashamed of my own 
 and my country's degradation, and sought to 
 forget it. Had Catholics but foreseen a tithe of 
 these disgraceful oppressions, they would have 
 defended the old walls of Limerick to this hour, 
 or at least buried themselves, and their coun- 
 try's rights, with honour beneath the ruins. 11
 
 40 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Now, patience," muttered Willomer to him- 
 self : " set an Irish Tory astride that same 
 Treaty of Limerick, and there is no hope, 
 while breath lasts, of his reining in." 
 
 Willomer was right, for the diatribe which 
 followed from the veteran was long; but it 
 was animated and just. 
 
 " Ah ! that treaty," observed the Major, 
 meditating a reply, with which to extinguish 
 the argument and so get rid of it ; " that treaty 
 of Limerick was a sad blunder of William's. " 
 " As how ?" asked the veteran sharply. 
 " In that this Dutchman, after receiving a 
 crown at the hands of the English, on the 
 express condition of securing their religion, no 
 sooner obtained it, than he forgot that condi- 
 tion ; and here in this kingdom, after two 
 signal victories, and an every way successful 
 campaign, he conceded, simply for the pleasure 
 of gathering laurels on his favourite field of 
 Flanders, and of indulging his personal enmity 
 to the French king — he conceded, I say, to 
 the Catholics, those sworn enemies of English
 
 CORRAMAHON. 41 
 
 liberties and religion, more favourable terms, 
 than those who placed him on the throne would 
 have granted ere one blow had been struck." 
 
 u Which terms were forced on him," said 
 O'Mahon. 
 
 " Ay ! forced on him ; not by the weakness 
 of England to complete the conquest it had 
 begun, but by the necessity which the Prince 
 of Orange was, or felt himself under, to trans- 
 port back from Ireland to Flanders." 
 
 " Nay," rejoined the veteran good-humour- 
 edly, " if ye enjoyed the advantages of having 
 a Dutch Prince for a sovereign, you must take 
 the disadvantages along with them— of which 
 one, no doubt, is to be ever ready to defend 
 that indefensible Holland." < 
 
 " But, moreover," continued Major Willo- 
 mer, who was now aroused from his apathy, 
 and who permitted himself to be so, since he 
 perceived that frank sincerity and bluntness 
 won upon his old companion more than the 
 obsequiousness which he on their first acquain- 
 tance thought it requisite to observe, " Wil-
 
 42 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 ljam, or his depute, Ginkle, granted more to 
 the Papists than he had either the right or 
 the power to concede." 
 
 " Ah ! corbleu ! that 's a depth of whiggism, 
 beyond even what I supposed. Your kings, 
 then, have not the power to make treaties ?" 
 
 *' They may make treaties with foreign powers, 
 and even that not to the prejudices of the con- 
 stitution. But it belongs to the legislature 
 alone to deal with subjects, to take away, or to 
 bestow privileges : and the legislatures, both of 
 England and Ireland, have done right in re- 
 tracting the concessions of a king, who exceed- 
 ed the limits of his authority. 1 ' 
 
 " Upon my honour ! your executive and 
 your legislature are delightful inventions for 
 allowing you to do what you please, and to 
 shake off the bonds of justice and obligation. 
 Their invention was worthy of Machiavel. 
 But a word with you : you allow your monarch, 
 in kind consideration, the right to make treaties 
 with foreign powers. Now we were a foreign 
 power ; had neither right nor will to own a 
 Dutchman for our king, in lieu of our own
 
 CORRAMAHON. 43 
 
 hereditary one ; and consequently, the articles 
 granted by William guarantee us, and bind 
 you." 
 
 " Foreign ! good comrade : cast your eyes 
 upon a map, and confess that Ireland is geo- 
 graphically and irrevocably joined and apper- 
 taining to England." 
 
 " It is an island, with a wide channel round 
 it ; and I know nought but love and good will 
 that can build bridges across arms of the ocean. - " 
 
 " Ye are subjects of her glorious Majesty 
 Queen Anne," said the Major, smiling ; " and, 
 what is more, of the House of Hanover, her 
 successors." 
 
 The Chef's eyes shot fire. 
 
 " And whatever ye may please to consider 
 yourselves, depend upon it, that a stronger than 
 ye will consider ye as subjects." 
 
 " They do not so, Sir," replied CTMahon, 
 " neither do we. We are to England a. foreign 
 country, and a foe, kept down by an army of 
 occupation — and such we will remain, a muti- 
 nous country, a gang of galley-slaves ; not re- 
 paying our masters even the price of our chains,
 
 44 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 until the articles of the Treaty of Limerick, 
 and the rights of humanity at once resume their 
 force.'" 
 
 " Curse these political arguments," said Wil- 
 lomer, " they ever burst in to interfere with the 
 most promising friendships." 
 
 " With no such effect in this case, com- 
 rade," said O'Mahon, sinking from his cholerous 
 tone. " On the contrary, supporter as you are 
 of injustice, I am aware, or I think it possible, 
 that it is from a love of abstract liberty, from 
 an idea that our religion is hostile to the pro- 
 gress of man's happiness and reason; and from 
 true though mistaken philanthropy, that you 
 thus abet the persecution, the degradation of 
 a portion of your fellows ; therefore, I respect 
 even your Machiavelism. But I tell you, such 
 arguments and such principles were not made 
 for the lovers of liberty — they will soon be 
 discarded from the mouths and minds of the 
 truly liberal — but, alas ! they will not die — they 
 will be picked up and cherished by the narrow 
 and the prejudiced, the fautors of despotism 
 and bigotry, to whose souls they will be so con-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 45 
 
 sonant. And those penal and unjust laws; 
 those outworks which ye have raised to pro- 
 tect the citadel of freedom, shall be in time occu- 
 pied by her enemies, and turned against that 
 citadel for its own destruction." 
 
 " You have excused me," said Willomer, 
 f* better than I could have excused myself. 
 But see yonder is a little inn, at the end of 
 this green o'ershaded vista. How can we be 
 such barbarians as to make this lovely scene 
 resound with all the jargon of London coffee- 
 houses ? Yonder is Newrath Bridge." 
 
 " Ah ! there again,* 11 muttered forth O'Mahon. 
 " Barbarous association come to disperse the 
 charm of our loveliest scenes?" 
 " How now ?" said the Major. 
 " Merely, that whilst the English soldier is 
 admiring the beauties of this sequestered spot, 
 his Irish companion is doomed to recollect the 
 hapless females that Coote hanged upon tin* 
 bridge in forty-two. One of his victims was a 
 pregnant woman ; and he hanged her, as he 
 said, lest she should give birth to one more 
 wretched Papist."' 1
 
 46 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Sink those recollections, my good friend ; 
 all parties have their savages ; to whom, be 
 they living or dead, the fittest punishment is to 
 forget them." 
 
 'Twas late, and in the gloom of a winter's 
 evening, that the travellers reached Catherlogh, 
 or Carlow. Major Willomer, whose brother 
 officers were expecting him, took leave of his 
 travelling companion with a warm shake of the 
 hand, and a promise that he would not fail to 
 visit him at his brother's house on the morrow, 
 if possible " 
 
 " Cor—" 
 
 " Corramahon," said the Chef; "but there is 
 no peg in your English recollections, on which 
 you could hang such a name — however, it is 
 nigh to the dwelling of one Sir Burton — " 
 
 " Sir Christopher Burton's, of Palestine ?" 
 said the Major. 
 
 " The same, I suppose," said O'Mahon drily, 
 for that name was one that he had early learned 
 to hate. 
 
 " Ah, Burton's a gay fellow, and an hos- 
 pitable, as we of Dcloraine's well know. And
 
 CORRAMAHON. 47 
 
 Carrymione I know right well also — I have 
 been there, or thereabouts at least," said the 
 Major. 
 
 " Have you — then a revoir ; r> and the travel- 
 lers parted. 
 
 O'Mahon felt relieved from the company of 
 Willomer. Not but that he liked passing well 
 the English soldier: — somewhat trirling, per- 
 haps, he deemed him, and displaying a mani- 
 fest lack of interest upon all points that should 
 touch a generous and a thinking man. He was 
 a man of fashion, a rake, blase in fine— and his 
 apathy might, therefore, be accounted for, with- 
 out attributing it to absolute cold-heartedness. 
 An affectation of this kind too, was, as it is, 
 often supposed to become the soldier ; and much 
 of what in it displeased the more honest O'Ma- 
 hon, might have been at first put on and worn, 
 a?, is often the case with affectation, till it had 
 grown habitual, and seemed a part of the cha- 
 racter itself. 
 
 But however favourable his ideas might be to 
 his new accpuaintance, O'Mahon was glad to be 
 allowed to approach alone the seat of his fa-
 
 48 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 thers, the place of his birth and of all his young 
 recollections, the house which still held, or 
 should hold, his only relatives, the only objects 
 of a lone man's affections. 
 
 The darkness of night was abated, and ren- 
 dered in a degree " visible" by clear star-light, 
 aided by one of the early frosts of winter. 
 Chef O'Mahon spurred impatiently his jaded 
 steed through one of the suburbs of Carlow, 
 peering wistfully, as he passed, but in vain, to 
 catch a glimpse of any of the objects that had 
 been in his youth familiar to him. The river 
 Barrow, and the ancient Castle, then, and until a 
 very few years since, one of the noblest ruins in 
 Ireland, he could not have failed to recognise, 
 even through the gloom, but that they were on 
 the side of the town farthest removed from the 
 Dublin road, and consequently out of all reach 
 of his vision. 
 
 Without entering the town itself, the tra- 
 veller struck into another road, which led from 
 it northward, parallel with the course of the 
 Barrow, though against its stream ; and after a 
 smart trot of a couple of miles, he began to feel
 
 CORRAMAHON. 49 
 
 that mingled and indescribable sensation of 
 nearing home, after an absence long enough to 
 allow oblivion of one's person to have stolen 
 upon every former friend. 
 
 " Will they know, will they remember me ?" 
 soliloquized Roger O'Mahon. " How have 
 years and cares agreed with Ignatius, though of 
 the latter he ever promised to take little heed ? 
 Worn down, I warrant, by his own sloth and 
 other's oppression, more than I, Roger, by some 
 half-score of years 1 campaigning. And Deborah, 
 my worthy, warm-hearted sister-in-law ? and 
 little Garret, the hope of the family ? — little ! 
 said I : one and twenty round years the strip- 
 ling hath. Ha!" as the night-breeze whistled 
 through a noble line of leafless ash and elm 
 trees on each side of the road, " I know you 
 too, my old friends ; and this also is familiar to 
 me," continued the Chef, with less buoyancy of 
 tone and gladness, as he marked the corner and 
 continuation of a deer park-wall. The sight 
 seemed to disturb his contemplative mood ; 
 for he immediately spurred on, and did not rein 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 in, until the quick-set brake had replaced the 
 stone-wall by the road-side. 
 
 The night became brighter, objects around 
 clearer. Not only did the traveller's sight, 
 from being for some hours habituated to dark- 
 ness, become sharper to mark and distinguish ; 
 the moon also, though not visible, began to 
 betray its influence, either from beneath the 
 horizon, or from behind some dull and unseen 
 clouds that lingered there. By her light, in 
 this unwelcomed, CMahon discerned on the 
 summit of a gentle eminence, rising gradually 
 from the road, the lordly and castellated man- 
 sion of Sir Christopher Burton. 
 
 Here again was the spur of the Chef applied ; 
 and after another half-mile trot, he turned 
 his horse abruptly from the high road into 
 a lane. The heart of Roger here felt its first 
 misgivings. There was no sign of this being, as 
 in old times it was wont to be, the avenue or 
 track to an inhabited mansion. Boughs of trees 
 and briars hung half-way over, or stretched 
 even farther forward to a loving embrace with 
 their brethren, whilst at every step the traveller's
 
 CORRAMAHON. 51 
 
 steed seemed to plunge into some perilous 
 slough. 
 
 "Patience, patience! 11 muttered he; "it is 
 too soon to augur the worst yet, especially con- 
 sidering in what country, and on whose pro- 
 perty, please God, I am." 
 
 Just as he spoke, and as he was abstracted 
 by his feelings from that degree of attention 
 which the path required, his steed came in con- 
 tact with the huge trunk of an elm, that the 
 last equinoctial gales had uprooted, and flung 
 prostrate across the lane. Chef Roger was 
 precipitated to a distance, luckily without hurt, 
 except to his habiliments that licked up much 
 of the puddle ; the poor animal he had be- 
 stridden, recovered itself after a short tumble, 
 and trembling awaited till his master had 
 equally righted himself. 
 
 " My poor old charger, poor Saint (iris ! the 
 curse of O'Mahon on the road, and the lazy 
 hands that — but come, let us first see whom we 
 have to bless or curse — can you on, my good 
 gray, en avant, Saint Grw, M and the old 
 horse curvetted, like a dragoon's steed of the 
 D 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 old manege: " that's my gallant bzte? said 
 O'Roger ; " I trust you 're no more the worse 
 of it than myself, though it "s an ugly welcome 
 they give us to Corramahon."" 
 
 For the rest of the path O'Mahon led his 
 steed by the bridle till he reached the house, 
 now fully discernible by the increasing light of 
 the moon. It was approached through the farm- 
 yard, as was, no doubt, of old, the fashion of 
 both English and Irish houses of the middling 
 rank, and as is still the mode of similar esta- 
 blishments in France, where they are neverthe- 
 less honoured with the title of chateaus. It 
 pleased and re-assured him to see, amidst much 
 signs of neglect and dilapidation, still many of 
 the outhouses fitly tenanted, so as to denote 
 the residence at least, if not the care, of a pro- 
 prietor. Ashe entered the silent bawn or court, 
 and, looking in vain to descry any light in the 
 house, paused with some anxiety, the solemn 
 chewing of the kine, the flutter of the awakened 
 poultry, and the surly challenge of the pig, 
 attracted his attention, and relieved him. 
 
 He rapped at the door of the house, — rapped
 
 CORRAMAH 53 
 
 again, — no answer. He retired, and took a 
 survey : came and rapped again. Thereupon 
 he lifted the latch, and penetrated, without 
 meeting impediment, into the old kitchen, 
 which, garnished with all the implements of 
 cookery and housekeeping, seemed by no 
 means to indicate a desert house. This fact 
 was at length proved by an old woman's spring- 
 ing up from a settle or box-bedstead in the 
 corner of the kitchen, roused from slumbers 
 by the hammering of O'Mahon against its 
 head. No sooner was she aroused, however, 
 than instead of replying to any of the manifold 
 questions of the intruder, she commenced a 
 vociferous and continued cry of, " Murther, 
 murther, och, wirra, murther ! what 'il come of 
 U5. at all, at all ?" 
 
 O'Mahon endeavoured to allav her fear-. 
 Seeing him so gentle, she knelt at his feet, 
 with, u Oh, then, Master Rapparee honev, 
 come at last ; have mercy on poor Shulah, 
 a dissolute ould woman, and a widow thi- 
 twinty long year." 
 
 "And is it vou, old Shulah?" said Roger
 
 54 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 O'Mahon, fondly and wistfully recollecting the 
 nurse of his youth, as he took her two shrivelled 
 hands betwixt his, and almost embraced her. 
 
 " Whethen it isn't evil designs you have on 
 a body, sure enough," cried the astonished hag, 
 drawing back. " Musha now, Shulah agra, be 
 takin care yoursel 1 ," continued the old woman, 
 addressing herself, and gazing fixedly on 
 O'Mahon, as she struck repeatedly her closed 
 fist against her breast, — "and keep off the quare 
 thoughts that be coming to you. No, it isn't," 
 shouted she, " the sorrow a bit if ye, Master 
 Roger, my darling boy." And the old do- 
 mestic folded the welcomed Master Roger in 
 her arms. 
 
 " I am Roger O'Mahon, indeed, Shulah. My 
 brother, how is he ?" 
 
 " Is it the master? — tight and hearty, as he 
 should be. Och, Master Captain Roger, honey, 
 fur that you 're at the laste, let my ould eyes 
 luk on ye till mornm' light." 
 
 " Come, Shulah, where is my brother Ig- 
 natius? — lead me to him. Where is Deb — V
 
 CORRAMAHON. 55 
 
 " Whisht with you now. God rest her sowl, 
 she 's gone to Heaven afore us all.'" 
 
 " Good Heaven ! Yet something of this 
 kind I should have expected. Is it long 
 since? 1 ' 
 
 " No, in troth, that it isn't. Rest her sowl, 
 she went in the right time. 11 
 
 " As how, Shulah ?" 
 
 " You 11 larn, Master Roger, you '11 lam, 
 all in the good time, but not this blessed night, 
 when your own beautiful self is come home 
 from the wars. I '11 bring ye to him, sure.' 1 
 And the old woman proceeded to adjust her 
 garments. 
 
 " But where, where is he ?" cried the im- 
 patient Roger. " Can I not find him out 
 myself? 1 ' 
 
 " Troth then you'd be cuter far nor the 
 blind mare, that knows every lane, and every 
 turn o 1 'em twixt this and Baltinglass, without 
 hint of man or moonshine — so you would. 1 ' 
 
 " Why, where is he ?" 
 
 " An 1 where should his honour be, and the
 
 56 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 long nights upon us, and the blessed Christmas 
 times comin' on, but — " 
 
 " Where, woman ! you 'd try the patience 
 
 of " 
 
 " There he goes ! Wild Roger all over — sor- 
 row a bit of the gossoon, but *s all in the man — 
 and now you're quite, I'll ax yoursel' where 
 should Ignatius O'Mahon be ?" 
 
 " Truly, Shulah, I cannot tell," said the 
 Chef, perceiving as well as remembering, that 
 hot words and impatience would never extract 
 aught from the old woman. 
 
 " Why, then, his honour's a coshering, to be 
 sure, among his own tenants." 
 
 Chef O'Mahon here recollected one of the 
 customs of his native land, that he had almost 
 forgotten ; which was, that the lord of the soil, 
 instead of receiving his rent in either money or 
 kind, preferred betaking himself with his esta- 
 blishment to the house of the tenant, and there 
 feasting and living at the expense of the latter 
 for a certain period prescribed. This was called 
 coshering, and was a grievance much complained 
 of bv the unfortunate Irish serfs in olden time.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 57 
 
 From such landlords, however, as Ignatius 
 O'Mahon, especially in these later days, when 
 the old native blood and old native manners 
 began, both from neglect, rarity, and disuse, to 
 be more prized, such a visitation, instead of 
 being looked upon as a grievance by the fa- 
 voured tenant, was esteemed a high honour, 
 and its duration peculiarly devoted to jollity 
 and good cheer. 
 
 " Now, Master Roger, honey, I 'm ready to 
 go afore ye," said Shulah ; "but stop, be asy a 
 bit, — I '11 show you a sight II do yer heart good, 
 if ye step wid me first." 
 
 The old woman seized a rushlight, that 
 she stuck into an iron candlestick, ponderous 
 enough to have supported a torch., and guard- 
 ing the tiny flame from being .tinguished by 
 the wind of the passage, she took her way, fol- 
 lowed by the Chef, into the house. Roger 
 scanned each room, and turn, and crann}-, as he 
 passed, with fond remembrance. 
 
 " Ah! ye may look, it 's jist the same as you 
 left, sorrow a change, if it warn't for th' holes 
 in the boords that be grown bigger or so, bar- 
 d 5
 
 58 s CORRAMAHON. 
 
 rin 1 the one that the master stulk his leg in and 
 broke it one day. Saving o"" that, and a little 
 straw may be haaped now and then upon 
 the thatch, not a stroke of change or of work 
 has been upon Corramahon, inside or outside, 
 since ye marched off to take up wid the French- 
 men. 1 ' 
 
 Shulah arrived at the top of the staircase 
 and the end of her speech together, and then 
 putting off her brogues, stole on tip-toe, motion- 
 ing Roger O'Mahon to follow her caution and 
 example, into an apartment. He followed, and 
 Shulah pointed out the sight, which indeed, ac- 
 cording to her expression, might have " done 
 a body's heart good." It was that of a lovely 
 girl, wrapped in slumber, and reposing on a 
 couch, neatly decked for so neglected an abode. 
 Dark and glossy locks escaped from under her 
 night head-dress, and strayed over a cheek, 
 whose natural vermilion flushed stronger from 
 the effects of sleep. Her long dark eyelashes 
 had, in that position, all, and more than the 
 expression of what they veiled. The loveliness 
 of the sleeper, and exquisite was that loveliness,
 
 CORRAMAHON. 59 
 
 did not appear of that commanding, lofty kind, 
 which is generally associated with raven locks, 
 and darkly pencilled brows. It was rather of 
 the infantine, — the more soft and feminine sort : 
 the nose, neither Grecian nor aquiline, was 
 rather the reverse of the latter; and her little 
 mouth, pouting in sleep, I can describe but 
 in the beautiful couplet of the Roman dc Hose. 
 
 " Labouche petite etgrossette, 
 £t au menton une fossette." 
 
 Roger O'Mahon was about to ask, but the 
 finger of Shulah checked him ; and both de- 
 scended the staircase, stealthily as they had 
 ascended, Shulah leading the way without delay 
 into the open air. 
 
 " And what's all this ? who's that, Shulah ?" 
 " And who should it be but the mistress's, 
 rest her sowl, Deborah O'Mahon's own daugh- 
 ter,—" 
 
 " A lovely creature, — but where is Garret ?" 
 " There, whisht again with you, ahagcr." 
 " Surely he is not dead, Shulah ; my brother's 
 son ?" 
 
 " Bother ! the likes o' him never die ; but it's
 
 60 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 the night of your coming, Master Roger ; Gar- 
 ret 's done the thing that he shouldn't, let that 
 be enough for you. And sorrow 's the onlucky 
 word of him shall cross my teeth again this 
 night. - " 
 
 So saying, the old woman, allowing time for 
 the Chef to put up his steed, and make some 
 other arrangements, flung the external one of 
 her many nether garments over her head, trip- 
 ped across the bawn, out of the gateway where 
 gate was none, and upsetting in a twinkling a 
 cart and a barrow, which stood together guard- 
 ing a gap into an extensive field, she led the 
 way, followed by Roger O'Mahon. " It was a 
 dawny bit of a step, shure, down to Dan Mul- 
 ligan's o' Crone Bawn. We was all there the 
 day, an' loshins o' faastin', an' fun ; only 
 Missie Rachel and mysel 1 came home to sleep, 
 out o" the rollicking sound of 'em/ 1 
 
 " And would not you and Miss Rachel be 
 safer at Crone Bawn, Shulah, than alone in the 
 old house, and the door unbarred too ?" 
 
 " Then is it you, Master Roger, ud have me 
 do the onlucky act to draw boult or bar in the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 61 
 
 house of CTMahon ; the name was made for 
 them, that fright, not fear. Who would harm 
 us that could harm us ? v 
 
 " You know best, Shulah ; but did not you 
 take me for a Rapparee just now ?" 
 
 " True enough ; bad luck to your sweet face, 
 I did. But the fear was in the mouth, not the 
 heart o 1 me. For the cratures o 1 Rapparees 
 know friend and foe too well insundcr to come 
 to Corramahon. And don't be tellin 1 that I 
 took you for any sich thing, or they 'd be stick- 
 ing me up in the thatch, or pouring the likker 
 down my throat, and there ud be no end of 
 laughing at me for a gomeril." 
 
 The * dawny bit of a step 1 was at length, 
 and not without difficulty, mastered. Roger 
 and his guide approached the farm-house of 
 Crone Bawn, and the din of jovial sounds that 
 reached him without, bespoke carousing and 
 jollity within. 
 
 Shulah lifted the latch, and displayed to the 
 new comer a group assembled round a blazing 
 turf-fire, enjoying apparently the contents of a 
 bowl full of good compound that stood near,
 
 62 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 and doing honour to its inspiration by (if one 
 might judge from the effect) the gayest stories 
 and wittiest of jests. 
 
 At an unexpected meeting, Roger certainly 
 could not have recognized his brother, whom 
 he had left an active and athletic youth. He 
 felt even for an instant reluctant to acknowledge 
 as Ignatius, the bloated and uncommanding per- 
 sonage to whom Shulah pointed as her master, 
 and who, from the carved and lofty-backed 
 oak arm-chair that he occupied, while the other 
 guests sate on humble stools around, could be 
 no other than the O'Mahon. His figure now 
 had swelled to corpulency, his legs too in the 
 same proportion of size and infirmity — a washy 
 red covered brow and cheek alike — the spark- 
 ling azure eye was subdued to the lustreless 
 blue of the turquoise ; and the longhair, or gtib, 
 as he called it, which Ignatius cherished as an 
 Irish custom, the more to be revered since 
 English laws forbade the mode, and which his 
 brother remembered to have charmed the 
 maidens of Limerick, was now a matted mass 
 of grey, appended to the skull, and resembling
 
 CORRAMAHON. 63 
 
 a cap after the Spanish fashion, rather than the 
 veritable growth of the head. 
 
 Ignatius O'Mahon raised his eyes, swimming 
 with the effects of joviality past and present, 
 upon Roger, whose coming even without know- 
 ing him, he was prepared to welcome as that 
 of a boon companion additional. 
 
 Not so the farmer, who cried out to Shulah, 
 
 with an oath, " , which o' the Inglishers 
 
 bring ye upon the Aireach,* and he not in his 
 own hall, but cos/wring in a poor bodough's'f 
 cabin." 
 
 " Whisht wid your blating, Dan Mulligan," 
 replied the old woman, " you that dosen't know 
 an Inglisher from an O'Mahon." 
 
 " The cross of about us !" ejaculated the 
 
 farmer's daughter, huddling up into the chim- 
 ney corner from the stranger, and crossing her- 
 self the while : u whoever seed sich a peniwig 
 as that F 
 
 And the remark made even Ignatius smile, as 
 he rose, the tears of brotherly love at the same 
 time filling his lid, to embrace Roger. The 
 
 * Prince, or Chief. I A tenant.
 
 64 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 long separated relatives folded each other in 
 their arms, and kissed on both sides of the 
 cheek — still an Hibernian, as well as a French 
 custom— whilst Shulah applied her apron to her 
 tears, and the farmer swore, with a whack of 
 his hard hand, " that thof he never minded to 
 have seen him afore, yet if it wariVt for the 
 French wig, he 'd for sartain ha ' known Master 
 Roger amongst a thousand." 
 
 Fifteen years and more had elapsed since 
 the brothers had parted ; and the tidings 
 received of one another in that time had been 
 scant and uncertain ; in the latter years of the 
 war had been totally interrupted. 
 
 Ignatius was overcome : for some minutes 
 after he had regained his chair, he sate, turn- 
 ing his eyes from his brother to the glowing 
 hearth, and from the hearth to his brother ; 
 who for his part, though as a soldier, accus- 
 tomed to strokes of good and evil fortune 
 suddenly experienced, and consequently not so 
 moved, yet was unwilling to break by a word 
 the spell of silence and emotion. At length, 
 Ignatius recollected himself, stretched forth the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 65 
 
 mug, from which he drank, to be replenished, 
 and nodding a mute but expressive welcome to 
 Roger, took the reviving draught. It restored 
 speech to the Ai reach, and at the same time to 
 all around, who straight poured forth to Roger 
 the caed millia fealtha, or hundred thousand 
 welcomes (without allowing the expression to 
 exaggerate) both from their throats in the shape 
 of noise, and down their throats in libations of 
 potent liquor. 
 
 Ignatius was very near his last cup, when 
 Roger entered ; and although this event af- 
 forded a fair excuse for counting all preced- 
 ing cups on that night as nought, and for com- 
 mencing a new score ; yet, as he could not in- 
 duce his intellect to resume its freshness equally, 
 it is not fitting to introduce for the first time 
 my reader to the Aireach in his present state. 
 He was joyous at first, but in a little time his 
 rereplenished mugs had the effect, common to 
 him and many other soft-heat ted souls, of con- 
 verting his gladness to pathos. The recovery 
 of 1 a long-lost brother suggested, in the midst of 
 the happiness it created, a thousand sad recol-
 
 66 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 lections of the past, in which the imagination of 
 Ignatius revelled, and at length utterly lost 
 both itself and its sister reason. 
 
 For the pen to record his remarks, m titter- 
 ings, and ejaculations, were impossible. The 
 Aireach was crying d?'unk.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 67 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ignatius and Roger CMahon were the 
 grandsons of an Irish chief or lord, of consi- 
 derable power and territory in the county of 
 Catherlogh, but who, in the consequences of the 
 insurrection of sixteen hundred and forty-one, 
 had been deprived of two-thirds of his estate. 
 Murrogh, such was the old chief's name, had 
 been even driven into Connaught at one time, 
 and compelled to accept a sorry equivalent for 
 even the remaining third of his Leinster lands, 
 in the boggy and rocky soil of the former pro- 
 vince. Some of the lenient clauses or accom- 
 paniments of the Act of Settlement, however, 
 restored his son to Corramahon.
 
 68 CORRAMAHOX. 
 
 Nothing could be more iniquitous and un- 
 just than the royal decree which confirmed the 
 spoliation of the O'Mahons. Murrogh had 
 not joined in the rebellion of forty-one, in which 
 the sept of the Mac Mahons of Ulster bore so 
 conspicuous a part; on the contrary, he and 
 his race held the northern sept in hatred and 
 abhorrence, as of Scotch and foreign blood, 
 intruded but yesterday upon the island, and 
 yet assuming to themselves the honour of being 
 the true and elder sons of Mahon, an honour 
 due, in CTMahon estimation, unquestionably to 
 their own family. It was this very conside- 
 ration, perhaps, which kept Murrogh from at 
 first joining the conspirators. When Ormond, 
 however, raised the royal standard in Ireland, 
 Murrogh O'Mahon collected his powers, and 
 fought, as Irishmen have ever fought at home, 
 with unsuccessful arms against Cromwell and 
 the Parliamentarians. The consequence was, 
 his being confounded with those who had con- 
 spired originally against English power, his 
 being condemned to forfeit the greater part of 
 his property, and to suffer banishment beyond
 
 CORRAMAHON. 69 
 
 the Shannon. After the restoration, the claims 
 for exemption from Irish forfeiture were so nu- 
 merous and complicate, that even the commis- 
 sioners appointed to consider them had not the 
 patience requisite. The family of the Knight 
 Adventurer, also, who had acquired possession 
 of the forfeited property of the CMahons, a 
 Royalist too, strange to say, so utter was the 
 confusion of parties, was too powerful to be 
 ousted. And the O'Mahons thus remained 
 curtailed of their hereditary lands, one of the 
 many martyrs to the royal cause. 
 
 When Murrogh O'Mahon returned in six- 
 teen hundred and sixty-one, from Connaught to 
 Corramahon, he found this Knight Adventurer, 
 Sir Christopher Burton, installed not only on 
 his forfeited lands, but in a fair castle, which, 
 aware that his right would need defence, he had 
 taken early care to erect upon his new estate. 
 He was a chivalrous old warrior; and although 
 of the reformed persuasion, a great admirer of 
 the times when the church armed and blessed 
 the champions which she sent forth to adven- 
 ture. It was owing to this, as well as to the
 
 70 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 natural beauty of his domains, that Sir Chris- 
 topher gave to his lands and castle the name 
 of Palestine. Another Sir Christopher, the 
 grandson of the Adventurer, inhabited Pales- 
 tine at the period of this story. 
 
 That the Burtons and O'Mahons lived in 
 hostile and sullen neighbourhood, need scarcely 
 be told. The origin of the feud betwixt the 
 families was one not likely, or indeed possible 
 to be forgotten ; and it was kept alive by strug- 
 gles and debates in Parliament, between the 
 parties to which each were attached. The 
 original owners before forty-one were called the 
 old interest ; those benefited by the forfeitures 
 were known under the name of the new interest. 
 
 The accession of James the Second gave 
 great hopes to the former, or Catholic party, of 
 recovering lost lands and privileges. The Lord 
 Lieutenant Tyrconnel, and afterwards James 
 himself, took every step towards both righting 
 and gratifying them. The O'Mahons were 
 bound to the monarch by interest and gratitude, 
 as well as by inclination. They failed not to 
 join him in the approaching struggle with his 
 competitor. About that time the existing pro-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 71 
 
 prietor of Corramahon died, leaving his two 
 sons, Ignatius and Roger, the latter yet in boy- 
 hood, to bear arms in the cause of their legiti- 
 mate monarch, and at the same time assert their 
 right to the property of which the family had 
 been unjustly deprived. 
 
 The two Irish youths joined the standard of 
 James, and made their first essay of arms at 
 the Boyne, where Roger, whose years scarcely 
 numbered twelve, but who could not be re- 
 strained from mingling in the strife, was cut 
 down by a Dutch trooper, but rescued, and his 
 antagonist slain, by the fraternal resentment and 
 courage of Ignatius. Those afterwards ac- 
 quainted with the young O'Mahons, would have 
 augured the contrary, and deemed it more likely 
 that the naturally inactive though brave Igna- 
 tius, would have been saved by the arm of 
 Roger. The contrary however happened ; and 
 the elder brother, who had hitherto evinced 
 but a passive sort of satisfaction with the trade 
 of warfare, felt fresh ardour breathed into him 
 by the feat which he had achieved, and the re- 
 nown which thence accrued to him. 
 
 In despite of individual prowess and success,
 
 72 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 the war was not the less attended with disaster 
 and defeat to the Irish. Their monarch aban- 
 doned them, and fled to France; bequeathing 
 contempt, not thanks, to his subjects, who had 
 perilled life and fortune in his behalf. The 
 remains of the army, amongst the rest the 
 O'Mahons, shut themselves up in Limerick, 
 which was besieged by one of King William's 
 lieutenants, and defended with a skill and zeal, 
 that showed how far the defeat of the Bovne 
 was owing to the monarch who commanded, 
 how far to the courage of the soldiery. The 
 garrison at length capitulated, on honourable 
 and advantageous terms. By them, Ignatius 
 O'Mahon, as one of the garrison, had Corra- 
 mahon restored to him, and found himself freed 
 from all hostile claim or prosecution, — a stipu- 
 lation, which, no more than the general and 
 national one sworn to at Limerick, did he find 
 fulfilled to the letter. Like his countrymen 
 and fellow religionists, however, he bore up, as 
 best he might, beneath the evil day; and hoped 
 for fairer ones in the future for himself or his 
 descendants. The younger brother, Roger
 
 CORRAMAHON. 73 
 
 O'Mahon, took advantage of another article 
 of the treaty, by which all those Irish officers, 
 who so preferred, were to be transported to 
 France. Ignatius in vain endeavoured to dis- 
 suade him. 
 
 " Is not Corramahon, ,, said he, " still large 
 enough for us both ?" 
 
 " Truly it may be, brother ; and for the fair 
 Deborah Dillon, not the least lovely of the most 
 lovely women in the world, the lasses of Lime- 
 rick ; for she, Ignatius, will ere long be the 
 dame of Corramahon." 
 
 M If it be not so, it shall not be my fault, 
 Roger. But surely you do not esteem Corra- 
 mahon, a poor burgess's house, where the num- 
 ber at the board is daily counted ; and couches 
 made, and food prepared, as for a Dutch troop's 
 mess." 
 
 "I would it were so, Ignatius; land and 
 lord would thrive the better for it." 
 
 "But I tell you it is not, and shall never be 
 the case. Live with us by the old hearth, Ro- 
 ger. Your heart will sink in a land of stran- 
 gers." 
 
 VOL. i. E
 
 74 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " At home would rot in idleness, and in 
 remorse for the same ; unless the heavy hand of 
 the oppressor came to make it rankle, and then 
 — worse might follow." 
 
