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UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Class Book Volume 
 
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THE 
 
 BOYNE WATER. 
 
 . BY THE O’HARA FAMILY. 
 
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 21 $fan> (Edition, nutl) Introduction and dfoteo, 
 
 BY MICHAEL BANIM, ESQ., 
 
 THE 8UBVIVOR OP THE “O’HARA FAMILY.” 
 
 Authors of “ The Peep o’ Day,” “ The Croppy,” “ The Mayor of Windgap,” 
 “ The Bit o’Writm 1 ,” “The Denounced,” “Peter of the Castle,” and 
 “The Fetches,” “ Father ConnelL,” “The Ghost-Hunter and his 
 Family,” and “ Clough Fion, or the Stone of Destiny,” 
 
 “The Life of John Banim,” etc. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 P. J. KENEDY, 
 
 EXCELSIOR PUBLISHING HOUSE; 
 
 5 BARCLAY STREET, 
 
 1896. 
 
T*L 3 
 
 3 zz^>° 
 
 Copyright: 
 
 D. & J. SADLIER & CO. 
 i89s. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 *. 
 
 Early in May, 1825, I received a letter from my brother, 
 portions of which I here extract. 
 
 “ I will come out (our title page still continued) with a tale, 
 in three vote., next Christmas; and I propose that, if possible, 
 you must be the next O’Hara. Your guess about Derry is rght; 
 and you recommend is my own plan, long since chalked out. 
 I will visit every necessary spot in the north and south : Derry ; 
 Lcugh Neagh; from that down to the Boyne; and then, Lim¬ 
 erick, once more. I conceive that I possess, after laborious study, 
 good workable materials for a historic tale. Derry, alone, sup¬ 
 plies me with good scenes and studies—I mean in appeal to the 
 human heart—and the name of my tale shall be “ The Boyne 
 Water.” . . . This is Thursday. I leave for Ireland next Tues¬ 
 day morning, purpose to be in Dublin (taking my time through 
 Wales) to-morrow week, and shall, when there, expect a long 
 letter from you, addressed to Tom Mulvaney’s care. Then, not 
 waiting to get to the North, I will write to father ; and, about 
 ten days after, look out for me in Kilkenny. Do you think we 
 can wend to Limerick together ?” 
 
 »om Coleraine I received the following: 
 
 “Coleraine, May 28, 1825. 
 
 M My Dear Michael —Lest you should be uneasy at my stay¬ 
 ing longer than I proposed in the letter from Dublin to ray 
 
 162632 
 
4 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 father, I write to say I am well, and have only been delayed by 
 the uninterrupted interest of my route from Belfast. I walked a 
 great part of the way along the coast to this town, having for¬ 
 warded all my luggage, and trusting to Him who feeds the spar¬ 
 row and the raven for a meal and a bed. Indeed, my adven¬ 
 tures have been considerable in the way of living. Sometimes I 
 slept in a shebeen house, sometimes in a farmer’s house, some¬ 
 times in a good inn ; and, only I thought myself in too soiled a trim, 
 I might have participated the hospitalities of the Countess of 
 Antrim, as I was kindly invited to do. But all this is nothing. 
 The scenery I have beheld! Grand ! exquisite! The Cause¬ 
 way, from which I have just returned, the best part of it. So 
 far, my business has been well done. I go on to-night in the 
 mail to Derry, and you may certainly look for me towards the 
 end of the next week—that is, Saturday—and so assure all at 
 home. 
 
 “John Banim.” 
 
 There is nothing whatever more delightful to the affections, 
 than when the hiatus in a family, produced by absence, is filled 
 up ; and we certainly welcomed Barnes O’Hara back again, to 
 his old chair at our table, with a cead mille failthe. 
 
 A few days only was Barnes O’Hara able to spend with his 
 family. He was obliged to hurry back to London ; and, finding 
 that he was unable to proceed to the South, as he had intended, 
 he requested I would journey thither alone. 
 
 I did so shortly after. I traced on the spot the localities con¬ 
 nected with the last siege of Limerick ; I travelled thence on 
 foot, over a disused road, to Killaloe ; from Killaloe I ascended 
 the Slieve Bloom Mountains, my way lying by the base of the 
 massive Keeper Hill, and thence on to the Pass of Doone. I 
 had succeeded in following the route taken by Sarsfield, on his 
 expedition to intercept the cannon and military supplies proceed¬ 
 ing to re-enforce the besiegers of Limerick. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 5 
 
 From the Pass of Doone, where Sarsfield had lain in ambush, 
 I eould see the hill of Ballineety directly opposite ; and beneath 
 me was the flat country, across which the daring soldier had 
 dashed when the night-fires on Ballineety told him the hour of 
 daring had come. 
 
 Some of my adventures, as I progressed on my way, were 
 highly characteristic of the country and the people. I for* 
 warded my notes to my brother, giving him a detailed statement 
 of all I met with in my rambles. A further extract, from one of 
 his letters, will aptly close this short introduction: 
 
 “ October 25, 1825. 
 
 “My Dear Michael— Your Sarsfield labors have gone far 
 beyond my expectations. I return you my best thanks for all 
 you have done. Apart from the thing I wanted, your notes are 
 rich, and suggest to me a continuance of such things, by both ; 
 and some time or other a publication of * Walks through Ireland, 
 
 m 
 
 by the O’Hara Family,’ if, indeed, we do not use the sketches in 
 our novels, from time to time. 
 
 “J. Banim.” 
 
 Before this plan, to which I looked forward with great pleas¬ 
 ure, could be carried into effect, my brother’s health broke down; 
 and many other ardent speculations were abandoned, too, in 
 consequence. 
 
 MICHAEL BANIM. 
 
 Kilkenny, 25th January, 1865. 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER 
 
 FROM 
 
 MR. ABEL O’HARA TO MR. BARNES O’HARA. 
 
 GRAY’S INN, LONDON. 
 
 Inishmore, February 2, 1826. 
 
 My Dear Barnes —Happy we are to learn from yours duly 
 received (alongwith the last transcript of our “Boyne Water”), 
 by the hands of Mr. Dennis Mahony, of this place, that you are 
 well, in good spirits, and near the conclusion of your dinner eat¬ 
 ing ; so that we may now reckon on your return amongst us 
 sooner than we had ventured to anticipate. 
 
 Mr. Mahony reports you as well perched, too, in a third or 
 fourth story of the Honorable Inn of Court to which you are 
 appended, comfortable and sleek to look at, when the double 
 door of your chambers has been once gained ; but this, he adds, 
 with a sneer (not, indeed, to me, but to others), is rather a task. 
 He is a fat little man, you know, and not much used to bodily ex¬ 
 ertion ; so that no great importance is to be attached to his 
 views of your situation, either in this instance or in others, con¬ 
 cerning which (I am further able to learn) he has allowed himself 
 a certain latitude of remark among the curious of your natiy« 
 village. Meantime, my dear Barnes, I hope there is really no 
 bad symptom in the reported elevation you enjoy. Though I 
 
8 
 
 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 know little of the appreciations of a great city, yon are no* 
 ignorant that with ns at home, second floors, I should say third 
 or fourth, if such things were common, are allotted in lodging- 
 houses to persons of limited means, who sink in public considera¬ 
 tion just according to their rise in the edifice. Truth is, I am 
 somewhat nettled by the nature of Mr. Dennis Mahony’s frequent 
 observations on this and other subjects, all faithfully conveyed to 
 me by friends of yours and mine, who make it a point not to leave 
 me in ignorance of one word whispered against either of us. 
 
 Can you tell me, Barnes, what literary friends Mr. Mahony 
 has in London ? That point I would wish to ascertain. I know 
 that he left Inismore with the same favorable notion of your late 
 success that was entertained by his neighbors. This was proved 
 by his offering (handsomely, as I thought) to take charge of letters 
 for you. But his “ literary friends,” he now says, have given him 
 quite a new view of things. In this new view, the changed Mr. 
 Mahony is upheld by old Doctor Hummum, to whom, the very 
 first morning of his reappearance behind his counter, he commu¬ 
 nicated it; and he made the communication in the presence of a 
 number of news-loving gentlemen, and of two little girls, customers. 
 I assure you, the pronouncement of the doctor, and his dogmatic 
 repetition of the matter, make considerable impression on part of 
 the public mind of Inismore. The old gentleman, although get¬ 
 ting no practice in his own profession, yet enjoys great fame 
 amongst us as an author himself, for the book he published, and 
 which was printed, as you know, by Mr. Isaac Holmes, of High- 
 street. Then, his first-rate skill as a musician; he playing equally 
 well on the flute, violin, and violoncello. Further, his rapid and 
 self-directed progress in the art of painting in oil-colors (which 
 he commenced in his fifty-ninth year). Those last-named pur¬ 
 suits add a brilliancy, as it were, to his literary name, and cause 
 much weight to be attached to his literary decisions. 
 
 - Yet, as I have said, the impression made by Mr. Mahony and 
 Doctor Hummum is only partial—none but the immediate frienda 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 9 
 
 of the two gentlemen being much influenced. The great ma¬ 
 jority of the public voice of Inismore is still with you, my dear 
 Barnes ; your good fortune is still a cause of pleasure to your 
 fellow-townsmen, and (Heaven bless the dear, kind-hearted crear 
 tures !) to your townswomen, too, of different ranks. It is my 
 pride to perceive that (notwithstanding certain o’erpast back- 
 slidings between the ages of seventeen and two-and-twenty, of 
 which “least said is soonest mended”) my brother Barnes 
 O’Hara has the lively good wishes of his native place. 
 
 Nor, after a moment’s reflection, can Mr. Dennis Mahony’s de¬ 
 preciating hints, grounded on his conclusions as to your aerial 
 abode in the Inn of Court, weigh against the pleasing assurances 
 contained in your Christmas letter to your father and mother— 
 that thrice welcomed Christmas letter! We got it on the eve of 
 the great festival, just when our uncertainties about you, brought 
 on us by Mr. Mahony and Doctor Hummum, were at their 
 height. 
 
 Though father, and mother, and sister, and brother had each 
 a private reading, there was no general participation, until the 
 dinner-cloth disappeared the next joyous day. A chair had been 
 placed at your old side of the table, opposite the poor mother— 
 this chair was your representative. Then, Barnes, your letter 
 was read aloud by me, for the general behoof; your mother lis¬ 
 tened, as if it were quite new to her, sitting back in her chair, 
 with crossed hands, happy as quiet smiles and tears could make 
 her. Mary sat watching the mother’s face ; and your father 
 often shifting his position, and taking long-drawn pinches of Lundy 
 Foot’s high toast. Your letter read, it was placed on the table, 
 opposite your representative, the chair. Then the mother pro¬ 
 posed “ health and a blessing to Barnes, this holy Christmas-day; 
 and to make friends, we’ll drink Doctor Hummum’s health, and 
 Mr. Mahony’s, too, and God forgive them both.” We clinked 
 our glasses in silence, our moist eyes exchanging many glances, 
 as we cv-med our bumpers to our lips. 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 10 
 
 So, God forgive Mr. Mahony ; and his friend, Doctor Hum- 
 mum, I say, also. And now let me perform my task of adding 
 my final comments, and answering your last questions referring 
 to the three volumes herewith returned for publication. 
 
 You may rest assured of the propriety of my Irish tornado, in 
 the beginning of the first volume. Many of our old folks here 
 remember when such phenomena were not unusual in Ireland. 
 But I have better authority for it, very nearly on the ground 
 where I use it, in “The History of Carrickfergus,” etc., etc., 
 etc., published by my worthy friend, Mr. Samuel M’Skimin, of 
 that town. To him, indeed, we stand indebted for other pleas¬ 
 ing localities introduced. He came to me, at my little Carrick¬ 
 fergus inn, in the honorable primitiveness of the olden time, his 
 coat well bedusted with the flour of the mill, of which he is the 
 esteemed proprietor, bearing in his hand the valuable volume to 
 which I have alluded. 
 
 Upon the manner in which one of our characters catches and 
 tames a wild colt, you suspect some question may also arise. I 
 can only assure you, that while I have excellent tradition for at¬ 
 tributing to that character the possession, nearly two centuries 
 ago, of such a gift, an individual of our time was greatly cele¬ 
 brated for it, as can be attested by credible witnesses. No one 
 is able, indeed, to tell me the nature of this mysterious mastery 
 over the race of horses ; and, although it may be surmised, if not 
 explained on simple principles, yet, with a proper regard to his¬ 
 toric truth, I leave it just as I got it—unaccounted for. 
 
 Some of the interest of the third volume turning on a mistake 
 which (though with a very different use made of it) is to be 
 found in one of the works of an illustrious story-teller, you fear we 
 may be accused of wilful imitation. I stoutly answer, “ No!” No 
 one charges that illustrious story-teller with wilful imitation of a 
 play of Shakspeare, in which the same mistake occurs. This hap of 
 close personal resemblance is not of very rare occurrence. We 
 have, ourselves, seen two instances of it, and we may surely be 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 11 
 
 pt* mitted to draw from our own observations. Do not trouble 
 your head, overmuch, on the matter you last wrote about. 
 
 You say yourself, “Englishmen, of almost every party, who 
 may honor our book with a perusal, are now prepared to recog¬ 
 nize the truth of the historical portraits we sketch and allude 
 to.” You tell me, “ that since some late publications, and, par¬ 
 ticularly, since the publication of ‘The Life of James II., King 
 of England, collected out of memoirs writ of his own hand,’ 
 edited ‘ from the authentic manuscripts,’ by the librarian at Carl¬ 
 ton House, and published under the auspices of his present gra¬ 
 cious majesty, Englishmen have ceased to attribute to the de¬ 
 posed monarch such civil tyranny, and such plotting against their 
 religion, as his hostile contemporaries found it politic to lay at 
 his door.” 
 
 And further, you say, “ that inasmuch as the least perfect 
 parts of the British constitution were not only allowed to re¬ 
 main by James's successor, but other parts, perhaps more objec¬ 
 tionable, added to them, Englishmen at present see, in the zeal 
 of the adherents of that successor, as much selfishness as pa¬ 
 triotism ; as much thirst of monopoly as thirst of righteousness ; 
 as much hunger for the ‘loaves and fishes' as for the bread of 
 life ; as much indifference to freedom, when freedom could have 
 been secured, as emptiness in the clamor they raised in her name. 
 In a word, as much pretension as truth ; as much of Jesuitism as 
 the so-called Jesuitism they profess to oppose.” 
 
 While, from your opinion of English principle and character, 
 you venture, in more of hope than of misgiving, before an English 
 reader, you entertain some dread of an Irish reader. Now, I 
 have been in Ireland all the time you have been out of it—of 
 course, I possess so much more observation of the country ; and 
 I am bold to rally your heart on this point. Don’t be chicken- 
 hearted, Barnes. In the name of St. Patrick’s “ green, immor¬ 
 tal shamrock,” I tell you to go on, and fear not. 
 
 No period of our history is, in Ireland, so little understood, so 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 little known, as that we have stumbled on. No period is sc 
 much involved in traditionary gossip and popular stories. Through 
 the medium of popular stories, both sides are, indeed, best ac¬ 
 quainted with it. 
 
 For instance, one side regards William as a persecutor, which 
 he was not; as a Church of England champion, which he was 
 not; and as a religious bigot, which he was not. The other side 
 regard him as an amiable and chivalrous hero of romance ; and 
 they will have it that he was an appointed instrument, first to 
 England, and next to Ireland, specially missioned for the pur¬ 
 pose of rooting out Popery—and very pious withal. They claim 
 him as a Church of England man, because he is eulogized by 
 Church of England Protestants, who cannot be supposed to ap¬ 
 plaud the “ piety” of a prince differing widely from their religion, 
 and often heartily disliking it. 
 
 James, too, is misunderstood. Both sides are of accord in one 
 point concerning him, namely, that he was a coward, or something 
 like it. His hereditary haters call him tyrant, butcher, fanatic ; 
 his most vivid identity in their minds is a brass sixpence, or a 
 pair of wooden shoes ; while the descendants of those who 
 fought by his side, scarcely take the trouble of denying one of 
 the leading charges against him, either because they have listened, 
 until repetition worries them into assent, or because, if it be al¬ 
 lowed by them that James was a coward, which he was not, they 
 place the odium of defeat on his shoulders, and thereby gratify 
 their own wounded vanity. 
 
 Thus they go on, Protestant and Catholic— 
 
 “ Both disclaiming truth. 
 
 And truth disclaiming both.” 
 
 I will not, Barnes, examine at unreasonable length, here, all 
 the opposing opinions of one party or the other. I have satisfied 
 myself that the portraits held up as likenesses of the rival princes, 
 fames II. and his son-in-law William, are neither of tbuo true 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 13 
 
 pictures. I have taken all due pains, as I was bound to do, to 
 get at the bottom of the (in Ireland) muddy well, where truth is 
 to be found ; and my mind is at ease as to the result of my re¬ 
 searches. I have the approval of my conscience, touching my 
 desire to substitute facts for loose representations. Let there be 
 realities, say I, instead of delusions ; and then, sound footing will 
 be preferred to Will-o’-the-Wisp erroneousness. 
 
 I will tell you, Barnes, what I would like to aid : I would go 
 far to assist in dispersing the mist that hangs over Irish ground. 
 I would like to see those dwelling on the Irish soil looking about 
 them in the clear sunshine—the murkiness dispelled—recognizing 
 each other as belonging to a common country, and exchanging 
 the password, “ This is my native land.” 
 
 If, even through the medium of a work of fiction, we make a 
 step towards the above result, I see no reason to anticipate hos¬ 
 tility ; we must claim the credit of good intention, at all events. 
 
 I am oversanguine, perhaps ; but, for my part, I expect that 
 partisans, even, will not cling to error, merely because it coincides 
 with their preconceived prejudices. We, here in Ireland, ought 
 to be anxious to ascertain our position accurately, if for no other 
 reason than that we may give ourselves a common country. At 
 present, the Irish, as a people, have no country, while the chil¬ 
 dren of every other soil boast a proud identity with their native 
 land. 
 
 At all events, we have nothing to fear, even from displeasure. 
 We come forward on this occasion with clean breasts. Yery 
 likely we may not fit the knuckle of either side: that we cannot 
 help, while we reconcile our humble efforts to our own consciences. 
 This, you will say, is valiant for me. Probably I do wax valiant, 
 when I know that every statement of facts, or allusion to them, 
 which we are compelled incidentally to put forward, is authorized 
 by historians whom both sides are bound to admit; and nothing 
 can be objected to us, which must not also be objected to Dal- 
 rymple, or Harris, or Burnet, or Hume, or Smollet, or “ James’s 
 
14 
 
 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 Memoirs,” or “ Walker’s Diary of the Siege of Derry,” witb 
 many other general and local histories. 
 
 When our historical people speak on historical points, we have 
 given them, as often as possible, the words that history puts into 
 their mouths, and never one word which, in our opinion, is not 
 authorized by their characters, sentiments, or actions. In the 
 latter instance, they may be conceived to utter thoughts and feel¬ 
 ings too vivid for some who, at one side or the other, love not 
 them, nor their thoughts, nor their feelings; but we may plead 
 that a dramatist, while trying to give natural speech to his char¬ 
 acters, is not accountable for all they choose to say. 
 
 We have unhesitatingly restored to their true shapes and fea¬ 
 tures all those we have found disguised, according to the musty 
 fanaticism prevailing nearly two centuries ago ; and we hold 
 ourselves accountable for exercising our right to take such free¬ 
 doms with the dead and gone. 
 
 And now get the three unwieldy volumes printed as fast as our 
 respected northern fellow-countryman, Mr. J. M’Creery, can 
 manage it—with my blessing ; and my request, too, that concern¬ 
 ing the point upon which I have been so loquacious, you will give 
 yourself no further trouble. 
 
 Other parts give me more uneasiness ; but no matter now ; 
 let them pass to their great account. 
 
 Heaven help us! I have gone near to frighten myself, by 
 using at random that last expression. It creates a very uncom¬ 
 fortable sensation—a kind of shuddering about the seat of life. 
 
 My dear Barnes, 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 ABEL O’HARA. 
 
 P. S.— Apropos, about the failing at the heart I feel, at the 
 idea of standing before the dread tribunal we are facing, in the 
 person of our present venture. Doctor Hummum predicts it 
 will be worse than our former one, although that was bad enough 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 15 
 
 he says. Bad as the first tales were, he says, we are now about 
 to fellow them. How can he and Mr. Mahony’s literary friends 
 be so certain ? Have you ever let a copy out of your hands, 
 without knowing where it might have strayed ? I’m sure I kept 
 those you sent me, from time to time, close enough ; yet nothing 
 can be more assured than Doctor Hummum’s quiet, settled, and 
 self-gratified conviction. Then the compression of Mr. Mahony’s 
 lips, and the slow up-and-down motion of his head, confirmatory 
 of Doctor Hummum’s uncharitable prejudgment! This goes to 
 my heart; although I try to convince myself it should not de¬ 
 press me so. Perhaps it is a fate, or a rule laid down by the 
 doctor, and accepted by his friend—that a poor author’s second 
 book must ever fall below his first. If so, Heaven help us ! 
 I say again. We should be ungrateful, indeed, if a recollection 
 of the highly gratifying, though, I fear, too high praise, with 
 which the other critics have treated us, did not serve to give us 
 hopes, in spite of Doctor Hummum and Mr. Mahony’s prophecy. 
 Doctor Hummum’s opinion runs counter with other opinions, I 
 think more weighty than his ; and he may be mistaken. 
 