 " Nay, what can be fairer than the conditions 
 of the treaty ?" 
 
 " The Hollanders make, the Inglisher will 
 break." 
 
 M Then stay to draw the sword for our right.'" 
 
 " I will go where I may learn to draw it 
 skilfully. Our Rapparee school of warfare 
 does not suit me. Besides, Ignatius, Sarsfield 
 goes."" 
 
 '* You love him, then, better than your bro- 
 ther." 
 
 " Let us not be downright lovers, Ignatius, 
 one of the other. You have to take the oath 
 of allegiance to the Prince of Orange. Corra- 
 mahon is worth the sacrifice, sadly as it would 
 stick in my throat; but for mere liberty to live 
 beneath a Dutchman's rule, it is too much. One 
 of us must suffice to keep the old lands for 
 better times. I will to France, Ignatius.*' 
 
 Roger O'Mahon kept his resolution, and ac-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 75 
 
 companied Sarsfield, Lord Lucan, the general 
 whom he had served under, to France. There, 
 through the recommendation of King James 
 himself, young CTMahon received a commission 
 in the royal guard of Lewis. In this capacity 
 he fought all those campaigns and battles in 
 Flanders, Blenheim and Ramilies included, 
 which threatened to be so fatal to the French 
 monarchy — if it had not been ever the fortune 
 of that kingdom to rise to more might after 
 defeat than after conquest. If any be amazed 
 at the assertion, let them recollect that the con- 
 sequence of our victory at Azincourt was the 
 loss of all English possessions in France, save 
 Calais ; that the victories of Blenheim and Ra- 
 milies led to the disgraceful Peace of Utrecht ; 
 and that those of Spain and Waterloo have left 
 a weight on England, that renders her incapa- 
 ble of war, whilst to the defeated country their 
 reverses restored peace, liberty, overflowing cof- 
 fers, and a regenerated army. 
 
 As soon as war had ceased, a longing to re- 
 visit his country and kinsmen seized upon Roger 
 O'Mahon, who had by that time reached the 
 E 2
 
 76 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 rank of Major, or Chef de Bataillon, in the 
 French service. Whether he should altogether 
 abandon that service, and settle in his native 
 land, was a point which OMahon had not re- 
 solved. Like a wise old campaigner, he deter- 
 mined to reconnoitre the ground once more, 
 ere he pitched his tent there ; and, in case of 
 preferring his adopted to his native country, 
 his plan was to resume the sword and service 
 of the most Christian King, 
 
 The return of his brother had determined 
 Ignatius to forego his coshering, and to quit his 
 tenant's humble, though joyous abode ; and ac- 
 cordingly the family were, by the next morn- 
 ing, established at Corramahon. There her 
 uncle beheld Rachel in waking beauty ; and 
 her glad welcome and vivacious mirth, took off 
 the gloom which Roger in part experienced at 
 finding the home of the CTMahons more lonely 
 than he had expected. 
 
 It was a wet November day, the brothers 
 were confined bv necessity as well as by in- 
 clination to each other's company, and to the 
 fire-side. Rachel, accustomed to take her
 
 CORRAMAHON. 77 
 
 range, to wander and carol, like a bird of the 
 brake, was as unprepared for a rainy day, and 
 as impatient under the pi'ivation, as a wild, un- 
 educated, spoiled child could be. The spirits 
 of her father were low, owing, no doubt, to the 
 over-excitement of the preceding night ; and 
 he in consequence shrunk from the discussion 
 of old topics, and from giving the information 
 respecting the fortunes of the family which 
 Roger's inquiries aimed at. He groaned and 
 fidgeted, and was unhappy. 
 
 " Poor Deborah !" said Roger ; " I hoped to 
 have seen my sister. 1 ' Ignatius took a large 
 pinch of snuff'. " And little Garret, whom I 
 have never yet seen — where is he, Ignatius ?" 
 
 The Aireach put his crutch under his arm 
 as if he would rise and begone ; he, however, 
 sate still, and applied its point to the fire, which 
 no wise needed stirring, in some vexation. 
 
 " Where is he, brother ? rt 
 
 " He is — the sorrow a know know I, Roger, 
 more than yourself, and I care less — but that 
 usquebaugh of Dan Mulligan's is killing stuff'. 
 Dan 's a hearty man at his own chimney corner
 
 78 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 — no bodouvh like him on Corramahon. Do 
 you remember him, Roger ?" 
 
 '* How should I have such a memory, Igna- 
 tius, when your's seems to have lost sight of 
 your own son ?" 
 
 " Ho, ho, ha, ha, ho !*' laughed out the 
 Aireach, bitterly, with a kind of mirth that 
 made Rachel flee to the farthermost corner of 
 the apartment, whilst even Roger look amazed. 
 " I forget him ! No ; he has given me deep 
 reason to remember him ! Lose sight of him, 
 said ye ? Oh, that I could ! for it makes my 
 old heart sick to curse him." 
 
 His veins swelled, his face purpled, as Igna- 
 tius O'Mahon spoke ; and his hand grasped the 
 crutch it held, while its trembling denoted at 
 once its feebleness and rage. 
 
 "Brother! Ignatius!" cried Roger, rising; 
 but Rachel at the instant stepped to her uncle's 
 side, and whispered to him, in a mingled tone 
 of terror, pity, and petulance, u Uncle, how 
 could you think of stirring father about Gar- 
 ret before his dinner ?"
 
 CORRAMAHON. 79 
 
 Roger looked at his niece and paused. 
 
 " There now, uncle, play a game of tric- 
 trac with father. Weary on the rain ! it leaves 
 one nothing to do but scold and quarrel; and I 
 have worried Shulah, till I 'm afraid of her. 
 Come, let me see if I can do any thing with 
 you." 
 
 And she caught up a little wire-strung harp, 
 which lay neglected in a corner, touched its strings, 
 and under the pretence of putting it in order, 
 she played snatches of some old Irish airs, which 
 soothed away all the irritation of the Aireach. 
 At every pause of her music, Rachel scolded 
 the strings for twanging out of tune, or apos- 
 trophised her harp, that the pathos of the air 
 might, from being thus interrupted, soothe her 
 father's irritation without affecting him with 
 sadness. The girl had nicely studied her fa- 
 ther's temper, and as her whole occupation 
 hitherto had been to please and rule him, she 
 had, aided by the penetration of her sex, arrived 
 at perfection in this. At the present she had 
 another motive in making a display of the ways
 
 80 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 of petulance and freedom, in which the Aireach 
 was in the habit of indulging her : this was to 
 acquaint her uncle, the new inmate of Corrama- 
 hon, of the influence and state of liberty she 
 enjoyed, and to accustom him early to those 
 wilful and capricious humours of hers, which 
 she already began to fear the grave and cour- 
 teous soldier would be inclined neither to favour 
 nor tolerate. 
 
 As Ignatius recovered himself, he smiled, 
 and pointed towards his daughter, mutely ex- 
 pressing to his brother how lovely, how lively, 
 how peerless she was. But the gallant Chef 
 could but partially admire what he witnessed, 
 and although he obeyed her commands, in 
 arraying the table for tric-trac, he never exe- 
 cuted the orders of a rude superior officer with 
 a greater inclination to mutiny. 
 
 The forenoon was soon killed. Dinner, that 
 dispeller of spleen, and allay er of nervousness, 
 that greatest of all blessings to the idle, came 
 to the Aireach's relief : and soon after it, the 
 brothers found themselves together ; Ignatius
 
 CORRAMAIION. 81 
 
 no longer in that morbid humour, which ren 
 dered any allusion to his domestic sorrow* a 
 trouble unendurable. 
 
 " Now, Roger," commenced he, " that I am 
 sorrow-proof, and can set dull care at defiance, 
 you shall have your questions answered respect- 
 ing Garret, and the sooner, in truth, that I 
 satisfy your curiosity the better ; for the ge- 
 nerous liquor that affords me present equani- 
 mity will soon destroy it also, at least unfit 
 me for such a subject of conversation. 
 
 " Why permit it ? Why not resign the cup 
 to the beaufet, as soon as the point of equa- 
 nimity be reached P" 
 
 " Have you ever been in love, brother ?" 
 said Ignatius. 
 
 The Chef blushed at the insinuation, for 
 a reason of which the reader shall hereafter 
 be made aware. 
 
 " You at least have been in action,"' conti- 
 nued the Aireach. " Now, in the heat of com- 
 bat, when you saw the enemy routed, and 
 knew that rash pursuit would but endanger 
 e 5
 
 82 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 you, without improving conquest, could you 
 even then restrain your speed, or rein up in the 
 moment of elation ?" 
 
 " You would not compare the debauch of 
 liquor with the glories of war ?" 
 
 " Poets have,uncle,"said the vivacious Rachel. 
 
 " Well said, my girl, and in good time, for 
 Roger had almost posed me." 
 
 " And of such are your studies, Miss Ra- 
 chel?" 
 
 " Any book I can lay hold upon, uncle, 
 from the great Cyrus there, that rivals the 
 Family Bible at Palestine, down to the last 
 ballad that Shawn Goss, the pedlar, brings 
 down the country.*" 
 
 " What utter, what dangerous neglect !" ex- 
 claimed the Chef; "you know not, Ignatius, 
 what pernicious thoughts and principles Ra- 
 chel may glean in this way.' ,, 
 
 The girl smiled, and her father shrugged his 
 shoulders at the Mentor, who seemed, as he 
 proceeded, to be most likely to make himself 
 unwelcome. But the rigid soldier was not to 
 be deterred by even this fear.
 
 CORRAMAIION. 83 
 
 " Who has been the girl's instructor, her 
 spiritual guide? Surely the priest of this neigh- 
 bourhood does not neglect his duty ?" 
 
 " The priest of this neighbourhood !" said 
 Ignatius, with a smile. " Do you forget the 
 land and the law ? Poor Father Patricius, who 
 doth dare at times to celebrate mass by stealth 
 in this house, and to perform, as opportunity 
 allows, the duty of his ministry for the popu- 
 lation round, has too much both of his thoughts 
 and time occupied in preserving his neck 
 from the halter, his poor person from martyr- 
 dom, to allow of his looking to the education 
 of our children." 
 
 " Another of the precious effects of tyranny 
 and intolerance. Our sons and daughters must 
 remain without morals or education, in order 
 that the King of England may be called the 
 Head of the Church; 1 
 
 "Worse, worse!" cried Ignatius; "they 
 must be taught ingratitude, and bribed to brave 
 a parent's curse. 'Tis true, what you say, 
 Roger. Since we have been deprived of our
 
 84- CORRAMAHON. 
 
 priesthood, the morals of our youth have suf- 
 fered ; none have been left to keep them in the 
 steadiness of their faith, and our oppressors 
 have too well succeeded in making the rising 
 generation recreant and worthless. The prose- 
 lytes are worthy of theproselytism." 
 
 " How !" said Roger, " surely Garret 
 O'Mahon has not forsworn the creed of his 
 fathers P 
 
 " He hath !" 
 
 " The beardless boy ! — he ! — what could have 
 influenced him ?" 
 
 " It was weakness, 'twas folly in me," 1 said 
 the Aireach ; " but thou knowest, Roger, my 
 easy and forgiving temper." 
 
 " Ay, Ignatius, passing well." 
 
 " I allowed my son to mingle with those 
 Burtons, the hereditary foes and spoilers of my 
 family." 
 
 " In that thou didst show but little pride, 
 Ignatius." 
 
 " Still less prudence, which is more material. 
 Their fashions, their jargon, and their ways, 
 laid hold on the empty mind of my son. He
 
 CORRAMAHON. 85 
 
 followed their sport, joined in their pastimes, 
 and preferred the taste and glitter of the ad- 
 venturer's hell to the more homely and honest 
 conviviality of Corramahon." 
 
 " I hope he had no just cause of preference," 
 was on the Chef^s tongue ; but he felt that it 
 would give too much pain, and repressed it 
 accordingly. 
 
 " There did he learn to mock at holy things, 
 and to take impiety for wit. There — there in 
 short, Roger, he learned, that the English law 
 allowed him, by declaring himself of the Eng- 
 lish religion, not only to render me but a life- 
 proprietor of my lands, but to transfer at once 
 one-third of their revenue into his own hands. 
 One-third, Roger, of the poor third of the 
 O'Mahon property, torn from a father, and for 
 the prodigality of a boy ! — is that enough to 
 embitter a man's old age t 1 '" 1 
 
 The Aireach quaffed a cup to allay the 
 spleen he had been stirring. And Roger was so 
 deeply struck with the enormity of his nephew's 
 crime, that he was not able to utter a word, 
 either in remark or consolation.
 
 86 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 After some time passed by the brothers in 
 silent and painful thoughts, a noble greyhound 
 bounded across the court, bespeaking the ap- 
 pearance of a visitor. 
 
 " Whom are we about to have here ?"" quoth 
 the Chef. 
 
 " Who comes, Rachel ?" said the girl's 
 father, gathering spirits at the prospect of a 
 new face. 
 
 " It is Amyas Burton," replied she ; " or, at 
 the least, his dog." 
 
 " Burton !" exclaimed the Chef; " a Bur- 
 ton enter here, after what I have just heard ?" 
 
 Both the Aireach and Rachel blushed, the 
 former muttering in excuse, " Tis but a ne- 
 phew of the Knight of Palestine, a gentle and 
 more worthy scion, a — " 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! brother, your forbearance is that 
 of a saint. Will you take, in lieu of your son, 
 one of his slayers ? for they have worse than 
 slain him." 
 
 " Nay, not Amyas, the gentle Amyas, 
 whom, but that I would not wrong the mother
 
 CORRAMAHON. 87 
 
 that bore him, I should suspect to be as little- 
 Burton in blood as he is in heart." 
 
 The indignation on one side and excuses on 
 the other were interrupted by the entrance of 
 Amyas Burton, who was cordially welcomed by 
 the Aireach, and saluted in cold and haughty 
 politeness by Chef Roger. Rachel, whether 
 won over by her uncle's proud and resentful 
 feeling, or from some other cause, did not ex- 
 tend to Amyas the glad smile with which he 
 was wont to be received. 
 
 " Welcome, Amyas, my man \" cried Ig- 
 natius ; " let us introduce you to our brother, 
 of whom you have heard us speak." Burton 
 rose to greet the Chef with warmth, but the 
 veteran's unmoved posture deterred the advance, 
 and called back the blush that was subsiding 
 on the youth's cheek. " But Amyas, you have 
 braved the elements to visit us ; you are drip- 
 ping wet." 
 
 " Merely a shower, Mr. CTMahon," replied 
 the youth, who did not wish to avow such 
 extreme anxiety to visit Corramahon, as that
 
 88 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 which really caused him to defy rain or storm ; 
 " it promised to be fair weather when I 
 quitted Palestine." 
 
 " I have not seen a glimpse of sunshine to- 
 day," said Roger. 
 
 " But if you observed the east," muttered 
 Amyas, continuing his lame excuse. 
 
 " You are the more welcome, my boy," in- 
 terrupted the Aireach. " And as to your wet 
 jacket, here is a sovereign antidote. Swallow 
 it, you dog : do you make wry faces at usque- 
 baugh, as if it were medicine ?" 
 
 " I take it," said Amyas, " as a cup of 
 parting, as well as one of welcome ; for I must 
 begone." 
 
 " How now, youngster ! This seems a visit 
 of stealth, from your hurry. Doth the Knight 
 of Palestine frown on your coming hither ? 
 Truly, when I overlook in your favour the 
 hatred that I justly bear your name, he — " 
 
 " Nay," said the youth, "' Sir Christopher 
 cares not a rush whither his nephew, Amyas, 
 hies; or on whom or what he bestows his time 
 and friendship."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 89 
 
 " Then what has frightened you, man ? 
 You shall not drink, by Saint Patrick, more 
 than will serve thee in lieu of beard, and cure 
 that intolerable trick of blushing, which shows 
 the washy blood of the Saxon in thee. Has 
 Rachel, or, — bones of my sire, that is it ! — Chef 
 Roger's grim and precise looks frightened thee ? 
 Heed him not, Amyas. I have been just now 
 informing him of the defection of thy old play- 
 mate, Garret, and how much I am indebted 
 for that sting to thine uncle and cousin. Ro- 
 ger is an honest soldier, Amyas, and hates thee 
 for thy name. Hath he not reason ?" 
 
 " Major CTMahon is the best judge of that," 
 replied Amyas. 
 
 " And I say you nay, young master," said 
 the Ai reach. " Bones of my sire ! am I not 
 chief of my sept, and the supreme judge of 
 the feuds it is to keep ? Roger, obey me, and 
 touch the hand of the youth in amity." 
 
 The Chef's old recollections and reverence 
 of the authority of the O'Mahons, joined with 
 habits of discipline, led him to submit to the 
 half serious, half jocose command of Ignatius.
 
 90 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " And you too, Rachel, with your little brow 
 puckered to a frown, what reason hast thou 
 to hold quarrel with Amyas ?" 
 
 " No one, father. I will shake hands with 
 all Palestine at your bidding." 
 
 " Go to, you jade ! I do not bid you. Do 
 you rank your friend Amyas with the old whig, 
 Sir Christopher, or his persecuting son Chris- 
 topher the Second, who has his buck-hounds to 
 pursue deer, and his blood-hounds to track 
 
 papists, as he boasts " 
 
 " Respected Sir," interrupted Amyas, " re- 
 member " 
 
 " Or with that haughty damsel, Anastasia, 
 who thinks an O'Mahon but fit to hold her 
 stirrup?" 
 
 " Nay, that is a foul and a false report, 
 Aireach," said Amyas. " I have heard it. If 
 Garret ever did so for Anastasia, "'twas from 
 gallantry.'" 
 
 " How came it to be his duty to be gallant 
 towards a Burton, Sir ?■' , asked Ignatius, ire- 
 fully.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 91 
 
 " It is the duty of every gentle born," re- 
 plied Amyas. 
 
 " How came Garret O'Mahon to know, and 
 to be in the way of rendering homage to Anas- 
 tasia Burton ?" asked Roger. 
 
 " Mea Culpa ! 'twas my fault, mine own !" 
 cried Ignatius, smiting his breast, and acknow- 
 ledging his brother's reproach. 
 
 " In truth, father," said Rachel, " you 
 wrong Anastasia. Her pride, if she be proud, 
 does not arise from birth, or the consciousness 
 of it. She has ever declared to me, when we 
 were friends, that she envied the ancient root 
 we have in the land, and the honour derived 
 from it, while she regretted the diminution of 
 our splendour, even though herself had profited 
 by it." 
 
 " A considerate damsel, and a rational, 1 ' ob- 
 served Roger; " thou, too, Miss Rachel, a simple 
 one to listen to the taunt in tranquillity." 
 
 " Uncle, uncle, you come from the camp 
 and the guard-room, and judge of ladies' boweis 
 and ladies' converse from the defiant and de- 
 spiteful tone of those places."
 
 92 CORRAMAHON. , 
 
 K Pride she hath for certain," said Ignatius, 
 " be it of what kind, or come it of what 
 cause, you will." 
 
 " It is but the habitual tone and bearing 
 of those ranks with which she mingles," said 
 Rachel ; " and, like her coif or mantle, is one of 
 the supports and appendages of her dignity." 
 
 " Commend me then to the Lady Anastasia," 
 said the courtly Roger. " Rachel might pro- 
 fit by the example " 
 
 " As Garret hath done, I hope,"" said Igna- 
 tius. 
 
 " And learn the manners of the world, in 
 which she may be called to mingle. I would 
 that I saw in her, Ignatius, more ret en u, 
 more dignity, more of the pride, in short, 
 which offends you, in the Knight Burton's 
 daughter." 
 
 " May not a lady," said Amyas, " be too 
 proud to seem so; and as those of birth and 
 wealth do still go simplest clad, and do not 
 wear their jewels on every vulgar occasion, 
 may she not reserve her pride the purer with- 
 out bearing it each hour upon her brow ?"
 
 CORRAMAHON. 93 
 
 Roger looked contemptuous at the youth's 
 somewhat laboured and confused pleading, 
 which his warmth and love of Rachel still bore 
 him blushing through. 
 
 " Uncle Roger," said Rachel, " I will not be 
 drilled, nor walk a female mousquetaire, as you 
 describe those beings ; no, not to be free of the 
 court of Versailles. The world makes no count 
 of the daughter of O'Mahon ; and I, in turn, 
 make little count of it. The fields and flowers, 
 Corramahon, my father, and you, if you will, 
 uncle, shall be my world. And as to pride, 
 we will have none, save what we have in each 
 other." 
 
 " Well said," my girl, cried the delighted 
 Ignatius. " No pride will we have, save what 
 we have in each other. I will forgive Anas- 
 tasia, and even think kindly of a second Burton 
 for thy little sake." 
 
 " Be it not for my sake, first or second," 
 said Rachel ; " if I cannot hate all Palestine, 
 and anathematize every Burton of it, like 
 uncle, I can be all as indifferent to them, which, 
 mcthiiiks, is pride enough."
 
 94 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Roger had no reply to offer to the petulant 
 damsel, whose remarks, while they piqued her 
 uncle, cut severely the heart of Amyas 
 Burton. The youth drew his breath hard an 
 instant, and quelled with difficulty the pang of 
 sorrow that rose even in his throat. He cast 
 around a few uneasy and preparatory glances, 
 muttered some hurried excuses, and took his 
 departure abruptly, ere the Aireach was aware 
 of his purpose, or had time to obstruct it. 
 
 " Oh ! woman, false and deceitful woman, 1 ' 
 burst forth Amyas Burton, as soon as he had 
 gained the open heath, which he brushed with 
 furious step : — " false and fickle sex ! how often 
 have I read, how often heard, that ye were so, 
 yet would not believe, till now that I have had 
 the bitter proof. I will be avenged, — no — I 
 will forget — I will fly the country and take 
 foreign service ; alas ! all war hath ceased, 
 and the unhappy have no refuge. Were there 
 but a career open, I would reach the summit, 
 ay, by Heaven ! would scale it, though it were 
 
 as steep as ; then she might regret having 
 
 despised me. But why is this ? Oh ! 'tis
 
 CORRAMAHON. 95 
 
 plain, I am the lack-land, dependent Amyas, 
 without a groat beyond my uncle's smile. 
 True, — she is right. My hope was presump- 
 tuous; its overthrow was justice." 
 
 Such was the tenor of the youth's soliloquy, 
 in which he not a little wronged both Rachel and 
 her sire. Amyas, in fact, had been the old play- 
 mate and friend of Rachel. They had met as 
 children, and grown up together in amity, the 
 more undisturbed as Sir Christopher Burton 
 took little cognizance of the ways of his 
 nephew, provided he performed the charitable 
 duty of nourishing the only offspring of a 
 brother, slain unfortunately in foreign wars. 
 Garret O'Mahon too, the since apostate son 
 of the Aireach, had also been the comrade and 
 friend of Amyas, who, tyrannized over by the 
 knight's son, his cousin Christopher, was in the 
 habit of fleeing to Corramahon for more equal 
 and cordial companionship. 
 
 I knee arose the childish, and subsequently 
 the youthful intimacy betwixt Amyas and 
 Rachel. In her the growth of years would 
 have alone created no change in the sentiment*
 
 96 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 of this intimacy : the same infantine and pure 
 attachment would have strengthened, without 
 receiving a tinge from love. Amyas, a gentle, 
 timid, susceptible, and pensive youth, was not 
 of a character calculated to excite in the lively 
 Rachel's breast those full feelings, that ever 
 lie dormant till their destined object appears. 
 This apathy, however, was neither seen nor 
 shared by Amyas. He was one of those 
 beings, whose imaginations ever unfortunately 
 anticipate the happinesses of life. His dreams 
 forewent reality by a prodigious space of time ; 
 and even whilst yet within the verge of boy- 
 hood, his heretofore childish affection for his 
 playmate deepened into the enthusiastic and 
 the manly. Nor long did these new feelings of 
 his remain secret from Rachel. He became 
 more sensitive, sad, mysterious. Words came 
 at length, unmeaning words, but still they con- 
 veyed a language, that the girl was apt to 
 comprehend. 
 
 " There are a great many people in the 
 world who would never have been in love, 
 if they had never heard talk of it,"" said
 
 CORRAMAHON. 97 
 
 the apophthegmatist ; of which it is at least 
 certain, that there are a great many talked 
 into the feeling unwittingly and prematurely. 
 So was it with Rachel. She had heard from 
 her very nurse, that the day must necessarily 
 come when she should plight her troth to 
 some interesting youth. Whom could she ever 
 love more than Amyas ? and yet she marked 
 his coming and his parting without a single 
 flutter of the heart. At seventeen too it was 
 time — menials told her so at least, if her heart 
 did not. In trembling ardour Amyas at length 
 declared his passion, and without agitation or 
 denial Rachel allowed her hand to rest between 
 his. 
 
 Two years had rolled on since that time, and 
 Amyas was still the same, haunting Corrama- 
 hon in despite of the feud which Garret's 
 defection had occasioned betwixt the house of 
 the O'Mahons and that of Palestine, — his 
 dreams made up of Rachel, and these so con- 
 stant, that his heart sickened with the fulness 
 of visionary joy. To Rachel, in the mean- 
 time, those years had revealed another secret, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 that there was a mightier feeling to be awaken- 
 ed in her breast than that, so idly mistaken for 
 love, which had deceived her into listening pa- 
 tiently to Amyas Burton. In that time, her 
 experience, her ideas, had expanded ; — she 
 could see, how little prized, how meanly ranked 
 in the world would be such a character as that 
 of Amyas — how little formed too was such to 
 command the admiration of a spirit like hers, 
 or to be to her the source of that pride which, 
 perhaps, is the surest source and best gua- 
 rantee of woman's affection. 
 
 Moreover — and the information not a little 
 resembles that generally conveyed in a ladies' 
 postscript — Rachel O'Mahon had, in that pe- 
 riod, beheld one, nay, had received homage 
 from him not to be mistaken, who answered 
 all the cravings of her now awakened fancy, as 
 fully as poor Amyas disappointed them. This 
 new hero was a soldier, bearded, with as much 
 boldness as gentleness in his tone, not pro- 
 vincially bred, wearing the air of fashion natu- 
 rally, and speaking its jargon to perfection — 
 in short, an accomplished man of the world.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 99 
 
 The sincerity, or seriousness, with which such 
 a man might be supposed to pay his attentions 
 to a rustic maiden, never attracted the suspi- 
 cions of Rachel, who added no small portion 
 of pride to the pardonable vanity of her sex. 
 Indeed, as the daughter of O'Mahon, she 
 deemed herself as secure from being trifled 
 with, or from any open insult, as the Princess 
 of a reigning house. 
 
 The personage who had thus fascinated the 
 young maiden's imagination, and who in turn 
 had been much struck with the daughter of 
 Corramahon, was no other than Major Wil- 
 lomer, the self-constituted friend and fellow- 
 traveller of her uncle Roger. The Major had, 
 in fact, attached himself to Garret, whom he 
 met by chance in Dublin, as the best means 
 of introducing him at Corramahon, which he 
 wished to enter without betraying a suspicion 
 that he was attracted thither by the beauty of 
 its young inmate. Having seen, however, that 
 Garret, an outcast from his paternal home, was 
 
 not likely to serve his purposes, he seized the 
 
 Fo
 
 ".<v MLAJULBO0 
 
 opportune \ c£ fastening upon the youths uncle, 
 
 ;:-. :':.; i-.-v.".-.-;: :•-:-.:.:'.- ti.^.v. 
 
 \Y 
 • -. -■ ■: .;—■•• -.-.: > :■.'. :i:: > • ;--:. ::■ >■: :r: 
 — inll peihaps appear in a
 
 CORRA.MAHON. 101 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A little time had domesticated Roger at 
 Corramahon ; had shown him fully all the 
 changes, he durst not say improvements, which 
 had taken place in the old mansion and its im- 
 mediate vicinity, as well as in the character 
 and person of his brother. He had visited 
 most of his old haunts, inquired after his old 
 acquaintances, receiving not always the most 
 satisfactory accounts of them. In short, In- 
 curiosity, like a glutton, begun to expire of 
 repletion ; and the feeling of strangeness and 
 novelty, that best antidote, short of occupation, 
 to ennui, wore for him gradually away. 
 
 With the purpose of enjoying yet a little 
 more of the said feeling, so doubly delight- 
 ful when enhanced by old recollections, Chef
 
 102 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 O'Mahon bestrode once more his good steed, 
 Saint Gris, and retraced by daylight the way 
 which in dim twilight had proved fatal to the 
 knees of the old charger. The fallen trunk 
 lay indeed still unremoved from the path, and 
 called forth fresh exclamations from Roger, 
 upon the imperturbable supineness of his 
 brother. 
 
 The sight of the mansion and domain of Sir 
 Christopher Burton, both bespeaking the active 
 care and prosperity of their owner, were not 
 calculated to remove this dissatisfaction from the 
 mind of the Chef; and it was not with his wonted 
 placidity of temper and benevolent feelings to- 
 wards his fellows that he entered the streets of 
 Catherlogh. There, too, time had been busy 
 in his absence, had razed many a known and 
 friendly habitation, displaced many a familiar 
 sign, and had either so furrowed or annihilated 
 all anciently-known and friendly countenances, 
 that the Chef wended on his way neither giving 
 nor receiving salutation. 
 
 " See, Morley, my boy, what a steed is there !
 
 CORRAMAHON. 103 
 
 a very charger, — fit for Deloraine, ay, or Cado- 
 gan's self, by — ! What a pace ! what action ! 
 Carlow never bred or broke such an animal. - " 
 Such were the observations which a sight of 
 Roger O'Mahon's charger produced from young 
 Kit Burton, the son of the Knight of Palestine, 
 as that youth stood amongst a group of officers 
 and provincial bloods at the corner of one of 
 Carlow streets. 
 
 " He 's of the true French manege" said 
 Morley ; for the Chef, ill brooking the gaze 
 and remarks of the impertinent group, and at 
 the same time resolved to show to the English 
 dragoon officers such skill and training as they 
 knew not of, put Saint Gris through the seven 
 artificial motions of horsemanship, and certainly 
 succeeded in his object both of astonishing and 
 piquing them. 
 
 " Who can the old put be ? He is not of 
 these parts : both his wig and his steed bespeak 
 so. If he be not a Frenchman born, my name 's 
 not Tom Morley." 
 
 s * Frenchman, 1 ' said Kit, " and Papist. I 'II
 
 104 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 write to Lord Shrewsbury this night of his 
 appearance. He must be an emissary of the 
 Jacobites." 
 
 " And much notice the timid, trimming Lord 
 Lieutenant will take of thy denunciation, Kit." 
 
 " Zounds ! but he shall though ; or we '11 set 
 the bull-dogs of the Corporation at him." 
 
 " But, Kit, instead of this fellow 's being a 
 Frenchman," quoth another, " what is to pre- 
 vent him from being a wild goose, one of the 
 Jacobites which we transported from Limerick ; 
 and that this damned peace is pouring back 
 upon us? I heard of one just returned, and a 
 neighbour of your's too, a brother of Natius 
 GPMahon." 
 
 " Gad's my life, Ned, you have it !" said Kit 
 Burton. " 'Tis he ; that brat of a cousin of 
 mine, Amyas, told us of him ; he hath a 
 O'Mahon look; there's no doubt on it. And 
 now thank him for his Papistry, for his good 
 steed 's mine." 
 
 " And I, who put you on the right scent — " 
 
 " Shall share, Ned ; fear not. And now, be- 
 gone you to little 'torney M'Crosky ; he is the
 
 CORRAMAIION. 105 
 
 sharpest terrier that ever worried Papist, and I 
 trust his breed will never be lost to the country. 
 Tell him the whom, the what, and the how ; 
 and as to where, the little bridge will be the best 
 place for his ambuscade. Come, my merry lads, 
 if we have not country sport, Tfaith we shall 
 have town sport V* 
 
 " Now, where can be that damned fellow, 
 Willomer ?*' said Morley ; " he would enjoy 
 this." 
 
 " He has ridden somewhere, 1 ' said young 
 Burton, a with my father, and Anastasia."" 
 
 The Chef in the meantime rode on, un- 
 conscious of the conspiracy against him and 
 Saint Gris, directing his course towards the 
 river Barrow, and over it by a bridge, at that 
 time of wood, which led to Graigue, as was, 
 and is still called a considerable suburb of 
 Catherlogh. 
 
 Here at least Roger felt that he had not 
 out-lived the scene's identity. The noble river, 
 not then cramped and dammed, as the half of it 
 has since been, to make it serve the purposes of 
 a canal, rolled along its wide and rapid stream. 
 F 5
 
 106 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Above it towered the ancient castle, one of 
 King John's erections, and, even in the author's 
 remembrance, the noblest feudal relic in Ire- 
 land. Its ivy-mantled towers were familiar to 
 my boyhood, as a century previous they had 
 been to that of Roger CTMahon ; and as visions 
 and reveries must always have a centre of re- 
 ality, about which they love to play in ideal 
 circuit, so were those old towers to him, as to 
 myself, the point from which sprung, and in 
 which centered a thousand scenes of martial and 
 chivalrous life, of tyrants, cruelty, beleaguering 
 and vindictive foes. The solitary mound on 
 which the ruins rose, undebased by the con- 
 tiguity of modern dwellings, made it more apt 
 as the scite or object of contemplations ; and 
 no intruder profaned its gloomy precincts, save 
 those who came with worthy and congenial 
 feelings, as was evinced by their adventu- 
 rous clambering up the ruined stairs, and by 
 their daring to pause upon its lofty and totter- 
 ing battlements. The old walls spoke ami 
 breathed of hardihood. 
 
 Such were the feelings which at that time
 
 CORRAMAHON. 107 
 
 Roger O'Mahon half experienced, half recalled. 
 He thought of his early enthusiasm, his ardour, 
 his hopes. Had they been realized ? They 
 had, though in the shrunk littleness of real 
 perspective, not in the exaggerated promise of 
 the ideal. The soldier sighed, yet was con- 
 tented. His personal fate might afford him 
 whereupon to moralize, but not to complain. 
 His country, however, — a term by which was 
 meant himself and his fellow-religionists, — gave 
 ample subject for dissatisfaction, spleen, for 
 sadness, or for anger, according as the state 
 of the spirits prompted either mood. There 
 ever exists a master-train of thought, to which 
 all others, especially if they cause or par- 
 take of emotion, tend and merge. A sense of 
 his country^ wrongs was the master-train of 
 Chef O'Mahon's ideas ; as indeed such must 
 still be and have long been of every generous 
 Irish-born. The sight of that scene, which had 
 most struck him in youth, of that which might 
 be called his native stream, of those towers fa- 
 miliar to his boyhood, excited first the Chci '4 
 imagination, and through that his feelings.
 
 108 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 fi Green Erin, my country !" said Roger 
 CTMahon ; — but I must spare the reader his 
 soliloquy, since so universally wretched at once is 
 the fate of her people, so lukewarm our sympa- 
 thies, and palsied our spirit and our taste, that 
 of all uttered bursts of passion, the lament of the 
 patriot hath come to seem the most dull and 
 common- place. 
 