 You have expressed to me your very profound sense of the 
 kindness and encouragement to which I allude ; and if any fitting 
 opportunity should occur for making our joint sentiments known, 
 I hereby request of you, Barnes, to say, in your name and mine, 
 all that the truest gratitude would naturally and simply lead you 
 to Bay. 
 
 A. O’H. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was in the summer of 1685, that a party of travellers, 
 suggesting, in the group, some remarkable contrast, held their 
 way from Belfast to the more northern and ancient fortress of 
 Carrickfergus. 
 
 First came, on a jennet and steed, of the best kind the 
 country afforded, a maiden and a youthful cavalier, well clad, 
 well favored, and exhibiting in their air that certain, though 
 indefinable something which proclaims the habits and feelings, if 
 not the birth and lineage, of gentle maidens and gallant cavaliers. 
 The damsel, in her tight, grass-green, long-waisted, jerkin, laced 
 and fringed with silver; in her ample cloth riding-skirt, of a 
 graver color, showing, through certain openings, glimpses of a 
 rich silken under-dress ; in her low-crowned, broad-leafed, riding- 
 hat, flapped down, to be secured under the chin; and, above all, 
 in the very delicate, if not very beautiful face beneath it, shaded 
 by loose tresses of a pale gold-color ; she, in particular, asserted, 
 at a glance, her pretensions to gentle rank. And, if her marbly 
 cheek and melancholy brow did not well become a sylph-like girl 
 of sixteen, perhaps they touched the bosom of a beholder with 
 more interest than could the radiance of a sunny face, and a 
 laughter-looking glance. 
 
 He who rode at her side, and, with an air of brotherly and 
 affectionate protection, occasionally touched her rein, was not 
 so prepossessing in visage or figure, though he was almost as 
 young as his sweet charge. His features were, perhaps, too 
 rigidly marked, though by no means of a common cast ; serious¬ 
 ness, without pensiveness, seemed, at all events now that he re¬ 
 mained unexcited, their predominant character. But his figure, 
 
18 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 though, even in boyhood, more square and manly than round or 
 graceful, had in it a gallant hardihood that recommended him 
 to notice, and seemed particularly to fit the brother and protector 
 of a girl so delicate and fragile as she who rode beside him. 
 This impression was well sustained by the brave dress he wore ; 
 by his fawn-colored cavalier hat, looped up obliquely in front, 
 and adorned with a long feather ; by his close-buttoned green 
 surcoat, moderately slashed in the upper sleeve, and sufficiently 
 short to show the knees tightly fitted by hose; while a graceful 
 full-topped half-boot fell midway down the leg, and a riding- 
 cloak, hung off one shoulder, flowed over the saddle or fluttered 
 in the light breeze. 
 
 Some distance behind this youthful pair, on a peaceably 
 shaped animal, of that class which one would assign to parish 
 clergymen of all sects who do not hunt, followed a very short, 
 round, elderly man, whose legs, though not crippled by stirrup- 
 leathers, unusually scanty, reached scarce more than half-way 
 down the sides of the beast he bestrode. And those legs looked 
 still shorter, on account of the descent upon them of the over¬ 
 abundant skirts of the good old-fashioned English coat, which, 
 even ere Charles I. imported the costume of the court whose in¬ 
 fanta he failed to charm away, was popular in the sister- 
 country. Again, their full proportion was interrupted by the 
 square-toed, high-heeled, high-mouthed shoes, something of the 
 cut of the Blucher boots of our day ; so that, altogether, not 
 more than a few inches of leg were visible, covered by clocked 
 sky-blue woollen stockings. A full tie wig, topped by that 
 curious-shaped, broad-brimmed, pau-crowned hat, which one can¬ 
 not call round, square, or angular, completed the costume of this 
 remarkable person. His little paunch—little in comparison with 
 paunches, but huge in comparison with his own proportions— 
 rested on the brazen-nosed pummel of his pad. There appeared, 
 in the oozing of his vacant purply face, in the distension and 
 rolling of his gray eyes, in the hard compression of his lips, and 
 in his desperate grasping of the bridle, indications of a mind not 
 well at ease, and as if it were to him a task of some difficulty, 
 and much bodily torture, to sustain, decently, the character of a 
 cavalier. 
 
 By his side, on a steed also of very grave conformation and 
 habits, rode a man, his senior in years and his contrary in per¬ 
 son, being tall, gaunt, and spare in the limbs. Behind him, on a 
 pillion, sat a second female, quite as tall, though of a bulk prom* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 19 
 
 ising, if fairly divided, to make three of such as he ; the pro* 
 fusion of cloth in which, down to the toes, she was enveloped, 
 sening to give even an exaggerated notion of her colossal 
 figuie. 
 
 From the vulgar hardness of his sharp features, as well as 
 from his antique coat of livery, buttoned, but too closely, as far 
 down as the hips (thence it spread into voluminous skirts), over 
 his grayhound body, this good lady’s conductor, although his 
 great trooper’s boots and roundhead hat insinuated a foregone 
 military character, might easily be recognized as an attendant. 
 The Amazonian lady herself might as easily pass for a consider¬ 
 able personage—at least in her own estimation. The impression 
 was not, indeed, conveyed by dignity of deportment, or even the 
 affectation of it, but rather by a solemn, fussy expression of 
 countenance, generally seen with good dames who talk and do a 
 great deal in circles which are bound to admit their preponder¬ 
 ance, and who, assisted by worldly as well as natural requisites, 
 have a talent, without positive vociferation, of ruling their 
 humble friends, and sometimes their husbands. Behind the 
 whole party, followed a bare-legged peasant boy, leading a sor¬ 
 rowful donkey, across whose back hung two large, well-laden 
 hampers. 
 
 The travellers had left behind the curious Cave Hill, that al¬ 
 most overhangs Belfast. They had come in view of Carrickfer- 
 gus, with its ancient and well-fortified castle, standing out in the 
 bay, on a nearly insulated rock,—an object by no means deficient 
 in importance or picturesque interest, and sympathizing so well, 
 in rudeness and largeness of parts, with the primitive pile on 
 which it was based, that thus beheld at a distance, both masses 
 seemed one. For some time all had been silent; except that 
 now and then any increased motion of his steed called from the 
 little round man an involuntary groan, immediately after which 
 he might be seen turning his head over his shoulder, as quickly 
 as he could, to observe whether or no the dame on the pillion 
 took notice of his ejaculation. And if, as was indeed the case, 
 during all such accidents, he found her head also turned, and her 
 eyes fastened, half in amaze, half in severity upon him, he never 
 failed, after another twitch of feature, to look on straight before 
 him, with a face as composed and unconscious as he could well 
 assume. These interruptions excepted, silence reigned among the 
 party until they had gained the first unobstructed view of Car* 
 rickfergus. 
 
20 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Then the two young persons in front found words to express 
 their sentiments on the interesting picture ; and, that topic ex¬ 
 hausted, continued to converse together. It appeared from their 
 discourse that they were orphan brother and sister ; that the 
 elderly little man behind them was their uncle and guardian, and 
 the gigantic lady his spouse. In remark upon a new piece of in¬ 
 formation with which her brother supplied her, the maiden pro¬ 
 ceeded to ask— 
 
 “ Our guardian’s dame is of London city, then ?” when a shrill 
 exclamation of “ Paul, Paul 1” from the lady herself, in conse¬ 
 quence of an unusually loud groan from him who, nominally at 
 least, was her lord and husband, interrupted the brother’s an¬ 
 swer, and, had Esther Evelyn been skilled in accents, might have 
 fully proclaimed to her the genuine city derivation of her aunt- 
 in-law. 
 
 Both turned their horses’ heads to the rear ; and, “ Paul, 
 Paul!” the dame continued ; “ what’s to do with thee now, 
 sweetheart ?” 
 
 “ Naught, coney,” replied Paul, in such imperfect delivery as 
 denoted the almost total absence of teeth ; “ naught, truly, only 
 my beast stumbled.” 
 
 “ And let him stumble,” Mrs. Evelyn went on contemptuously, 
 “over every stock and stone on this wild road ; couldst not hold 
 thy hand tight on the rein, and the breath tight in thy body, and 
 not fright folk with such a holloring ?” 
 
 “ I but feared he might fall outright, Janet. And it seemeth 
 to me,” venturing a glance downward, “ I am at such a height 
 above the road, that it might have done me an injury, forsooth.” 
 
 “Tut, no, sweetheart,” she said affectionately; “thanks to 
 thy good wife’s care, thy bones are so well wrapped up, it would 
 have done no more hurt to thee than to a bale of broadcloth.” 
 
 He made no answer, contenting himself with keeping up a 
 decent composure of face, notwithstanding the refined torture 
 conferred by every step, even the gentlest, of his steed. The 
 dame continued : 
 
 “ Though much, doubtless, is the peril of journeying over such 
 roads, in such a country, and on beasts such only as it can 
 afford us.” 
 
 “ They’re just too good fur hur likes,” said one of the few 
 native peasants of the district, who was passing, and heard the 
 observation. 
 
 “ There,” remarked Mrs. Evelyn—using gross language, no 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 21 
 
 doubt, yet the common language of her day, even in parliament 
 —'“ there goes a murdering and damnable Papist.” 
 
 “An’ there hur sits, a heretic jade, wid the fire ready kindled 
 an’ roarin' fur hur,” retorted the man, also using the charitable 
 expressions in vogue amongst the vulgar and bigoted of his pei 
 suasion. At the same time he turned up a wild bridle-road, and 
 left them.. 
 
 “ Ah!” resumed Mrs. Evelyn, airing a set speech, the con¬ 
 clusion of which she had learned from public manifestoes, and, 
 for many years had been in the habit of rehearsing ; “ never 
 can the land have roads or ways, men or beasts, as it should 
 have them, until Popery and slavery be rooted out, with all 
 Jesuits, plotters, and suspected persons.” 
 
 “ Never,” said her attendant, who rode before her, also 
 indulging in some favorite allusions, while his sentiments im¬ 
 parted to his long and wrinkled face its hardest expression ; 
 “ never, till the auld Forty-one comes round again. Whilk 
 time, as an humble doer for the Lord, forbye a corporal 
 muckle in favor wi’ that zealous man, though an Erastian, Charles 
 Coote, I returned to the Papists and malignants, hilt-deep, the 
 sword they had unsheathed amang the Lord's people.” 
 
 “The Papists,” Mrs. Evelyn went on, not at all indulging in 
 commonplace, “ who plotted their damnable plot to poisou the 
 king, murder us, and make us subjects of antichrist, the Pope ; 
 who ran through the body, with his own sword, that good magis¬ 
 trate, Godfrey, at Primrose Hill ; and who burned down the 
 city, till the flames stopped at London Bridge, as may be seen 
 on the monument to this day.” (The lady spoke truly, not 
 only of her own day, by the way, but of ours ; for, there, 
 indeed—a century at least after all men who can read or think 
 have laughed at the misstatement—there it remains graven in 
 stone, to be spelt over by the mere ignorance and folly of the 
 land, and perpetuated on minds as hard as the stone itself.) 
 
 Young Evelyn had not been indifferent to the conversation 
 here noticed. With a tone he might properly assume to an old 
 attendant of his father, though, in reality, he intended the re¬ 
 monstrance for his aunt-in-law, he now said— 
 
 “ Oliver, it were wiser, more seemly, and more Christian, that 
 you forbore such observations. The times are altered—and al¬ 
 tered, I hope, for the better—since they afford opportunity to 
 men of all parties to hold out to each other the hand of broth¬ 
 erhood. A Popish sovereign now fills the throne of these 
 
22 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 realms ; he has ascended that seat of his fathers in peace ; and 
 in welcome, too, from persons of every persuasion—” 
 
 “ From backsliders, Papists, and malignants”—“from plot¬ 
 ters, Papists, and Jesuits,” interrupted Oliver and Mrs. Evelyn, 
 in a breath. 
 
 “ We owe him our allegiance,” young Evelyn went on ; “ with 
 it our honor and respect. And it cannot be respectful—no, 
 nor lawful—to insult with our speech the religion our sovereign 
 chooses, and is permitted to profess.” 
 
 “Doubtless, no,” said Uncle Paul, anxious for peace. 
 
 “ What, Paul! what say’st thou ?” exclaimed his consort; 
 and Paul winced more than if his fat horse had—which it could 
 not do—bounded under him ; “ honor and respect for that 
 which is damnable and idolatrous, plotting and murderous, poi¬ 
 soning, burning, and jesuitical, say’st thou, man ?” 
 
 “ No such thing do I say,” replied the husband meekly. 
 
 “ He wha touches pitch is defiled thereby,” said Oliver, “ and 
 he wha denies the Lord will, in his day, be denied by Him. 
 Wherefore, anent yon man James, whom malignants and Pa¬ 
 pists, Erastians and Prelatists, call king—” 
 
 “ What mean’st thou by prelacy, fellow ?” interrupted Mrs. 
 Evelyn ; “ what mean’st thou by joining that with Papists and 
 Jesuits, Plo—” 
 
 “ And,.” continued Oliver, raising his voice, and in his turn 
 interrupting, as the better way to get out of the mistake he 
 soon saw he had committed—“ and whom they go forth to pro¬ 
 claim with the sounding of brazen trumpets, and the tinkling of 
 timbrels, and with a loud voice through the city, and a cry among 
 the people, saying—” 
 
 “ Good-fellow,” here interposed a stranger, wearing a close, 
 black cap, and a full riding-cloak—the voice sounding just at 
 Oliver’s ear, and startling him, although the speaker had for 
 some time accompanied the party unperceived—“good-fellow, 
 if you do not hold your neck to be too straight, or, at the least, 
 your back to require a clawing, best keep silence so near yon 
 loyal town.” The travellers had, indeed, now approached very 
 near to Carrickfergus. 
 
 “ What have I said, that I should keep silent ?” asked Oliver, 
 wrathfully, and still half nervous. 
 
 “ Treason,” replied the other, “ if ’twere worth the telling.” 
 
 “ Truth,” retorted Oliver, “ and the words of truth. Perad- 
 renture you be, yourself, of the children of abomination, th* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 23 
 
 sons of darkness and of Belial; but even to thee will I testify 
 against this breaking into the fold, this slumbering and back¬ 
 sliding of the shepherds—” 
 
 “ This introducing of Popery and slavery,” echoed Mrs. Eve* 
 lyn. 
 
 “ Silence, Oliver I” cried her nephew-in-law. 
 
 “ Fools!” exclaimed the stranger, in a tone as intemperate as 
 that used by those he addressed ; “ fools as well as blasphemers 
 and heretics.” 
 
 “ Heretics !” said Oliver, stopping his horse to confront his 
 new companion ; “ whom call you by that name, brother ?” 
 
 “ You, and all like you, who have departed from the bosom 
 of Holy Church, to set up the false lights of your own weak 
 Judgment, and bow down before them in presumptuous self-wor¬ 
 ship.” 
 
 “ You, and all like you,” rejoined Oliver, “ whether Papists or 
 Prelatists.” 
 
 “ Sirrah!” exclaimed his burden, turning fiercely on her con¬ 
 ductor ; “ again I ask, what wouldst thou by that word ?” 
 
 “ Even those,” he replied, forgetting, in extreme zeal, his 
 former caution, “ wha, against the voice of the Covenant, give 
 ear to the words of men in sleeves of lawn, and long garments, 
 sic as are called bishops aud archbishops, deans, deacons, and 
 rectors ; poor remnants of the tricks of Satan, and the decep¬ 
 tions of the scarlet—” 
 
 “ Beshrew thy knave’s heart ! thou art worse than a Papist, 
 thyself J” cried Mrs. Evelyn ; “ none but such could hold such 
 language of the pure, reformed religion.” 
 
 “ No !” said the stranger, “ alas, he is no more of the true, 
 holy faith, than thou, thyself, unhappy woman! I know you, 
 now, old Noll ; you were yon, at the Gobbins heughs, in the 
 Forty-one alluding to the massacre of Roman Catholics, dif¬ 
 ferently accounted for, which took place in Island Magee during 
 the dreadful year of 1641 or 1642. 
 
 “ I return thanks to the Lord I was,” said Oliver. “ Wi* 
 mickle sorrow that on that good night you stood not before me. 
 For now I no longer doubt you ; you are a professed Papist.” 
 
 11 1 am an unworthy son of Holy Church,” answered the 
 stranger, devoutly crossing himself ; “ and now of the trium¬ 
 phant Church, too.—Hark to that ! Long live King James 1” 
 he continued, as a shout, that he seemed apt at interpreting, 
 reached them, through a gate of the town, from the far end of 
 
24 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 a street, the suburb extremity of which they were just entering. 
 At the same time, the speaker, letting go the folds of his cloak, 
 which he had hitherto kept closely grasped, displayed the habit 
 of a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic of the regular order. 
 
 “ A travelling friar !” exclaimed Oliver. 
 
 “ A Jesuit 1 a Jesuit !” screamed Mrs. Evelyn. 
 
 “ And now I know you, too,” resumed the old trooper; 
 “ your name is O’Haggerty ; a firebrand amang the people ; a 
 sore affliction to the Covenant ; and weel disposed to do scaith 
 on my head for the words I have spoken. Do thy best—I defy 
 thee.” 
 
 “ Heretical idiot!” said the young friar, for young he was, 
 and of a tall, robust person, and rather coarse features, “ for 
 the sake of the well-intentioned youth who is thy master, and 
 whose remonstrance with thee I have heard, and also for the 
 sake of yon sweet and delicate young lady, whose health and 
 spirits do not seem well to brook such wrangling, I will spaie 
 you. Your ancient companion I spare for her own sake ; this 
 is a day of triumph, not of struggle. Attend to what is now 
 to be acted, and suffer in spirit all I could wish to inflict.” At 
 these words, the ecclesiastic gave spurs to his horse, and was 
 soon lost in the crowd that, amid a great din of shouting, ac¬ 
 companied by the squeak of a cracked trumpet, and the rub-a- 
 dub of an old kettle-drum, on which a fresh sheep-skin had just 
 been badly strained for the occasion, advanced towards the trav¬ 
 ellers. 
 
 Our party were obliged to draw up inside the rude gate of 
 the town which they had just entered, in order to give place to 
 the throng, that almost immediately halted about the spot. 
 
 Thus, however, they were afforded opportunity to observe what 
 was going forward. In the centre of the concourse, Evelyn 
 could recognize the mayor of the town, attended by the recorder, 
 sheriffs, aldermen, burgesses, and the other corporate and official 
 persons, all in their u formalities,” and on horseback. Before 
 them was the town-clerk, accompanied by the trumpeter, as 
 crazy as his instrument, and the drummer, as wrinkled as his 
 sheep-skin ; and, after a pause, this important officer crying 
 silence, proceeded to read, in a loud voice, and with vile pronuncia¬ 
 tion, made up of two parts of Scotch, and one of Irish brogue, 
 a paper that proclaimed James the Second, king. All had stood 
 uncovered during his oration ; and at the end, the mayor, re¬ 
 corder, etc., joined in his “ God save King James 1” waving their 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 25 
 
 cocked hats, their wands, and other badges of office ; whilst, at 
 the same time, the ever willing crowd threw up their greasy 
 caps, and contributed three separate shouts. 
 
 Evelyn looked attentively to try if he could discover in the 
 faces of the officials, or of the crowd, much hidden opinion at 
 variance with this outward manifestation of joy ; but, among 
 the former, his physiognomic skill did not enable him to detect 
 any contradiction. Even the crowd, though in that northern 
 town chiefly Protestants of one sect or other, seemed generally 
 sincere and gratified. On their outskirts, indeed, might be ob¬ 
 served more than one inferior group of old and young, male and 
 female, individuals after the hearts of Noll and Mrs. Evelyn, 
 who joined but faintly, or not at all, in the common shout, their 
 heads turned, and their eyes fixed scoffingly on the corporate 
 officers, or as scoffingly, and more expressively, on each other. 
 But such variations from the prevalent feeling, Evelyn did not 
 fail to set down as the exceptions that attend every general 
 rule, and most particularly every general rule in religious poli¬ 
 tics. He omitted, indeed, to consider them as the unnoticed 
 sparks that, after a half-consumed city is supposed to be safe 
 from further harm, still live in the midst of security, awaiting 
 but the breath of a fresh wind, or merely the progress of their 
 own ignition, to burst forth in treble vigor. 
 