 The first chance words of his soliloquy may, 
 however, indicate the feelings with which the 
 Chef retraced his route. He crossed the Bar- 
 row, and traversed Catherlogh streets home- 
 ward, lamenting inwardly the falling state of the 
 land, and the intolerant spirit of her rulers, 
 little foreseeing, at the same time, any imme- 
 diate manifestation of the said spirit towards his 
 humble self. As in this mood he was proceed- 
 ing to cross a narrow bridge over some little 
 stream auxiliary to the Barrow, which formed 
 part of the principal street of the town, Chef 
 CTMahon was summoned abruptly to stand, the 
 interrupter at the same time not trusting to 
 his verbal summons, but laying hold upon the 
 horse's rein. A country attorney, or to be
 
 CORRAMAHON. 109 
 
 more particular, an Irish country attorney, 
 some hundred years back, may be imagined, 
 without a portraiture of his mean expression 
 of feature and accordant costume. Master 
 'Torney M'Crosky was the summoner, and 
 he was backed by several of the inferior offi- 
 cers of the municipality, whose assistance the 
 unworthy son of law had invoked. Enscon- 
 ced at some distance, or seeming to saunter 
 near, without any knowledge of what was 
 going forward, were Kit Burton and his com- 
 panions, ready to enjoy the levant, as they 
 called it, which they were about to throw upon 
 the wild-goose prig, and to admire the impu- 
 dent dexterity of little M'Crosky. 
 
 With one hand upon the rein of Roger 
 O'Mahon's steed, Mr. M'Crosky held forth in 
 his other, money to the amount of five pounds, 
 which he proffered, saying — 
 
 " Sir Papist, be it said in all respect, I offer 
 you five pounds for your horse." 
 
 Like many an irascible character, the Chef 
 was astonished into calmness ; his wonder antici- 
 pated his rage, and kept it down.
 
 1 JO CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Kind Sir," replied he, " fifty louis d^ors 
 should not purchase him — loose the rein, or, 
 Ventre Saint Gris !" — at which latter words the 
 steed reared, and lifted Master Crosky, for, like 
 a true bull-dog, he kept his hold, in air. 
 
 " You're a Papist, Mr. O'Mahon — dare you 
 deny it ?" cried the Attorney. 
 
 " Dare I ? Do I ? What O'Mahon would 
 deny the faith of his sires ?" 
 
 " A keener than thou. You have heard him 
 own himself a Papist,' 1 '' cried M'Crosky, turning 
 to the constables. " Mr. O'Mahon, I fear you 
 are not learned in the law ; but so far as this I 
 can inform you, that by the third Act of the 
 seventh of the great and glorious King Wil- 
 liam, Papists are disqualified from keeping a 
 horse of above the value of five pounds ; and 
 that, by the said Act, any one of her Majesty's 
 subjects, aided by constable, may make seizure 
 of any horse of or belonging to Papist, at 
 the same time making tender of five guineas. 
 There is the money." 
 
 For answer, Roger O'Mahon pressed his steed's 
 right side with his spur, and Saint Gris forth-
 
 CORRAMAHON. Ill 
 
 with obeyed the hint by taking a volt, which 
 Jaid M'Crosky flat in the mire, and then return- 
 ing to his original position with retro-bound, 
 discomfited in a similar manner the constables, 
 hurrying to the attorney's relief. Having thus 
 liberated himself and steed, the Chef cantered 
 leisurely on, seeking to avoid the appearance of 
 flight, and from that reason as much as from 
 any other he appealed, in passing, to Kit Bur- 
 ton and Morley, whom he took for chance wit- 
 nesses of what had taken place, whether the 
 outrage was not as punishable as it had been 
 gross. 
 
 These young sparks had enjoyed M'Crosky\s 
 discomfiture not the less for his having been 
 their instrument, and notwithstanding their de- 
 signs, they thought fit to be most polite towards 
 the cavalier, assuring him, however, in answer 
 to his inquiries, that the act in question, which 
 the Chef could not believe to exist in any code 
 save an Attorney's brain, was as bona-jidc a 
 statute as any that ever disgraced English re- 
 cords. Ere Roger O'Mahon had time to reply, 
 the attorney and his coadjutors, more angered
 
 112 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 than awed, and indeed only seeking some bodily 
 harm at the Papist's hands, in order to entangle 
 and implicate him the more, rushed again upon 
 Saint Gris. 
 
 The affair was now likely to terminate fatally 
 M'Crosky being determined on capturing the 
 animal, and O'Mahon, having utterly lost pa- 
 tience, when, fortunately for all parties, the 
 Knight of Palestine rode up, accompanied by 
 the O'Mahon's acquaintance, Major Willomer. 
 The Knight's daughter, Anastasia Burton, was 
 also of the party ; but she had reined back her 
 steed at the sight of the conflict. 
 
 "How is this? Hold! in the Queen's name," 
 cried Sir Christopher, riding betwixt the com- 
 batants, and putting a stop to the strife. 
 
 " Please your Knighthood's honour," cried 
 M'Crosky, " I have made legal tender of five 
 pounds, according to Act Third, of Seventh 
 William and Mary, for this Papist's horse, and 
 he recuses, nay, has laid hands upon me " 
 
 " Hoofs, Sirrah !" interrupted the Chef, " it 
 was my steed dealt with you. My hands are, 
 as yet, uncontaminated by thy touch."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 113 
 
 ■ How is this, M'Crosky ?" said Sir Christo- 
 pher, approaching the Attorney, while Major 
 Willomer greeted Roger O'Mahon. " Who 
 hath set you on to enforce this law ?" 
 
 M'Crosky sought to take all the credit of 
 his zeal, or at least to turn it to better advan- 
 tage, than by owning young Kit Burton as his 
 instigator, which he had been strictly forbidden 
 to confess in any event. Accordingly, he mut- 
 terred beneath his breath to the Knight, " It 's 
 one of the O'Mahons o' Corramahon, I tell 
 your honour, the sworn enemy of your house, 
 and a papist, and a Jacobite, and a wild goose, 
 and a Frenchman ;' 1 each item of the attorney's 
 climax was accompanied with a dire stroke of 
 his arm in air. 
 
 " What, he that was a French guardsman ?"" 
 
 " The self-same chap. 1 ' 
 
 " I am glad on it, on my soul, 1 ' said the 
 Knight ; " a soldier that hath seen the world 
 must be the best peace-maker, and I am sick 
 of my petty feuds with these people." 
 
 " But this fellow is one of pith, active, stir- 
 ring ; knows how to command, and who, if he
 
 314 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 once lay hold upon his nephew, Garret, would 
 frighten the youth back to papistry, and then, 
 that, Sir Christopher, 11 quoth the attorney, wink- 
 ing significantly, as he snapped his crooked 
 thumb against his forefinger, " for your chance 
 of uniting the old estate, and joining Corramahon 
 bawn to Palestine park." 
 
 "Out on thee, reptile!" said the Knight, 
 raising his whip : " dare you to charge me with 
 unworthy motives ?" 
 
 " Arrah, then is it me, your honour," said 
 torney M'Crosky, in that indescribable tone 
 which no one, without having visited Paddy's 
 land, can go nigh to imagine. It was like the 
 independent growl of a cur changed suddenly 
 to a repentant whine, upon seeing that the 
 person whom he had dared to salute as an 
 intruder was no other than his master. " Is 
 it Dennis M'Crosky would insiniate the laste 
 thing in life to your honour, barring a bit of 
 advice ?" 
 
 « Thou art a " 
 
 " If your honour chooses to take the Papist's 
 part, sure I 'm dumb, and he 's free to ride
 
 CORRAMAHON. 115 
 
 Catherlogh streets as Master Kit himself. Only 
 I got a knock, a smart knock on the temple, 
 and from a papist ; your honour knows how 
 much that 'ud be worth to me afore an Orange 
 
 J ur y-" 
 
 M Prosecute, if you dare, fellow : and send 
 my papers by the same hour to Palestine." 
 
 " I lick the dust of your knightly boot," 
 replied M'Crosky. " I have but one fault," 
 continued the rogue, with a most penitent 
 countenance; " I spake up and out at all times, 
 though I do it to anger my best friend." 
 
 " Keep at arm's length, sir;" said the Knight 
 in disgust, as the fawning pettifogger laid his 
 hand, in what he thought a coaxing way, upon 
 the mane of Sir Christopher's horse ; " no sei- 
 zure here neither." 
 
 " Ye're over wicked with a poor creature 
 this morning, Sir Kit, while you go to shake 
 hands and make hail-fellow with a Papist. 
 But, mark me ! let this blow over, and when ye 
 fall out, which, plase God, you will by and by, 
 for I can smell a good feud a long way off — " 
 
 " I '11 be sworn, thou art the hound for 't."
 
 116 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Then we'll hold this little affair over the 
 Papist's head, and if it have not the 
 
 weight of a mill-stone to crush, never did I 
 finger parchment." 
 
 " Sir Christopher Burton, you must know 
 my valiant friend and companion, Chef de Bri- 
 gade O'Mahon," said Major Willomer, follow- 
 ing up his words with a formal introduction. 
 
 " Hold, my good friend, 1 ' said the CheJ\ u I 
 am sufficiently known to the knight-magistrate 
 as a culprit, found guilty of riding a respectably 
 good horse. May I ask of you, Sir Burton, if 
 this scurvy fellow hath law to back his injus- 
 tice? Is it true, that an Iris h gentleman may 
 no more bestride a steed than he can wear a 
 sword ?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. O'Mahon, the statute is precise, 
 and saith so. But your horse, despite his good 
 paces and position, cannot be above the stan- 
 dard." The Knight here made a significant 
 sign to the Chef. " And see, his knee is broken ; 
 'tis but an old worn charger, not worth five 
 pounds, Master M'Crosky, and so not under the 
 statute."
 
 CORRAMAIION. 117 
 
 The attorney did not exclaim, " a Daniel 
 come to judgment !" but looked as if he could 
 have quoted the line ironically. 
 
 The Chef was more enraged, however, at hear- 
 ing his good steed undervalued, than pleased 
 by the cunning judgment which preserved him 
 from seizure. " Value a Norman war-horse at 
 five guineas I" cried he, putting Saint Gris 
 through some of his best motions ; " 'tis not the 
 price of an Hanover rat. For the mere breed, 
 he is worth fifty louis d'ors, sacre-bleu P* 
 
 " You hear, Mr. Attorney," cried the 
 knight, " Major CVMahon has imported this 
 Norman horse for the breed, and he therefore 
 is excepted from the statute you plead, by a 
 late law of her gracious Majesty Queen 
 Anne."* 
 
 " Characteristic enough of our legislation," 
 said Major Willomer : " the love of horse-flesh 
 
 • Speaking of the Act, 8 Anne, Browne says, " the 
 3 tth clause of this act allows Papists to keep stallions 
 and stud mares, and their hreed under five years old, 
 notwithstanding the prohibition of 7 W. III. C. 5." — 
 Historical account of laws against the Catholics.
 
 118 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 prevails even over the national hatred of 
 Popery." 
 
 " Characteristic indeed, 1 ' said O'Mahon, 
 " when so iniquitous is the system of tyranny, 
 that its very satellites cry shame, and are moved 
 to extend justice, in the shape of generosity, to 
 the oppressed." 
 
 Mr. M'Crosky and his constables here took 
 their departure, somewhat crest-fallen ; whilst 
 the gentlemen, and Anastasia, who had joined 
 them, continued their route towards Palestine, 
 Chef O'Mahon still bearing company with the 
 knight, repressing his hatred, muttering a few 
 thanks, and meditating an opportune escape, 
 which Willomer seemed determined and endea- 
 vouring to prevent. 
 
 " 'Fore God !" quoth he, " there is at least 
 some good to be extracted from these penal 
 laws." 
 
 " Good !" rejoined Chef O'Mahon. 
 
 " Ay, good. Here have ye, Burtons and 
 O'Mahons, been living in sullen and hostile 
 neighbourhood, nursing wrath against each
 
 CORRAMAHON. 119 
 
 other, and never meeting but to discharge a 
 mutual defiance." 
 
 " Major Willomer, you are given to ex- 
 aggeration. I own to none of these feelings, 1 "' 
 said the knight. 
 
 " Well, but the fact is so. And here now 
 hath this M'Crosky, with his impudence 
 and his old statute, given the knight the 
 opportunity of displaying his conciliatory, 
 friendly temper, leaving Chef O'Mahon's hatred 
 not a leg to stand on." 
 
 H The knight did me but justice," said the 
 Chef; " I would return him as much at any 
 time." 
 
 " Nay, I am sure, Sir, you would even 
 more," joined in the fair Anastasia Burton. 
 " A soldier, just returned from the most 
 civilized of nations and most refined of courts, 
 cannot stoop to entertain the feuds of this 
 barbarous country." 
 
 Roger, somewhat struck with the sense of 
 the words, was more so by the feminine voice 
 that uttered them, and to a still increased
 
 120 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 degree, when he turned his eyes upon the 
 speaker. Miss Burton was fair, tall evidently, 
 and of handsome features, with an habitual ex- 
 pression of hauteur, which served considerably 
 to increase the sweetness of her smile, when 
 she wore such, as was the case in her addressing 
 Chef O'Mahon. " She was mounted on a pad, 1- ' 
 as Isaac Bickerstaffe has described a lady of 
 that time, " with a very well-fancied furniture.'" 
 To enter at once into her motives, it may 
 be observed, that, like many young and older 
 ladies of subsequent times, Anastasia looked 
 in idea with a sort of adoration towards the 
 Court of Louis le Grand, towards French 
 politeness, French wit, French fashions, and 
 the French sf avoir vivre in every department. 
 Hence, no sooner did she learn from Amyas, 
 that Roger O'Mahon, Chef de Brigade in the 
 Guards of this great Monarch, had come to 
 illumine Catherlogh with his presence, than a 
 desire, more ardent than her already preexistent 
 one, to put an end to the feud betwixt Corra- 
 mahon and Palestine, seized upon her. She 
 instructed Willomer with her whim, who was
 
 CORRAMAHON. 121 
 
 not indisposed to second it, and both had ><> 
 preached to the knight, naturally a worthy and 
 blunt man, on the virtues of forbearance, for- 
 giveness, generosity, and neighbourlihood, that 
 instead of taking his creature, M'Crosky's part 
 against the Chef, which under any other circum- 
 stances he most probably would, he turned cold 
 upon the little attorney, and showed himself a 
 generous cavalier, and perhaps a more than im- 
 partial magistrate. 
 
 Fortune favoured Anastasia, in at once gra- 
 tifying her with the sight, and the chance of 
 the acquaintance of the pre-admired Chef de 
 Brigade, whom she longed so to know, so 
 much to question, and to learn of. She was 
 aware of how many obstacles were still to be 
 overcome, but with a woman's intrepidity and 
 powerful means in these matters, she set about 
 overturning and removing them. Towards 
 this the first sound of her dulcet voice went 
 far, farther than all the arguments she had 
 arranged. 
 
 O'Mahon'a life had been spent chiefly in the 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 tented field, amidst jovial comrades, rather than 
 with females of his rank; for his attendance 
 on the court of his sovereign, a circumstance 
 and an honour that so dazzled and attracted 
 Miss Burton, was performed merely as a duty 
 and a stern etiquette, that forbad his mingling 
 or enjoying that high and exclusive society. 
 Again, if not deemed equal to mingle there, 
 O'Mahon was too proud to descend to bourgeois 
 life ; and at that period, down indeed to the 
 Revolution, France in its metropolis possessed 
 no medium betwixt those ranks. There was a 
 gulph betwixt them — not as now, through all 
 the more civilized nations of Europe, when the 
 gradations of rank throng close upon one an- 
 other, where the toe of the clown may be said 
 
 to gall 
 
 " The kibe of the courtier." 
 
 O'Mahon was in consequence unused to female 
 society, consequently more open and obnoxious 
 to its blandishments ; a weakness increased more 
 than diminished by a quantum of years near- 
 ing, if not outstripping forty. Moreover, like
 
 CORRAMAHON. 123 
 
 most bachelors, the Chef had had, what his kind 
 acquaintances and friends, Ignatius amongst 
 the rest, would winkingly allude to, as " an 
 unfortunate attachment. 1 ' But we have enume- 
 rated causes too many, and too powerful, to 
 account for the simple fact of the Chef's being 
 so ready to forget his hereditary and family 
 hatred to the Burtons, at the first sound of a 
 sweet and conciliating voice from one of the 
 name. 
 
 " You would not surely esteem a just sense 
 of injury barbarous, fair lady ?" replied the Chef 
 " If I manifest it but thus in gentle argument, 
 more being uncalled for, I trust in being held 
 sufficiently courteous." 
 
 "Injury!" quoth Sir Christopher; " what 
 call you injury? Doth mine consist in my 
 grandsire's receiving the wages of his valour 
 in the broad lands of yours ? Would old Sir 
 Christopher have served your race by aban- 
 doning his claims to the Chichesters, the Brode- 
 ricks, or any other of the chief adventurers from 
 the sister realm ?" 
 
 g 2
 
 124 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Fairly pleaded, by St. George !" said Wil- 
 lomer : " what was it but the fortune de la 
 guerre ? Surely we men at arms, - " continued 
 he, addressing the Chef, " cannot find fault 
 with the disposition of our own goddess. 1 ' 
 
 Roger remained moody and musing, exerting 
 himself, as he thought it requisite and honour 
 able, to preserve his family hatred, towards the 
 Burtons untainted. 
 
 " Shall we hold you then for convinced ?" 
 said Anastasia. 
 
 " The past might be forgotten," said Roger, 
 " as indeed, I understand, it had been at Cor- 
 ramahon." 
 
 " Truly so," said Miss Burton ; " and I have 
 never ceased to regret the days; Rachel was 
 such a friend and companion, that these bar- 
 barous regions could scarcely be hoped to 
 afford. How you must regret Versailles ! Ma- 
 jor O'Mahon." 
 
 " I have cause truly ; not such causes as you 
 allude to and seem to complain of, lady — my 
 native soil can never seem too rude for me — but 
 such events as this day's ride, for instance, has
 
 CORRAMAHON. 125 
 
 produced. Much could be borne, but this 
 downright, petty tyranny, this slavery in de- 
 tail, this Helotism — " 
 
 " Nay, but with my father's friendship." 
 
 " Death of my life !" exclaimed the Chef, al- 
 most putting spurs to his steed ; " lady, I crave 
 your pardon ; but I want no man's friendship. 
 Base is he, who would crave as a boon that he 
 should grasp as his right." 
 
 " Come, comrade," said Willomer, " you 
 but now said the past might be forgotten ; pray 
 let it be so, in the name of good fellowship." 
 
 " I was about to say that it might," replied 
 O'Mahon, "if the present had not come to 
 grave its prints deeper. Vl 
 
 " Then, Sir, let us hear of the present," 
 quoth the Knight of Palestine. " You are as 
 full of grievances, as a county member whose 
 friends are out of place." 
 
 " I do not comprehend your Parliament 
 terms, Sir Christopher Burton," said the Chef, 
 drily. " I have known them but in acts that 
 would disgrace the most absolute despot." 
 
 " My simile was given in good humour ; take
 
 126 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 it in good part, Major O'Mahon, and speak as 
 to the present ; for I am urged to do my ut- 
 most to terminate our family differences. Gar- 
 ret O'Mahon's recantation of Popery was that 
 which produced the late breach, and it is that, 
 no doubt, on which you ponder.'" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " In attributing the circumstance to us, you 
 are wrong, Sir — nay, you do us injustice, if you 
 think we condescended to use even the gentlest 
 persuasion. If example, and free discussion, 
 and other reasons have wrought on him, your 
 censure and dislike were more justly fixed else- 
 where. We did not, and do not encourage 
 him.' 1 
 
 " He haunts your mansion, Sir Christopher."' 1 
 
 " He is as welcome there, as his uncle or pa- 
 rent. What may be a crime towards you, is 
 none towards me. I shall only provide that he 
 shall not offend your sight, should you, as I 
 hope, honour us with your company at Pales- 
 tine." 
 
 " Now do !— " 
 Anastasia was proceeding with entreaty
 
 CORRAMAHON. 127 
 
 when she was interrupted by the Chefs re- 
 peating, 
 
 " He haunts Palestine, and with views" — 
 here the Chef felt awkward, and hesitating, — 
 " views in short, Sir Christopher, that become 
 him not, and which influenced his renegade act.'" 
 
 " Views, indeed, that do not become him, 
 perhaps," replied the Knight, haughtily, whilst 
 a blush overspread the cheek of Anastasia. 
 
 A long pause here ensued in the conversation, 
 during which, the party having long cleared the 
 outskirts of the town, were already approaching 
 Palestine. When they reached its gateway, 
 the Knight, assuming a cheerful aspect, re- 
 peated his invitation to Roger O'Mahon, in 
 terms of the utmost conciliation. The fair 
 Anastasia seconded the request in tones and 
 terms most irresistible ; and Willomer's jocu- 
 larity was employed in the same behalf. The 
 Chef felt, that like a captain who had stood out 
 a siege to the last extremity, he had resisted 
 long enough for honour. And his answer was, 
 in part, a promise of compliance, in the event 
 that he could induce his brother Ignatius to
 
 128 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 view matters in the same light, in which he, 
 Roger, then did. 
 
 " You hold then still allegiance to the Chief 
 of the Sept?" said Willomer, gaily. "I fear 
 Mistress Anastasia will call your obsequiousness, 
 barbarous. ,, 
 
 " No, no," said Anastasia. 
 
 " Even at that risk, which I deprecate," 
 replied the Chef galantly, " still must I hold 
 it. Aa revoir." 
 
 The Chef spurred Saint Gris to Corramahon, 
 for the first time contemplating with compla- 
 cency the odious deer-park wall, which the 
 Irish looked on as an Anglicism and an inno- 
 vation. The Burtons and Willomer kept on 
 their route to the Castle of Palestine.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 129 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The reconciliation, which the events just 
 narrated were calculated to produce betwixt 
 the two families, did not take place immedi- 
 ately. Even Chef Roger's promise to make his 
 appearance at Palestine could not be kept, so 
 loud and vehement were the exclamations both 
 of his brother and his niece upon those amicable 
 inclinations towards the Burtons, that the 
 soldier had so suddenly begun to entertain. 
 Forbearant as was the character of the Aireach, 
 Ik- nevertheless in the first heat of his choler, 
 stigmatized the act of an O'Mahon visiting 
 Palestine as that of a renegade. He even de- 
 clared the knight's timely and friendly interfe- 
 rence in behalf of Saint Gris, as a plot betwixt 
 g 5
 
 130 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 him and his attorney, prepared for overwhelm- 
 ing the O'Mahons with some further and un- 
 foreseen injustice. This assertion staggered 
 Roger, who began to think no villany too base 
 or too absurd for the country. And as his in- 
 tentions to trust or be reconciled with the Bur- 
 tons was shaken by this, it was more effectually 
 shamed by his pert niece's raillery, for which 
 the whole adventure, including Anastasia's 
 entreaties naively recounted by Roger in the 
 simplicity of his heart, afforded ample subject 
 and scope. 
 
 The Chef in consequence did not dare to 
 turn his horse's head towards Palestine, al- 
 though owing, as he pleaded, in pure civility, 
 a visit of thanks, at least to Sir Christopher, 
 for his friendly interference in Carlow. The 
 Aireach was decided and even choleric in his 
 dissuasion ; and Roger submitted, not only in 
 admiration of an approach to vigour in Igna- 
 tius, but also in a certainty, that, from his 
 brother's easy temper, such a strained feeling 
 of resentment would not long endure. 
 
 Anastasia on her part could not rest so con-
 
 CORRAMAHON. i 
 
 tented with the incompletion of her whim. 
 She was at first piqued, and declared her resolu- 
 tion never for the future to take the least notice 
 of the barbarians of Corramahon ; a resolve 
 that drew from her brother Kit a most approv- 
 ing oath and exclamation. On the next morn, 
 however, she not the less tormented her father 
 to ride with her to Corramahon. This the 
 knight indignantly refused ; and Anastasia, in 
 prosecution of her purpose, was obliged to re- 
 quire the company of Willomer, ever a most 
 willing squire, and at the same time of her 
 cousin Amyas. 
 
 11 I hope the old gentleman may be so con- 
 siderate as to grant us an audience," said 
 Willomer, as they quitted Palestine. " My 
 friend, the Chef, seems to be under fraternal 
 government; and the sight of two Burtons may 
 stir the spleen of this Hibernian chief, whilst 
 the sight of a red coat and feather at the same 
 time will certainly not soothe him." 
 
 " Nay," observed Anastasia, " Cousin Amyas 
 is free of the mansion, and will be our pass. 
 He hath his privilege by favour both of father
 
 132 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 and daughter; and 'tis one, that he doth not 
 let lie dormant." 
 
 Willomer heard with greedy ear, but made 
 no comment. 
 
 " I have not been to Corramahon these ten 
 days,' 1 said A my as. 
 
 " Can I credit that ? and yet, now that I 
 regard your cheek, I do. Eh ! what, a quarrel, 
 coz ? Well, this is peace-making day, and we 
 must all put on contrite countenances. By 
 the by, Major, you have met with Rachel 
 O'Mahon ?" 
 
 " It is possible : at Lady Burgh's, if I re- 
 member — a pert beauty, with a Cleopatra 
 nose." 
 
 " What kind may that be ? I am not 
 learned.'" 
 
 " Retrousse, the kind wherein damsels are 
 apt to hang caprices." 
 
 Amyas smiled painfully at the justice of the 
 remark, and seeking to put Willomer to the 
 proof, asked, " And the Roman, like Anasta- 
 sia's, what may be its purpose ?"
 
 CORRAMAHON. 133 
 
 " As a theme for pride," replied the gallant, 
 " to awe us humble suitors/' 
 
 " Then truly I would that the damsels of 
 Catherlogh were well provided," observed 
 Anastasia, " for a more impertinent and dan- 
 gerous set of cavaliers than Lord Deloraine's 
 have never come to disturb the quiet of the 
 county." 
 
 " I trust this peace," quoth Amyas, " will 
 disband and dismount them. Perhaps they 
 may not be so redoubtable in black coats, as 
 they have been in red ones." 
 
 " O' my troth not !" said Anastasia : " I can 
 answer for my sex." 
 
 " Are we not then sufficiently thrown into 
 the shade by the peruque and sword-knot of a 
 French guards-man V 
 
 Anastasia blushed. 
 
 " In sooth, Madam, you and your gentle 
 cousin wrong us. What if our subalterns have 
 swaggered somewhat, made havoc amongst 
 barmaids and country-wenches, have not I 
 for months been laying siege to your impreg-
 
 134 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 nable heart, and spending all love's artillery 
 in vain." 
 
 " And will continue to do so, I most heartily 
 wish, in all instances, whilst you act Wildair 
 amongst our provincial belles, and assault every 
 owner of a passable face, the sentimental with the 
 deepest sigh, and the vivacious with your most 
 modish oath. Prithee, Sir, how long has it 
 been since ye males have changed places with 
 our sex, and monopolized coquetry ?" 
 
 " O' my soul, it must have been since the 
 Venus of Palestine has become metamorphosed 
 into Minerva." 
 
 " Go to ! thou most false of the feathered 
 tribe. Even poor Rachel could not escape. Did 
 I not see you at Lady Burgh's, pouring your 
 insidious talk into the girl's pleased ear ?"" 
 
 " A hurried compliment, — no more by this 
 hand ! — to hide the ardent glance I cast towards 
 the finest figure in the dance — where, need I 
 repeat ? — to preserve my character for courtesy, 
 and sweeten at the same time the young crea- 
 ture's ratafia. Twas charity, more than gal- 
 lantry, I swear. 1 '
 
 CORRAMAHON. 135 
 
 The party had, by this time, terminated the 
 avenue to Corramahon, not impeded by the 
 fallen elm-tree, the removal of which the Chef 
 himself had superintended. They entered the 
 court ; and the surprise of several of the inha- 
 bitants of the mansion did not allow time for 
 speech, for orders of denial or defence, ere the 
 visitors entered at the open door, carrying the 
 dwelling and the parlour of the Aireach by 
 storm. The Chef welcomed Willomer, and 
 even offered to kiss his comrade; at least he 
 made some advance towards such embrace, till 
 recollection checked him, and he rather awk- 
 wardly substituted the salute of the hand. 
 Miss Burton seized the hesitating Rachel, and 
 drew her aside in order to excuse her visit, to 
 supplicate for the renewal of their ancient 
 friendship ; whilst Ignatius himself, unwilling 
 to remain sullen amidst such signs of gene- 
 ral amicability, hailed Amyas jovially, and 
 brought the flush of confusion more than of 
 pleasure to the youth's cheek by reproaches 
 for his late absence. Rachel's cheek indeed was 
 equally suffused, not from any reciprocal feeling
 
 136 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 of love or pique towards Amyas, but owing to 
 the unexpected appearance of Major Willomer. 
 The girl's agitation was so great, that she to- 
 tally forgot all grudge or reserve of pride enter- 
 tained against Anastasia. She listened with an 
 air of forced attention ; and replied with uncon- 
 scious rather than affected cordiality to Miss 
 Burton's expostulations and renewed proffer of 
 friendship. 
 
 In despite, however, of all these symptoms, 
 the half hour's converse that ensued was stiff in 
 the extreme, and wore all the ennui of a com- 
 mon visit, heightened by the reserve and awk- 
 wardness of an unwelcome one. Rachel was 
 confused, Amyas piqued, Roger in but half- 
 possession of his mother tongue, and Ignatius 
 on the wrong side of his dinner. The only 
 hope of knitting together such a company in 
 ease and momentary friendship lay with Wil- 
 lomer, who, indeed, only waited to understand 
 the Aireach, in order to lay at once upon him 
 the spell of his frank and adroit converse. It 
 demanded none of the ultra-profound science 
 of the man of the world to succeed in this. A
 
 CORRAMAHON. 137 
 
 few questions respecting Corramahon, a glance 
 at its former grandeur and progressive deca- 
 dence, avoiding with a pilot's art to run upon 
 or stir the turbid shoals of the brother's sensi- 
 bilities, — then a recurrence to the present times ; 
 to London, where the Major had lately been ; 
 to the ministerial triumphs of the Tories of 
 that day, and finally to the Jacobite propensi- 
 ties and supposed intrigues of the Queen and 
 her counsellors. These started topics occupied 
 and roused the lethargic attentions of the 
 Aireach, whilst the hopes implied lulled any 
 spark of latent jealousy, which he might enter- 
 tain against the Williamite soldier, or against the 
 daughter of the Knight of Palestine. All in 
 short, soon became sunshine in the interior of 
 Corramahon, except for the diversely agitated 
 hearts of Amyas and Rachel. 
 
 It was at that time late in the still green 
 month of December. The year, like years of 
 late, and unlike years of old, if weather-expe- 
 rienced ancients are to believed, was tardy in 
 developing its rigours. The sun shone upon 
 the bare branches as glowingly, as though they
 
 138 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 were in leaf. Anastasia and Rachel went forth 
 to enjoy it, and to escape from a conversation 
 that began to seem serious and political ; Amy as 
 irresolutely followed. 
 
 " We are to be friends once more, Rachel, 
 are we not ?" asked Anastasia. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Rachel. " I have a thou- 
 sand things to tell you. Papa looks contented, 
 and we have got uncle for a peace-maker. He 
 is so good an uncle, if you did but know him, 
 and so odd. I torment him ; I do so like him/' 
 
 " You kind-hearted girl ! but now, why did 
 we cease to be friends ? ni 
 
 " Nay, I don't know the reason, if you don't. 
 Your pride — " 
 
 " Ours!" 
 
 " Yes, and some mystery about my brother 
 Garret's going to be married to you." 
 
 " To me !" 
 
 " Yes: and I suppose, the pride you were 
 but just now shocked at my charging you 
 with, is itself shocked at my second accusation." 
 
 " Not a shadow of truth in either. We are 
 friends, — that is enough. And now, tell me one
 
 CORRAMAHON. 139 
 
 of the thousand things : or let me begin by calling 
 Amyas, who looks rueful and wistful yonder, 
 like an angered lover struggling 'twixt his affec- 
 tion and his spleen. Shall I beckon to him ?" 
 
 " Do not so : Why does he not come of him- 
 self? 'Tis that he wants either the courage or 
 the goodwill : and in either case we will none 
 of him. Who is this Englisher and soldier 
 y juMiave brought with you, Anastasia P' 1 
 
 " You have never seen him !" 
 
 ** Perhaps — once — But who is he ?" 
 
 " Willomer he is called, and he is thought — 
 But why have you quarrelled with poor 
 Amyas V 
 
 " Poor Amyas ! now that is reason enough. 
 Who could love any one, whom one might call 
 poor 7* 
 
 " Yet pity is said to be a step towards lov- 
 ing. 1 ' 
 
 " Not for me," said Rachel seriously ; " I 
 could love the man I feared ; but he who 
 stoops and weeps, and woos in trembling, is no 
 suitor for Rachel CTMahon. I have some of 
 the spirit of my sires."
 
 140 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " What wild, unruly fellows they must have 
 been, Rachel !" 
 
 " They were chiefs and warriors all, Anasta- 
 sia. Princes once, and outlaws since ; now " 
 
 " Come, Rachel, your good father will give 
 us enough of this mood — let us be girls, gay 
 happy girls, and talk of hearts and fortunes. 
 You no longer care for cousin Amyas.'" 
 
 " No,"" was the reply, in a tone of lightsome 
 caprice, that precluded, in such a case, all doubt 
 of its sincerity. 
 
 " You cannot deny that you did ?" 
 
 " As a friend and playmate. But I am so 
 changed, Anastasia, within a little time, that 
 I scarcely know myself. When Amyas used to 
 be with us, so kind, and so good, and so mild, 
 1 thought it cruel not to care for him, at least 
 not to tell him so ; and so I allowed myself 
 to dream of cottages, and of a life still and 
 humble as my dream ; but now " 
 
 " What now, girl ?" 
 
 " Now I dream of courts and warriors, 
 
 plumes and lances, a stirring, proud life, a . 
 
 I wish I was as tall as you are, Anastasia."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 141 
 
 " O my troth ! you have more lofty thoughts ; 
 and the warriors you speak of, are they in coats 
 of mail, or in simple buff and scarlet ? You 
 blush indignant at the thought, do you? WeJl, 
 'tis of some Jacobite chief, some Tory of the 
 hills, that you are ideally enamoured ?" 
 
 " Don't mention those horrid Rapparees. 
 What does the heart of a girl care for Wil- 
 liamite and Jacobite differences?" 
 
 " But the daughter of O'Mahon, with all the 
 
 spirit of her sires, as she boasts " 
 
 " Must wear their feuds and prejudices, - " 
 said Rachel, her spirit somewhat dashed. 
 
 ** Now hear me, Rachel," commenced Miss 
 Burton, with a counsel-giving, grave expression 
 of face. M You do not know these men. their 
 falsity, their arts; their very point of pride is 
 in deceiving woman. It is the vanity of this 
 day, as valour was at one time, public spirit at 
 another; but now that swords are sheathed, 
 and patriotism grown a stale enthusiasm, to 
 win woman's favour, and cheat her of her 
 peace, if not her virtue, has become the sole 
 aim of a modern hero. You may smile in con-
 
 142 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 tempt, Rachel, and disbelief; but remember I 
 warn you — this Willomer — but speak of him 
 and he comes. 1 ' 
 
 The Chef and Willomer here joined the 
 young ladies. The Aireach had insisted on his 
 visitors awaiting the afternoon's repast, an offer 
 which Willomer with some hesitation accepted. 
 But as Ignatius professed himself more than 
 sceptical of any friendship not consolidated by 
 partaking of the same bowl, the Major, whose 
 errand was peace and friendship, was compelled 
 to await the fit time and ceremonies. Hereto 
 the Aireach pleaded the necessity of consulting 
 Ursula, heretofore known to the reader as old 
 Shulah ; and upon the hint, Roger and the 
 Major abandoned the Aireach to the care of 
 swelling to a more than ordinary scale his hos- 
 pitable provisions. 
 
 Roger O'Mahon, offering his arm to Anas- 
 tasia, and having been induced, after a delay of 
 ten minutes' courtesy and reluctance, to apply 
 his hat to the covering of his head, proposed 
 that they should walk to the fort. There is
 
 CORRAMAHON. 143 
 
 always some such local lion about country 
 places, be they cottages or chateaus. That 
 mentioned by the Chef was traditionally known 
 to the inhabitants of the country as a Danish 
 fort ; and truly it might have been at first 
 formed, and its surrounding ditch thrown up, 
 by a small encampment of these Northerns. 
 Subsequently, a building had been erected in 
 its precincts, with more, however, of the ap- 
 pearance of a chapel than of a fort or castle ; 
 and the little green mounds into which the sur- 
 face of the sward around was broken, that part 
 of it at least clear of thorns and briars, caused 
 it still more to resemble an old place of worship 
 with its surrounding cemetery. The Chej^s old 
 recollection enabled him to account for this by 
 the circumstance that the robbers, the Tories 
 or Rapparees of the country, oft excommuni- 
 cated by the priesthood for their atrocities, were 
 here accustomed to bury their slain or dead. 
 Further information on that head, Roger omit- 
 ted to communicate, viz. that the O'Mahons of 
 old ruled an immense horde of these parti zans,
 
 144 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 were then, and even now, looked upon by them 
 as their true chiefs; though the quiet temper 
 of Ignatius had made him break off all inter- 
 course with them. There were more circum- 
 stances connected with the fort, that also re- 
 quired circumspection on the part of the CheJ 
 in alluding to them ; yet he was so frank and 
 simple, that but for the difficulty and hesitation 
 with which he now spoke his native tongue, he 
 would have acted the sincere and eager Cice- 
 rone in unburdening himself of all he knew, or 
 could guess at. As he was launching forth, 
 however, and beginning to expatiate at full, the 
 eyes of Rachel met his with a warning expres- 
 sion, and were in the instant after turned upon 
 the striking uniform of the English soldier. 
 Roger was somewhat embarrassed by this recall 
 to prudence ; he saw the blunder of having 
 proposed the Danish fort of Corramahon to the 
 visit of strangers. Obliged to make the best 
 of it now, he drew Anastasia's arm within his, 
 and turning the dialogue on the Court of Lewis 
 the Fourteenth, he led the way to the fort, re- 
 solved to touch upon it as a topic, or linger
 
 CORRAMAHON. 145 
 
 around it as an object of curiosity as little, and 
 for as short a time as might be. 
 
 Major Willomer allowed the Chefs speed to 
 outstrip his on this promenade of pleasure, de- 
 termined not to lose so favourable and oppor- 
 tunity of pressing his suit with the pretty Ra- 
 chel. As her light trip accompanied his heavier 
 pace, he cast down a reconnoitring glance ere 
 he commenced. He saw enough to reassure 
 him. The young creature's cheek was glowing; 
 her eyes, uncertain where to fix, shunned even 
 the ground, lest a downcast look might be 
 thought to betray her bashfulness and confusion ; 
 her arm even, that gently pressed him onward 
 to rejoin her uncle, trembled as it pressed. 
 She had none of the useful arts, the assumed 
 ease, the self command of society. Rachel 
 knew nought of life, but that she loved; and 
 the consciousness perplexed her. 
 
 " Kind Heaven, be thanked !" commenced 
 Willomer, " I have met you at last, Rachel 
 CMahon, alone and in your native grove." 
 No answer came. *' What a weary world it is, 
 so full of lets, cares, crosses and obstacles, that 
 
 VOL. i. H
 
 146 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 a man hath exhausted all his wit in getting a 
 word with his mistress, and hath none left to 
 prompt that word. If you knew half the de- 
 vices I have made use of to see you." 
 
 " Why, why are they necessary p™ asked Ra- 
 chel. 
 
 " Why askest thou, proud daughter of an 
 Irish chief ? How should I expect my sword 
 and feather to he saluted, if they ventured 
 without pretext or protection hither ?" 
 
 " Surely, my uncle would have protected 
 you, for he was about to embrace you but 
 now,"" replied Rachel, recovering her mirth and 
 malice, as she recovered from her confusion ; 
 " and, moreover, he has been expecting you 
 these very many days past." 
 
 " If I knew he was the same — if I had a 
 conception that he. was your uncle, may I be 
 made ashamed." 
 
 " It was kind, however, your coming at last ; 
 or rather Miss Burton's coming to visit him.™ 
 
 These covert reproaches delighted Willomer, 
 and he took full advantage of them by appear- 
 ing hurt, and assuming a serious tone.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 147 
 
 M Do you, can you be so cruel as to doubt 
 my passion ? — no, that were impossible : but to 
 mock it V 
 
 Rachel was again silent. She did not know 
 what to expect from the altered tone. 
 
 " Behold me then, divine creature, 1 ' cried 
 Wiliomcr in the Quixotic language of the gal- 
 lantry of that day, and bending at the same 
 time on his knee ; " behold me prostrate, an 
 humble slave and adorer. I pour out my whole 
 heart at your feet, and only crave a smile to 
 
 re-assure it." 
 
 " My uncle and Anastasia will return," cried 
 
 Rachel, pleased and terrified. 
 
 " Hence will I not stir," continued Willomer, 
 extravagantly acting the well-known courtship- 
 scene of many of our old comedies, and pour- 
 ing forth all the protestations of that insincere 
 and hyperbolical age. 
 
 To Rachel all this was, as Willomer reckoned, 
 most delicious and intoxicating. Hitherto she 
 had received but the rustic compliments of the 
 Aireach's rude, however well-born, visitors, or 
 Amvas's mute glances and smothered sighs. 
 H 2
 
 148 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Both were a species of homage that she de- 
 spised. But now a lover kneeled before her, a 
 man and a warrior, one who knew court-lan- 
 guage, and who wooed in courtly guise. She 
 felt elevated, and filled with queenly thoughts. 
 Such a man her slave ! She felt love at the 
 moment for Willomer ; but it was a sentiment 
 corrupted, not dignified by pride. She even 
 owned it ; and Willomer pressed the lovely crea- 
 ture an instant in his embrace. The quick 
 and high spirit of the girl forbade any further 
 liberty, that the licentious man of fashion and 
 of the world might have attempted. They 
 continued their walk, absorbed in silence, she 
 so full of happiness as to preclude utterance, 
 and he affecting the same tenderness and obli- 
 vion. 
 
 The Chef and Anastasia had in the mean 
 time reached the fort, and the latter, who was 
 already prepared to regard the place with as 
 much fear as anxiety, was alarmed at hearing 
 the sound of human voices issue from its pre- 
 cincts. Roger himself was somewhat perplexed ; 
 but as he had at the time several very good
 
 CORRAMAHON. 149 
 
 reasons, which forbade him to betray any fear, 
 he observed, that it was the custom for the 
 labourers at times to retire thither in order to 
 take their mid-day meal. The voices, however, 
 did not corroborate this explanation, as one of 
 them at least bore no mark of the rudeness of a 
 peasant's tongue ; it was that, on the contrary, 
 of a well-nurtured person, with a foreign accent, 
 which, with an increase of feebleness and age, 
 resembled Roger's own. The following is the 
 dialogue, of which they caught but snatches. 
 
 " Peste, Master Ulique, on your impatience ! 
 we must wait the signal. You know not what 
 Saxons may be prowling about Corramahon.'" 
 
 " What should the Sassenach do in the man- 
 sion of the Ai reach. 
 
 " What do ? eh, Seigneur ! — what do— save 
 harry and levy, hunt outlaws, Master Ulique, 
 and over-sea priests. The safety of the Lord 
 be about us ! what do!— raise a third of O'Ma- 
 hon's rents for O'Mahon's protestant son." 
 
 " The renegade ! my skene shall be acquaint- 
 ed with his heart's blood." 
 
 " What he merits, Master Ulique ; and Rome
 
 150 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 •would absolve thee for the deed ; that is, might, 
 upon consideration. 11 
 
 " She hath a wide conscience, Rome; but 
 none in her consideration. It cost Macmu- 
 roucrh a thousand Jacobuses to be assoiled for 
 dealing his brothers death-blow, — a thousand 
 Jacobuses of solid gold; yet he whom he slew 
 was a Cromwellian and a traitor. Ye have 
 raised the price of blood upon us sorely, Master 
 Churchman, and unless robbery thrives with us 
 Rapparees, we must e'en die out of the Church's 
 pale." 
 
 " You would die, as ye have lived, O'More. 
 Thou art half Lutheran to rail at the price 
 of indulgences. They are dog-cheap for the 
 times. Heaven has grown deaf, I tell thee, 
 with listening to the world's enormities, and 
 prayers are no longer heard as they were 
 wont. 1 ' 
 
 " Is it even so," said the young Rapparee, 
 satisfied with the reason assigned by the priest 
 as the cause of the rise in the spiritual 
 wares.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 151 
 
 The churchman seemed not to wish that 
 his disciple should dwell upon his argument, 
 for he said immediately, " And you propose 
 to commence the wooing of the sister by the 
 slaughter of the brother, do you ?" 
 
 " By the body of all the saints, it were after 
 a proper fashion ! A daughter of her blood 
 should wear me in her heart for the deed. But 
 
 these are degenerate days." 
 
 il Ahir exclaimed the churchman, "that is 
 true as prophecy. 1 ' 
 
 Whilst the involuntary listeners stood in 
 amazement at the little they heard or com- 
 prehended of this dialogue, the Chef vr as uncer- 
 tain whether to retire at once from the spot, or 
 continue to gratify their curiosity, and so lull 
 by affecting indifference any suspicion that 
 might be awakened in his companion. Ere he 
 could decide, another and a better known voice 
 broke upon them from the other side of the 
 fort land, though it was vented in under 
 breath. 
 
 " Your reverence !" 
 " All is well, Ursule ?"
 
 152 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " No faix, isn't well, a bit of it ! You must 
 be close, Father," said Shulah. 
 
 " How, what !" and several hurried interro- 
 gatories burst from the inmates of the fort. 
 
 " Whisht ! the Inglishes are about the 
 Corrali." 
 
 " What Inglishers f" eagerly demanded the 
 younger voice. 
 
 " Them Burtons, — agra, whosever you be 
 that's keeping company with his riverence, — 
 them Burtons, and more beside." 
 
 " What are they doing here ?" 
 
 " Yourself knows as much as myself; — 
 there's a red coat among 'em." 
 
 " Treason ! by Saint Patrick," exclaimed 
 Ulich, as he started up to begone. The eccle- 
 siastic seemed to attempt to retain or at least 
 to dissuade him from going. 
 
 " Nay," said he, " another day I will seek 
 the Aireach. And if it be for me they come, 
 I had rather encounter my enemy upon the 
 heath, than be dug out of a hole like a crouch- 
 ing fox." So saying, he sprung upwards, and 
 started, like an apparition, before the eyes of
 
 CORRAMAHON. 153 
 
 the Chef and Anastasia. He himself, however, 
 was by far the most astonished. 
 
 The figure of Ulick O'More was fine, mus- 
 cular, and martial, his height exaggerated by 
 the mantle that enwrapped him. The pride 
 of the high-born chieftain was mingled in his 
 countenance with the recklessness and ferocity 
 of the outlaw. He wore the latter expression, 
 however, in expectation of meeting with an 
 enemy. When his eyes fell upon the fair form 
 of Anastasia, the air of the outlaw disap- 
 peared ; that of the chieftain was called up 
 and assumed. He paused a moment, and re- 
 garded in admiration the haughty seeming 
 beauty of Anastasia. 
 
 " This must be the daughter of O'Mahon, 1 ' 
 thought he. Then advancing and doffing his 
 cap in a most courteous salutation — " Fair 
 daughter of a most noble race," quoth he, 
 " Ulick O'More presents thee with his ho- 
 rn age. " 
 
 Anastasia, who had recovered from her tear, 
 and who was amused as well as surprised by a 
 salutation so novel to her, thanked the stranger 
 ii 5
 
 154 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 for his courtesy, and in return informed the 
 Rapparee, of whose name and fame at least she 
 was not ignorant, that " one of her Majesty's 
 officers was approaching, and at the time near 
 them." 
 
 " Then we are comrades," quoth Ulick, 
 •' since, methinks, I am entitled to assume what 
 rank I please in King James's army." 
 
 " The lady spoke of Queen Anne's," observed 
 the Chef. 
 
 " An enemy is as welcome to Ulick as ■ 
 friend, often more so," said the outlaw know- 
 ingly, casting his eye down the wood never- 
 theless. 
 
 " Your presence, Sir, at any other time wel- 
 come, will for the moment be likely to bring 
 trouble upon Corramahon, 11 said the Chef in 
 some perplexity. 
 
 " There was a time that Corramahon did not 
 shrink from troubles in a good cause ; but the 
 hare, it seems, has couched in the old wolf's 
 den. There was a time, Roger CTMahon — 
 your tongue bespeaks you — one of your name 
 would not have come of an errand from the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 155 
 
 French king, without seeking counsel of an 
 O'More." 
 
 " You mistake the purport of my visit to the 
 land of my forefathers," replied the Chef. 
 
 " If I do, I trow, whose is the shame ? 
 O'More presses on no man's secret. Lady, I 
 kiss your hand." 
 
 The outlaw, seizing the hand of Anastasia, 
 whose surprise did not admit of resistance, im- 
 printed on it the salute that he spoke. Then 
 replacing his cap, he sprung, like a stag, over 
 the enclosure, and was soon lost in the recesses 
 of the surrounding wood. Willomer and Ra- 
 chel came up at the instant, and no doubt it 
 was a glimpse of his uniform, caught through 
 the trees, that had decided the abrupt departure 
 of Ulick. 
 
 Anastasia and the Chef were both perplexed ; 
 especially as the latter had uttered to his com- 
 panion an hurried prohibition to mention what 
 she had witnessed. Fortunately, Rachel was 
 as unfit to endure observation as to prosecute 
 impertinent inquiries; and as the girls beheld 
 the flushed cheeks of each other, the one au-
 
 156 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 gured that the other had at least been listen- 
 ing to a declaration of love. Anastasia, we have 
 seen, was right in such conjecture ; but Ra- 
 chel, though she so construed appearances, 
 could not help wondering at the activity of her 
 uncle in making such speedy progress. 
 
 " My uncle hath not been to France in vain," 
 thought she ; " and yet he looks confused, 
 whilst Willomer is at his ease. Can he love, 
 and be so calm ? My heart's as if it had lost its 
 place, my cheek burns. 
 
 Willomer was engaged in surveying the fort, 
 and coolly making remarks to his companions, 
 whose confusion he saw, but affected not to 
 notice, when Shulah made her appearance. 
 
 " Then it's here I find you !" exclaimed 
 the old woman, reproaching the Chefs want 
 of prudence. " My blessing's on you, Roger 
 O'Mahon, you've left some of your wit ayond 
 sea !" 
 
 Roger, however, was in no mood to be either 
 bantered or reproached. The freedom of the 
 old domestic jarred with his natural sense of 
 dignity and professional love of etiquette.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 157 
 
 " Spare us your observations, Ursula, 1 ' said 
 he, " and let us know your errand." 
 
 " Arrand, honey ! troth then 'twas a goose- 
 chace, and sure enough I catched you. Would 
 nothing sarve you, but prying into the foort ?" 
 
 u Now don't be angry, Shulah, 11 said Rachel. 
 " Uncle meant no offence to the fairies ; nor did 
 he know the good people haunted here. 1 ' 1 
 
 " on witch and fairy,"" exclaimed Roger. 
 
 " Ye've said it now in troth, Master Roger. 
 I wouldn't give a groat for your luck atwixt 
 this and Hollentide. And now, gentles, your 
 dinner's ready." 
 
 " ' To it with what appetite we may,' she 
 would add, were she but Shakspeare read, 11 
 said Willomer. " What an invaluable old 
 angry original you have got here, Rachel ! 
 The Irish, I remark, are always facetious in 
 their resentments." 
 
 " Not always," said Rachel ; " for my good 
 uncle is now approaching the one feeling with 
 very little symptom of the other. 11 
 
 "There you go, Master Yellow-and- Red," 
 soliloquized Shulah, " colloguing with Rachel
 
 158 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 O'Mahon; — it's maybe we'd be the spoiling of 
 your sport." 
 
 There are some folks who are happy only at 
 the head of a table, — there alone may be said to 
 flourish and exist. Place them at the side, or 
 even as a guest, and they are ciphers. At the 
 head they are monarchs: hospitality is their 
 element. Ignatius O'Mahon was one of these. 
 Seen in the morning, as the party had surprised 
 him, he was languid, idea-less, confused. It 
 seemed as if his spirits had wandered beyond his 
 reach, and that his presence of mind had gone 
 in search of them. There was then neither 
 dignity nor life about the Aireach. 
 
 Now, however, he presided at the board: — 
 simple oak it was, interminable, and flanked by 
 a number of guests, retainers, and domestics, 
 that made Willomer, and even the Chef him- 
 self, stare with surprise. The Aireach had long 
 since given a jtte in honour of his brother's 
 return, the description of which we then spared 
 our readers, aware that events of the kind were 
 such natural and common occurrences at Corra- 
 mahon, that the course of our narrative would
 
 CORRAMAIION. 159 
 
 soon overtake a similar one. At this, however, 
 solemn and joyous as was the cause of the 
 gathering and the banquet, there was scarcely 
 a larger assemblage of feasters, although there 
 might have been a greater number of more 
 respectable. His fellow-nationals were too well 
 acquainted with the dignity of the Aireach, as 
 well as with the curtailed means of supporting 
 the same, to permit his vanity to exaggerate his 
 preparations, or to swell his train beyond its 
 scanty reality. To meet the eyes of an English 
 soldier, however, and of a daughter of the rival 
 house of Palestine, there was need of every ex- 
 ertion in order to be imposing. Hence, though 
 two hours had been the utmost space allowed for 
 preparations, such activity had been displayed, 
 that every neighbour within a league around 
 had poured in, and more than one larder had 
 been trespassed upon in the shape of a loan to 
 supply the ample feast. 
 
 It was like magic, that crowded hall that 
 rung and smoked, which a short time since the 
 guests had traversed desolate and empty, not 
 even a single domestic appearing at their call,
 
 160 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 whilst now at the call of the viands more than 
 a score showed every sign of life and gladness. 
 
 As usual, all, lord and servant, took place at 
 the table, the upper part of which was covered 
 with a variegated and neat matting, still the 
 dinner-table covering in many parts of Europe. 
 The better order of guests first sat down, those 
 of the lower benches awaiting the nod of the 
 Ai reach, ere they took a similar liberty. 
 
 Who so happy as Ignatius? He was no 
 longer the bloated, the lethargic occupant of a 
 chimney-corner. His form grew erect, his grey 
 eye glistened, the forms, the politeness, the ex- 
 ertions of hospitality bestowed grace and dig- 
 nity to his movements. His intellect was even 
 brightened by the excitement, and his discourse 
 wanted neither aptness nor wit. Willomer re- 
 pressed his rising inclination to amuse Miss 
 Burton bv some very fine and covert raillery, 
 which the rudeness of host and guest seemed at 
 first to promise scope for. Anastasia felt her- 
 self in as aristocratic a presence, as though Sir 
 Christopher entertained an Anglo-Hibernian 
 grandee j and the Chef looked with pride and
 
 CORRAMAHON. 161 
 
 submission to his brother, as to a commanding 
 officer. Ignatius was every inch a chieftain. 
 
 Gay, mingled, desultory, inspirative of amity 
 and good humour, was the converse that min- 
 gled with the clatter of feeding weapons — the 
 knives, such as they were, and were wielded, 
 deserve no better name — and the ringing of gob- 
 lets. And the din was greater and more con- 
 fusing, as the chamber of banquet was by no 
 means the lofty feudal hall, but a low, naked 
 apartment, whose extreme length increased the 
 seeming pettiness of its height. Huge beams 
 of shillelah oak, weighty enough, one would 
 think, to crush the walls on which they were 
 laid as rafters, protruded out from the ceiling, 
 and stretched so low as to bear thick marks of 
 the steam of the viands, and the smoke of the 
 torches, which were wont to illume many a 
 night carouse. 
 
 " Major Willomer, I pledge thee, 1 ' said the 
 Aireach, " welcome to the O'Mahons' board — 
 my brother's friend, gentlemen, v ' added he, 
 turning to more than one gloomy countenance. 
 
 " Roger (TMahon's friend P drank several.
 
 162 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 and Willomer replied by an obeisance. One 
 was heard to utter, 
 
 " Well, here's health to the Hanoverian, any- 
 how ; thof it's not the challenge Ignatius O'Ma- 
 hon 'ud ha' given him a score of years back." 1 
 
 "And that we know, Dermid," said the 
 Aireach. " That's a truth does not require a 
 wry face to strengthen it. Blows were meat and 
 drink to us then, and a stomach-full we both 
 got and gave. There is a time for all things." 
 
 " Then it 's what I 'm hoping after," said 
 Dermid, " that there is ; for we've been asleep 
 these twenty years, and not o' the softest sleep 
 neither ; and if the time, as your own self says, 
 would but come agin for a bit of a row, it 'ud 
 do us all the good in the world." 
 
 Numerous were the winks, shoves, pulls, 
 hems, coughs, and other warning exclamations, 
 which sought to put a check to Dermid's impru- 
 dent tongue. But as in the eagerness of his thirst 
 he had mistaken whiskey for pure lymph, he 
 replied by a knowing look, " that he knew what 
 he was about." 
 
 " And what reasons, my good Sir, have
 
 CORRAMAIION. 163 
 
 you to be discontented ?" asked Major Wil- 
 lomer, wishing to propitiate goodwill by frank- 
 ness. 
 
 "In troth, then, Master Major, I'll not be 
 after keeping you till the morrow morn with 
 my rasons, forby you may read them as you 
 ride, plain as the nose on my face. Or there 's 
 Nadus O'Mahon will tell you a story or two, 
 and, maybe, Sir Kit Burton's dochter would 
 help him." 
 
 " That is not the question, my good Der- 
 mid," joined in the Chef \ " but what would 
 you gain by your wished-for troubles ?" 
 
 " Something sure, when there's nought to 
 lose," replied the small proprietor, or better 
 sort of farmer, a race unfortunately since lost 
 to Ireland ; " it 'ud bring the soldiers in at any 
 rate, and they 'd ate our lane cattle, maybe, 
 that rot on our hands, now that they won't let 
 us send 'em abroad. They might rise the 
 markets a bit too, and a fanner might put a 
 plough in his land ; whiles now, from Kilkinny 
 castle to Bagatrot, what 's to be seen the long 
 road, barrin pasture and praties, praties and
 
 164 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 pasture. By and by, there '11 be nauthing but 
 praties, and then we '11 be a blessed herd of 
 swine." 
 
 " You forget, Dermid," said the Chef, " that 
 the wars you wish to recall were what made 
 potato-planting, and potato-eating prevalent, as 
 the only crop that the passage of an army or a 
 troop of marauders could not destroy.' 1 
 
 " Thou repinest, Dermid, like one of thine 
 own oxen," said Ignatius, who felt himself ob- 
 liged to put down with dignity the surliness of 
 his guest ; " not at the yoke thou sufferest, but 
 at the lack of provender in thy trough." 
 
 " Even so, Aireach," retorted Dermid ; " let 
 the Chieftain's crest rise up against disgrace, the 
 poor hath enemy enough to combat in hunger." 
 
 A murmur of somewhat like applause ensued, 
 as cups and medders rattled to represent such 
 amongst the lower benches, and Ignatius felt 
 for an instant the justice of the exculpation and 
 reproof. Nevertheless he rallied, and bade 
 Dermid " take a deeper draught to cure his 
 spleen." " We will win in peace," added he, 
 " what we never gained in war. If all that I
 
 CORRAMAHON. 165 
 
 hear be true, we shall live to kiss a Stuart's hand 
 as sovereign once more, though, shame be on 
 me, if the race deserve it. 11 
 
 " You depend on little Bolingbroke P' 1 quoth 
 Willomer. 
 
 " That do I," cried the frank Ignatius, 
 " and upon a mightier man than St. John." 
 " The French King ?" 
 
 " Troth," said Dermid, " you don't seem to 
 to have more gumption nor myself.' 1 
 
 " I speak no secret. Neither hand nor 
 thought of mine can aid." 
 
 " Stirring times are welcome," said Amyas 
 Burton, breaking from a silence and a reverie, 
 that he had preserved during the feast. 
 
 " They are dealers in bearskins, Mr. O'Ma- 
 hon," said the Major, " believe me, who tell 
 that story ; I have just returned from England, 
 and there was not a syllable of it believed at 
 White's." 
 
 " Whites or Blacks — 'tis whispered in the 
 country-side," said Ignatius. " The truth, that 
 rises troubled at its source, grows clear as it 
 descends the streams."
 
 166 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " By my own soul, then, Tin sorry for it,'' 
 quoth the discontended Dennid. 
 
 " Sorrow ! why the queen of the fairies could 
 not gladden thee : for what reason, Derraid V 
 
 u Why, that your good news, as you call it, 
 your Jacobite hopes and prophecies are come 
 to end in nothing, save bringing down the 
 Whigs upon us. They love an excuse, the 
 persecutors. And no sooner does a flame, ay ! 
 or a spark leap up beyond sea, but down they 
 come, dragoons with their swords, lawyers with 
 their parchment, and justices with proclama- 
 tions, all upon poor Pat. Hang the priot:-. 
 shoot the papists, root out the rebels, is the crv 
 just as we begin to look about us." 
 
 " Dermid, my man,'" said Ignatius, " you are 
 as wet a blanket as ever dripped on a green 
 hedge, to shade it from the sun. You don't 
 take kindly to the liquor.'" 
 
 Thus converse flowed freely, and as freely 
 
 with it the whiskey and the claret. Ana>t 
 
 and Rachel had long since escaped. The minor 
 
 ts had retired to the kitchen, where their 
 
 own peculiar topics might be discussed, and
 
 CORRAMAHON. 167 
 
 their jests passed without jarring and inter- 
 rupting the laugh and argument of their bet- 
 ters. These seemed to increase their convi- 
 viality as their number narrowed. Willomer 
 was as gay a blood as ever struck cane on the 
 pavement of Bow-street ; drank chocolate at 
 White's, talked criticism at Will's, or politics 
 at St. James's. Then he could diversify the 
 fashionable jargon of such places, which was 
 scarcely appreciated by his present companions, 
 by campaigning anecdotes, for each of which 
 the C/iej' was sure to find a pendant. In fine, 
 Dermid even had forgotten his discontent ; and 
 Roger broke upon his abstemious habits more 
 sensibly than he had hitherto ventured. So 
 mingled were the company, and so aware of 
 their want of harmony in many respects, 
 that party and bigotry were softened down by 
 a sense of politeness ; and each toast was a con- 
 cession, rather than a pledge of hate. 
 
 The levellers, however, were seated on gun- 
 powder. A spark might change their cordi- 
 ality to flame and scatter it abroad. " Amity 
 betwixt the houses of Corramahon and Pales-
 
 168 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 tine," was proposed by Major Willomer. Ig- 
 natius was silent ; he had not made up his 
 mind how to answer such a proposal, whether 
 he could pledge such a wish. When Dermid 
 seemed to second it, crying, " Amity ! ay, 
 amity and union ; for myself is much mistaken 
 if I did not see Garret O'Mahon sneaking this 
 very evening, hang\l dog as he is ! to Palestine." 1 
 
 With this word, the spark indeed left the 
 flint. " Thou art an over-sour bit of leaven, 
 Master Dermid,'" said the Chef. " Let us 
 break up the party ." 
 
 Ignatius had flung the brimming goblet from 
 his lips ; and giving vent to every smothered 
 portion of resentment, that good feeling had 
 been long repressing, but at the same time 
 gathering, he burst into a dreadful anathema, 
 of which wine and anger formed the joint and 
 powerful inspiration. 
 
 But we will spare the reader all the furious 
 and hurried exaggeration of an Irish curse.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 169 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Previous to the departure of the Burtons 
 and Major Willorner from Corramahon, which, 
 owing to the Aireach's awakened passion 
 had been somewhat abrupt, Amyas had crav- 
 ed an interview with Rachel. She could 
 not refuse. She thought, too, an explanation 
 to be somewhat necessary betwixt them ; and 
 although that necessity gave her pain, she 
 resolved to be frank, at least, if she could not 
 be generous or constant to her ancient lover. 
 She therefore, without hesitation, appointed the 
 morrow. 
 
 The place fixed on by them was a little 
 flower-garden, which had been improved to de- 
 serve such name by their joint care. It had 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 been the spot most frequented by the playmates, 
 and most replete with their boyish and girlish 
 recollections. Some of them could not fail to 
 strike and sadden the breast of Rachel, even 
 occupied as it now was with a full and master- 
 passion. Most insecure of the happiness which 
 this held forth, she was about to abandon those 
 lesser and less warm hopes, which still she felt 
 had made the happiness of many a youthful 
 day ; but there was no regret on her own ac- 
 count, though such ideas must flit past. All 
 the pangs that she herself might feel, did not 
 weigh with or oppress her ; it was the pang 
 which she was about to inflict that turned its 
 edge towards her, and hurt her commiserating 
 spirit. She wished the cruel meeting over. She 
 blamed her silly eagerness that had mistaken 
 the first gleam of predilection and friendship 
 for the full and all-illuming sunshine of love. 
 She regretted that she could not call the passion 
 with which the English soldier had inspired 
 her, her jirst love. There was a charm, a sa- 
 credness about that word, and the idea that 
 it expressed, with which, let her flight as she
 
 CORRAMAHON. 171 
 
 would her intimacy with Amyas, she felt that 
 she could never invest her present feelings. 
 " It is the true, however," thought she, u if 
 not the first ; and by it I will abide." 
 
 At the moment, Amyas came in sight, and 
 strange, her uncle accompanied the youth. 
 They were engaged in conversation. She dread- 
 ed some treachery on the part of Amyas, and 
 was about to retire, when Roger O'Mahon quit- 
 ted the youth, who continued his course towards 
 the place of appointment. 
 
 As he approached and saluted her, she could 
 not avoid being struck by his altered appear- 
 ance and demeanour. Instead of the boyish, 
 simple, smiling figure, wont to bound towards 
 and gambol around her, when in spirits, or 
 which, when piqued or offended, would shrink 
 downcast away, he now paced erect and manly. 
 His countenance wore no smile, nor yet frown 
 or resentment. It was calm, and even noble. 
 Determination spoke in his glance ; and more- 
 over, a character capable of supporting such 
 now became manifest in him for the first time. 
 His lip might quiver as he drew near, and 
 I 2
 
 172 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 perhaps it was the contrast betwixt such slight 
 symptoms of feeling, and the calm and firmness 
 of his whole deportment, that constituted the 
 nobleness which surprised and even awed Ra- 
 chel. 
 
 The girl had made up her mind to hear re- 
 proaches, and moreover to bear with them ; but 
 the first calm words of Amyas were, " Dear 
 Rachel, it was kind of you to grant me this 
 interview." 
 
 " Kind ! Amyas ? Alas ! can you forgive me 
 so far as to say so, and to feel it ?" 
 
 " Our hearts are not our own, nor in our own 
 guidance. Let your affections wander where 
 they will, my regrets will ever be accompanied 
 with a prayer for your happiness. For the 
 past, I have but to thank your friendship for 
 the dream, the idle dream, that made you 
 mine. 1 ' 
 
 I know not the reason, nor how it was, that 
 Rachel was not altogether pleased at this calm, 
 this mildness in her admirer. She had expected 
 fury, with alternate supplication, and threats, 
 and reproaches ; not that these could have given
 
 CORRAMAHON. 173 
 
 her pleasure, nevertheless their absence cer- 
 tainly piqued her somewhat. 
 
 " I am sure, Amyas," said she, " I am glad 
 you take every thing right — that — that you 
 show no resentment." 
 
 " I am but an insignificant boy, not manly 
 enough to be selfish." He spoke the word in 
 a tone of ironic bitterness. '* Should I prove 
 my love by troubling the happiness of her I love ? 
 No, Rachel, I have no resentment." 
 
 " You make me happy by the assurance- 
 Yet, what right had I to think otherwise, or to 
 suppose that either of us, happening to form 
 new intimacies, could disturb our old and child- 
 ish friendship?" 
 
 " Cast no slur upon the past, I pray ; to me, 
 at least, it is sacred. I loved you, love you 
 still, Rachel, and would lay down my life to 
 prove it. Do not reproach me with want of 
 affection, because I want resentment. It is my 
 nature to be mild, and to suffer patiently, 
 though proudly — my fate, too, may be the 
 same. Think well of me, at least, now that I 
 am about to bid you farewell."
 
 174 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Farewell ! Amyas ? you are surely not 
 about to leave the country P" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " It is a hasty resolve, and may be regretted. 
 Can we not still be neighbours, and forget all of 
 our childish folly that exceeded friendship." 
 
 " You may, Rachel, as you have ; but I never 
 can. Would you have me wait, and " 
 
 The countenance of Amyas changed as his 
 utterance stopped, and assumed an expression 
 that Rachel had thought impossible to it — one 
 of concentrated passion, fury, and despair. 
 This lasted but a moment, however ; and tran- 
 quillity was re-assumed, though every quiver- 
 ing nerve belied it. 
 
 " No, no V continued he ; " here we part. 
 My sad and reproachful countenance shall no 
 longer haunt you, or come to mar pleasurable 
 thoughts ; for you could scarcely avoid pitying 
 Amyas." 
 
 "You make me wretched," said Rachel, 
 shedding tears. The short glimpse of Amyas 
 Burton's features, whilst they were distorted 
 with passion had wrought more upon her than
 
 CORRAMAHON. 175 
 
 his air and words of generous and self-denying 
 calm. She there saw the wrong she had caused, 
 and felt the pang she had inflicted. 
 
 " I have been silly, selfish," 1 cried she; "yet, 
 a mere girl, what could I have known, what 
 foreseen ? I have exchanged a childish fancy 
 for a woman's feeling ; as you will, Amyas, for 
 a more manly one, and for a worthier object.'" 
 
 Amyas shook his head. " You love Willo- 
 mer, then ?" asked he, as a person certain of 
 his fate requires to be made more deadlily 
 sure. 
 
 " I have told him so," breathed Rachel, 
 looking downwards. 
 
 The answer put all the generous self-con- 
 straint of Amyas to the proof. But he mastered 
 equally the weakness and the ebullition of his 
 spirit, although his throat was choked with the 
 fullness of both. " Farewell !" was the sole 
 word with which he could trust his utterance. 
 Seizing Rachel's hand he pressed his lips upon 
 it for the first time, perhaps, and for the last. 
 In a few minutes Rachel was alone in the little 
 garden, absorbed in feelings, which, though not
 
 176 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 without a certain counterpoise of happier ones, 
 were still more sad and more bitter than her 
 young days had as yet experienced. 
 
 Her reverie had lasted long, sad as it was ; for 
 she could not shake it off, when the appearance 
 of her uncle by Rachel's side effectually roused 
 her. 
 
 " Come, Rachel, we will be friends," said 
 the Chef. " I was inclined to quarrel with thee, 
 as a flighty little personage, and perhaps did 
 begin to scold a little ; but you will forgive me 
 now." 
 
 " And why now, uncle ?" 
 
 " Why, now that I perceive you to be veri- 
 tably sage, and capable, young as you are, of 
 quashing resolutely the hopes of a silly boy — 
 my faith! I was about to say, lover." 
 