 But, so far as his calculations at present went, Evelyn was 
 eorrect. Since the monstrous excesses committed on both sides 
 in the year 1641, and afterwards on one side only, by the ruth¬ 
 less Cromwell, Ireland had, down to the moment we speak of, 
 enjoyed more peace, or, at all events, rest, than could be recol¬ 
 lected in her previous history, from the time of Henry II. The 
 efforts to set aside Cromwell’s settlement, gave, iudeed, a slight 
 ruffle to the national tranquillity. But when that great question 
 became decided, and that the disappointed Catholics were con¬ 
 tent to bear in silence the bitterness of the arbitrary decision 
 which, from the son of Charles I., they saw little reason to 
 expect, all parties relapsed into quietness, and seemed willing to 
 tolerate, if not esteem each other. In aid of this sentiment, 
 now came the lively declarations of intended impartiality and 
 protection, made by the new king to his privy council, on behalf 
 of his Protestant subjects ; the good hopes of a happy reign 
 derived therefrom by all sects in the mother country, and the 
 sincere expressions of loyalty and attachment consequently 
 manifested in addresses from each, could not fail to command a 
 
 2 
 
26 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 correspondent feeling throughout Ireland. Men were tired, too, 
 of a mere religious struggle, principally, perhaps, on account of 
 the hopelessness, at any side, and after considerable efforts on 
 all sides, of religious extermination. Since they could trust 
 their prince, they seemed indifferent to his worshipping God 
 after his own fancy. And thus the mixed crowd that, in a 
 small town in the north of Ireland, shouted up James the Sec¬ 
 ond, might be heard re-echoing the watchword of security which 
 then ran through all the British realms, “We have the word 
 of a prince ; a pledge never broken. Long live King James I” 
 
 Yet were there non-contents: among them, none more consist¬ 
 ent than Oliver and Mrs. Evelyn, and, so long as he remained 
 under her jurisdiction, Paul, her spouse. As the party stood 
 looking on, Evelyn waved his hat and cheered ; but his aunt-in¬ 
 law scowled at the town-clerk, and once, when in some evident 
 return of displeasure he met her eye, she shook her head and 
 hand at him, uttering words that it was perhaps well for her the 
 noise of acclamation completely drowned. Oliver, too, though 
 contenting himself with severe silence, remained covered, till a 
 person, passing on horseback, twitched off his hat, and cried, 
 “ Shout, Roundhead, shout!” 
 
 . “There’s na muckle treason in a guarded mouth,” replied the 
 old Covenanter, coolly taking his hat from some benevolent per¬ 
 son who had stooped to pick it up. 
 
 “ Look on, and you shall soon know,” resumed the voice of 
 the youug friar, now recognizable ; and he again turned off to 
 join the crowd. 
 
 The corporate procession had begun to return down the street, 
 in progress to some other established place from which to make 
 its proclamation, when a portion of the people whom the friar 
 joined and spoke to for a moment, separated from the rest, and, 
 hoisting an individual astride on a pole, advanced with him, borne 
 on their shoulders, towards the travellers. 
 
 “ That’s ridin 9 the stang ,” observed the urchin who had in 
 charge the donkey and hampers. 
 
 “ And what means it ?” inquired Evelyn. 
 
 We answer for the boy, by informing the reader, first, that the 
 phrase, translated into English, meant riding upon a sting, as, we 
 presume, the galling seat of the rider might justly be called ; 
 second, that it was a local, popular punishment, inflicted by 
 proxy for such offences as were not cognizable at common law, 
 Some low fellow, representing the offender, was mounted, as in 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 27 
 
 the instance to be noticed, upon a pole, and thus making avowals, 
 in the name of the real aggressor, of his adopted guilt, was 
 carried about the streets, until at last he reached the house of 
 the delinquent, where he proclaimed anew the misdemeanor 
 which had given offence, and then, with loud shouts, the ceremo¬ 
 nial ended. 
 
 “ An’ its ridin’ the stang,” continued the donkey’s guardian, 
 “ only yon thief isn’t the true one,” and he looked up signifi¬ 
 cantly at Oliver. 
 
 The minor crowd approached with their burden, a very nasty, 
 ill-looking fellow ; and, ere our travellers could follow down the 
 street the main body of the people, they were again surrounded. 
 
 “ Wha are you? wha are you ?” cried many voices to him on 
 the pole, as they halted before the party. 
 
 “ Wha am I but auld Noll, that was a militia trooper in the 
 Forty-one ?” he answered. 
 
 “Thou liest, even as the prince of lies, wha is thy father,” said 
 Oliver, calmly scowling at his ragged representative. The crowd 
 took no notice, but continued : “ Make full and penitent proc¬ 
 lamation of the guilt whilk gars you ride the stang !” 
 
 “ And what for no, since I hae gotten the grace to repent me ? 
 I just ride the stang anent yon time when I would na doff my 
 bonnet for good King Jamie, foul fa’ me for a graceless loon, 
 that did na better mind it !” 
 
 “ And do ye mind it noo ? and wha is king, noo ?” 
 
 “ King Jamie the Second is king, and I, Noll Whittle, of the 
 Forty-one, I mind it week Huzza for King Jamie !” 
 
 “ Huzza ! huzza! huzza !” echoed the crowd, as releasing their 
 substitute criminal, they followed rapidly, and with loud peals of 
 laughter, the main concourse ; Oliver just commanding as much 
 prudence as made him feel that it might be inconvenient to suffer 
 himself to be provoked into overt words of disloyalty. But not 
 so Mrs. Evelyn, who, despite the mortal fears of her husband (in 
 suspiciot that a trot over the paving-stones, on the stang, would 
 be more inconvenient even than the paces of his steed), and the 
 earnest expostulations of her husband’s nephew, continued to 
 vent her zeal and wrath as the party moved down the street, ii 
 quest of a house of entertainment. 
 
 “ Cross me not, nephew,” she said, as they passed by the pier 
 or quay wall, and rather near to it; “a woman, at least, can use 
 her tongue.” 
 
 “ Troth can she,” said the bare-legged attendant, coming back 
 
28 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 from a group of people whom he had interrogated as to the 
 meaning of a second approaching clamor—“troth can she, if 
 she likes the rest o’t; mind this, jest,” pointing to the noisy 
 throng that now passed our travellers. 
 
 In the centre was an old woman of very low stature, and 
 mean apparel, whom the united efforts of three strong men, 
 obviously town-bailiffs, could scarce drag onward towards the 
 quay-wall: although two of them held each a hand of the pigmy 
 fury—a necessary measure to prevent a renewal of the favors 
 which it was evident those hands, assisted by their proper nails, 
 had recently conferred on their faces—and although the third 
 exerted, by passing a rope round her waist, considerable influ¬ 
 ence over her motions, she tugged and twisted, and jumped up 
 and down, and to one side and the other, making various at¬ 
 tempts to bite with the few teeth she had left ; or bending her 
 body, and opposing the amazing resistance of her strength and 
 weight, little as both might appear to be, suffered herself to be 
 trailed a few steps on her heels or knees ; her features all the 
 while distorted with frenzy ; her stringy neck swollen like a 
 bundle of small ropes ; her clothes torn and bemired, and her 
 once shrill pipe grown hoarse with execration. 
 
 “Let me go 1 let me go !” she exclaimed in passing, “ye 
 tools and ministers of Beelzebub, ye uphauders of abomination, 
 ye servants and torturers for Sathan 1 To the water’s brink ye 
 shall never gar me go 1 I will hae strength for resistance ; yea, 
 the strength that comes frae above is given me ; let me go, ye 
 outcasts! ye castaways ! ye Papists and malignants ! I say to 
 you he is no king, but a fause idol set up for saul-killing worship I 
 I uplift my voice—” 
 
 “ On with her ! on with her!” cried a person higher in author¬ 
 ity than the bailiffs, and looking like the mayor’s clerk. “ Come 
 along, old Alice, and be thankful for the mercy that decrees you 
 but this punishment ; to-day you have spoken treason, for which 
 the twisting of your old neck were proper reward, only that his 
 worship’s honor is too Christian-like, and judging your clack but 
 as the clack of a common scold, wills you no more than the quieting 
 of one. Silence in the court, till the town law for such offence 
 be read!” 
 
 And thereupon this person read from a paper he held in his 
 hand, often interrupted by the violence of Alice, the following 
 Carrickfergus statute: 
 
 “October, 1575, Ordered and agreede, by the whole court, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 29 
 
 that all manner of skoldes which shal be openly detected of 
 6kolding, or evil wordes in manner of skolding, and for the same 
 shal be condemned before Mr. Maior and his brethren, shal bo 
 drawne at the sterne of a boate in the water, from the end of 
 the peare rounde abought the queenes majesties castell, in man¬ 
 ner of ducking, and after, when a cage shal be made” (“ it has 
 been ready these hundred years,” remarked the mayor’s officer, 
 parenthetically), “ the party so condemned for a skolde shal be 
 therein punished at the discretion of the maior.” 
 
 A general shout followed the promulgation of this salutary 
 law ; and once more, Alice, who had had the advantage of a 
 halt while it was reading, experienced the attentions of the bai¬ 
 liffs, her voice now completely unheard in the grand uproar, and 
 her resistance proving, from exhaustion, less than before. Yet, 
 ere she quite passed from the place on which our travellers had 
 drawn up, she made one final effort, in the shape of an appeal 
 for the intercession of all the Lord’s people. 
 
 “ To so many of ye as have heard the word, and now hear 
 me, I uphaud my voice for a deliverance ! Tak me out of cap¬ 
 tivity, and let your hands undo the bonds of a hard bondage! 
 Ha I” she continued, recognizing an old acquaintance, “ sit you 
 there on a war-horse, armed to go forth and conquer, and winna 
 you smite wi’ the sword, Oliver Whittle, in my cause, and in 
 the cause of a broken Covenant V* —another long tug forward, 
 which, notwithstanding his sincere zeal, Oliver did not regret— 
 “ and the winsome leddy that bides on the back part of the steed 
 ahint you.” The bailiffs looked ominously at Mrs. Evelyn ; 
 Paul also looked at his consort—she was pale as death. “ Ob, 
 winna she uplift her voice for the Lord’s bondswoman ? Avoid 
 ye, evil ones!”—another successful tug. “ Agents of darkness ! 
 hell-servants!—let me go ! let me go!” 
 
 Her voice here became finally lost, and all resistance, too, 
 seemed at an end, for the bailiffs, and the whole crowd around 
 her, hurried on with increased rapidity, amid the screaming of 
 women, the piping of children, and the barking of a hundred 
 curs. Evelyn and his sister then turned their horses towards a 
 house of entertainment; and Mrs. Evelyn, Uncle Paul, and 
 Oliver followed in profound silence ; the titter of the donkey’s 
 guide, and almost at the same time a lengthened bray from the 
 donkey’s self, being the only sounds uttered by any of the crest¬ 
 fallen party. 
 