 " And why not say lover, good uncle ? Is 
 it a crime to have had one ?" 
 
 " At your age, Mademoiselle, a folly. 11 Ra- 
 chel here stood erect, and shook her already 
 luxuriant tresses with the pride of incipient 
 womanhood. " In my mind," continued 
 Ro ff er "
 
 UORRAMAHON. 177 
 
 "It would be no folly to fall in love at your 
 age." 
 
 " Hey-day, impertinent ! what take you me 
 for F» 
 
 " For a dear, good uncle," cried Rachel, 
 blushing with shame at her own impudence, 
 and placing her hands upon the Chefs cheeks 
 in playfulness, at once to excuse herself and 
 hide her awkward feeling. " For a dear, good 
 uncle, who must not be too curious about me. 
 I have been ever free as the wind, swaying, 
 not swayed." 
 
 " Youth, my girl," said the forgiving Roger, 
 "is a path along a precipice, which beauty 
 should never pursue without a guide." 
 
 " Mine is no giddy head. I walk steadily ; 
 and the interference of a guide might trouble it. 
 Besides, my dear uncle, we are mates, we are 
 contemporaries/' 
 
 '• How so, young head, that art not giddy ?" 
 
 " We follow the same path, do we not ? Our 
 hopes, are they not similar, our feelings? — " 
 
 " Let us see, child, what are thine?" 
 
 " Hark \ v exclaimed Rachel, u there are Sir 
 i 5
 
 178 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Christopher's hounds. What an inspiriting 
 cry ! Let us run to the fort-moat, and we 
 shall have a full view. Do run, uncle." And 
 Roger, obedient to his niece's word, followed 
 her example and speed, which indeed the rest 
 of the household sallied out to follow also. 
 Even Ignatius himself hobbled forth to see the 
 occasion of the stir. 
 
 " There they go ! the stag has just cleared 
 Palestine woods, and sweeps down towards the 
 valley. He bounds, not runs, a furlong at every 
 spring." 
 
 " Myself pities the baste," observed Shulah 
 from behind, her withered arm stretched across 
 her brow : " to a sneaking fox one could say 
 halloo with pleasure ; but them poor deer, that 
 Sir Kit has shut up for his hunts, the priest 
 tells they cry, the cratures — all as one of 
 usselves, an like, that the Orangers 'ud be hunt- 
 ing ; and myself has seen that same afore 
 now." 
 
 "It is cowardly sport," said Ignatius ; 
 " twenty dogs upon a deer. A brace of wolf- 
 dogs and the hunter's skene, the game might 
 face, and die with honour, as honour there
 
 CORRAMAHON. 179 
 
 would be also in the slaying. What is yon 
 rout more than galloping up and down a mall '?" 
 
 " Talk as you will, Ignatius, that cry to me 
 is as fine as a trumpet sounding the charge. 
 Ho ! you, saddle me my gray," cried Roger, 
 to an open-mouthed domestic. 
 
 " And me my pad," cried Rachel. 
 
 " Ybu will not join yon Orange sport, 
 Roger ?"' said Ignatius. 
 
 " That will I. When last I heard the hunt- 
 ing-horn, it was the woods of Fontainbleau 
 that echoed to the sound, and the courtiers of 
 the Great Lewis that joined the cry. Was that 
 Orange ? By Saint Denis, I will show the 
 Williamites the paces of a Jacobite charger. - " 
 
 " And will be ready to take ten pounds value 
 for him, if he be first at the death ?" 
 
 " Go ! Sir Christopher is a generous old 
 knight. If he would not see me wronged in 
 the town-street, he will not surely in the hunt- 
 ing-field. You, Rachel, had better not venture, 
 however."" 
 
 " Mind your nag, uncle. I see Anastasia's 
 habit yonder, and must e'en have a word with 
 her, if you mean to have a whisper."
 
 180 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Brother Roger," said Ignatius, " recollect 
 we have been informed that Garret O'Mahon is 
 at Palestine." 
 
 u I do not go to Palestine," said the Chef. 
 " And yet I should like to face the renegade. 
 An honest frown might make him falter in his 
 baseness." 
 
 " He has not shrunk from incurring a father's 
 curse." 
 
 " You will pardon him, if I bring him back 
 a supplicant." 
 
 " Let him supplicate Holy Church, and 
 come a penitent to her whom he hath denied,'' 
 said Ignatius, at once waving his opposition to 
 his brother's visiting Palestine ; for the parent's 
 last hope revived within him. 
 
 The Chef and Rachel had by this time 
 mounted. Their fresh and impatient horses 
 soon bore them to the scene of joyous tumult ; 
 and the peering eyes of the beholders from 
 the old fort of Corramahon soon ceased to dis- 
 tinguish them amongst the crowd of pursuers. 
 Amongst them, however, they were soon no- 
 ticed, and by no means with welcome. Party
 
 CORRAMAHON. 181 
 
 and religious bigotry were even there to poison 
 the naturally frank and generous feelings of the 
 sporting-field. In the minds of the squirealty, 
 small and great, who followed the chace, the 
 Papists were a degraded race, which, neverthe- 
 less, they felt compelled to fear and to hate, 
 far more than to contemn. They knew that 
 the degradation under which the Catholics 
 suffered was merely the work of law and sta- 
 tute, and that these once evaded, the naturally 
 superior claims of the said papists to respect, 
 both as more ancient of birth and more power- 
 ful in right throughout the land, would cast 
 them into the second place. And therefore the 
 ruling Williamites regarded the least infringe- 
 ment of the penal statutes in favour of their 
 enemies, as endangering at once their su- 
 premacy, their dignity, and safety. The aim 
 of the Protestant party was to elevate them- 
 selves into the gentry of the nation, and at the 
 same time to sink the Catholics into the serfs, 
 as the Normans did with regard to the Anglo- 
 Saxons, and as the Francs had served the Gauls. 
 The means by which the modern and self-en-
 
 182 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 titled conquerors of Ireland attempted this was 
 borrowed, as well as the policy itself, from those 
 remote times. Then, the possession of a horse 
 was the characteristic of the noble : the gentry 
 were equestrian, the base-born, pedestrian. And 
 on this principle was introduced the law, which 
 forbade to the use of Catholics any steed that 
 could be applied to nobler uses than agriculture. 
 This was one of the many modes, one too per- 
 fectly in unison with those chivalric principles 
 on which modern gentility is founded, that 
 was put in force not more than a century back 
 to reduce the Roman Catholics of Ireland to 
 Helotism. 
 
 As the use of fire-arms was at the same time 
 denied them, they were excluded from all means 
 of rural and gentle amusement. And for fear, 
 it may be supposed, lest this prohibition from 
 manly exercises should have the effect of turn- 
 ing the attention of the degraded caste to the 
 cultivation of their minds, education, either 
 abroad or at home, was by other edicts as ex- 
 pressly denied them. The natural consequences 
 were, that Catholic youths became, in many
 
 CORRAMAHON. 183 
 
 instances, such mean wretches as the heir of 
 CMahon, or else, if holding still to honesty and 
 to their native pride, they united these to an 
 ignorance, a narrowness, and a want of cultiva- 
 tion that rendered them barbarous, and tar- 
 nished even the national virtues. If the perse- 
 cuted thus degenerated, the persecutors did no 
 less so. If mean submission, or barbarous vin- 
 dictiveness was the eternal lesson which circum- 
 stances instilled into those, inhumanity and 
 bigotry and prejudice were, by the same cir- 
 cumstances, blended with the characters of 
 these. For history establishes no truth more 
 fully than this, that slavery debrutes the en- 
 slaver as much as the enslaved, and that the 
 forger of fetters alway sinks morally to the rank 
 of him whom he compels to wear them. 
 
 The reader may from hence conjecture the 
 feelings with which the apparition of a Catholic 
 gentlemen, well mounted, in the liun ting- field, 
 produced in the breasts of the greater part of 
 those who beheld him. The bigotry that had 
 assailed Roger in the Dublin coffee-house was 
 mild in proportion. Despite of this, the Chef's
 
 184 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 gallant grey, Saint Gris, as he called him, swept 
 on amongst the foremost, and without being in 
 the least conscious of disqualification for sport 
 on the part of him or his master, soon led the 
 way. This changed many a cry, cheering to 
 the hounds, or triumphant to self, into curses 
 upon the Popish horse ; and none vented bit- 
 terer of the kind, than young Kit Burton, the 
 heir of Palestine. Not so the old knight him- 
 self, who welcomed loudly both the Chef and 
 Saint Gris ; and his jovial salutation poured 
 forth in the breathlessness of the chace, silenced 
 the murmurings of more than half the field. 
 
 Were this the pen of Beckford, or were it 
 inspired by his experience and enthusiasm, to 
 utter a worthy apostrophe to the glories of the 
 chace, here should be its place. But the joy- 
 ous sport, which, in reality, is ever new, ever 
 exciting, and never palling, has become passing 
 common-place in description. Hound and horn 
 have resounded too widely and loudly in verse, 
 to be for the present listened to in prose ; and 
 so, the reader is spared the enumeration of 
 hill and dale, bourne and wood, and of many a
 
 CORRAMAHON. 185 
 
 high-sounding town-land, hurried over by the 
 game and its pursuers. Even the death was 
 achieved without any incident worthy of being 
 recorded in the annals of sport ; and, save that 
 Roger CTMahon and the Knight of Palestine 
 found themselves arrive together, and alone, at 
 the poor deer's catastrophe, nought else oc- 
 curred worth dwelling upon. 
 
 Cordial greetings passed betwixt the two. 
 
 " 'Foregad !" quoth the Knight, " Master 
 M'Crosky is as well read in horse-flesh as in 
 law. He knew the worth of the gray steed, 
 when he attempted to entrap him. 11 
 
 " He is a jot, perhaps, the worse for wear, 11 
 replied the Chef] "but what is left of him is 
 staunch and true. 11 
 
 " We shall have some trouble though, on the 
 score of his creed. 11 
 
 " My horse's creed I 11 said Roger. 
 
 " Ay, Sir, ay. My brother sportsmen are 
 jealous already of the Papist brute. He must 
 recant, Major CTMahon, or rein in. 11 
 
 " He is open to conviction. 11 
 
 " I'll be sworn he is, ha, ha ! — would prick
 
 186 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 his ears, like more orthodox creatures, to his 
 feed, eh ! But here come the stragglers. We 
 will defy them, Major O'Mahon. You must to 
 Palestine with us." 
 
 " Would it not be more wise for me," said 
 Roger, " and for Saint Gris, to abandon the 
 field, since we excite envy ?" 
 
 " By Saint George ! I will protect your gal- 
 lant Saint there against the host. I should like 
 to see who would wag his tongue against Sir 
 Christopher, or against Sir Christopher's guest." 
 
 " I have been used to depend upon mine own 
 rapier, and upon fair courtesy, in all quarrels." 
 
 " Why, then, o' my troth, the one would 
 have enough to do, and with but trifling aid 
 from the other, in this case. But come, be my 
 guest frankly, Roger O'Mahon, you and your 
 fair niece, for this afternoon. Fellows at the 
 chace should be fellows at the board. If you 
 retreat, these squires will not stop to swear 
 you feared them." 
 
 " Well, here's with you, Sir Christopher. 
 There is a guest, too, I understand, at Pales- 
 tine, whom I would see and speak a word with."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 187 
 
 u What, Garret, your nephew ? He should 
 be here. I mounted him upon my own old 
 roan. But he shrunk, like a finican fellow, 
 from the first topping fence." 
 
 " He is faint of heart, then, though not in 
 evil purposes." 
 
 The Knight made no reply. 
 
 " Sir Christopher Burton," exclaimed Roger, 
 ** permit me to ask of you, how one, whom I 
 behold so frank and generous, can countenance 
 that boy in his impiety ?" 
 
 " Me, Sir ! You would quarrel with me, 
 would you ? It were a wise act on your part, I 
 trow," replied Sir Christopher, with a feeling of 
 irritation, that nevertheless he mastered. " I do 
 not countenance him. I think him as down- 
 right a sneak as ever turned steed from the 
 chace, and the hounds in cry. But what am I 
 to do, Sir ? We must support our interest, 
 we must support ascendancy, we must — But 
 I '11 tell you what, Major O'Mahon, you must 
 speak to Lady Burton on this score." 
 
 11 Lady Burton !" repeated Roger, who was 
 not of the most quick-sighted.
 
 188 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 But by this time the owners of jaded and 
 lagging steeds had come up, and the Knight was 
 checked for the moment in his vein of frank- 
 ness. Here ensued the usual course of congra- 
 tulations, regrets, clamours, and rural criticism, 
 that happen on such occasions. The knowing 
 ones took a view of Saint Gris, and less steadily 
 of his master. The Knight of Palestine has- 
 tened to obviate any expressions of hostility or 
 ill-humour, by introducing Major CMahon to 
 the principal amongst his brother-sportsmen. 
 Rachel, too, was recognized and admired ; and 
 after a time, the cavalcade proceeded in dis- 
 persed groups or couples to Palestine, where 
 the banquet awaited them. 
 
 In these groups, as may be supposed, was 
 discussed, with much heat, and for the most 
 part with blame, the unaccountable leaning 
 and liberality (the word was then, as it is now, 
 accompanied with a sneer) shown by Sir Chris- 
 topher to the brother of CTMahon. It was 
 looked upon as a dereliction of duty, a deser- 
 tion of party, an act of treason, in short, of the 
 most dangerous and damnable kind. An union
 
 CORRAMAHON. 189 
 
 betwixt Garret O'Mahon, the renegade son 
 of Corramahon, and Anastasia was, 'tis true, 
 talked of in the country. It was approved 
 also. But the necessity of stooping on that 
 account to conciliate a degraded family, was 
 by no means seen. It was wrong ; it was suspi- 
 cious, especially at a period when the partizans 
 of the House of Stuart were every where re- 
 kindling their long-dormant hopes of re-esta- 
 blishment, and were busied in forming plans 
 founded upon the favour, supposed or real, 
 of the then reigning Queen and her ministry. 
 
 As Roger O'Mahon approached Palestine, he 
 had now, for the first time, the opportunity of 
 scanning it with impartial view. In his young 
 days he had been accustomed to behold and 
 consider it as a robber's den of somewhat supe- 
 rior fabric to the caves of the Ilapparees. And 
 even since his return, he had taken of it the 
 partial glance which a vista in the surround- 
 ing woods allowed, with feelings that differed 
 little in kind from his ancient ones. The gene- 
 rosity and frankness of its present possessor 
 had, however, propitiated the hereditary hate
 
 190 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 of the Chef; and it was now more " in sorrow 
 than in anger," that the latter contemplated 
 the proud castle of the stranger ; for so he 
 would still have called the descendant of the 
 knight-adventurer, rearing itself upon the family 
 domain of the O'Mahons. 
 
 The building, indeed, looked conscious of 
 intrusion, and wore more the appearance of a 
 frontier fortress than a lord's peaceable abode. 
 It was towered, and battlemented, surrounded 
 with a fosse; and, although it could boast nei- 
 ther drawbridge nor portcullis, yet the grand 
 portal was blocked up with masonry, and the 
 steps and path which led thereto, were both 
 overgrown with grass. The entrance in use 
 was, as O'Mahon soon found, through the high- 
 walled court or yard in the rear, which thus 
 served as an outwork or defence to the man- 
 sion, as well as an enclosure to the manifold 
 offices of the Knight's establishment. The 
 castle itself, unfortunately for its dignity, was 
 chiefly built of brick, now dark and dingy, 
 which gave a perishable and mean air to it, that 
 its imposing extent and lofty battlements could
 
 CORRAMAHON. 191 
 
 not do away with. Those who have visited 
 Herstmonceaux, may imagine this ; they who 
 have seen her grandeur, and age, and solitude, 
 and ivy, though aided by the proudest associa- 
 tions, almost fail in communicating interest to a 
 ruin of brick. 
 
 The Castle of Palestine, nevertheless, did not 
 fail to strike Roger O'Mahon as grand and im- 
 posing. It certainly was surrounded by no very 
 ancient associations, nor to him with any that 
 were inspirative of respect. Full-grown and 
 well-tended woods alone added magnificence to 
 the residence of the Burtons. There was no 
 rude scenery, — not that rocky mount or barren 
 heath were wanting in the vicinity; but all 
 view of such was scrupulously shut out by the 
 English planter, with whom cultivation was evi- 
 dently the first beauty, and wealth the first sen- 
 timent. Ignatius would have openly and out- 
 right scoffed such taste, its pretensions, and the 
 improvements which it operated; but the Chej' 
 had gathered more courtly and civilized ideas, 
 and he saw more to admire than to disapprove. 
 
 Corramahon in the meantime was a hovel,
 
 192 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 compared with Palestine. And the thought 
 could not fail to occur, to occur with pain and 
 a sense of injustice. The Irishman was, how- 
 ever, partly neutralized in Roger into the man 
 of the world, and he parried the unpleasant 
 contrast with a French shrug. At least, thought 
 he, the door of Corramahon, though it be but 
 that of a cabin, is at least an open one. To the 
 poor it stands wide, and to the enemy, for that 
 matter, who cares or who dares to enter it. 
 
 For all his philosophy and worldly hardihood, 
 Roger (TMahon regretted his having consented 
 to become a guest at Palestine. He approached 
 it with unpleasant sensations. The idea of its 
 being usurped from his family, though he had 
 thought the recollection too old, and too worn, 
 to stir his blood at that day, revived neverthe- 
 less, and indisposed him sensibly from looking 
 on Sir Christopher Burton either as an host, or 
 a friend. The Chef felt his equanimity escape 
 from him ; he felt also ill prepared to join a 
 convivial party, composed of the oppressors and 
 open enemies of his race. It was too late, how- 
 ever, to retract or retire.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 193 
 
 Whilst the jaded sportsmen were approaching 
 Palestine, thus diversely engaged in thought 
 and in discourse, Garret O'Mahon, whom the 
 Knight had truly stated to have shrunk from 
 the first moderate fence that crossed his path — 
 want of skill or courage in horsemanship could 
 scarcely be attributed as a crime to one, who so 
 long in his capacity of Catholic was forbidden 
 to be mounted — and so abandoned the chace, 
 was engaged in the withdrawing-room of Pales- 
 tine, paying a courtier's homage, not indeed to 
 Anastasia, but to the lofty dame her mother. 
 
 Lady Burton had been for some time absent 
 from Palestine, visiting her grandee relatives 
 and acquaintance, during which absence her 
 natural hauteur, and the aristocratic and politi- 
 cal intolerance that formed the chief feature in 
 her character, had not diminished. She was a 
 superb woman, accustomed to homage from her 
 youth, and although she was too cold and too 
 prudent to allow such to touch her heart or 
 awaken its passions, she was still of that ambi- 
 tious and stirring temperament, which preferred 
 making use of it for politic purposes. This she 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 considered being high-minded, and to be pos- 
 sessed of lofty views. Had a court been her 
 sphere, she might have aptly played her contem" 
 porary's, the Duchess of Marlborough's, part. 
 In a remote province, her ambition was forced 
 to fly at meaner quarry. Even in the quarrels 
 of Hibernian churches and states, however she 
 might interest herself, she could not arrive at 
 being an active or influential agent. In this she 
 was limited to the mere holding and asserting of 
 opinions. And until the weak and uneducated 
 son of CMahon offered himself to her views, 
 they had remained miserably destitute of any 
 immediate object to exercise them. 
 
 From her then, and from her son, Garret 
 O'Mahon had learned the great advantages the 
 law held out to the son of the Catholic propri- 
 etor, who was willing to embrace the Reformed 
 Faith. No doubt, this was the chief argument 
 made use of to make a convert of the youth ; 
 though a few common-place theological ones 
 were, for form-sake, no doubt added. They 
 were successful. To excuse young O'Mahon
 
 CORRAMAHON. 195 
 
 somewhat, however, and obviate our incredi- 
 bility or horror at filial impiety founded upon 
 mere motives of avarice, it is to be observed, 
 that Garret had been early fascinated with the 
 charms of Anastasia; and it was as the only 
 means of even pretending to her hand, that he 
 had embraced the dominant religion of the day. 
 
 So propitiated, Lady Burton favoured the 
 views of young CTMahon. And although the 
 heart-free Anastasia was of a different opinion, 
 being unable to repress her dislike and con- 
 tempt of the renegade, still her lady-mother 
 was peremptory and confident, and compelled 
 the willing Garret on the one hand to conti- 
 nue his addresses, whilst on the other she forced 
 Anastasia, with whatever ill grace or reluctance, 
 to receive them. 
 
 The mother of Anastasia was now engaged in 
 some lady-like task of the time, knitting or em- 
 broidering. Her protege, Garret O'Mahon, sate 
 on a stool at her feet, enacting page, aiding in 
 her lightly industrious occupation, and listening 
 obsequiously to the novel anecdotes and tidings, 
 interspersed with advice, which her ladyship had 
 K g
 
 196 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 gleaned during the course of her late visits. His 
 back was thus turned towards the door of the 
 apartment at which Sir Christopher Burton and 
 Chef CTMahon entered. They advanced, and the 
 Knight introduced their new guest to his dame. 
 Her surprise at being in a sort compelled to wel- 
 come the Chef de Brigade O'Mahon in her own 
 mansion, was too great to allow of resentment. 
 She merely cast a look of enquiry towards the 
 Knight, and another towards Garret, who, in 
 lieu of responding to it, held down his head 
 in irresolution and dismay. 
 
 " Friendship towards his young relative, I 
 hope, occasions Mr. (D'Hahon's visit hither," 
 said Lady Burton, after the necessary compli- 
 ments. 
 
 " on his young relative," quoth the 
 
 Knight rudely enough, but not more rude than 
 the manners of the day warranted. " Til have 
 none of him. He shrunk from the field, and 
 will never be a man out of it. His uncle, like 
 a staunch fellow, supplied his place, and as he 
 helped me to kill the deer, why I e'en compelled 
 him to come and help to eat him."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 197 
 
 *' Mr. CMahon has lately arrived from 
 France,' 1 said Lady Burton, affecting to be 
 heedless of the Knight. Anastasia had, of course, 
 informed her of the existence and adventure of 
 Roger O'Mahon. 
 
 n It is not many weeks since I embarked 
 on my return from Ushant," replied the 
 Chef. 
 
 " You have then brought the latest new > 
 from the Grande Nation ?" an ironic emphasis 
 upon the word. 
 
 " Would I had been adept enough, Madam, 
 to have imported the new pinners a la Mainte- 
 non, or a robe a la Seminariste. 
 
 " Eh, eh !" said the Knight, " that would be 
 news of the right sort for dames." 
 
 " We are not so frivolously given as your 
 French women, Major CTMahon, I assure you; 
 I alluded to tidings of other importance. I 
 thought you would be likely to know somewhat 
 of the hew hopes and machinations of the Jaco- 
 bites." 
 
 " Considering that I am an old Jacobite," re- 
 plied Roger, "your ladyship hath some reason.
 
 198 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 But to be frank with you, since King James 
 thought proper to abandon me, I have taken 
 very little trouble to enquire for him." 
 
 " By St. George ! now, but that is honest !" 
 said the Knight. " Could all ye Papists begin 
 to think at that rate, we should soon be the 
 best of friends, all of us together." 
 
 " Now, God forbid !" exclaimed the lady, 
 horrified ; " with exceptions, however," said she, 
 correcting her zeal into politeness, — " with ex- 
 ceptions." 
 
 " Man forbids, my Lady Burton, and law 
 forbids, and eke doth selfish policy ; but say 
 not that Heaven forbids us to be brethren, and 
 to live at peace.'" 
 
 " I am glad to find that you are for the con- 
 ciliatory system," said Lady Burton with an ex- 
 pression betwixt a smile and a sneer. " You 
 will have less objection to meet your nephew, 
 and to allow the youth his free judgment in the 
 selection of his principles." 
 
 " I' faith, madam, I should not quarrel with 
 his principles, if their freedom did not extend 
 to the spoliation of his father."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 199 
 
 At this moment Garret stood up, displaying 
 a countenance of mingled blush and pallor, 
 shame and effrontery ; he attempted, but in 
 vain, to speak. 
 
 " Ha ! Sir, you here ! I am your humble 
 servant," said Roger O'Mahon. 
 
 " I must have made an unlucky mistake," 
 said Garret, affecting to recognize his uncle for 
 the first time. 
 
 " But where is my hopeful nephew, Sir 
 Christopher ?" 
 
 " What ! you know him not ?" 
 
 The with drawing-room had by this time fill- 
 ed with guests, amongst whom was Willomer. 
 And as the latter chanced to descry Garret, 
 without perceiving or expecting the presence of 
 his acquaintance the Chef, he came up and re- 
 lieved the younger O'Mahon from his awkward 
 dilemma by a familiar tap on the arm, and 
 a gay accostal, which offered at the same time 
 in its tone an excuse for the Major's flagrant 
 desertion in Lucas's coffee-house. 
 
 " Ha ! Garret O'Mahon, my comrade ! what 
 here so soon ? I thought I had left you
 
 200 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 leading the fashion of your lively metropolis, 
 prime buck of the flags and the Phoenix, and 
 voice potential of the chocolate-house !" 
 
 Garret, who had not the spirit to resent 
 the late abandonment of his friend, especially 
 so gay, well-dressed, and well-commissioned a 
 friend, grasped at the opportunity of escaping 
 from under the contemptuous and solemn glance 
 of Chef O'Mahon. He returned in high and 
 jovial tone the jovial greeting of Willomer, depre- 
 cating, however, at the same time by a monitory 
 glance, any such compliments as those con- 
 veyed in the Major's salutation. In the pre- 
 sence of the Chef they were indeed somewhat 
 ill-timed ; and Willomer himself felt so, when 
 he heard behind him the known French accent 
 of O'Mahon add, — 
 
 " And voice potential of the stage also, eh, 
 Major ? This my nephew ?" continued the Chef. 
 " This Garret O'Mahon, and his familiar 
 friend ? Sir Christopher, Lady Burton, I have 
 to thank you for procuring me the knowledge 
 of these two gentlemen." 
 
 V Chef de Brigade O'Mahon," said Willomer,
 
 CORRAMAHON. '201 
 
 somewhat amazed, " rejoiced to see you — 
 
 you—" 
 
 " Why thank us for introducing you to old 
 
 friends, since such it appears they are?" said 
 
 Lady Burton. 
 
 " In that I see them with new faces." 
 
 The summons to dinner here interrupted, 
 
 though it by no means put an end to the divers 
 
 feelings of surprise, shame, amazement, and 
 
 perplexity which filled the little group. 
 
 K 5
 
 202 CORROMAHON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 This brief and trifling scene had a stupify- 
 ing effect upon Roger O'Mahon. In his nephew 
 he had expected to behold a fickle, forward 
 youth, led by circumstances and ill advice into 
 conduct, the blackness of which he might 
 perhaps blush for in part, and even half repent. 
 But to know him as the coward and the bully ; 
 as one who set himself forward as the very 
 swaggerer of a party, hostile to his name and 
 country ; as the tool too, the despised tool of 
 Willomer, and as having a spirit patiently tole- 
 rant of his contempt : — the mass of degradation 
 linked with the name of O'Mahon sickened him 
 Even crime, though he would have equally 
 abhorred it, would not have been so mortifying, 
 so disgusting. " The reptile !" exclaimed the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 20S 
 
 Chef to himself, as he eyed the wretched Gar- 
 ret affecting mirth and carelessness in passing 
 to the hall, and meeting his sister with the same 
 false tone of imposing gaiety, heartless indeed 
 as affected, but not untroubled with misgivings 
 and fear. Poor Rachel's eyes filled with tears, 
 as the presence of her brother called to her 
 mind either his un worthiness or his absence 
 from home. It was a mingled emotion, perhaps 
 produced both by filial and sisterly affections. 
 Garret, however, had no welcome more frater- 
 nal to offer than to greet her as a " blubbering 
 chit." 
 
 " Reptile !" muttered the Chef " how canst 
 thou have so degenerated ? But ignorance, 
 abandonment, the want of education, that cruel 
 laws enjoin, and the degraded stamp which 
 they impress upon us, must have their effect, 
 must make the proud spirit savage, the weak 
 spirit mean. Then our dispersion, our isolation, 
 kept asunder by the suspicion in which and 
 under which we live ; no school of manner, of 
 chivalry, or of honour remains to us. No court 
 where we can resort, save abroad, and thither
 
 204 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 we are forbidden to have recourse. At home 
 our noble families living secluded and apart, 
 nursing from year to year their poverty and 
 pride, shut out from every career, from arms, 
 from the senate, from the presence and following 
 of the monarch, their traditions of even gentility 
 waxing faint, and themselves condemned to be 
 stationary in an advancing age — tasked to de- 
 fend their birth-right no longer by prowess, by 
 the arts of the loyal and the gentle, but by the 
 shifts and meanness, and double-dealing of the 
 lawyer's hand — struggling, like insects, in the 
 web of chicane, that legal and tyrannic craft has 
 woven round them ; succumbing for the most 
 part without honour ; keeping their properties, 
 without the right to hold them, and even that 
 but on the tenure of falsehood — living but on 
 sufferance, and not allowed even to live, unless 
 they can live degraded — this " 
 
 tw Chef CTMahon," said the Knight, " you 
 do but scant honour to our cheer." 
 
 " He is under a fasting-vow, the craw-thum- 
 per," muttered a guest. 
 
 " He is as much at home as a Jew in a
 
 CORRAMAHON. 205 
 
 pork-shop,'' quoth another. " What brought 
 him here ?" 
 
 " A Jacobite spy," was replied in the same 
 under-tone ; " one of the Corramahon brood, 
 just returned from Rome.'" 
 
 O'Mahon, who of course heard but the 
 Knight's observation, made some suitable excuse, 
 but could not interrupt the current of his 
 reflections. The banqueting hall of Palestine 
 offered some contrast with that of Corramahon, 
 and considering the history of both families and 
 their family properties, not a pleasant one. 
 The lordly splendour of the present scene made 
 the undecked and unadorned abundance of the 
 house of Ignatius appear more mean. The 
 guests too, notwithstanding the boisterousness 
 of some sporting gentry, seemed of a higher 
 order, the topics of more gentle kind. Lady 
 Burton had just returned from the society 
 of the vice- regal court, then presided over by 
 that accomplished and travelled personage, the 
 Duke of Shrewsbury. And thence the subjects 
 introduced and descanted on, though far more 
 trivial perhaps than those discussed at Corrama-
 
 206 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 hon, seemed to Roger more courtly and refined. 
 The mere tone too, given to the conversation, 
 appeared to him more worthy of the high-born 
 and the noble. Even this advantage was owing 
 to unjust ascendancy and oppression ; and the 
 Chef felt this in every point, not only as a man 
 but as a gentleman ; not only as a citizen, but 
 as one accustomed to social pleasures and so- 
 cial refinement. 
 
 Much, however, as these reflections mortified 
 Roger O'Mahon, as a Roman Catholic, and as 
 the member of an old Irish family, it was 
 evident that personally they did not apply to 
 him ; that there was an exception in his favour, 
 and that his foreign education, rank, and breed- 
 ing, had set him fully on a par with, if not 
 rendered him superior in social grade to, the 
 most cultivated of the ascendancy gentry. 
 Lady Burton herself soon discovered this, as 
 her daughter Anastasia had discovered before. 
 And in consequence, the envious members of 
 the Orange Squirealty were doomed to remark, 
 that the Knight's lady, haughty as she was, 
 and true blue, still showed herself as attentive
 
 CORRAMAHON. 207 
 
 and liberal to the Irish-French officer, as Sir 
 Christopher himself had been. 
 
 This manifest change, which took place in the 
 sentiments and conduct of the lady of the 
 mansion, was the most important event of the 
 banquet. It annoyed, indeed, not a few of the 
 guests ; and utterly spoiled the appetite of 
 Master Garret. It was therefore with a per- 
 sonal feeling of resentment, that at the termina- 
 tion of the feast, the famed toast of " The 
 pious, glorious, and immortal memory of the 
 great and good King William," with all its 
 appendages, was given by a squire of stentorian 
 power, and with the permission of Sir Chris- 
 topher, who, in respect to his guest, delegated 
 the giving of this obnoxious but indispensable 
 toast to another. The Chefs equanimity, how- 
 ever, disappointed many. He scarcely knew 
 the toast as a party-pledge, but receiving it as 
 honouring the memory of a gallant soldier, a 
 generous enemy, a tolerant and magnanimous 
 monarch, he drank it with all the enthusiasm 
 of his neighbours, and fortunately without un- 
 derstanding the unmeaning gibberish which,
 
 208 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 with characteristic wit, the Orange gentry had 
 appended to it. 
 
 " He takes the test, 1 ' observed one. 
 
 " He is the more a Jesuit," quoth another. 
 
 Owing to the unusual presence of such a 
 guest as Chef O'Mahon in that society, and to 
 the ideas that such a circumstance awoke, it 
 was impossible to keep the conversation free 
 from those party topics, which at the moment 
 filled every thought. The Knight made vari- 
 ous attempts to discuss the chace, the merits of 
 divers dogs, and of different steeds, — in vain, 
 — interest lay deeper. And unable to prevent 
 the discussion of Catholic and Jacobite views, 
 Protestant fears and suspicions, Sir Christopher 
 was obliged to assume the part of moderator, 
 which it would require all his influence to do 
 effectually. He was aided, however, by the im- 
 perturbable self-possession of Roger O'Mahon. 
 
 The French king and the Tory ministry 
 bore the first brunt of the indignation and fears 
 of the Hibernian politicians. Lord Shrewsbury 
 next, as a trimmer and a conciliator, was more 
 hateful than an open enemy. Sir Constantine
 
 CORRAMAHON. 209 
 
 Phipps, and the foes of " that race of conquer- 
 ors," the corporation of Dublin, came in next 
 for their share of obloquy and anathema. The 
 Chef did not shrink from joining in the war of 
 words, and from setting right some of the gross 
 blunders of the company touching the French 
 king. He even advocated the cause and cha- 
 racter of that hated personage, as indeed in 
 duty bound, since he had found him a gracious 
 master. But in this he was opposed and over- 
 borne by Sir Christopher himself, who, with 
 true English feeling, stated all the ills which the 
 country had suffered from French interference, 
 and from the bigotry and meddling of Lewis. 
 
 " Not the least ill," said the Knight, " which 
 your Grand Monarquc has entailed on this 
 country is her Penal Laws, and the necessity 
 for them." 
 
 Against this the Chef exclaimed. But Sir 
 Christopher continued, asserting, " That but 
 for the cruelty and bigotry displayed by Lewis 
 the Fourteenth, the representative, as it were, 
 of Catholic power, against the French Protes- 
 tants in his dragunnades, and his Revocation of
 
 210 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 the Edict of Nantes, — the English or Anglo- 
 Irish legislature never could have retaliated, as 
 they have done, upon the Catholics of their 
 country by a code of persecutions tantamount." 
 
 " You will allow," said the Chef, " that 
 Titus Oates preceded the Revocation of the 
 Nantes' Edict, as did your Test Laws ? Lewis 
 might call his cruelty retaliation, if he deigned 
 to excuse it, with still more reason." 
 
 " Nay, but you cannot at all compare the 
 persecution of the ruling powers of the two 
 countries." 
 
 " And why not?" 
 
 " In one, cruelty and persecution, founded 
 upon a breach of faith towards several mil- 
 lions of people, of whom there could be no 
 serious jealousy, no political fear, — who were as 
 peaceable and as quiet subjects as monarch 
 could desire — and for which there could be no 
 motive assigned, save that of satisfying the in- 
 tolerant scruples of one bigot mind. 1 ' 
 
 " In the other ?" 
 
 " In the other, cruelty and persecution, if 
 you will, towards ."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 211 
 
 " Forget not the breach of faith," inter- 
 rupted the Chef. 
 
 u Towards a large body of people, but of 
 whom we, an equally large body, have every 
 right to be jealous, every reason to distrust, 
 and from whom we, as well as the Government, 
 have every cause to fear hostility, not only 
 against our creed, but against our liberties, 
 and the existence of the Government." 
 
 " But why compare different specimens of 
 the unjust," asked O'Mahon, "when both are 
 flagrantly so? 1 ' 
 
 " What say you to the expedient ?" 
 
 " Why — that it may have been very expedi- 
 ent for gentlemen adventurers and Protestants, 
 having no lands in their own country, to come 
 and possess ours, upon the title of a purer faith ; 
 and having thus acquired property in injustice, 
 it may be further expedient for them, that we 
 should be oppressed and degraded. Further- 
 more they, or rather their descendants, which 
 are ye, not finding a King to your mind to sup- 
 port you in these doings, it was no doubt ex- 
 pedient for you to find another more obliging.
 
 212 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Meantime, it being not only expedient but ho- 
 nourable and right, for us to take part with our 
 legitimate monarch, we arm against you. Our 
 panic-struck Monarch abandons us in the strug- 
 gle. And ye, thinking it but natural, that we, 
 released from our allegiance, should abandon 
 him in turn, treat with us, still armed and un- 
 subdued men, to yield us, guaranteeing the ob- 
 livion of the past, and the enjoyment of equal 
 rights. Having thus by treaty and fair words 
 disarmed us and broken up our party, it may 
 further seem expedient to you, that we be extir- 
 pated altogether, and taken clean out of your 
 way ; you may make laws to that effect, as you 
 have done. But to openly attempt to palliate 
 that atrocity by merely saying, that it is expe- 
 dient, is what we could not expect from your 
 good sense, however much, in truth, we might 
 expect from your generosity." 
 
 This diatribe called forth divers answers, 
 which it was very capable of receiving, in part 
 at least. While some denied the purpose of 
 extirpation. 
 
 M I like to hear the Papists talk of being
 
 CORRAMAHON. 213 
 
 extirpated," quoth one ; " they who live, and 
 wag their tongues against staunch King's men- 
 Ay, by , and who ride better hunters than 
 
 e'er a loyal man among us." 
 
 This allusion to poor Saint Gris made the 
 Knight and Chef O'Mahon exchange smiles; 
 and that, slight as it was, tended to abate the 
 then mutual warmth, and to restore the balance 
 of good humour. 
 
 " Why," said the Chef, " the only way in 
 which ye can defend your laws is, that they 
 will effect our extirpation. And in this, though 
 they are most atrociously unjust, they do not 
 want sense or aim. Deprive them of this, and 
 they are at once as absurd as they are cruel." 
 
 " You are right, O'Mahon," said Sir Chris- 
 topher, whose opinion, as a Parliament-man, was 
 respected, and looked up to as decisive; " they 
 are intended for the extirpation of the Papists; 
 and I am glad that, as such, you do allow them 
 to have sense, and to have aim. 11 
 
 " Granted and agreed on both sides. And 
 now suppose, Sir Christopher Burton, that de- 
 spite both their cunning and their cruelty, the
 
 214 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 said laws fail of their aim, that instead of ex- 
 tirpating the old religion of Rome, they sink its 
 roots deeper in the soil ; and that instead of 
 diminishing the wealth and numbers of the 
 Papists, their persecution has the effect of in- 
 creasing them. What then?" 
 
 " Then — why, that 's impossible." 
 
 " Suppose it possible." 
 
 " Why then — abolish the penal laws alto- 
 gether, as useless lumber. If they won't do 
 what they are made for, let them go. It does 
 not become a Government or a great nation to 
 be spiteful for spite-sake. And true-blue Pro- 
 testant as I am, confound me, if I could think 
 of keeping the Papist both alive and under 
 for eternity. No, no ; death is mercy to a 
 winged bird. Crush, kill, root out, say I — " 
 
 Here the knight was interrupted by the 
 applauding cheers of his company. 
 
 " Crush, kill, root out," continued he ; " but 
 legally, gentlemen, legally, mind ; all according 
 to statute. I am a magistrate, and must up- 
 hold law. But if we cannot extinguish them,
 
 CORRAMAHON. 215 
 
 why, let them e'en live as one of us, and let us 
 be fair friends." 
 
 Bigoted as were the assembled Williamites, 
 and inveterate as they were against Papists, they 
 were one and all ready to agree in this conces- 
 sion of the Knight's. They founded the justice 
 of their laws in their expediency, in the necessity 
 of extreme measures to extirpate the sect — to 
 cauterize the sore, as it were ; but to keep the 
 searing iron to the joint, after all hope had 
 vanished of its effecting the cure, was a species 
 of idle and gratuitous malice, that even they 
 could not contemplate. 
 
 That was reserved for their descendants. 
 Fortunately the discussion passed without 
 anger. The scene was changed, and the lady- 
 guests made part of it. Drinking was then 
 going out of use, as it has of late, and as in- 
 deed it always has for a certain time after a 
 peace with France. The squires lingered or 
 departed, as they pleased. Lady Burton and 
 some of the elders sate down to a game at
 
 216 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 ombre. Willomer, aided by Miss Burton's spi- 
 nette, sung Lord Dorset's song of 
 
 " To all you ladies now at land, 
 We men at sea indite." 
 
 The Chef quavered an air of Lullfs, which 
 was pronounced infinitely superior to one of the 
 wild native melodies sung blushingly by Rachel. 
 The tide of gaiety seemed to flow uninterrupted. 
 Even the Chef ceased to frown upon Garrett, 
 who in his turn ceased to wince beneath each 
 chance regard of his relative. 
 
 " But where in the world is Amy as all this 
 time ?"" asked the Knight. " He is a moon- 
 struck youth, and dispenses with his dinner at 
 times; but when music sounded, and women's 
 light robes rustled, I have never known him 
 wanting." 
 
 Rachel coloured at this quere, still more 
 deeply as it remained unanswered, and Willo- 
 mer failed not to read her anxiety. Anastasia's 
 glance too was directed towards her in search of 
 the answer respecting Amyas, that no one gave. 
 Rachel was internally reproaching herself at
 
 CORRAMAHON. 217 
 
 the moment for having already forgotten her 
 ancient lover, who, on her account, she now 
 found but too surely had bid adieu to his 
 home and friends. A painful silence ensued, 
 which Willomer was at length obliged to break 
 with some of the light and mirthful chat in 
 which he abounded. 
 
 Devoted as the English officer professed him- 
 self to the daughter of O'Mahon, he still con- 
 tinued in appearance to divide his attentions 
 betwixt her and her friend. Nor was Rachel 
 by any means satisfied with the profound 
 courtesy which her admirer paid to Anastasia. 
 He gave her to understand tacitly, however, 
 some necessity for such dissimulation, and with 
 this she was forced to be contented. 
 
 The Chef, though equally gay, was more 
 reservedly and courteously so than Willomer. 
 There was an air of licentiousness about the 
 English gallant ; a freedom, a dash, that sa- 
 voured of the guard-room and the eofi'ee- 
 house; and this, to the ignorant Kachel, be- 
 tokened a manifest superiority to the more re- 
 fined and more mannered tone of the Chef's 
 
 VOL. i. L
 
 218 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 French politeness. Anastasia saw and distin- 
 guished betwixt them with true taste. She 
 could perceive, that there was feeling as well as 
 courtesy in the Chef ; that he sought to please, 
 not to dazzle ; that his mirth was no effort, and 
 his gallantry no affectation. Above all, she 
 saw that she was admired by him, and worthily ; 
 and what incense can woman require more 
 flattering and grateful ? 
 
 Poor Garret was sadly eclipsed betwixt two 
 such accomplished personages ; and though he 
 endeavoured at every interval of silence to thrust 
 in his share of conversation, yet it betrayed at 
 each attempt such ignorance and mal adresse, 
 that the Chef pitied, and was even ashamed of 
 him. Willomer, indeed, showed an inclination 
 once or twice to draw forth the lout, maugre 
 the possibility of thereby offending Rachel, but 
 Roger O'Mahon stretched the buckler before 
 the unconscious Garret ; and whilst he held 
 Willomers wit at bay, and more than once in- 
 dulged a partial sneer at his expense, he check- 
 ed at the same time his nephew's braggardism,
 
 CORRAMAHON. 219 
 
 covered his silliness, and left his absurdities, if 
 not concealed, at least unexaggerated . 
 
 The evening passed, to Anastasia a delightful 
 one. She was charmed and fascinated ; and, as 
 her own not contemptible powers of wit and 
 conversation were called forth, the sentiments 
 of her and of Chef O'Mahon were reciprocal. 
 Rachel was delighted, but not equally so. She 
 too, had wit, she felt ; but it was paralysed. 
 Her feelings lay too deep, and rose too strong, 
 either to allow of their being expressed, or 
 to permit lighter ones to take their place. 
 She sat silent, and would have been happy, but 
 for the consciousness that so she allowed herself 
 to be eclipsed. Other thoughts, too, troubled 
 her, — the presence of Garret, his inaptness and 
 unworthiness, the evident contempt of Willo- 
 mer for him, and, what as much hurt and per- 
 plexed her, the as evident contempt of the 
 ( hef for Willomer ; for O'Mahon could not 
 avoid bearing in mind the desertion of Garret 
 at the coffee-house affray by his English friend ; 
 and this, joined with their mutual and jovial 
 l 2
 
 220 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 salutation, when they met again in the halls of 
 Palestine, inspired him with pretty similar opi- 
 nions of both. What Willomer's motives were 
 or had been, did not occur to him ; nor did he 
 take the trouble to inquire. Coming from a 
 country where gallantry and its forms made an 
 indispensable part of politeness, and the daily 
 intercourse of society, he saw nothing in the 
 attentions of Willomer towards Rachel, more 
 than the universally-applied gallantry of the 
 man of the world. 
 
 Master Kit had long since retired to his with- 
 drawing-room, the stable ; and Garret O'Mahon, 
 mortified and affronted at being mocked by 
 Willomer, and outrivalled in the good graces 
 of Anastasia by his uncle, his still Papist uncle, 
 had gone off at length in dudgeon to join the 
 company of Kit Burton and his grooms. The 
 ombre-table had broken up ; the Chef and Anas- 
 tasia separated to mingle in the group ; whilst 
 Willomer seized a moment to pour forth more 
 of his ardent vows in the ear of Rachel. 
 
 It was at this instant, when an object of in- 
 terest was wanting to the languid company, that
 
 CORRAMAIION. 221 
 
 one was offered in the sudden re-appearanee of 
 Kit Burton, who, hurrying towards the Knight, 
 delivered to his ear some tidings of importance. 
 Such, at least, they appeared to be ; when Sir 
 Christopher instantly quitted his guests, and 
 his lady soon followed his example. There 
 ensued a buzz, an enquiry, a bustle, as usual 
 upon such an occasion ; and the apparent cause 
 soon arrived by whispers from servants 1 hall to 
 master's, that a special messenger had arrived 
 from the Castle of Dublin. What could it be ? 
 The Queen was dead ? Or the Pretender land- 
 ed ? Or both ? No one could tell. 
 
 We will, however, adjourn at once to the 
 cabinet of the Knight, in order to learn the 
 purport of the important dispatch. Beside Sir 
 Christopher, his lady, and their son, there were 
 present Mr. Attorney and Sub-sheriff M'Crosky, 
 who, hearing in Catherlogh of the arrival of a 
 messenger bound for Palestine, had insisted on 
 accompanying him, being, as he asserted, prime 
 counsellor to the Knight, his man of politics, 
 as well as of private business, without whom 
 nothing could be decided or undertaken.
 
 222 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 The first letter that Sir Christopher opened 
 was marked official. It was directed to the 
 most worshipful, &c, and ran in part as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " I need not acquaint you with the insinua- 
 tions of interested persons, as Avell as with the 
 fears and beliefs of many credulous ones, who 
 fondly suspect her Majesty's ministry of a lean- 
 ing towards the Pretender, and of views and 
 plans towards restoring the exiled family to the 
 throne. These I will not take up your time or 
 my own by delaying to disprove, — his Grace's 
 presence here as Lord Lieutenant ought suffi- 
 ciently to repel them. But I must call to your 
 mind the necessity, not only of opposing such 
 treasonous designs, could they be in the contem- 
 plation of any, but also of allowing such rumours 
 no basis, no fact to lay hold on, no ground to 
 stand upon, especially at the present juncture. 
 It is therefore that I am desired to acquaint you 
 with the divers informations conveyed to Go- 
 vernment touching the late arrival of one Roger 
 O'Mahon, lately in the service of the French
 
 CORRAMAHON. 223 
 
 King, and of that notoriously disaffected family, 
 in whose place and lands the valour of your 
 ancestors have placed you, with the especial task 
 of overlooking and overawing the descendants 
 of the old O'Mahon from using the influence 
 which the state has still left them towards its 
 detriment. 
 
 " I am moreover desired by his Excellency 
 to request you to examine on the spot into the 
 worth of the charges made against the said 
 CTMahon, to join to their consideration his con- 
 duct since his arrival in the country, and to use 
 your own discretion with respect to him, either 
 in allowing him further time and latitude to im- 
 plicate himself and betray his views, or in at 
 once causing his arrest, and sending him priso- 
 ner hither for examination of the Council, and 
 the satisfaction of his Excellency, Sec. 1 ' 
 
 Here followed the signature of the Secretary 
 of State, and with the letter came enclosed the 
 deposition of — the paper fell from the hands 
 of the knight — Garret O'Mahon. It set forth, 
 how the arrival of Roger O 1 Mahon had come 
 to his knowledge, principally by the Jacobite
 
 224 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 vapouring of the latter in a public coffee-house, 
 and that when he took upon him to repel the 
 treasonable assertions, an immediate assault 
 from him was the result. Other sources of in- 
 formation told, that the said Roger O'Mahon was 
 suspected of not being one of those who emi- 
 grated from Limerick, and who from that treaty 
 were so to do, and to experience indulgence on 
 their return. His age seemed rather to indicate 
 that he had emigrated since that, and gone abroad 
 for the purposes of service or education ; which 
 was contrary to statute, and subjected him to 
 heavy penalties. It was known, moreover, that 
 he had been a body-guard of King Lewis, and 
 fought in his war against the English and the 
 States General. And such circumstances af- 
 forded strong presumptions, that the aforesaid 
 was a French and Jacobite emissary sent to 
 communicate with the Rapparees and other 
 wild and disorderly persons in the county of 
 Catherlogh. 
 
 To this was tacked the information of the 
 gunsmith of the Castle-hill in the city of Dub- 
 lin, which tallied precisely with the subject of
 
 GORRAMAHON. 225 
 
 all the former, both as to his identity, his vio- 
 lent character and manner, and his disaffected 
 language. 
 
 Some of the Orange journals had also caught 
 hold of the simple fact of the Chefs return to 
 his native land, had exaggerated its import and 
 consequences in the usual party style, and 
 sounded therein the trumpet of alarm to all the 
 Williamite faction, accusing the English minis- 
 try of treason, and their Irish delegates of su- 
 pineness. 
 
 The letter of the Secretary was merely official. 
 It was accompanied by another epistle marked pri- 
 vate, which went to instruct the person addressed 
 in the true wishes and views of the ruling party. 
 It was not from the Secretary, but from a very 
 leading and important personage, an ecclesiastic 
 too, who, from the manifest and disinterested 
 love that he bore the Church, contrived to med- 
 dle in and direct all things in the state also ; the 
 latter having ever been in the Island of Saints 
 quitea subordinate department and consideration 
 to the former. In England the altar may be a 
 buttress to the throne; in Ireland the throne is 
 l 5
 
 226 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 but a buttress to the altar. The personage 
 in question, though holding no office, no civil 
 office, save a mass of sinecures, dared, neverthe- 
 less, in his simple capacity of privy counsellor, 
 to act as a kind of second and rival secretary of 
 state, if not as a rival chief governor himself. 
 Both aristocracy and magistracy throughout 
 the land were far more obedient to his sug- 
 gestions, than to the official orders that ema- 
 nated from the Castle. Not seldom, indeed, as 
 in the present instance, these were made to 
 bear, within their very envelope, the counter- 
 orders of his irresponsible and very Reverend 
 High Mightiness, always modifying, if not coun- 
 teracting, the wishes of the Government. 
 
 " You know,' 1 wrote this Magnate to the 
 Knight of Palestine, " that the principal wish 
 of our new English officials is, to keep all as 
 quiet with the Jacobites as possible. Thev 
 would have their thrones to be beds of roses. 
 But it is our interest, and Ireland's interest, to 
 stir them. The time is approaching, that they 
 must see is favourable to theirs. That they 
 do see it, and look hither for effectinof some-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 227 
 
 thing, the mission of Lord Auchinlech, who 
 must be somewhere concealed in the country, 
 though we cannot discover his retreat or dis- 
 guise, is a sufficient proof. It is their last 
 chance, and they should be taught to look 
 upon it as such, and be goaded to take advan- 
 tage of it. Without another rising, we shall 
 never get the better of the Papists. They are 
 still too strong, too numerous, too deeply root- 
 ed ; and nothing short of an actual bill of exile, 
 a putting of the cope-stone to the barrier of 
 the Penal Statutes, can put an end to them. 
 Our Parliament, cordial as it is, and honest 
 and amenable as it is, can never be brought 
 to this without some show of reason, some 
 provocation. Could we not provide them with 
 that ? I cannot but believe that an active man 
 in each province, interested in the success of 
 the scheme, could effect it. You understand me. 
 You may let this Irish Frenchman have his 
 rein, with a leash of true beagles at his heels, 
 giving no tongue till he is earthed, and then — 
 You see, I understand sport." 
 
 " P. S. We must have a new L. L., one for
 
 228 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 work, not sport. The feminine gender in po- 
 litics will not do for Ireland. 1 ' 
 
 The latter letter was not so freely communi- 
 cated by the Knight to his counsellors, as was 
 the former. Neither advice nor views were 
 wanting, however. All were sufficiently keen- 
 sighted, and saw the devious track of their 
 interest before them without a clue. The 
 Knight alone was perplexed. 
 
 " Why do they write to me ?" exclaimed he. 
 " I know nothing of all this. Confound the 
 arch-priest, how he orders and lords it! — and 
 his beagles too. Does he take me for Mr. At- 
 torney M'Crosky ?" 
 
 " But Torney M'Crosky at your worship's 
 back, 1 ' said that identical personage : "is it 
 not all the same thing ? Right well myself 
 knew what was coming — that we 'd have to sow 
 a few thorns in the new comer's bed some of 
 these days, and drive him to a breach of the 
 peace, and put the comhither of the law upon 
 him. And what else was I driving at, without 
 e'en a secretary's, or arch-priest's bidding, but 
 by instinct, as a body might say, but this very
 
 CORRAMAHON. 229 
 
 thing? And had your honour's worship but 
 let me have pinned the tall horse from under 
 him, the business would have been done afore 
 it was bidden, and great thanks and mighty 
 words would have been coming down for the 
 same. Mister O'Mahon well spited, for a 
 Papist's blood turns sour in a twinkling, would 
 have been amongst the Rapparees by this time ; 
 and we 'd have been down horse and foot 
 upon the Aireach, as they call him in their 
 lingo, as suspect, and worried and harried, till 
 Corramahon wasn't worth an inian's paring. 
 And your knightly worship might have driven 
 your domain-wall around it, as asy, ay ! as 
 you would your coach and six." 
 
 11 You are always going too far with mat- 
 ters, Mister Sub-sheriff M'Crosky," said Lady 
 Burton. " The heir of Corramahon is Pro- 
 testant, and the land will be ours sufficiently, 
 without a tithe of its value, or rather I should 
 say, a third of it, passing into your legal hands 
 in one shape or another." 
 
 <; Into mine ?" quoth the Attorney- " I am 
 the moderatest man of parchment in Gather-
 
 230 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 logh. I am a man of principle, as any honest 
 true blue man will bear me witness. And it 'fi 
 all for ascendancy I am, and the Burtons for 
 ever — and its up to my neck in the Barrow 
 I 'd go to sarve you, and have " 
 
 " Nay, M'Crosky, 'tis not lack of zeal, 
 but superabundance of it, that I blame in 
 you." 
 
 " Cheer up, my little heart !" said Kit, 
 placing a consoling tap upon the Attorney's 
 back. " Kit Burton will stick by you, if no 
 one else will. Garret may be let alone, and 
 the old boy, Ignatius, for his sake ; but your 
 lofty-wigged Frenchman yonder, what right or 
 claim hath he to protection ?" 
 
 " He is a gentleman bred and spoken," said 
 the Knight, " rides hard, loves a joke, and is 
 worth a dozen squireens, like your comrades 
 of to-day, Kit. He is worth his weight in gold 
 in this savage country." 
 
 " His head may be, anon," quoth the Sub- 
 sheriff. 
 
 " There is truth in what the Knight say-. 
 observed Lady Burton.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 231 
 
 " Then the whole upshot of the business is, 
 you have fallen in love with the Jacobite," 
 said Kit. 
 
 " Me!" said her Ladyship : " you are a rude 
 youth. I but stake an opinion — you may do 
 with him what you will." 
 
 " There can be no harm in keeping a look 
 out," said Sir Christopher ; " but no eaves- 
 dropping, M'Crosky, nothing too close; no 
 hard-mouthed spies ; none, in short, of your 
 especial manoeuvres. He is as honest a Papist 
 as well can be, and shall have fair play, by 
 St. George ! He is a man of the world, I do 
 believe ; one who cares no more than they are 
 worth, for Pope or Pretender. Besides, he hath 
 eaten of my venison and drank of my wine, 
 and I'll stand betwixt him and the damned 
 law — (the Attorney could have crossed him- 
 self,) — ay, though you, M'Crosky, and the 
 Primate himself, should press him. And I 
 shall write my opinion on the subject to the 
 Castle this night." 
 
 " Have a care, Knight," said his Lady. 
 
 " If you want to save the Frenchman, Sir
 
 232 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Christopher," said M'Crosky, " I 'd be after 
 advising you to put another face than that 
 upon it. Say, you '11 keep an eye on him, 
 you'll take care of him, and sorrow a thought 
 will the junta spend upon him. But if you 
 take his part openly, it's yourself you'll be 
 blackening, without whitening of him. And 
 may be the County of Catherlogh might be 
 opening its eyes to a new Custos Rotulorum, 
 or in other words, to a new head-man and 
 magistrate one of these days.' 1 
 
 " They dare not, Sir ; the Duke of Shrews- 
 bury himself durst not ; mark me ! You are 
 impertinent, Sir, to threaten. Besides, I tell 
 you the Secretary^ letter is mild and sensible, 
 and conciliatory enough, and prompts no harsh 
 measures. 1 ' 
 
 " Mighty conciliatory, ay sure, the 'fishal 
 letter. But the other, what does it say, 
 eh r 
 
 " It matters not, Master M'Crosky. I '11 
 be lord in my own barony at any rate. So I 
 say again, keep eyes out, as you will : but 
 hands off. I 1 !! take your advice, however, in
 
 CORRAMAHON. 233 
 
 writing to the Castle. Perhaps you had better 
 stay the night, my good Sub, and see what 
 may be done in the morning. I am but a 
 sad blunderer upon paper." 
 
 " Troth and that's not the silliest word 
 you've said the night ; and as I have a little 
 matter to settle with ould O'Mahon the morrow 
 on Master Garret's account — " 
 
 " What is that, M'Crosky ?" 
 
 " Why the allowance, that we can't get in 
 solid money out of him any how ; natural, 
 seeing he hasn't it> and the country hasn't it. 
 And Master Garret, who wants cash for his 
 slash pocket, won't fash himself with it in kind ; 
 so I must e'en take the corn, and the beeves, 
 and the produce myself, and give value to the 
 heir." 
 
 " Garret is an oaf!"" quoth the Knight, " and 
 thou a Jew, M'Crosky." 
 
 ** A true blue Protestant, every inch, as my 
 father was afore me." 
 
 " False, to my especial knowledge ; for the 
 Enniskilliners hanged him at Leighlin Bridge 
 for a Tory."
 
 234 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " That was a bit of a mistake of the gallant 
 Enniskilliners," pleaded the Attorney. 
 
 " And yet you're ready to make the same 
 mistake, as you call it, with poor CMahon." 
 
 " Sure it's the custom of the counthry, your 
 worship," said the Sub-sheriff with a shrug.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 235 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The danger and imprisonment that menaced 
 Chef O'Mahon, as indeed it did all those called 
 " wild geese," who had emigrated to France be- 
 fore the war, and now returned, though late, 
 to pay a passing visit to their surviving rela- 
 tives and to the land of their birth, was thus 
 averted by the friendly and generous feelings 
 of the Knight of Palestine. This was not a 
 little to Master Kit's mortification, and to that 
 of the Sub-sheriff, who, ere he left Palestine, 
 took an opportunity to turn down a page in 
 the recent volume of the Statutes for the 
 Knight's especial edification. It ran as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " That all magistrates and other persons 
 whatsoever, who knowingly and wilfully neg-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 lect or omit to put the laws to disarm Papists, 
 and to prevent them from keeping serviceable 
 horses, in due execution, are betrayers of the 
 liberties of the kingdom, and enemies to the 
 quiet of the Protestant interest thereof." 
 
 Despite of such hints as these, and such good 
 wishes as they evinced towards the Chef, he 
 continued, as well as Rachel, in passing amity 
 with the family of Palestine. He hunted with 
 the Knight, gave anecdotes and accounts of the 
 court and courtiers of Louis le Grand to the 
 aristocratic Lady Burton, and propitiated even 
 Kit himself by communicating to him the 
 French mode of shooting in battue, now the 
 modern, murderous, and dandy mode of sport. 
 
 Pretexts for gaiety and conviviality are always 
 snatched at in Ireland, and a round of fetes 
 and pleasurable meetings was continued, that 
 kept heads in a turmoil, and hearts in a 
 flutter. 
 
 It was fortunate for Willomer, who carried 
 on his sighings and his wooings, and who, al- 
 ready possessed of the heart of Rachel, pleaded 
 the certainty of the Aireach's rejection of his
 
 CORRAMAHON. 237 
 
 suit with anger, as a Protestant and a Wil- 
 liamite, and wlio therefore proposed divers 
 expedients, which Rachel shrunk from in pru- 
 dence. 
 
 Chef O'Mahon seemed to have made equal 
 progress with Anastasia. Garret at least thought 
 so, and felt so ; for the demeanour of the lady 
 had grown doubly chilling towards him. Ro- 
 ger O'Mahon himself, however, was no strip- 
 ling, likely to be taken with the first glance of 
 a female, however lovely. He was not in the 
 bud, but in the prime of manhood ; and had 
 looked on, and been regarded by, as bright 
 eyes as most youths of his time. 
 
 There was another little event in his history 
 too, that very much disinclined him from that 
 step to which men are ever so willing and so 
 prone, viz. to fall in love. When he had arrived 
 in France, and had been placed by the interest 
 of Lord Lucan in the body-guard of the King, 
 the sudden change from the solitude of Corra- 
 mahon, and the society of serfs or barbarians, 
 to the brilliant and seductive court of Versailles, 
 could not but have its natural effect upon one
 
 238 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 so young. The scene seemed unreal, so bright 
 was it, so happy, so gay ! The metamorphose 
 seemed a dream ; and not the mere perusal, but 
 the fantastic realization of some of the most 
 gorgeous pictures of the Arabian Nights, would 
 scarcely have produced a more bewitching and 
 intoxicating illusion. 
 
 When the imagination is thus heated, the 
 heart is most susceptible, and less guarded from 
 the attack of wild and ambitious passion by 
 the sober whisper of reason. The young Garde, 
 or page, for he was no more, too, shone in all 
 the beauty and health of Irish high birth and 
 rustic breeding. His race and caste had not 
 then sunk, as since, into vulgarity and self- 
 neglect. It was yet the companion of monarchs, 
 and of a monarch's followers; and in the still- 
 upheld balance of parties, the old Irish Catho- 
 lic families had not so utterly sunk into insig- 
 nificance and servitude, as they had since been 
 driven. At least, the effect of this had not 
 time to show itself upon themselves and their 
 children. 
 
 No marvel, then, that bright eyes were at-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 239 
 
 tracted to bestow a passing glance upon young 
 O'Mahon ; less marvel that he should return 
 them ; and that glances so meeting and so 
 exchanged, betwixt the lovely and the young, 
 should call forth mutual blushing, which should 
 serve as little mementos; and thence, recurring 
 to the thought, should be laid hold upon as 
 stuff wherewith fancy might form a hero or a 
 mistress, or whereon she might build a fair fa- 
 bric in the air. 
 
 It was after this manner that the image of 
 Lady Susan Talbot had been impressed upon 
 the vision of young O'Mahon, and had conti- 
 nued the object of his reveries. A year had 
 elapsed and advanced him in growth and ser- 
 vices, ere circumstances allowed him to approach 
 the mistress of his thoughts, to address to her 
 the words of politeness and of gallantry, then 
 and there synonymous. This forced silence 
 and brooding served to stamp deeper the pre- 
 cocious passion of the youth. 
 
 The lady was either a grand-niece or grand- 
 daughter of Lord Tyrconnel, who had been 
 James's favourite, his Lord Lieutenant in Ire-
 
 240 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 land, and his companion in exile. In rank in 
 short, and state, she was a star far above the 
 cadet of a fallen Irish family, a mere body-guard 
 in the service of the French King, who himself 
 had often honoured Lady Susan with his atten- 
 tions and smiles. She was lovely, indeed, as the 
 imagination of youth, for once truth-telling, 
 depicted her to young O'Mahon. In addition 
 to these many and obvious causes of impedi- 
 ment and hopelessness was, that the lady was 
 his elder ; not very many years certainly ; but 
 still as we ascend the hill of life, whereon all 
 look forward, at most on each side of them, 
 but never revert their gaze, a few steps in ad- 
 vance is a greater separation than treble the 
 interval upon life's summit or decline. 
 
 Nevertheless, with the ardour and defiance 
 of either probability or consequence that distin- 
 guishes an Irishman's daring, whether in love 
 or in ambition, the stripling O'Mahon hoped, 
 and dared, and even spoke. 
 
 The latter probably he would not have ven- 
 tured, but upon some provocation, some spark- 
 ling smile, which, though it might have been
 
 CORRAMAHON. 241 
 
 half excited by his audacity, appeared to him, 
 naturally enough, a flattering though not unjust 
 appreciation of his sincerity and warmth. 
 
 The youth was eloquent — he was impassion- 
 ed ; and his earnestness and feeling spoke for 
 him beyond his years. The lady listened, and 
 listened, as she could alone listen to such a 
 suitor, in secret. She was at the moment heart 
 free, and suitor-free, and she replied to the 
 youth's passion with a warmth that satisfied 
 him, and with words that raised him to the 
 paradise of his age. 
 
 To both the hour was sweet — with him it was 
 a lasting sweet. The intoxicating thought of 
 being loved, brought, every hour he pondered 
 longer upon it, still deeper, still more rapturous 
 enthusiasm. With the lovely and mature Lady 
 Susan, it was otherwise. She was of that age, 
 when indeed prudence, mere worldly prudence, 
 that of vanity or ambition, is often sacrificed at 
 the shrine of passion ; but she was also of the 
 rational age and time when passion and all else 
 is sacrificed to a fear of ridicule ; and loving a 
 Iwy was ridiculous. She therefore, having ele- 
 
 VOL. i. M
 
 242 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 vated poor Roger O'Mahon to the fool's para- 
 dise, and having rocked him there a given time 
 to the most luscious of dreams and slumbers, 
 roused him rather abruptly and cruelly from it, 
 by espousing one bright morning, in the chapel 
 of St. Germain, Lord Auchinlech, a young Ja- 
 cobite noble, who had preserved a considerable 
 portion of the wreck of his fortunes, and who 
 was prepared to devote both them and his zeal 
 to the cause of the Stuarts. 
 
 This was a dreadful blow to young O'Mahon, 
 who fell senseless on the news ; was taken with 
 a fever in consequence ; was long confined and 
 in danger ; interested the whole Court when 
 the story became known, and started from his ill- 
 ness with such notoriety, and such a charac- 
 ter for sensibility, that could he have mustered 
 up heart and courage for gallantry afresh, he 
 might certainly have succeeded with the proud- 
 est and the fairest of Versailles. 
 
 Roger CMahon, however, was vastly asham- 
 ed of his thus acquired celebrity. He regretted 
 it, though it advanced him ; for he was instantly 
 appointed to a favoured regiment. Less honour-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 243 
 
 able causes of promotion have been attended to ; 
 but at the same time he felt that it commu- 
 nicated to him an air of burlesque, that he 
 could not shake off. He was too chivalrous to 
 hate the sex ; he, however, all but hated it. He 
 dreaded it, and kept his heart, for a long time 
 after, mailed against all its fascinations. He did 
 not indeed fly society ; the officer of an active 
 corps has neither leisure nor opportunity for 
 misanthropy. He mingled as before, was as 
 gay, was as gallant, and was not the less agree- 
 able, or the less sentimental for the little ordeal 
 he had passed. On the contrary it made him 
 free of many secrets, and gave him a talisman 
 to make his way into the good graces of many ; 
 himself secure, it taught him to extract the 
 sweet, and defy the poison. And without any 
 diabolic purpose of revenging his individual 
 wrongs upon womankind, it is certain that it was 
 his fate, unintentionally, to mortify many, and 
 to inflict on others a portion of what he had him- 
 self been made to feel. 
 
 This habitual disposition still reigned in his 
 breast ; and yet his return to his native land 
 II 2
 
 244 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 had so called forth his more genial feelings, and 
 made them take the start of his acquired and 
 prudential ones, that he certainly at that period 
 felt more disposed to give headlong into affec- 
 tion than since his first unfortunate plunge 
 he had ever been. Life and its circumstances 
 afford these moments of weakness, these mollia 
 tempora, even to the most indurated ; and there 
 are known those who, never having thrown 
 off their prudential armour till their very age, 
 were hit even then by the little God's dart ; 
 so that their wariness hath tended but to a 
 worse discomfiture. 
 
 At this critical time did O'Mahon behold 
 Anastasia Burton, and not without effect. 
 With her, haughty and spoiled, as those who 
 in youth behold but their inferiors, it was a 
 caprice, her desire to cultivate the acquaintance 
 of the Chef, just returned from France, then 
 as still, in part, the fabulous land of fashion 
 and of taste : and no doubt, had she at first 
 felt or foreseen the deep cast that her feelings 
 were about to assume, she would have shrunk 
 from, not sought him.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 245 
 
 O'Mahon himself was held back by other 
 causes than his characteristic dread of woman- 
 kind ; he was reluctant to become the rival 
 of his nephew Garret, contemptible as he was. 
 He was still more reluctant to direct his views 
 towards the daughter of an Orange Aristocrat, 
 who, however liberal, must have reciprocal 
 objections towards a connection with such as 
 O'Mahon ; and to dissemble his views, or veil 
 his addresses, did not suit his principles of 
 honour and independence. Still admiring, 
 therefore, he drew back, set a guard upon 
 his words and actions, enough of his admira- 
 tion escaping to fan the flame kindling in the 
 breast of Anastasia, and yet beset with the 
 alternating cold fits and dissembling, that tend 
 to the same effect through contrary means. 
 