30 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 As evening approached, the travellers resolved to spend that 
 night in Carrickfergus. After they had together partaken of 
 an early supper, Oliver being allowed to sit at a corner of the 
 table, they separated into distinct parties. Mrs. Evelyn and her 
 husband—we always put, by impulse, the dame’s name first— 
 fell asleep, opposite each other, in two rude armchairs; Oliver 
 Whittle stalked out of the room to seek his own chamber, and 
 there pour forth his soul in extempore prayer ; and young Evelyn 
 and his sister adjourned to a private sitting-room, where some dis¬ 
 course occurred between them, which, as during this evening of 
 inaction we think it useful for our purposes, the reader will be 
 pleased to peruse, in a very short chapter. 
 
 “Nothing interests you, Esther,” said the young gentleman; 
 “ that is too evident. You answer my questions, indeed, or agree 
 in my remarks, or even start one of your own ; but the sigh that 
 always closes your lips tells how indifferent to your thoughts is 
 the passing discourse ; and despite my assurance of your affection, 
 almost tempts me to fear that even my own presence is indifferent.” 
 
 The young lady smiled faintly, but very sweetly, as she an¬ 
 swered : 
 
 “ Robert, that you must not say. God knows, except yourself, 
 there is now no being on earth dear to the heart of Esther Evelyn.” 
 
 “ Again that heavy sigh, dearest Esther, and that sad droop¬ 
 ing of your head—how shall I reconcile these symptoms with 
 your words? Were we not brother and sister, I might be at 
 liberty to reconcile them by, doubtless, a very flattering infer¬ 
 ence ; but you know you must not be in love with me,” he 
 added, in a little effort to rally her spirits. She smiled again 
 with more animation than before, and her brother continued : 
 
 “ And this minds me of a question I have once or twice in¬ 
 tended ; but look honestly at me, Esther, that I may judge from 
 your eyes and cheeks, rather than from your words, of the fact.” 
 She turned her face up in calm surprise, and looked fully at her 
 brother. “Ay,” he resumed,” excellently acted; be sure, all 
 this convinces me, you do not even guess what I would ask. 
 Well, well, no use of any more amazement, I am convinced ; 
 and now, fair sister, is your little heart still your own ?” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 31 
 
 “ You mean, am I in love, as it is called, with any one V 1 she 
 asked simply and quietly. 
 
 “ Even so ; in love, as it is called.” 
 
 “ Indeed, indeed, brother, I am not.” 
 
 “ Never yet saw the man you could love ?” 
 
 “ Yourself apart—for we talk not now of brother’s and sister’s 
 love ; and since an event I cannot name”—tears gushed from 
 her eyes—“ never, brother, never.” 
 
 “ My dearest Esther,” the brother continued, much affected 
 also, “ this endless and unavailing sorrow is sinful and selfish. 
 No, not selfish, I did not mean that; but how unfortunate I am 
 in all my little efforts, Esther, to amuse you ! Even now I be¬ 
 lieved I had chosen a theme as wide as possible from any afflict¬ 
 ing recollection, yet how unhappy it has proved! For God’s 
 sake, sister, for both our sakes, take up the consolation that 
 religion enjoins, and that your duties and affections make im¬ 
 perative.” 
 
 “ I have struggled to take it up, brother ; but you know I am 
 not in very good health. Along with being, or having cause to 
 be, unhappy. And the weakness of the body increases the weak¬ 
 ness of the mind, and the sorrows of the heart. But when I get 
 better you shall see a change.” 
 
 “ Thanks, Esther, I expected no less from you ; and you shall, 
 you must, get well. Your youth, your prospects, and the ad¬ 
 vantage of this seashore residence, whither we are journeying— 
 every thing, to say naught of a brother’s love and duty—every 
 thing must give you the health and spirits you merit to enjoy. 
 But how now ?” 
 
 Notwithstanding the maiden’s effort to suppress her feelings, 
 the string of her griefs having been once touched, she could not 
 check its vibration. While her brother spoke, her head drooped 
 on her bosom, her hands on her knees, and, in a shower of tears, 
 she exclaimed, “ My poor father!” 
 
 Evelyn was instantly at her side ; but he did not now offey a 
 word of consolation or remonstrance, content to let nature ex¬ 
 haust her own paroxysm. And his silence was, perhaps, the 
 best appeal to his sister’s recollections, which, in a little time, 
 overcame her extreme sorrow, while she continued to address 
 him. 
 
 “I am weak, Robert, very weak and blamable ; but to me, 
 who have no recollection of a mother, what a loss was that 
 father l —mother and father together! Never had child—that 
 
82 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 child a girl—such a parent. You, who for jour education and 
 improvement by travel, were often away from us—you cannot 
 imagine half his tenderness and goodness; besides, you are a 
 man, and cannot feel half so desolate.” 
 
 “ Being a man, Esther, the more my joy and pride, and the 
 less should you feel desolate, when I am your brother too.” 
 
 She admitted the force of this remark, and once more looked 
 up, while, although it came through tears, her smile was unusu¬ 
 ally brilliant, as she replied : 
 
 “ It is so, dearest brother, it is so ; and I am truly selfish and 
 sinful not to prove I know it; for, my natural return of affection 
 for affection apart, how much heavier, indeed, might be my lot, 
 had I not such a protector—friend—relative! I know not how, 
 Robert,” she continued, “but, although his connections must 
 ever command my respect and esteem, I cannot love our uncle 
 and aunt—not with the fulness of heart that gives satisfaction 
 and happiness.” 
 
 “And you know, dear sister, how I answer you on that 
 head. Nothing bad, or even unkind, have I seen in either ; 
 yet assuredly, enough to suppress warm affection. It is dis¬ 
 agreeable to observe the unwomanly sway our aunt holds over 
 our uncle ; and still more offensive to note his unmauly taking 
 of it. Then her religious prejudices are too strong; much too 
 strong for the good opinions that persons of all creeds, except 
 the ignorant and violent on every side, begin to entertain, or 
 wish to entertain of each other. I did not think that one pro¬ 
 fessing the same mild reformed faith with you and me, could 
 hold such rancor as our aunt does hold against Papist fellow- 
 subjects, especially in this kingdom, which—although here in the 
 north, Presbyterians, with a few Episcopalians, be the majority 
 —is almost wholly possessed by people of that persuasion. Such 
 unchristian and unseemly opinions, if, indeed, opinions they may 
 Ge called, ought to be left to the very ignorant among the Cov¬ 
 enanters, some of whom live around us, and who have been as 
 remarkable for hostility to our own Church as to that which our 
 aunt denounces.” 
 
 “I understand little of these matters, Robert, but would 
 gladly be guided by your information and instructions. He who 
 is gone never cared to bring such subjects before me ; or when 
 he did, his words only breathed charity and forbearance to ali 
 God’s creatures. Nevertheless, many have instilled into my 
 mind a fear of danger to our good religion from the crowning of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 33 
 
 a Popish king ; much dislike, I know, has lately been shown 
 against the duke.” 
 
 “ The king, now, Esther.” 
 
 “ And many struggles made to keep him from the succession j 
 —was there no real danger ? And now that, as you say, the 
 obnoxious duke is king, is there none ?” 
 
 “ Wise and good men of different sects see none. The cry of 
 danger was raised by the heads of a party, and caught up by 
 their prejudiced and credulous adherents. But that party is 
 now silenced in the general voice of the nation, which hath at 
 length broke out ; and, strengthened by King James’s own 
 promises, all welcome to the throne of his fathers a king, whose 
 only crime, as yet, it is to run the risk of their displeasure rather 
 than lay down his conscience.” 
 
 “ But had he not part in the plot, brother ?” 
 
 “ Even when the plot was believed to exist, his worst enemies 
 did not directly charge him with a part in it ; now that it and 
 its promulgators have passed into disrepute, there can be less 
 reason for objection to King James on that head. I see, sister, 
 you have taken no note—alas ! why should you ?—of what has 
 lately chanced in the world; but learn, that since the trial and 
 acquittal of Sir George Wakeman, in the teeth of the depositions 
 of that human monster, Oates, no man of ordinary reflection or 
 honor places reliance on his assertions. So that his whole plot, 
 with its circumstances, now seems but a terrible fabrication, 
 badly and clumsily put together, with all the flagrancy, but with 
 not a particle of the consistence of imposture.” 
 
 “ Alas ! and is it only now, after the spilling of much noble 
 blood, the desolation of many noble families, and the wrongfully 
 accusing of millions of fellow-creatures—is it only now that wise 
 men find out that which, had they eyes in season, might have 
 saved them bitter and awful recollections?” 
 
 “ Only now ; and doubtless the credulity that blinded them, 
 heretofore, and the rancor that begot such credulity, make the 
 foremost stain on the reflective and merciful character of the 
 great nation whence we derive our ancestry. Mayhap, too, of 
 its kind, we should say, the only one.” 
 
 “ Yet, even now, brother, I rejoice to be set right on this 
 matter ; for it will teach me a kinder thought and more Chris¬ 
 tian bearing towards the people I have wronged in my ill-formed 
 judgment. Would that our aunt could hear patiently the words 
 I have heard from you !—yet, living in the world, she ought to 
 
 2 * 
 
34 
 
 THE BOTNE WATER. 
 
 have heard them, with profit, from many other tongues ; and 
 that she still maintains her unchristian temper is a certain cause 
 for my withholding the love I before told you I could not pay. 
 Indeed, though from the beginning I knew my feelings towards 
 tier, this is the first true ground I could assign to rest them on. 
 I have seen so little of our aunt and uncle that my knowledge of 
 them must be little. Ere you could return from your travels, 
 after our sudden loss, I mourned alone in our desolate house, by 
 fair Lough Neagh : when you came, we mourned together. Our 
 father’s brother and his lady were then in America, as I was 
 told, and a year elapsed before they visited us ; since when, only 
 some weeks have passed to make my observations in. But you 
 often saw them in England and in Derry-city, did you not ?” 
 
 “ Often ; yet my sentiments of them are the same with yours.” 
 
 “ How chanced it that, ever since I was a giddy child—in¬ 
 fant almost—I did not see my uncle in our father’s house, until 
 his late visit, made to assert his duties as our guardian ?” 
 
 “ You know, sister, that as eldest brother, our father suc¬ 
 ceeded to the almost entire possession of the estate bequeathed 
 to him by the brave ancestor, who, in 1112, at the side of the 
 great De Courcy, lord of Ulster, won it with his good sword 
 from the uncivilized natives of this northern country. Our 
 uncle being, therefore, without competent independence, was 
 forced to push his fortunes in the world by means of mercantile 
 pursuits and honest industry. Many years ago he settled in 
 London, and there marrying his present lady, acquired by her, 
 and by his own efforts, much wealth, and also became possessed 
 of ships, which our Uncle Jeremiah, still younger than he, long 
 commanded in their voyages to and from the western continent 
 and islands.” 
 