 Garret, however, since the arrival of his ac- 
 complished uncle, had been completely thrown 
 off. He had lost all ground of hope, which ex- 
 isted, though languidly, before. The Knight's 
 and even Lady Burton's favour seemed to have 
 diminished towards him; the change in both 
 dating from the same period, and owing, no
 
 246 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 doubt, to the same cause. Still he was always 
 given to understand that her Ladyship's views, 
 and consequently Sir Christopher's, who would 
 not interfere in these matters, were unchanged 
 with respect to him. This alone restrained him 
 from at once abandoning the field, and yet he 
 only lingered to endure fresh mortifications, to 
 suffer and to render himself worthy of fresh 
 contempt. 
 
 Roger had behaved towards him with every 
 forbearance and friendship; expostulated, rea- 
 soned with him, and though he despaired of re- 
 converting him to the creed of his family and 
 ancestors, a task for which he thought and 
 wrongly thought, that he wanted theological 
 information ; — yet he did all in his power to wean 
 Garret from the company of Major Willomer and 
 other dissipated officers of Lord Deloraine's, 
 whose intentions were evidently to exercise their 
 ingenuity, as wits and sharpers, upon him. 
 
 Garret, however, rejoicing in the feeling of 
 independence that his filial impiety had acquir- 
 ed for him, scorned all counsel, as derogatory to
 
 CORRAMAHON. 247 
 
 it ; and despite of Willomer's first behaviour to 
 him, he eagerly sought his company and friend- 
 ship. Palestine, too, ceased to be an agree- 
 able sojourn ; and Catherlogh-streets became in 
 consequence a more agreeable sphere for the 
 display of his buckism and his pride. A third 
 of the rents of Corramahon were sequestered 
 and paid to the spendthrift; at least such part 
 of said third as M'Crosky did not contrive to 
 intercept in the shape of fees, discount, com- 
 mission, &c. But the sum, whilst its subtrac- 
 tion narrowed the ill-economised means of the 
 Aireach, enabled his son to lord it amongst the 
 provincial beaus of Catherlogh. 
 
 It at the same time rendered him a tempting 
 object of plunder to Willomer and Lord Delo- 
 raine's. He became, indeed, a frequent guest 
 at their mess-table, and even meditated the 
 procuring a commission therein, for the sake of 
 wearing a red coat, and enjoying all its manifold 
 privileges of admiration and swaggering. 
 
 Time, however, is not killed in idle com. 
 pany with impunity. How were wet days and
 
 248 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 tipsy evenings to be got over? Garret soon 
 
 learned 
 
 " to throw the merry main," 
 
 and to such a soul-less being as he, it soon 
 came to render all other pastimes insipid. Wil- 
 lomer, and still more his subalterns, failed not 
 to gratify Master Garret in his propensity; 
 and the final result was such as might be ex- 
 pected, that the son of O'Mahon was soon 
 plucked and pennyless. 
 
 Had the oppressive penal statutes gone but 
 so far as to entitle the converted heir of the 
 Catholic proprietor to one third of his father's 
 revenues, Garret's continued losses would have 
 been a just and perhaps a useful punishment. 
 The law, however, went farther, by declaring 
 the Catholic so situated with respect to a son, 
 who had embraced the Protestant religion, but 
 as holding his interest for life. The property 
 was assured, was entailed, as it were, upon the 
 heir so converted ; and the parent was pro- 
 hibited from either alienating or willing it 
 away. Hence it fell within the unfortunate 
 Garret's power, to raise what money he pleased
 
 CORRAMAHON. 249 
 
 upon these future expectations, that if he lived 
 and remained firm in Protestantism, the law 
 assured to him. But as there was a possi- 
 bility of the latter, as well as of the former, 
 it may be supposed what was the usurious 
 rate at which he raised it in that remote pe- 
 riod, and in that uncivilized and unmonied 
 land. M'Crosky, however, was ready to ad- 
 vance and to oblige ; Lord Deloraine's were 
 not wearied of winning ; and Garret's headlong 
 ardour after ruin did not cease, until he was 
 as poor in the future as in the present, and 
 until Master M'Crosky had laid by, in lieu 
 of his gold, the bonds that were to be to him 
 the title-deeds of Corramahon. 
 
 Garret CTMahon was thus driven gradually 
 to ruin and desperation ; nor was it without 
 misgivings and resolutions of prudence. But 
 as these are seldom of avail, unless when they 
 embrace virtue, as well as self-interest, and as 
 Garret could not bring himself to the step of 
 recurring to his ancient creed and his father's 
 forgiveness, he still stumbled on in his course 
 of dissipation. He was like a shipwrecked 
 M 5
 
 250 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 person struggling with the water, and at in- 
 tervals rousing up all his strength for exertion 
 ere he sunk. One of these fits of his was to 
 seek Anastasia Burton once more, and endea- 
 vour to win from her the assent which was so 
 long delayed. Garret was worked up by the 
 pressing necessity of his situation, and this 
 communicated to him a courage and a manli- 
 ness that he usually wanted. It was too late. 
 Anastasia was inexorable, had now other views, 
 and was prepared to brave even her parents' 
 resentment, rather than leave her unworthy 
 suitor a moment's longer hope. She was, there- 
 fore, peremptory. A scene ensued ; and Gar- 
 ret fled from Palestine in a paroxysm of rage 
 and despair. 
 
 He was ruined, despised, cheated in sub- 
 stance and of peace ; wounded in heart as far 
 as that could be, at least deeply mortified in 
 vanity. He had gained nought by all his 
 crimes, save the dreadful consciousness of them. 
 More than all, his apostasy weighed upon him, 
 as it must fearfully upon all, who, without 
 powerful and well-informed minds, throw off
 
 CORRAMAHON. 251 
 
 the authority of that menacing, and awe-im- 
 posing church, the Catholic. To retrace his 
 steps in this respect could not be done with- 
 out facing his injured parent, and this he 
 wanted courage even to imagine. He could not 
 entertain the idea : — what resource was left 
 him ? as he walked hurriedly from Palestine 
 to Carlow, suicide occurred for the first time 
 to him. 
 
 The example of Amyas Burton, who from 
 disgust and disappointment had betaken him- 
 self to a strange land and foreign service, oc- 
 curred to him, but had no charms to tempt 
 him to imitate it. He was of too dogged a 
 temperament to take vengeance of adversity, 
 by thus flying in her face. The sullen and 
 the selfish termination of his life and woes to- 
 gether, struck him as the better and the nobler 
 remedy ; and the thoughts of it, strange to 
 say, gave a high, a savage, and half-factitious 
 excitement to his spirits. 
 
 He had still, however, somewhat left ; and 
 to stake it at once was his resolve. Fortune, 
 thought he, might turn round to follow me at
 
 252 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 the last. And Garret O'Mahon accordingly 
 betook himself to a kind of club, formed by 
 the gay and the dissipated of the provincial 
 town, the better to kill time, and gain or get 
 rid of each other's money. Here he staked and 
 threw, resolved, if unsuccessful, that it should 
 be for the last time : and Fortune, or the for- 
 tune of gaming, seemed to smile on him at the 
 first ; but it was only as if with sensible mali- 
 ciousness to excite him once more, and thus 
 make the last fall from such hope more con- 
 clusive. He lost all, and fled from the scene, 
 as so many before and since have done, with 
 his mind worked up to the last act of despair. 
 
 His steps were turned to the broad and rapid 
 stream of the Barrow. He darted down a kind 
 of lane, that led thither from the chief street 
 of the town ; and on its brink paused, struck 
 with the contrast betwixt the lighted, heated 
 noisy den of vice, and the dark awful stillness 
 of nature, into which he had rushed. The 
 river plashed and wailed, and swept on in its 
 murmuring course beneath him ; the stars 
 shone in its depths immeasurably down, and
 
 CORRAMAHON. 253 
 
 their light appalled him. The night air chilled 
 his frame and his purpose together. A crowd 
 of boats laden with turf, were seen at intervals 
 along the bank, with each its fire and its crew, 
 its signs of life ; and the unhappy youth strode 
 away to avoid them. He proceeded up the 
 stream, in dreadful communings with himself, 
 lashing himself up to the resolution that he 
 meditated, tasking his imagination to present 
 all his disgusts, his worthlessness, his hopeless- 
 ness. And fully did it fulfil that duty ; but 
 it was impartial, for it also showed the sha- 
 dowy horrors of the grave he sought. The 
 physical terrors of the religion he had slighted, 
 though not altogether shaken off, came too in 
 array to thwart his resolution. 
 
 It may be here remarked, that the Roman 
 Catholic religion, experience shows, is the most 
 effectual in preventing suicide. Theists, and 
 the thoughtless in matters of creed, are of course 
 most given to it; but zealots, and the zealous- 
 bred of all reformed churches, offer frequent 
 examples of this crime, rare amongst the fol- 
 lowers of the Popedom. Catholicism may owe
 
 254 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 this to its errors, and its assumptions. Most 
 probably it does ; but such is its effect. 
 
 There are certain crimes, such as sudden 
 suicide, and some others, which if one once 
 contemplates, they have the nature of the basi- 
 lisk in them, which fascinates and draws on the 
 victim to commit them. This is the only way 
 of accounting for such crimes so often com- 
 mitted without any sufficient motive, and with 
 the appearance of proceeding from fatality. 
 
 In Garret O'Mahon, the struggle betwixt his 
 fear and his despair was long. His walk ex- 
 tended far up the river; and his resolution 
 and faintings from purpose were many. He 
 could not resolve : he could not give over the 
 thought ; till at length the pain of his irre- 
 solution became greater than either his fears of 
 the next world, or his despair in this. The 
 combat within him maddened and distracted 
 his brain ; and he took at length, and almost 
 upon the resolve of a single second's durance, 
 the fatal plunge. A loud plash proclaimed the 
 deed achieved, and the silent bank of the river 
 echoed it.
 
 CORRAMA.FION. 255 
 
 Two or three miles from Carlow, tracing 
 upwards the stream of the Barrow, stands an 
 ancient nunnery, or rather the ruins of one. 
 The front, however, and the portal are still 
 perfect, or were at least some fifteen years 
 since ; as were, perhaps, still some turrets and 
 narrow chambers, of which the imagination of 
 a dreamer or romancer might make much. In 
 the days of my story, it was all as ruined, 
 though more bare ; for the ivy had not then 
 wound its green way round it, and cicatrized 
 and bound up, as it were, the wounds that 
 devastation had made. 
 
 Of the penal laws against the Catholics, 
 none were more zealousy observed and strictly 
 enforced, than those against Popish regulars, 
 against monks and nuns, and all the conven- 
 tical tribe. Death was the least punishment 
 that awaited them ; and yet despite of this, 
 these devoted beings, though seemingly for 
 no earthly purpose, were known to haunt their 
 old abodes; and flutter, like moths about the 
 hostile flame that threatened to consume them. 
 Hence the nunnery in question — and its name
 
 256 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 escapes me, though the scene in which it stands, 
 its ivied wall, its ancient portal, its venerable 
 trees, tenanted by a deafening rookery, are as 
 vividly before me as the lamp that lights my 
 pen — was frequented by such of those perse- 
 cuted priesthood, who for political or other 
 purposes visited or lingered in Ireland. In 
 this it resembled the old fort of Corramahon. 
 And here, also, were likely to be found such 
 Jacobite emissaries as might venture from time 
 to time into the kingdom, to keep alive the 
 memory of the Stuarts, and at the same time the 
 spirit of revolt to the existing Government. 
 
 It happened to be nearly opposite this 
 antique pile, that the miserable Garret had 
 taken his fatal leap ; and fortunately for him, 
 he had been observed by three persons, who 
 at the instant stood beneath its portal. The 
 plunge of the suicide was followed by another, 
 the hand of the rescuer reached him, seized 
 him, dragged him ashore ; and the lifeless Gar- 
 ret was borne within the ruined building for aid 
 and resuscitation. 
 
 As soon as light fell on the features of the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 257 
 
 half drowned wretch, his preserver exclaimed, 
 " Gracious God ! it is my nephew Garret !" 
 
 " The end that might have been foretold 
 of the Apostate !" exclaimed the voice of the 
 same ecclesiastic whom the reader once over- 
 heard in colloquy with Ulick O'More in the 
 fort of Corramahon, and who had descended 
 from the building. Of the remaining two, one 
 was a shrouded cavalier-looking personage ; 
 and the other a female, lady-like and lovely, 
 but bearing no resemblance whatever to either 
 Rachel O'Mahon or Anastasia Burton.
 
 258 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'TWAS a night in June, still chill in that 
 region, despite the approach of Midsummer. 
 The inmates of Corramahon, at least, found it 
 so, for the turf was piled high, and the merry 
 blaze ascended from the grateless hearth. Ig- 
 natius seated, was rolling his lack-lustre eye, 
 now contemplating the flickering flame, and now 
 fixing his regard upon his daughter. Rachel, 
 more silent, more pale, and more wayward 
 than usual, struck and perplexed her pa- 
 rent by her altered mien and demeanour. It 
 was late. And Shulah, too, her household- 
 work terminated, had come, with the freedom 
 of the times and the privilege of a favoured 
 domestic, to seat herself on the floor, opposite 
 the blazing hearth, betwixt the Aireach and 
 Rachel.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 259 
 
 M You are confoundedly sad, Rachel, 1 ' said 
 Ignatius : " what ails thee ?" 
 
 " Me !" said Rachel, starting and blushing. 
 " I do not know ; it must be the weather, or 
 the vapours." 
 
 " That 's a disorder which you must have 
 learned at Palestine. I never read of it in our 
 old Irish calendar." 
 
 " When uncle is away, too, the house is so 
 stupid." 
 
 " You used not to think it so. When you 
 would sit the live-long evening, singing c/iro- 
 nauns to your old father, or allowing Amyas 1 
 quiet gaiety to amuse us both — poor Amyas !" 
 
 Rachel hung down her head. 
 
 " Nay, girl, though I pity him, I do not 
 chide you. You were right, Rachel ; justly 
 proud ; true to the spirit of your sires, whose 
 blood mingles not with that of upstarts, whose 
 hand joins not the hand of their persecutors. 
 I would sooner thee dead, than linked to one of 
 them. But why weep, girl, when I praise ye ?" 
 
 " Because I do not deserve my father's praise," 
 said Rachel.
 
 260 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " Come hither, my girl, thou dost deserve it. 
 Art thou not now my only child, my only duti- 
 ful child, the stay and solace of my gray hairs ?" 
 
 As Ignatius dragged his daughter towards 
 him in paternal tenderness, she resisted in an- 
 guish ; for each word was a reproach, keen as a 
 dagger to her heart. 
 
 " Nay, be gentle at least, my child," conti- 
 nued the affectionate parent ; " and do not lose 
 temper as well as spirits. There," and he let 
 go her hand ; " I will not importune thee. 
 To trifle ruffles your dignity, and all the stately 
 rules you have learned at Palestine. Fondness, 
 too, is vulgar, is it ? Ah me ! what it is to be 
 old, and out of the world, and unseasonably gay. 
 Gay — why should I be gay ?"" And the coun- 
 tenance of Ignatius stiffened from the expres- 
 sion of plnyful and paternal fondness to that 
 of pique and sadness ? 
 
 " Be not angry with me, father,'" said Rachel, 
 the tear starting ; for her heart was full. 
 
 " Angry ! me angry, you jade ! My passion is 
 no trifle. You never saw me angry, Rachel." 
 
 " I did ; and the recollection haunts me."
 
 CORRAMAIION. 2G1 
 
 " .Ay, true ; when that boy — but mention 
 him not — curse him ! curse him !" 
 
 " Out, tout ! what be ye mutterin', man ?*' 
 quoth Shulah, " throw-in 1 a faather's curse, as if 
 it war a stone in the sthrame. Ye know not 
 what may be passin 1 in the heart of him this 
 night ; the saints and the devil struggling for the 
 soul of him, and ye^ go to cast the like o' that 
 upon his neck." Shulah took out her beads as 
 she spoke, crossed herself, and told them to the 
 time of many a rapid prayer: a kind of counter 
 incantation, that the humane old Christian mut- 
 tered, to oppose the dire influence of the Ai- 
 reach's curse. 
 
 A long silence ensued ; each full of their 
 thoughts, father and daughter bitterly so ; and 
 an unusual heaviness hung upon both. Shulah 
 bustled about to prepare supper ; and when it 
 was prepared, it lay long untasted. They were 
 awaiting the coming of the Chef. He still de- 
 laved his appearance, though the accustomed 
 hour had long past. 
 
 " Musha then, what can Father Patrick and 
 Master Roger be about the long night, that
 
 262 OORRAMAHON. 
 
 they beant a comin 1 , 1 ' exclaimed Shulah, rub- 
 bing both her elbows with impatience. " It 's 
 a stranger, they '11 be bringin 1 wid 'em, 11 prophe- 
 sied she, from the hints of said elbows. 
 
 Father Patricius came in at the instant ; and 
 Ignatius cheered up somewhat, that his welcome 
 of the ecclesiastic might seem unforced and 
 hospitable. 
 
 " Ye have kept us here idle and fasting, 
 good father. Repay us with an account of 
 your adventures. 11 
 
 " 'Tis what I come for. But how shall I 
 begin ? I have not breath. You must forgive 
 your son, your wretched son, CMahon. 11 
 
 The ire of Ignatius kindled. He had been 
 just pondering upon his graceless offspring; 
 and the address of Father Patricius seemed to 
 betoken a conspiracy, a plot to entrap and force 
 his forgiveness by surprise. 
 
 " Let him dare to intrude upon my pre- 
 sence," said the Aireach, rising. 
 
 Rachel became alarmed. And Patricius, who 
 had made use of his speed to forewarn and 
 prepare the Aireach somewhat for what was to 
 shock him, knew not how to fulfil his purpose.
 
 CORRAMAIION. 263 
 
 " Alas !" said he, " Aireach, here is no time 
 for resentment : be calm. Your son " 
 
 " Forgive him, father !" cried Rachel, throw- 
 ing herself at his feet, seizing the same belief, 
 and, forming the same expectations, as he did. 
 
 "No!" cried the injured parent, "never! 
 though he were borne in a corpse before my 
 sight !" 
 
 " Man of passion and rash words, behold 
 him then V cried the priest, as the door was 
 flung open, and Roger O'Mahon entered, bear- 
 ing the corpse, for such it seemed, of the un- 
 fortunate Garret before the eyes of his father. 
 He for a moment stood aghast and stiff. 
 
 " There 's your son for you, avic !" cried 
 Shulah, pointing in equal horror. Ignatius 
 burst from his trance, and flung himself upon 
 the dead body of his son. 
 
 The days and weeks that elapsed immedi- 
 ately after this event, passed for the inmates of 
 Corramahon such as may be well imagined. 
 The spark of life was found not to be extinct 
 in Garret. He revived, but not for a longtime, 
 to health. The fever that was produced by 
 agitation and exhaustion, threatened to throw
 
 264 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 him back into the grave, from which he had 
 been rescued. His father watched by his bed- 
 side. His anxiety and tenderness, resentment, 
 and every cause of it, forgotten. Rachel, too, 
 found in tending her brother an occupation of 
 thought and time, an interest, that struggled 
 with other anxieties, and relieved her from their 
 oppressions. 
 
 During this period, although it was one of 
 anxiety and gloom, another inmate had been 
 added to the society of Corramahon ; and at 
 such a time, nothing but necessity could have 
 led to, or sanctioned such intrusion. The lady, 
 for it was a female, passed in the household 
 by the name of Sister Susan ; and was supposed 
 to be one of those hapless nuns, who still 
 lingered in a country where her existence was 
 proscribed, in the vain hope, perhaps, either 
 of a revolution in the Government, or a relax- 
 ation of its severe laws. 
 
 It was the same person, with whom Roger 
 O'Mahon was in company, in the ruined nun- 
 nery, when he had heard and saved Garret ; 
 and owing to his wish and introduction, it no
 
 COR RAMA HON. 265 
 
 doubt was, that she now partook of the 
 shelter and hospitality of Corramahon. Her 
 residence there was not, indeed, without dan- 
 ger to herself and to those who harboured 
 her. Her stay, however, was understood to be 
 but temporary, and to last merely until a ves- 
 sel could be found in some southern port, in 
 which she might be transported to the shores 
 of France. Since her coming, a sentinel was 
 always on the look-out ; and when any Orange, 
 or magisterial, or military personage was ob- 
 served to approach, or take the road to Corra- 
 mahon, the Sceur and Frere Patrice were wont 
 to take shelter in the fort, or even to extend their 
 retreat farther towards CVMore's country, and 
 to the wild fastnesses and lurking-places of the 
 hills. 
 
 Meantime, the attempt at self-destruction 
 committed by their convert Garret was known 
 at Palestine, and to all the Orange fraternity 
 in Carlow. The mess of Lord Deloraine's 
 applauded his courage, and thought it only 
 equalled by his shrewdness. M'Crosky it af- 
 fected deeper : the youth's attempt, had it not 
 
 vol. I. N
 
 266 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 been frustrated, would have been fatal to his 
 mighty and cheaply-purchased hopes of for- 
 tune. And even rescued, and living as he 
 was, should he recant, the circumstance would 
 throw M'Crosky's right into doubt and litiga- 
 tion, by exciting against him no less a claim- 
 ant than the then reigning sovereign of the 
 British realms, to whom the lands of the re- 
 lapsed Protestant might become forfeit. 
 
 The ruling powers of Palestine, too, were 
 awkwardly placed by the circumstance. An 
 union betwixt their daughter and such a per- 
 son as Garret had rendered himself, became no 
 longer to be contemplated. Then, the existence 
 of such a contract or intention alone excused 
 Sir Christopher Burton to the Government or 
 the governing junta, for his lenience and even 
 defence of the O'Mahons. Roger, too, had won 
 his way to friendship, and more than friendship, 
 at Palestine. 
 
 The present event, however, altered the 
 case. The son of O'Mahon, of whose con- 
 nexion and attachment to them they had cause
 
 CORRAMAHON. 267 
 
 to be proud, as extirpating the existence of 
 wealthy Catholicism from their neighbourhood, 
 was now in his paternal home, and, of course, 
 under paternal influence. His relapse was pro- 
 bable, if not certain. This awakened all the 
 dormant bigotry of Lady Burton, and even of 
 the Knight himself; who felt, though without a 
 shadow of reason, that he had been tricked in 
 the manner that the Chef' had carried oft' Garret. 
 Roger was therefore no longer welcomed warmly 
 at Palestine, and the old wars of mutual rivalry 
 and hatred seemed preparing to break out 
 betwixt the families. 
 
 Meantime, Willomer was annoyed at the con- 
 sequences of Master Garret's blunder, inasmuch 
 as it excluded Rachel O'Mahon from his sight 
 and his powers of fascination. He had always 
 paid, nevertheless, an indefinite kind of court 
 to Anastasia — that convenient degree of light 
 tenderness, that may be laughed away into un- 
 meaningness, or deepened by oaths and vows into 
 devotedness, as occasion or a new whim may 
 suggest. The total removal of Garret, and the 
 coldness with which their late favourite, the 
 N 2
 
 268 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Chef, was met at Palestine, opened room for 
 him there, and he had some mind to take se- 
 rious advantage of it. 
 
 However, his amourette, as he called it, with 
 Rachel, touched him nearer for the moment ; 
 and since he was now precluded from seeing 
 her in the gay society of either Corramahon or 
 Catherlogh, he determined to visit her at her 
 home, where he had no doubt he could make 
 himself welcomed by the Ai reach, though the 
 Chef, who had made him out in a manner, 
 might look cold. To inquire for the health of 
 his friend Garret was a most specious excuse, 
 that would overcome grudge and even suspicion ; 
 and armed, therefore, with thispretext, he sallied 
 forth from the town with dog and gun, in order 
 to pass his time by the way agreeably, and bent 
 his steps to the dwelling of the CMahons. 
 
 Leisurely as he wandered, and little for- 
 midable as was his appearance, his movements 
 were nevertheless observed, and his distant 
 coining signified at Corramahon. The priest 
 Patricius and sister Susan accordingly retired 
 to their refuge in the woods ; but as the warn-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 4 2C9 
 
 mg merely went to the probability of the in- 
 trusion being only that of a chance or idle 
 visitor, they were not particular in ensconcing 
 themselves, or retreating to an efficient hiding- 
 place. They followed a path-way in the woods 
 sufficiently sheltered, as they thought, from 
 mortal eye. 
 
 Willomcr, however, had determined on hi> 
 part to take the garrison by surprise, fearing, 
 in the then state of the household, to be denied 
 admission, if he otherwise approached it. He 
 therefore took also to the woods, of which 
 Rachel had long since taught him the paths. 
 And the officer started, in consequence, upon 
 the reftgietu and the re/igieuse, ere either could 
 be aware. 
 
 The first impulse of Patricius was to fly ; it 
 was his first act too. But the lady had a sense 
 of dignity, as well as of danger, and preferred 
 to risk the latter rather than the former. She 
 therefore held her companion fast; but he was a 
 stalworth monk, and pulled and struggled so to 
 effect his retreat, that he pulled the sour along 
 nith him as he fled. It was a ludicrous sight
 
 270 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 to Willomer ; those unusual habits ; the two 
 sexes, the sanctified profession, at least of one, 
 and the lonely places they frequented. And he 
 was thinking how he could make the best of the 
 adventure, that is, turn it to the most ludicrous 
 and amusing effect, when accident seconded 
 him. The gown of Patrice gave way in the 
 grasp of his companion ; it rent suddenly, and 
 the too-abruptly liberated friar fell headlong in 
 the moist vicinity of a little rivulet that trickled 
 through the wood. 
 
 Willomer ran most obligingly to his aid ; 
 but the fall seemed to have added nimbleness 
 to the ecclesiastic's terrors, for he had start- 
 ed up, and fled far and fast, ere the hand of 
 Orange constable, for he imagined Willomer 
 no other, could reach him. The lady was thus 
 left to Willomer , s guard and guidance, and she 
 in turn betrayed no terrors, but rather enjoyed 
 the discomfiture of her late companion. 
 
 Willomer contemplated the lady with other 
 feelings than those of merriment. She was still 
 beautiful, and had been lovely, with features 
 and expression surviving far more of the world
 
 CORRAMAHON. VU 
 
 than of the cloister. Her smile, indeed, which 
 the scene brought to her face, was any thing 
 save the simple wonderment of a " cloistered 
 nun ;" neither was it of that broad and hearty 
 kind that marks the vulgar ; it was the slight, 
 disdainful, self-respecting smile, that folk learn 
 to put on in polite society. The attitude, the 
 look of ease and dignity that she now assumed 
 before an intruder and a stranger, correspond- 
 ed with this, and commanded the courtesy of 
 Willomer. Her dress was little decisive of her 
 condition ; she wore a veil, a sable habit, and a 
 plaited wimple round her neck ; and she looked, 
 perhaps, as much the widow as the nun. 
 
 " Pray, Sir, who are you ?" said the lady, 
 
 very composedly and haughtily, designedly so, 
 
 as she perceived the intruder to be of the free. 
 
 " Major Willomer, of Lord Deloraine's re- 
 giment of horse, and very much your ladyship's 
 
 humble and devoted servant. Might I beg of 
 
 you the Mine favour ?" 
 
 " I must first see, do you deserve it ? What 
 
 can bring Major Willomer, of Lord Deloraine's 
 
 regiment, to Corrainahon P"
 
 272 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 The question was natural enough, consider- 
 ing the different principles and party of Wil- 
 loraer, and of the family he was about to vi- 
 sit. Yet the officer was surprised by it. And 
 although he had an answer ready prepared, 
 he did not feel confident, " especially under 
 that keen glance, to say," that he came to in- 
 quire for his friend Garret. " Having already 
 found what I have, i'faith, Madam, your pre- 
 sence makes me forget what I came for." 
 
 " Shall I supply your loss of memory, and 
 tell you?" 
 
 " By all means." 
 
 " You come to cheat a young heart, and to 
 break an old one." 
 
 " You wrong me, lady. By my troth ! I have 
 not a thought on earth save pastime. And yet 
 to that I could be true." 
 
 " For a day." 
 
 " For eternity, if I found a heart in it." 
 
 " Did you ever find one ?" 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " Perhaps you never sought elsewhere than 
 in self."
 
 CORRAMAHON. 273 
 
 " Cut like a diamond, pretty mask. Surely 
 those trees are Ranelagh. That voice tastes not 
 of the bogs, nor yet that wit." 
 
 " Yet 'tis bog wit, and from an Irish 
 mouth, Sir Englishman." 
 
 " And your name ?'' 
 
 " 'Twas never noised in Chocolate-House, 
 and merits not the distinction." 
 
 " It has been toasted in the Kit-Kat, I'll 
 be sworn. 1 ' 
 
 This seemed too serious a hit, for the re- 
 partee was not so readily returned. 
 
 " Yet you half promised to let me know 
 it," said Willomer, " did I prove myself 
 worthy. How shall I prove that to your satis- 
 faction ?" 
 
 " It would be difficult." 
 
 " Nay, you are too severe. Task me. Bill 
 me do aught." 
 
 " I would forbid, not bid." 
 
 " Speak it." 
 
 " No. I must not turn lady-errant. Let 
 each heart care for itself. For me, I make but 
 one request of those who have seen me." 
 N 5
 
 274 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " That they may be silent." 
 
 " You must give me a secret to keep first. 
 Thy name, fair vision, that I may adore it in 
 silence." 
 
 " 'Tis Sister Susan ; put it in thy calendar, 
 with Saint Rachel the Milesian, and Saint 
 Anastasia the Greek Saint." 
 
 " Hold ! you both wrong and cheat me. 
 Your's is no sisterly tongue, and yon eye never 
 shot from a veil but to belie it." 
 
 " For a gallant, you know marvellously 
 little of a cloister. I thought, 'twas there that 
 tongues become sharpest, and were rendered of 
 the finest temper." 
 
 " Nay, but thine has been polished on the 
 Court-stone." 
 
 " The blarney-stone, Major ; you mean to 
 mock me. What know you or I of courts? 
 But we approach the house. And to confide 
 in your generosity, I am a religieuse, veritably 
 one, concealed from the fiends of your law, 
 and only waiting an opportunity to escape to 
 France. You have discovered me by chance ;
 
 CORRAMAHON: 878 
 
 and I trust to your generosity to keep my 
 secret, as well as that of my timid companion, 
 who has fled.'" 
 
 " I feel confoundedly inclined to have no 
 mercy upon such a friend of thine, who walks 
 with thee in private ; who " 
 
 " Is my father confessor," said the lady ; 
 " and as a word of your's would discover and, 
 perhaps, cause his death — "she led immediately 
 towards the house as she spoke. 
 
 " There is some d — d mystification in all 
 this !" soliloquized Willomer, as he followed. 
 " She is an inhabitant of Corramahon too ! Ton 
 my troth, a well-peopled house with beauty ! 
 Chef Roger, you are the poacher here, I 
 suspect. A nun, forsooth ! not a scruple of 
 nunhood about her. Rachel's companion, too. 
 Hut a little homage will only put her in my 
 interests. " Ha ! good Mistress Ursula, I am 
 vastly pleased to see thee. Thy young master ? 
 I came to ask." 
 
 " And what business had you colloguing 
 with the shister ?" 
 
 " Business ! none, Shulah, but a pleasure : I
 
 276 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 met her by the way ; and she guided me, telling 
 her beads all the time, like " 
 
 " Troth, then ! it's much she troubles 'em."" 
 
 « Who is she ?" 
 
 " Then it's after her ye corned ?" 
 
 " But how is Master Garret F" 
 
 " Getting hearty, a taste." 
 
 " And Miss Rachel ?" 
 
 " Ay, in troth, Miss Rachel ? And it's well 
 enough she is, if she'd lave off the sighin and 
 the fretting, and — musha then, myself wishes 
 you war at the bottom of the Barrow, Master 
 Major." 
 
 " Why are you so cruel against me, 
 Shulah ?" 
 
 " Because I hate the ugly whey face, and 
 the oily tongue o' ye. But there's no goin 
 agin her, shure — she'll have her way, and so 
 you may walk in, Master Major Woolmire." 
 
 The Major did, but met with sorry wel- 
 come. The Chef was cold as court-politeness 
 — the sister had disappeared. Ignatius was 
 anxious, and had lost his joviality, and even 
 Rachel was care and vigil- worn. Her glance
 
 H»— i . «. — • • — — ■ - 
 
 CORRAMAHON. 277 
 
 indeed failed not to answer his, and her hand 
 to correspond to his pressure ; but his chill 
 welcome otherwise prevented him from reaping 
 any of the advantages or opportunity that he 
 sought from the interview. 
 
 He soon, therefore, whistled his dogs together, 
 and took his departure. The lover of gaiety 
 and gallantry, when one door was shut upon 
 him, naturally made for another. And accor- 
 dingly, instead of wending his way back to his 
 barracks and mess, Willomer bent his steps 
 to Palestine, where the welcome of the Knight 
 and his family repaid him for the churlishness 
 of the O'Mahons. The image of Sister Su- 
 san, however, continued to flit across his fancy. 
 She was handsome, well-bred, high-born, in 
 such garb and position. The mystery piqued 
 him. Could he not unravel it ? 
 
 The Major, full of this thought, assailed Lady 
 Burton, the Knight, and Kit, with questions 
 touching the family at Corramahon, their rela- 
 tives, connexions ; endeavouring thus to arrive 
 indirectly at some information respecting the 
 object of his curiosity. But they disliked the
 
 278 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 subject, and shrunk from dwelling on it. Wil- 
 lomer was therefore compelled to have recourse 
 to Miss Burton, who did not participate as yet 
 in the family disgust at the O'Mahon name, 
 and at its mention. 
 
 She, however, thr ugh somewhat acquainted 
 with the Milesian and other proud connexions 
 of the O'Mahons, knew nought ; had never 
 heard of any handsome aunt or sister that 
 could have been in King James's Court, or in 
 any court, nor yet in any nunnery. In short, 
 instead of satisfying his own curiosity, Major 
 Willomer merely awakened Anastasia's; who, in- 
 stead of the questioned became the questioner, 
 and in return for the information which she 
 could not give, eagerly demanded that which 
 the Major evidently knew, and which had been 
 the cause of his inquiries. 
 
 It was certainly not Willomer's intention at 
 first to betray the secret of the saur's existence. 
 But he had awakened not only Anastasia's sus- 
 picions, but excited in her no inconsiderable 
 degree of pique, together with a bitterness and 
 indisposition towards the O'Mahons, very sud-
 
 CORRAMAIION. 279 
 
 denly called forth. This was to be improved 
 upon, as the Major was anxious to oust his ac- 
 quaintance Roger, whom he feared and hated, 
 from the last hold that he held of the good 
 opinions of the family of Palestine. 
 
 In this he was as successful as he desired, 
 hut not without dishonourably betraying the 
 confidence reposed in him, if not in words, at 
 least to all effect. And Anastasia not only 
 imagined, what was the truth, that a lovely 
 and mysterious female was the inmate of Cor- 
 ramahon, but much more respecting her, that the 
 dishonest Willomer allowed to be suspected, and 
 certainly suggested, though he might not assert. 
 
 " Ah ! these French-bred gallants!' 1 said he, 
 '•and yet you looked upon us poor dragoons, 
 who laugh and swagger somewhat, as very Ro- 
 chesters ; while Monsieur Roger, forsooth, was 
 quite a pretu with you. 1 ' 
 
 " Men are all the same, selfish and corrupt — 
 one perhaps in the disclosure, as much another 
 in the deceit." 
 