 “ I remember Uncle Jeremiah well; indeed, I know him well; 
 and, I believe, love him, too, better than our newly-arrived rela¬ 
 tions : for, although somewhat too much of a humorist, I think 
 his heart warmer and his maimer kinder. But our guardians 
 have been some time in Ireland, residing in Derry-city, as I have 
 heard ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; settled there two years, or thereabouts. Before their 
 last western voyage, their wealth was applied to the purchase 
 of lands and houses, and our uncle became an alderman of that 
 city. But what with their frequent visits to England ; the 
 retired habits and different style of mind of our father ; and. 
 withal, the bad state of the northern roads lying between Derry 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 35 
 
 and oar residence, so irksome, as you may have seen, to any 
 but youthful travellers—it is not matter of wonder that, since 
 their removal to Ireland, our uncle and aunt should not ha 3 
 visited us.” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The travellers left Carrickfergus next morning, in prosecution 
 of their route along the coast to the little village where Esther 
 was to reside for the advantages of change of air and sea¬ 
 bathing. 
 
 Passing out of the town through Glenarm, or Spittal-gate, 
 one of four then existing in the old walls, the party continued 
 their way along the district called “ Scotch quarters,” from a 
 colony of Argyle and Gallowayshire fishers, who came over in 
 1665. These visitors might be heard alluding to “the Irish 
 folk,” in their neighborhood, with a mixed air of indifference and 
 toleration, such as would have been more natural on the part of 
 the natives towards themselves : this, however, was only a spe¬ 
 cimen of the solemn self-conceit of the old Puritans. After a 
 few miles’ riding, our friends passed the limits of the county cor¬ 
 porate, or county palatine of Carrickfergus; for the district, 
 although included in the county Antrim, and extending only 
 about four miles square, has an independent civil existence, thus 
 variously designated. With respect to the last designation, it 
 may be proper to inform the reader, on the authority of Spencer, 
 that counties palatine were formed after the first colonization, 
 and granted “ great privileges,” to enable the settlers, “ subject 
 to continual invasions,” to defend themselves against “ the wildo 
 Irish.” And, perhaps, this way of putting the question of colo¬ 
 nial residence will not, on reflection, seem a whit less modest 
 than the view subsequently taken of the matter by the Scotch 
 adventurers, which has beeu mentioned. 
 
 The road onwards, as well as that from Belfast to Carrickfer¬ 
 gus, lay very near the coast. It passed, at Kilroot, a quarry of 
 columnar basalt as perfect as any specimen at the Giant’s Cause¬ 
 way, although the distance between both places is, at least, forty 
 miles ; but, at the time of this tale, the quarry had not been 
 discovered. Leaving Island Magee to the right, it then wound, 
 
36 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 rather more interiorly, towards the village of Larne. Of Island 
 Magee—which, by the way, is, now at least, no island—notice 
 has already been taken, as the scene, about the year 1641, of a 
 midnight massacre, perpetrated by some Scotch troops, regard¬ 
 less of sex or age, on the primitive and unarmed inhabitants. It 
 has also been mentioned, that different parties gave different ac¬ 
 counts of this affair, their differences chiefly applying to its date ; 
 and this date involving the question of whether or no it was 
 retaliation or unprovoked aggression—one of the consequences, 
 or one of the causes of the Irish massacre, upon which Hume is 
 so indignantly and truly eloquent. In the main facts, however, 
 that the slaughter took place, and that those slaughtered were 
 unoffending and unwarfike people, all writers agree ; except, 
 indeed, Hume himself, who, amid the splendor of his angry rhet¬ 
 oric, while holding up to the detestation of ages the atrocities of 
 Irish bigots, omits to mention the atrocities (committed at the 
 very same time) of Scotch bigots. Though before he gave way 
 to passion, and indulged in his imperfect statement, it might be 
 supposed that historical dignity called on him to seek out or 
 recollect the attendant truths that might have served to check 
 the one and enlarge the other. But we digress. The principal 
 facts admitted on all hands, men whose views of human nature 
 are not controlled by the prejudices of a country, a time, or a 
 sect, will care little about the minor contradictions, however fer¬ 
 vently they may be urged. The side that retaliates a barbarity, 
 is surely little better than the side that originates one ; and we 
 allude to the circumstance only for the purpose (as is our duty 
 or the necessity of our plan) of placing before the reader a true 
 and real picture of the general state of men’s minds and feelings 
 some years previous to the time in which the events and person? 
 of our story are to occur and act. Perhaps the unhappy matter 
 should not at all have been noticed, but that in getting—acrosr 
 the little gulf that separates Island Magee from the mainland— 
 a glance at the spot on which it happened, a grim and recollec¬ 
 tive smile struggled through the hard features of Oliver Whittle. 
 
 At about the same moment, others of the party were enjoying 
 another view of at least more harmless and agreeable impression. 
 It was formed by different points of the mainland to the right, 
 and of the promontory, as it may more truly be called, to the 
 left, sweeping into the gulf, at different distances, and all wearing 
 the family likeness that, not disagreeably, however, characterizes 
 basalt hills. That is to say, an almost flatness on the tops, con 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 37 
 
 tinued along the extent of the outline, and just when they were 
 about to shoot into the water, or dip to the plain, an abrupt 
 convex curve. The point that, nearer than the middle distance, 
 concealed the village of Larne, also concealed, from its stretching 
 out to meet the opposite headland, a continuous view of the sea. 
 And thus the gulf had quite the appearance of an extensive 
 l ike, bound up by those successive piles of precipice, of which 
 Ballygelly Head and Garron Point were the most imposing. 
 
 Continuing their route, the travellers, leaving to the left some 
 close scenery of mixed beauty and ruggedness, halted and took 
 refreshments at Larne; and soon after proceeded to Glenarm. 
 The road from Belfast to Carrickfergus, had—to do common 
 justice to Mrs. Evelyn’s past observations—been bad enough; 
 from Carrickfergus to Larne it was worse ; but from Larne on¬ 
 ward it was worst of all. Not to speak of its ruggeduess, it 
 scaled, in the first instance, the barrier (a little inward) of Bally¬ 
 gelly Head, looking, when seen even from the brow of an intro¬ 
 ductory ascent, as if it ran zig-zag for mere wantonness, higher 
 than birds of grave habits need desire to fly. Then there was a 
 descent, of course ; again, a tremendous rise ; and, more pro¬ 
 voking than all, a second descent into the village, upon the slope 
 of which, the fat horses of the elder party, particularly that 
 which bore the double weight of Oliver and Mrs. Evelyn, could 
 scarce find footing. Of the increased contortions of face and 
 multiplied groans of Paul, little, therefore, need be said; or, 
 except when a moment of utter peril caused her to keep in her 
 breath, of the incalculable velocity of his good lady’s tongue. 
 There never were such roads, she averred, nor such a country, up 
 and down, hill and hollow, nor such a people, that would not 
 level it. In the neighborhood of London, from one side to the 
 other, there was but one hill, and that you need not climb if you 
 did not like ; except that during the plague the citizens were 
 fain to have recourse to it for safety, being forced to run out of 
 the city ; and when (according to an old poet, rather than 
 Mrs. Evelyn), 
 
 “ Some climbed Highgate Hill, and there they see 
 The world so large, that they amazed be.” 
 
 But what chiefly inconvenienced Mrs. Evelyn—and, indeed, irri 
 tated her so much that she often repeated it—was the reflection 
 of the utter uselessness, to say the least, of creeping up one 
 mountain, and scrambling down at the far side, solely for the 
 
38 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 purpose of creeping up and scrambling down another and an¬ 
 other. But, perhaps, the frequent appearance, to her right, of 
 the great sea, caught through partial depressions of a continued 
 line of rock or swelling grounds, very near at hand, and a dizzy 
 height above it—perhaps this, suggesting a recollection of the 
 real peril of her situation, struck into Mrs. Evelyn’s heart a more 
 appalling sensation, although it was too sincerely felt to require 
 the usual avowal. 
 
 No selfishness, or ignorance, or even misgivings of personal 
 safety, had, however, the effect of closing the eyes and minds of 
 Evelyn and his gentle sister to the interest of their situation. 
 With feelings of mingled awe and delight, they found themselves 
 shut in, as they gradually ascended, between precipices and swell¬ 
 ing grounds of amazing magnitude. The solitude, the ruin, and 
 the savageness of their mountain-road, had due effect upon them. 
 From about the summit of the last fatiguing ascent between them 
 and Glenarm, the scenery had expanded, only to assume a more 
 vast and entrancing character. To their left, swept the mighty 
 hill that bounds the great deer-park of Antrim Castle, crossed 
 and overtopped, at the distance of some miles, by another of a 
 more sterile and blacker aspect. To their right, the land fell 
 down to the level of the unlimited ocean ; extent, though of a 
 varied kind, being still the character of the scene ;—with, at the 
 opposite side of Glenarm’s beautiful bay, the huge headland of 
 Garron Point, now beginning to show its rude variety of feature ; 
 ships and little boats ploughing or glancing across, or resting 
 near the shore—the little village itself, newly rebuilt after the 
 burning by Robert Munroe and his puritanical soldiers, and now, 
 therefore, looking more neat and cheery ; and the old castellated 
 mansion of the Earl of Antrim, detached from the village, and 
 standing in a great solitude. When this picture at last came 
 on their view, the brother and sister felt more than repaid 
 for any inconvenience that might have attended their progress 
 towards it. 
 
 Another rest at Glenarm, and, notwithstanding the advanced 
 hour of the day, our travellers remounted, to gain, after eight 
 additional Irish miles, the little hamlet of Cushindoll, which was 
 the object of their journey. The crossing of Garron Point proved 
 a task of such difficulty, and, to the heavier mounted of the party, 
 danger, as even their former experience of the road could not 
 have enabled them to anticipate. The way clambered with diffi¬ 
 culty at the bases of the last precipices, which, a little inland, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 39 
 
 topped the point; and those terrific precipices were rent into a 
 thousand masses of rock, great and small, toppling over, or clus¬ 
 tering down the side of the descent, in all that primitive and 
 awful state of rest in which, during the mighty convulsion that 
 shaped them, they had caught, and, no eye could tell how, bal¬ 
 anced and sustained each other. Often, too, they jutted out upon, 
 and prescribed the course of the only strip of ground available as 
 a road over the point. And through the minor inequalities to 
 the right, one could always behold the tremendous descent that, 
 at only a short distance, still shot down to the sea, sometimes 
 pushing it too fearfully forward. 
 