 " Thanks, fair lady, o 1 my conscience ; I was 
 doomed to hard knocks from gentle tongues 
 this day."
 
 -- . 
 
 280 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 If the wretched son of O'Mahon had brought 
 shame and sorrow upon his family and his father 
 by his falling off, his follies and his crimes, his 
 return and penitence were likely to prove still 
 more disastrous. Borne home by his uncle, not 
 all rescued from the fangs of death, which con- 
 tinued for a time to hover o'er him, every thought 
 of the anxious and forgiving parent was of course 
 for his bodily restoration. Other anxieties were 
 deferred. But when Garret's cheek began once 
 more to bear the first signs of returning health, 
 when life seemed restored and reassured to him, 
 then, indeed, the thoughts of those interested in 
 him began to take his moral and worldly pros- 
 pects in a wider view. 
 
 Ignatius O'Mahon, both as a Christian and
 
 CORRAMAHON. '^81 
 
 as one who suffered persecution for his peculiar 
 Christian tenets, was attached to his Church. 
 If self-interest, if the love and exercise of domi- 
 nation make some bigots ; the suffering for con- 
 science 1 sake, the spirit of martyrdom in fact, 
 maketh others not less decided, though far more 
 excusable. O'Mahon was of this latter class ; 
 and the ignorance and seclusion in which op- 
 pression forced him to live, increased that bigot- 
 ry, and left it unmitigated. It was not bigotry, 
 however, with him, but an honest feeling of re- 
 ligion, that made him desire to see his son turn 
 again to the Church that he had deserted, and 
 be received once more into its bosom. 
 
 Were the Aireach indeed lukewarm himself, 
 a circumstance impossible, he did not want a 
 spiritual in Frere Patrice, to council him touch- 
 ing the peril of Garret's soul, and the equal 
 peril of his own, if the former still remain- 
 ed contaminated with heresy. Garret, a weak- 
 minded creature, terrified at the death which he 
 had faced, and all its horrific consequent-is. 
 which he had for the time escaped) was as peni- 
 tent as the sinner and the sick arc ever inclined
 
 282 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 to be. Almost his first words were a proffer 
 and a vow to be reconciled to his Church, and 
 to retake his creed. To oppose him would have 
 been the most enormous impiety. 
 
 The case, however, was imminently danger- 
 ous and grave. Its occurrence was fully pro- 
 vided for by the quick-sighted cruelty of the 
 penal laws, and was prevented or punished by 
 the heaviest judgments. The first provision of 
 Queen Anne^ Act, so celebrated in the annals 
 of persecution, " To prevent the farther growth 
 of Poper}'," set forth and ordered, that " the per- 
 verting Protestants to the Popish religion, and 
 the being so perverted, should be punished by 
 the pains of Pnemuntre." 
 
 To those who are not read in Blackstone, it 
 may be as well to state, that any one subjected 
 to those pains, was " out of the King's protec- 
 tion ; his lands and tenements forfeited to the 
 King ; and that his body should remain in 
 prison during the King's pleasure. 11 Moreover, 
 that, like an old Irish enemy, he was beyond 
 the pale of law, and that any person so inclined,
 
 CORRA.MAHON. 283 
 
 might kill him at pleasure, without being liable 
 to be called to account for the same. 
 
 Such was the predicament in which not only 
 Garret O'Mahon, but Ignatius and the whole 
 family would find themselves ; for that courts 
 and magistrates would consider the father and 
 uncle as the perverters there could be no doubt, 
 in the case of the relapse, as it would be called, 
 of Garret O'Mahon into Papistry. 
 
 Roger O'Mahon alone of the family begged 
 Ignatius to pause, ere he exposed himself and 
 his name to ruin. He sought other expedients, 
 and proposed the sending of Garret out of the 
 kingdom. But this itself was penal. At any 
 rate, Garret, as the heir of Corramahon, could 
 never enjoy it, but as a Protestant ; as his pro- 
 fession of Papistry, at any future period, hav- 
 ing been once enrolled a convert on the Bishop's 
 books, would subject him, as above stated, to 
 outlawry and forfeiture. Dissimulation and con- 
 formity to Protestantism would, therefore, be 
 useless, unless it were continued for life and 
 in his posterity, and that was an impiety not 
 to be contemplated.
 
 28i CORRAMAHON. 
 
 There were others present, Sister Susan for 
 example, and Friar Patricius, who expected 
 with confidence,_that the reign of the William- 
 ites was drawing to a close, and that their per- 
 secuting race would perish with them. Queen 
 Anne, their last prop of hope, was slowly lan- 
 guishing away ; and that her exiled brother 
 would be her successor, was by them as firmly 
 believed and asserted, as hoped. 
 
 It was, therefore, after much mooting, deter- 
 mined, that Garret O'Mahon's penance, recanta- 
 tion, and reconciliation to the Church, should 
 take place publicly— as public had been the fall- 
 ing off— at one of their secret chapels, and at 
 midnight ; a time and place, when and where 
 the Catholics of the country might attend and 
 witness the resumption of orthodoxy by young 
 O'Mahon, without being liable to the interrup- 
 tion or hostile information of their Orange 
 enemies. 
 
 This secrecy was necessary for the safety of 
 others, as well as of that of the O'Mahon :■«. 
 Father Patrice, for example, incurred the pain 
 of death, as a regular, if taken officiating. But,
 
 COR RAMA H<iN £86 
 
 as not a Catholic clergyman, save himself, ex- 
 isted in the region round, he dared the rigour 
 of the law for the sake of his Church and his 
 flock. The law, indeed, allowed certain priests, 
 who were registered, to officiate in their own 
 parishes, without attendance, images, or pro- 
 cessional ceremonies; limiting them, too, to bury 
 their Catholic dead in the Protestant church- 
 yard—a regulation that inspired the Catholics 
 with horror, and made them suppose that their 
 enemies, the heretics, sought to have the bodies 
 of true believers in their vicinity when dead, in 
 order the better to creep into Heaven in their 
 company. 
 
 The permission, however, granted to regis- 
 tered priests was illusory, at least temporary ; 
 inasmuch as, no priests being allowed to enter 
 the kingdom from foreign parts, none at the 
 same time permitted to be educated at home, 
 nor any Catholic bishop tolerated there who 
 might ordain them, there was no mode of pro- 
 curing successors for the registered clergy, as 
 they dropped off in the order of Nature. Hence 
 the Catholic priesthood would have become
 
 286 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 extinct in the country, and all the rites of their 
 Church would have been suspended — of that 
 Church, mark the free exercise of whose wor- 
 ship was guaranteed by the Treaty of Limerick 
 — were it not for those courageous interlopers, 
 chiefly monks, who. concealing themselves in 
 holes and lurking-places from the death with 
 which the law threatened and often visited them, 
 contrived to afford the consolations of the 
 Church, and to perform its offices for their 
 unhappy flock. 
 
 Patricius was one of these, the proscribed 
 pi-iest, in fact, of half a dozen parishes, who 
 committed the crime of saying mass once in the 
 month, perhaps, for each district and congrega- 
 tion, at the risk of his life. The Williamite 
 magistrates, amongst others Sir Christopher 
 Burton, knew of course of his existence ; they 
 must have known that marriages, christenings, 
 and the other important rites of the Church, 
 could not be either dispensed with, or perform- 
 ed without a minister. They shrunk, never- 
 theless, from seeking too vigilantly or executing
 
 COR RAM A II ON. 2S7 
 
 the cruelty of the law to the letter, not being 
 sorry, nevertheless, to hold it in terrorem over 
 the heads of the innocent though culprit popu- 
 lation, whenever any ebullition of popular feel- 
 in. on one hand, of aristocratic zeal on the 
 other, or secret wishes of the Government, 
 should require a fresh specimen of cruelty, re- 
 sistance, and tumult. 
 
 From the long wars and troubles that had 
 devastated Ireland, and accustomed its popula- 
 tion to habits militant — from this, and from the 
 hostility always shown and wreaked upon the 
 insignia of their religion, the altar, crucifix, 
 and candlesticks, they had become accustomed 
 t<> make use of movable chapels, such as 
 foreign regiments are used to carry with them, 
 and to install in a tent for the purposes of the 
 hour. This they might have learned from their 
 French auxiliaries in the last war; and now 
 that the Catholic worship was especially for- 
 bidden in ancient abbeys, churches, or in the 
 venerable ruins of old consecrated to it — these 
 places being not only ruined, but strictly
 
 288 CORRAMAIION. 
 
 watched — they were compelled, though in their 
 native land, to adopt for their prayers the 
 ways of military in campaign. 
 
 Their tent, in this case, however, was, as 
 they themselves might say, a mud hut, hastily 
 thrown up for the occasion, sufficiently large to 
 contain the deal-table that served as altar, on 
 which, despite its coarseness, were placed the 
 silver candlesticks, the golden cross, and other 
 precious ornaments, that could be safe in no 
 fixed or known chapel, and were, consequently, 
 preserved concealed. For the congregation, 
 the sky was sufficient canopy, and the green 
 sward around holy enough for their genu- 
 flexions. 
 
 The spot pitched upon for the public peni- 
 tence of the son of O'Mahon, was called the 
 Hermit's Well, and was situated in the moun- 
 tains to the westward of Catherlogh, betwixt 
 that town and Castlecomer; and as lying within 
 the precincts of CMore's country, and infested 
 by the Rapparees, it was considered out of the 
 reach of the Williamites, and beyond their in- 
 terference. Here was the mud hut erected, and 
 every due preparation made.
 
 CORRAMAIION. 289 
 
 It lay in a deep wild valley, bounded by 
 rocky and bare ridges, but so overgrown in 
 its depth with furze and briar, that to wend 
 one's way through it was extremely difficult. A 
 space was trodden clear around the Holy Well, 
 which was formed beneath, and bubbled from 
 the foot of a lofty rock. It was overgrown and 
 covered with a huge thorn-bush, which was all 
 overhung with bits of rag of divers colours, 
 being the poor and characteristic offerings of a 
 beggared race. 
 
 It was the eve of the patron, or fete of the 
 Hermit's Well, a kind of meeting, in which, 
 as is the custom throughout all Catholic 
 countries, merriment and devotion were united. 
 These merry-makings were indeed forbidden bv 
 the Government. One of the kind held at St. 
 John's Well in the county Meath, a short time 
 previous to the period of this story, was the 
 occasion, on account of a miracle reported to 
 have been worked there, of some three-score 
 of the first Catholic gentlemen of the kingdom 
 being committed to close imprisonment. Pa- 
 trons and miracles were alike forbidden by Act 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 of Parliament ; and the same edict was pla- 
 carded over the sanctuaries of the Irish saints, 
 as was affixed to that of the Deacon Paris, in 
 the French capital, 
 
 De par le Roi, defense a Dieu 
 De faire miracle en ce lieu. 
 
 Miracles, however their workers and believ- 
 ers may be, are little amenable to statute-law. 
 The wells were as much frequented as before, 
 and very effectual cures they wrought, inasmuch 
 as many patients languishing under the conse- 
 quences of filth, actually washed themselves in 
 the stream, and, as was natural, felt much re- 
 freshed. The Hermit's Well was one of these, 
 and was in consequence much frequented by 
 the devout, the ailing, and the merry-making. 
 
 The service of the mass too, which each dis- 
 trict was enabled to hear but rarely, was to be 
 celebrated on the night in question. None of 
 these causes were wanting to ensure a crowd of 
 witnesses. The defection of the son of O'Ma- 
 hon, of the oldest and truest Irish blood in the 
 country, had called forth a cry of horror, of 
 terror, and of rage. All now rejoiced in pro-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 291 
 
 portion ; and eagerly flocked to behold the 
 apostate humble himself in penitence, and be 
 restored to the common fold. 
 
 Silence nevertheless, silence unbroken as the 
 darkness that enveloped the crowd, reigned at 
 the appointed midnight in the chosen place. 
 A hum and a whisper might have been, but 
 it was breathless ; and to one who looked down 
 from the bare hills above, the Hermit's well 
 would have seemed as deserted as Nature left 
 and intended it. On a sudden, the eyes of the 
 distant spectator — nor were such wanting — were 
 struck with the gleam of some score of lighted 
 torches, which flung their lurid light upon the 
 crowded and silent multitude. It showed their 
 countless heads crimson near the light, and 
 fading away into the dusk, as they receded: 
 the huge rock above the well reflected the rav 
 to its very point, and the bushes shone white in 
 the glare. 
 
 The torches and their bearers moved in pro- 
 cession ; the penitent, no doubt, in the midst of 
 them. They seemed to perambulate the crowd, 
 and to return to the little chapel which was 
 2
 
 292 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 then lighted up, and streamed forth its splen- 
 dours upon the crowd in front. The chaunt 
 of Friar Patricius was raised at the same time, 
 and its solemn tones, so audible and sonorous 
 in the stillness of night, were echoed from the 
 impending rock, and rung through the lonely 
 valley. 
 
 As misfortune and sorrow elevate the reli- 
 gious thoughts of the individual, so doth per- 
 secution sublime the devout feelings of the 
 congregation or sect. So contrary in every way 
 are heavenly feelings to worldly, that pride, 
 hope, and courage, spring in the one from the 
 very states, that would kill them in another. 
 For no — not all the glories and the magnificence 
 that can surround an estabbshed worship, can 
 communicate to it that sacred, that impressive 
 character, that the sense of persecution can 
 bestow upon the pompless ceremonies, and the 
 murmured prayers of the midnight conventicle. 
 
 On the summit of a hill, at about half a mile 
 distance, stood, contemplating the midnight mass 
 of the assembled Catholics, a strong Orange 
 party of troops and magistrates, and influential
 
 CORRAMAHON. 2{)'3 
 
 folk of Catherlogh, M'Crosky, Kit Burton, and 
 divers others of the same stamp and zeal. 
 They were very uncertain in their projects. 
 The hill-side was over-woven, thick with furze 
 and briars, through which horse — and the whole 
 party had taken care to be well mounted— could 
 with difficulty thread their way. The only path 
 was watched and guarded, and although they 
 might be strong enough to force their way, yet 
 their aim was to discover and espy, rather than 
 disturb, and they cautiously avoided giving any 
 alarm. Nearer, therefore, they feared to ap- 
 proach, and it was exceedingly desirable to have 
 some witness to overhear and behold what they 
 expected was going forward — the recantation of 
 the son of O'Mahon. 
 
 It was hinted by the leaders, how much they 
 desired that some one would venture down and 
 mingle amongst the crowd. Not one, however, 
 responded to the wish, or came forth to an- 
 swer it. 
 
 " Ye 're a sneaking set of spalpeens,' said 
 M'Crosky, addressing his civil followers. " Much 
 use in swearing-in the likes o 1 you, that fear to
 
 294 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 vinture among a gang of Papists for a second 
 or two, and they busy craw-thumping and 
 mumbling paters, and the night, too, dark as 
 pitch." 
 
 " If it wa'rn't in O'More's country," expos- 
 tulated one ; " for black Ulick 's the cutest and 
 wickedest thief, mountain or plain side o' the 
 Barrow. 11 
 
 f Bother with you !" replied the attorney, 
 suiting his dialect to his audience. " It 's a 
 goose's gizzard you've under your arm, and no 
 heart." 
 
 "He'd think no more of knocking a man's 
 brains out, or hanging him by the legs for 
 the ravens to pick th' eyes of his head, as he 
 sarved the cadger of Carrickfergus.' 1 
 
 " Sorrow a taste of thrue blood in your veins, 
 honey ; so hould your gabble, and let us see 
 if Clem here has the pluck to go." 
 
 " Five gold-finches, Clem, you shall have." 
 said young Kit Burton, "if you go down." 
 
 But Clem was as reluctant as his comrade. 
 
 " Clap your caubeen on your head, Clem, 
 and be off down there wid you," said M'Crosky.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 295 
 
 M We '11 cut every mother's son of them to 
 pieces, if they hurt the hair o 1 your head." 
 
 " Ay,"" said Clem, " that wouldn't put a body 
 together again, after he was kilt." 
 
 " You're a set of " said the attorney. 
 
 " Couldn't a body swear they seed it, and 
 that be all one as if he did," said Clement, 
 preferring perjury to bodily peril ; " for myself 
 would not put himself amongst O'More's peo- 
 ple to be made master of Palestine." 
 
 " Out upon ye ! ye are slovenly swearers, still 
 more awkward with mouth than ye are back- 
 ward with hand ; not like the boys of the 
 North, or the Dublin jackeens, that are keen 
 and thorough-going ; but ye always stick short 
 of the point, or else go beyond it. Haven't I 
 had ten of the prettiest o' causes spoilt by the 
 likes o' you ?" 
 
 " Go down yoursel', then, Master M'Crosky, 
 since you 're so mortial nice about it," said Cle- 
 ment. "Ye '11 aarn the gold-finches, you know, 
 and ye's have the pluck, sure, if we haven't." 
 
 M I have half a mind to it," said the Sub- 
 sheriff.
 
 296 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 a You were a bit of a Papist yoursel' once, 
 you know," continued Clement, angry that the 
 reward was going to another, though he himself 
 wanted the courage to earn it ; " and you are 
 up to the craw-thumping ways of 'em, sure.' 1 
 
 " I owe you one for that, Clem,'" said M'Cros- 
 ky ; " so lend me your caubeen, man, and your 
 coat, ay, and your connamara and brogues too. 
 I must be in character. Clem, my man, your 
 habiliments are not of the sweetest." 
 
 " Musha, then, it 's mighty nice you ve 
 grown." 
 
 "If the Papists should kill me — "said M'Cros- 
 ky, ceasing to button the last button of Clem's 
 vest about him. 
 
 " We '11 bury ye's dacent," said the conso- 
 latory Clem. 
 
 " You must draw nearer," said the attorney 
 to his party, " if I venture." 
 
 " We will, to give you confidence," said Kit, 
 " within a musket shot. Though it will be 
 hard work to make way through the furze." 
 
 " And remember, if they find me out, for
 
 CORRAMAHON. 297 
 
 O'More 's as sharp-sighted as a fox, you charge 
 them." 
 
 " Fear not," said Kit. 
 
 " Then here goes !" said the Sub-sheriff", and 
 he rushed upon his perilous mission. 
 
 M'Crosky, who was a stout and rustic limb 
 of the law, and not from birth a stranger to 
 the peasant or the Papist race, might have well 
 passed, even in open day, for the character he 
 assumed ; and as his intention was merely to 
 mingle amongst the outermost of the crowd, 
 mark what was going forward, and retire, he 
 did not deem the risk as aught very fearful 
 He found the frequented path, followed amongst 
 other stragglers, and soon came to the congre- 
 gation round the well. 
 
 It was no longer with chaunt or prayer that 
 the assemblage was occupied. The priest, Pa- 
 trick us, had no sooner terminated his ministry at 
 the altar, than he yielded his place to a mi- 
 nister of other than heavenly interests, to a Ja- 
 cobite emissary in fact, who straight prepared to 
 address the crowd from that elevated and sacred
 
 'l'.)8 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 place. He first showed his credentials, which 
 the friar examined before all, and declared him- 
 self satisfied with them, stating, that the person 
 about to speak had come to the country as secre- 
 tary to Lord Auchinleck, an ambassador of 
 distinction, known to have been sent by the 
 Stuarts. His lordship had, however, been taken 
 by a fever in Tipperary County, owing to the 
 fatigues and hardships which the necessity and 
 difficulty of concealment caused him, and had 
 there perished in the course of the last year, a 
 martyr to the cause of his King and his reli- 
 gion. 
 
 The emissary then commenced his harangue 
 with what has long been a fertile source of elo- 
 quence, the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland. 
 Her fidelity, nevertheless, to an English race of 
 monarch s was a theme as flattering to his au- 
 dience, and he enlarged equally upon it, assert- 
 ing the reciprocal love of the Stuart family to- 
 wards Ireland, founded upon gratitude, and on 
 the strong bond of the true religion which both 
 professed. The English were equally the enemies 
 of both; and it was only by aiding one another
 
 CORRAMAHON. 299 
 
 that the King could be restored to his rights, or 
 the Irish people to their just independence. The 
 Princess Anne, whom the Williamites called 
 Queen, was at the point of death ; and she, from 
 family affection, had prepared the way for her 
 brother's succession. But arms could alone se- 
 cure that. Scotland would rise in his behalf, 
 the better part of England, and, as the i 
 of the contest could not be doubtful, it behoved 
 the loyal Irish not to be behindhand in zeal, 
 but to rise in insurrection and overwhelm those 
 enemies that tyrannize over their Isle. 
 
 Pretty similar to this, at least, was the gist 
 of the emissary's harangue ; the import of which 
 his rude audience understood more by their 
 own acuteness and powers of conjecture, 
 than by their absolutely understanding the half 
 Frenchified, half Anglicised tongue of him who 
 addressed them. Patricius, however, second- 
 ed and expounded, and pressed strongly upon 
 hifl Hock their duty to hold themselves read\ 
 for insurrection, and to commence it at B signal 
 given. 
 
 The priest himself, in daily peril of bis
 
 COO CORRAMAHON. 
 
 liberty and life, naturally longed for any change 
 of circumstances. Persecuted, he was eager to 
 retaliate and resist ; and those who outlawed 
 him, obliged and almost justified him to pro- 
 scribe in turn. 
 
 The assembled Irishry were not, however, 
 " in the vein." Not only the disasters of 
 James's royal and disgraceful campaign were 
 in their memories, but later discomfitures in par- 
 tial insurrections, brought on by deceitful 
 emissaries, as this fellow might be, were not 
 forgotten. The time too was ill chosen. The 
 morning after the gaiety of the patron might 
 have afforded auditors more ready to inflame. 
 For the present, they looked hesitatingly towards 
 their natural chiefs, one of whom was Roger 
 O'Mahon. Ignatius had not attended a cere- 
 mony so humiliating to his son ; nor did he 
 allow Rachel to attend it either — they lingered 
 at Corramahon ; whilst Roger, as the represen- 
 tative of the father and the chief, accompanied 
 Garret. Sister Susan too was at the Hermit- 
 Well. 
 
 The Chef looked blank on the proposed en-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 301 
 
 terprise ; and in nothing seconded the exhorta- 
 tion of Patricius and his friend. A most spirit- 
 less silence ensued upon the harangue ; it ex- 
 cited not a single enthusiastic cheer. Each 
 looked to his neighbour, expecting the answer 
 that each refrained from giving; and Dermid 
 at length uttered the only one, which was pas- 
 sing pithy. 
 
 " Catherlogh boys ! take a fool's advice, and 
 let us have nothing to do with Shamus.'" 
 
 " Shamus a /" exclaimed the crowd, 
 
 with an opprobrious epithet in Irish, that 
 marked the extremity of their contempt. 
 
 It is certain, that the emissary in question, 
 could not have addressed an equal number of 
 English peasants and agriculturists with a simi- 
 lar exhortation, without finding a majoritv of 
 voices responsive to his appeal. The English 
 mob was notoriously Jacobite, almost as long as 
 Jacobitism existed. The Irish certainly were not 
 so. Yet on premises directly the contrary of this 
 fact, was founded the necessity of oppression 
 and injustice towards the latter people. 
 
 " You have forsworn then your allegiance to
 
 302 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 your legitimate king !" angrily exclaimed the 
 Friar; his reproach having some effect upon 
 his audience. 
 
 " That will Ulick O'More never V cried the 
 young Chief of the Rapparees : "let the dis- 
 armed kerns, that had rather grasp a plough- 
 handle than a sword-hilt, stoop to the Dutch- 
 man or the Saxon for liberty — to reap his crop. 
 The free Irish will still cry King James. 1 ' 
 
 " Shamus for ever f now echoed as loudly 
 in response to the Rapparee's exhortations, as 
 
 Shamus a did to Dermid's damper, the 
 
 wild O'More's men rejoicing in the prospect of 
 troublous times. None joined more loudly in 
 the rebellious cry than the disguised M'Crosky. 
 
 " For me," cried Dermid, " who live rather 
 by the cutting of corn-stalks, than either folk's 
 throats or purses, " 
 
 " Down with him V cried the Rapparees. 
 
 " Keep close," burst forth O'Mahon's fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 " To him, boys ! slit the coward's wind- 
 pipe, " lustily roared M'Crosky, in glee with 
 the hope of seeing Papist blood flow. But the
 
 CORRAMAHON. 303 
 
 Friar interposed, and coming forward, rebuked 
 and calmed the angry spirit of O'More's people. 
 Then turning round, he said, 
 
 " To you, Roger O'Mahon, I now address 
 myself. Your backwardness it is, that gives 
 strength and tongue to the defection of those 
 recreants, that refuse to cry, or to stand up for 
 the good cause. Rise ! speak thou, who hast 
 known in foreign lands the exile Stuart — who 
 hast marked and must have pitied the fallen 
 fortunes of his race, and who must have re- 
 turned to your native land, not merely with the 
 selfish wish of re-beholding it, but of re-assert- 
 ing its rights, of raising it from degradation, 
 of freeing an holy religion from persecution, 
 and of setting its emerald crown on the head of 
 it-- rightful wearer." 
 
 Much more did the Friar say, and with equal 
 seal. Hut Roger was deaf to his eloquence 
 ill- replied in a few words, that he was fully 
 sensible both of Ireland's wrongs, and of the 
 Stuart's rights; but that he well knew also the 
 disunion and feebleness of the country compared 
 with its foe, as well as the incapacity of the
 
 304 CORRAMA.HOK. 
 
 race they would choose as sovereign. He 
 would not, therefore, although he might for 
 himself peril aught, induce a single peasant to 
 risk his present tranquillity in a struggle, the 
 immediate issue of which could not be doubtful. 
 
 " , Mahon , 9 country then," said the emis- 
 sary, " may be accounted blank in the map of 
 Ireland." 
 
 " Shame be to its lukewarm chieftain," 1 said 
 CTMore. 
 
 " There goes the Rapparee, - " observed Der- 
 mid, " ever with his skene upon a friend's 
 throat, when it cannot reach a foe's." 
 
 " O'More," said Roger, " we have as much 
 cause and incitement as thou, to stand up 
 against the Williamites and the Protestant, 
 seeing that this night's ceremony subjects our 
 persons and our lands to all the vengeance of 
 our enemies ; but not for this selfish reason, 
 nor for thy rudeness, will I incite these unarm- 
 ed kerns, as you call them, to raise the war 
 single-handed against the English. What this 
 personage tells us, is idle. France will not 
 aid you; Lewis is old and worn Spain is a-
 
 CORRAMAHON. 305 
 
 exhausted. The Pope as poor as he is false. 
 I speak it deliberately, good friar. The holy 
 Father favoured the enterprise of Protestant 
 William against Catholic James. Where then 
 are you to look for aid, or for power to with- 
 stand what with France at your back vou 
 failed in ? The day must come, I grant you, 
 when a stand must be made, and war waged 
 for Irish liberty and Irish rights; that is, un- 
 less reason win what patience and the sword 
 must. But the time is not come. And if 
 our resources be not husbanded, 'twill never 
 come ; especially if restlessness, not policy, dic- 
 tate from time to time these partial and idle 
 attempts.' 1 
 
 " There spoke the politic Chief," cried Der- 
 mid. " O'Mahon for ever !" 
 
 " The false friend I" cried O'More, " the 
 traitor I 11 
 
 "Robber-dog!" said Garret, bursting from 
 the humility of the penitent, and giving vent 
 to a zeal, by which he sought to make amends 
 for past defection, " have at thee for the in- 
 sult, 11 and he rushed upon O'More.
 
 306 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 Roger in vain endeavoured to restrain his 
 nephew. O'More's followers gathered around 
 Ulick ; CTMahon's people gathered around the 
 brother of their Chief, when both parties, rais- 
 ing up an hideous yell, rushed upon one an- 
 other with fury, all as extreme as difference of 
 creed or political hate could have inspired. 
 
 Although this fierce quarrel was, as such 
 still would be, but the natural and usual termi- 
 nation of an Irish fete, or of Irish met toge- 
 ther even for the purpose of gaiety and good 
 fellowship, the present tumult, nevertheless, 
 struck the party of Orangemen, anxious as 
 they were for the safety of their venturous 
 comrade, as something portentous. Such a 
 sudden explosion could have been only pro- 
 duced, thought they, by the discovery of 
 M'Crosky. And, accordingly, after some few 
 hasty conjectures, and interjections, and mu- 
 tual queries, they pricked on their horses to 
 the rescue. 
 
 The Friar and Roger O 'Mali on were endea- 
 vouring to separate the combatants; the latter 
 in act, the former bv unheard exhortation, to
 
 CORRAMAHON. 307 
 
 deliver which he stood in the opening of the 
 sacred hut. It was he who first perceived the 
 coming charge of the police-party, and he 
 succeeded in giving the alarm to a few around 
 and near him. " The Williamites," the " Cather- 
 logh horse," " the Saxon red-coats,"" were words 
 that ran speedily from mouth to mouth, and in- 
 formed the struggling and mingled crowd of the 
 menaced peril, of which they soon became more 
 sensible by the bearing down of the common 
 enemy. The O'Mahons and O'Mores were 
 speedily blended in the same ranks to oppose 
 them. The national cry of Erin go bruugli, 
 sent forth with a far more zealous and inspi- 
 riting cheer, than the party-cries of O'Mahon 
 and O'More had been shouted, was responded 
 to by the savage yell of, " Down with the Pa- 
 pist dogs !" used by Kit Burton and his con- 
 stabulary followers. 
 
 Although it had thus fallen out contrary to 
 the intentions of the Sub-sherifF and his friends, 
 and although M'Crosky might have wished 
 that the charge had been delayed until the two 
 had been more cxhaxisted, nevertheless the war-
 
 308 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 cry and the approaching havoc were grateful 
 to him. He joined lustily in the shouts of 
 his friends, and was conspicuous in aiding them 
 to cut down and make an impression on the Pa- 
 pists. These, however, stood firm ; scared the 
 steeds of their enemies with waving torches, and 
 dismounted them with stones and cudgels, the 
 only weapons with which the greater part of 
 the crowd were armed. 
 
 The horsemen were obliged to wheel round 
 frequently, retire, and return to the charge. 
 They could not break the solid body of the 
 Papists, nor even the foremost ranks. There 
 was a crowd of women and helpless beings be- 
 hind, who could not fail to be crushed, if those 
 in the front gave way. And to save them from 
 being trodden to death, their defenders awaited 
 death in their places, unarmed as they were, 
 rather than retreat. 
 
 Roger O'Mahon ordered that the torches 
 might be extinguished, and this proved a check 
 to the Williamites. He was, however, for a 
 long time uttering this command ere he was 
 obeyed ; and the Sub-sheriff", who saw that
 
 CORRAMAHON. 309 
 
 the effect of this in the present darkness of the 
 night would be to allow the escape of all the 
 Papistry, was determined to secure one pri- 
 soner at the least, by way of trophy. He 
 therefore approached, and marked out Garret 
 O'Mahon, who stood gallantly enough in the 
 front of the battle. The moment the torches 
 were extinguished, he seized the youth and 
 dragged him with a powerful hand towards 
 his party. Garret, weak from past illness, did 
 not want for lungs in his extremity, and called 
 lustily to the rescue. O'More rushed to his 
 aid, late enmity forgotten ; and the Sub-she- 
 riff, caught in his own device, felt himself 
 detained in the still more doughty grasp of 
 Ulick O'More. 
 
 It was now M'Crosky 1 s turn to shout, and 
 shout he did to the rescue. His friends were 
 true, and spurred a most vigorous and obsti- 
 nate charge to bring him off at least. In this 
 the foes came to a close struggle, and more 
 met their death in this last thrall, than had 
 hitherto fallen. After it there ensued a pause, 
 a cessation of strife. The Papists took breath,
 
 310 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 and expected a renewal; but no sound gave 
 notice of an attacking foe. The Williamites 
 had retreated. 
 
 " Lights, lights P cried Ulick : " kindle your 
 bog-pine, my merry fellows, that we may see 
 what the Cromwellians have left us. Dead they 
 have left, 111 be sworn, and living, too; for 
 I grasp a fellow that breathes hard and strong. 
 Who are you ? — let's see." 
 
 A pine-branch was kindled at the moment, 
 and Ulick held it to M'Crosky, whom he still 
 grasped. 
 
 " What ! a spalpeen ! a fellow in frieze and 
 
 blue connamaras ! one of us, by , and he 
 
 siding with the heretics. He shall die, by mv 
 father's head, I swear it, the traitor." 
 
 " Plase your honour, - " said the Sub-sheriff, 
 sinking unconsciously into his born rank and 
 character, and pulling off Clem's caubeen. The 
 act of reverence displayed the powdered head of 
 the attorney, and Ulick started. The captive 
 was turned round and examined. His shirt and 
 ruffles appeared ill-assorted with his borrowed 
 habiliments.
 
 CORRAMAHON. 311 
 
 " A spy ! a spy ! a Williamite spy !"" so was 
 the discover) 7 proclaimed. 
 
 As curiosity tempted all and each to take a 
 peep at the unfortunate captive, it was not long 
 ere he was recognized as Mr. 'Torney and Sub- 
 sheriff' M'Crosky. A shout of triumph hailed 
 the discovery of so welcome a prisoner. 
 
 The attorney pleaded for mercy. 
 
 " You are as welcome as Noll Cromwell's 
 self, were he living, 1 ' was the answer of Uliek, 
 accompanied by so dark a look, that it almost 
 petrified poor M'Crosky. 
 
 M And now for the dead, 1 ' continued the Rap- 
 paree, who, aided by some of his followers, be- 
 gan to examine the four or five fallen enemies, 
 not forgetting to rifle, as they turned them, 
 with all their professional adroitness and reck- 
 lessn< 
 
 "Gob — but here's a prize, 1 ' quoth one, dis- 
 playing an ornament of price and distinction, 
 that lie had just taken from one of the fallen. 
 
 " Ha ! cried Ulick, " that is an eagle's fea- 
 ther ; it tokeneth gentility, or what those Saxon
 
 312 CORRAMAHON. 
 
 dogs of yesterday would call gentility. Turn 
 him over — young too." 
 
 " Here will be a feud," quoth Roger O'Ma- 
 hon ; " 'tis young Christopher Burton, son of 
 the knight of Palestine." 
 
 " The young blood-hound has died a hound's 
 death. A knotted cudgel has driven in his 
 skull. So much for knightly fate !" said Ulick. 
 
 " It is a merited one, I must say," said the 
 Chef." 
 
 " There spoke something like an O'Mahon. 11 
 
 " Spare your praise, Sir. I shall be more 
 sensible to it, than to your blame. But I must 
 hurry home to convey a lady who has accompa- 
 nied me to some place of safety. 11 
 
 " And then, Roger O'Mahon, will you stand 
 up for the old cause ? Have you not yet had 
 sufficient provocation ?" 
 
 " With other allies, I own, at this moment I 
 might be tempted. But neither of us have time 
 to lose. Catherlogh garrison, horse and foot, 
 will soon be here to take vengeance for the im- 
 prudence of a boy and an attorney. You had
 
 CORRAMAHON. 313 
 
 better, however, liberate your prisoner. It will 
 show that we were not the aggressors.*" 
 
 " Liberate him !" exclaimed the Rapparee in 
 astonishment that changed to a smile. " Libe- 
 rate him ! — that will I most assuredly in my own 
 way and time. Fare you well ! the French 
 guardsman has, I see, few ideas left of the 
 Irish Chief." 
 
 To this Roger internally assented. And here 
 the Chef and the chieftain separated. 
 
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