 At about the place where, in consequence of those intrusions, 
 the road grew narrowest, and approached nearest to the precipice 
 on the right, was the termination of the clamber up. Then, al¬ 
 most immediately, commenced a descent nearly to the level of the 
 sea, so very abrupt, that before any of the party would venture 
 upon it, all halted and held a consultation. The result, in the 
 first instance, was a determination to have the horses led down, 
 whilst, one by one, the travellers should follow them. First, 
 then, the barelegged boy volunteered, with a sneer at the precau¬ 
 tions adopted, to show the perfect safety of the road. Allowing 
 his donkey to follow at his leisure, the imp ran headlong from 
 side to side, in the kind of movement always preferred by saga¬ 
 cious horses in similar situations ; with the exception that they 
 creep, while he bounded as freely as if the ground were quite level 
 under his feet. When safe at the bottom, he cut some self-flat¬ 
 tering capers ; and, after waiting, a few minutes, the arrival of 
 his charge, who followed exactly in his track, though ten times 
 more slowly, he joined the party at nearly the same speed in 
 which he had left them. Young Evelyn then led down his own 
 horse, while the boy accompanied him with those of Uncle Paul 
 and of Oliver. Both presently returning, it was finally arranged 
 that, after such encouragement, Paul himself should be conveyed 
 by the urchin, and his lady by Oliver, while Evelyn should ren¬ 
 der Esther the same assistance. 
 
 Operations commenced by Paul reluctantly giving his left hand 
 to the boy, while he further propped himself on a cane held iD 
 his right. The first few steps were favorable ; but when the 
 poor little man found himself launched on the very sudden de¬ 
 clivity, with a vast extent yet to be got over, and, from the 
 rocky smoothness of the road, no hope of retracing his way up¬ 
 wards, courage forsook his heart. His little legs—at the coolest 
 
4:0 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 moments, none of the most steady—tottered under him ; his pur¬ 
 ple face strove to grow pale ; he himself strove to stand still. 
 At this his consort assailed him from above, and the little guide 
 (though, as they stood together, no difference could be observed, 
 in height at least) at his ear, with cries of expostulation to pro¬ 
 ceed ; the one exerting a voice of command, the other speaking 
 and laughing in a breath. Paul growing more nervous and con¬ 
 fused, yet tried to do as he was bid, and immediately put his feet 
 in motion; but whether he was in too relaxed a state to govern 
 their motions, or that the mischievous imp pulled him downward 
 instead of checking his natural readiness to descend rapidly, true 
 it is, that the moment he trusted them from under him, his legs 
 set off at a pitch of speed too amazing to be voluntary, until at 
 last they failed him altogether, and down came Uncle Paul, 
 grasping the guide in his arms, and rolling with him, over and 
 over, to the bottom of the declivity. 
 
 The party above were necessarily much alarmed at this acci¬ 
 dent. Mrs. Evelyn screamed incessantly as her lord continued in 
 motion ; and it was not till the boy, starting to his feet, on the 
 level road, and raising Uncle Paul with him, repeatedly asserted 
 the safety of both, that tranquillity could be restored. But these 
 assurances, and, at length, even their confirmation by Paul him¬ 
 self, could not now prevail on Mrs. Evelyn to take her turn down 
 the hill with Oliver. The brother and sister tried to urge her, 
 but in vain. No; it was a plain tempting of Providence; a 
 plain hazarding of precious life; Mrs. Evelyn would never stir 
 a step further on such a vile road—such a Papist road—back she 
 might go, though even that was foolhardy and presumptuous 
 —just to enable herself to get out of the country altogether ; 
 but down !—down that precipice !—never. And to manifest 
 her determination, the lady squatted herself on a low flat stone 
 by the road-side. 
 
 Evening had for some time been approaching; but now, a 
 shade of twilight, too deep to be in regular gradation with any 
 that had preceded it, fell suddenly over the mountain-way. 
 Evelyn, looking on the sky, saw it assume a lurid, bronzed 
 a.'pect; and, at the same time, his eye caught and followed up a 
 fearful phenomenon. Upon the summit of a hill, some distance 
 before him, he observed a large black cloud to settle, the only 
 one that intruded on the dull monotonous color of the heavens. 
 Presently, dividing into two parts, one part retired from his view 
 behind the hill, while the other approached towards the party 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 41 
 
 marking its course with horror, and, so far as the almost unin¬ 
 habited state of the country can permit the term, with devasta¬ 
 tion. It was a tornado cloud, then not unknown in Ireland 
 Even at a distance Evelyn could note its effect along the sandy 
 beach, or over the fern-clothed bosom of the hills. The sand 
 rose in clouds or pillars ; the fern, first uprooted, and then col¬ 
 lected, ascended high into the air. As it came nearer, the few 
 old trees on its course were torn from the rocks to which they 
 clung, and whisked about like straws, and many of the rocks 
 themselves unbedded, and hurled to the sea ; while the roof of a 
 cabin perched on the superior precipice to the left, was uplifted, 
 on the wings of the cloud, to an amazing elevation. 
 
 Terror, at this unusual sight, seized on all. Evelyn, endeavor¬ 
 ing to check his own sensations, held tight the rein of his sis¬ 
 ter's jennet, as she was the only individual of the party who had 
 not yet dismounted. Oliver and Mrs. Evelyn (at last silent) fell 
 on their knees, imagining to themselves the end of the world, or 
 else conjuring the very top of Garron Point into the valley of Je- 
 hoshaphat. The cries of Paul and of the boy, their common tears 
 and childish lamentation, might be heard from the road under¬ 
 neath ; and perhaps, as they were rather nearer to the danger, 
 they had most immediate cause for outcry, particularly when the 
 crash of falling rocks came very closely on their ears. 
 
 Still the black and giant cloud sailed on to the travellers, al¬ 
 though occasionally diverted by its own wayward impulse to the 
 right or the left, On I—on!—and it hovered over the spot 
 where Uncle Paul and his treacherous guide were stationed. 
 Fortunately for them, the mountain to their left presented, on 
 its sides or summits, but few trees or rocks to the fury of the 
 tornado ; but their friends above could see them, first prostrated, 
 and then caught up several feet from the ground—dropped, 
 again raised, and again dropped, as an eagle might tantalize a 
 lambkin. Long before Paul was a second time treated in this 
 rude fashion he had become insensible to his danger and suffer¬ 
 ings, so that the tornado might almost as well have vented itself 
 upon a bunch of fern, the stump of a tree, or any other passive 
 subject. 
 
 The terrible wonder began to ascend to the summit on which 
 rested the remainder of the travellers. Increased darkness at¬ 
 tended it, and the tumbling and crash of loose rock, again found 
 on its course, showed its unabated power. Evelyn and his sis¬ 
 ter, Mrs. Evelyn, and Oliver, saw death approach them j one 
 
42 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 and all they conceived, from what had already been manifest, 
 that in its passage over their heads, the huge masses of rock, 
 which before seemed to require but an infant’s touch to get 
 downward motion, must inevitably become loosened, and so 
 whelm them in destruction. As the certainty of immediate fate 
 closed on all—all, except Mrs. Evelyn, prepared for it in silence. 
 Her uninterrupted scream rose among the rocks and hills around, 
 and she fell prostrate, as if, by anticipation, she would bury her¬ 
 self in the earth, and so shorten the period of suffering. But, 
 half-way only over the ascent the cloud had advanced, when it 
 became stationary—opened—belched forth a sheet of flame—ex¬ 
 ploded in a tremendous thunderclap, and, rolling over the pre¬ 
 cipice to the right of the party, and hurrying with it many masses 
 of rock, spent itself in the ocean. The quailing waters rose at 
 its summons, in unnatural intrusion into the region of another 
 element, or, heaving laboriously and blackly, seemed to evince 
 their terror at a visitation so ominous 
 
 Though, with the first thunderburst, all certain danger re¬ 
 moved from the travellers, still was their consternation rather 
 increased than diminished. The explosion was so near, and the 
 reverberations through the rocks and mountains were so as¬ 
 tounding, as almost to add frenzy to their despair. As the 
 fragments of precipice continued, even after the passage of the 
 tornado, to crash downward to the sea, it seemed to them that 
 the solid bulwark under their feet and all around them was torn 
 piecemeal by tempest and thunderbolt, and about to crumble into 
 one general ruin. Nor had they much pause to relieve them¬ 
 selves from this state of over-excitement, when—as if one tongue 
 of flame which had issued from the cloud only served to ignite 
 the whole surcharged atmosphere—flash followed flash, and peal 
 followed peal, the one fiercely relieved by the increasing dark¬ 
 ness, and the other sustained and exaggerated by the voices of 
 mountain and precipice, until nothing but blaze and noise could 
 be seen or heard. 
 
 At the moment in which such effects were working most pow¬ 
 erfully on the feelings of all, and of Mrs. Evelyn in particular, 
 Esther’s horse became ungovernable in its fright, and despite the 
 resistance of young Evelyn, backed from the place where it had 
 hitherto tremblingly stood. The brother called to Esther to 
 throw herself off : her limbs were strapped, for safety, to the saddle, 
 and she could not possibly do so. Still the animal pranced and 
 backed ; and now, for the first time, its fair rider screamt'i. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 43 
 
 Mrs Evelyn caught up the signal, and recommenced her own 
 shrill vociferations. They were answered, among the heights oyer 
 her head, by a scream also, but of a cadence so wild and unnat¬ 
 ural, that for an instant she held her breath to look up. Stand¬ 
 ing upon the edge of a large rock, in an attitude and manner of 
 the most violent energy, she there saw a man of, it might be, 
 about fifty, with a profusion of wild hair streaming about eyes of 
 almost maniac character, and holding a gun in his hand, while he 
 beckoned rapidly, and she thought angrily, to Evelyn. One 
 look at this person, who appeared so suddenly but a few yards 
 above her, was enough for Mrs. Evelyn ; she instantly uttered a 
 louder cry than ever, and darted across the road in the direction 
 whither Evelyn and his sister were forced by the affrighted horse. 
 Almost as instantly, the wild-looking man sprang like a beast of 
 prey after her—cast away his gun—seized her by the arms and 
 pulled her back. Mrs. Evelyn resisted ; and, gigantic as was the 
 strength of her captor, he had a struggle for it, before he suc¬ 
 ceeded in gaining sufficient mastery over her actions to whisk 
 her round, and rush headlong with her down the steep road. At 
 the very time that this scene was enacting, and while Esther’s horse 
 still plunged backward, two other voices cried out, exactly in the 
 quarter from which Mrs. Evelyn had been startled, and two 
 other figures sprang up exactly where she had seen the first ; but 
 two others of a very different kind—a girl and youth, about fif¬ 
 teen and eighteen. The lad also held a carbine in his hand, and 
 wore the Scotch bonnet and trews ; the girl was prettily attired ; 
 both had an air of interest, if not rank, about them. And, 
 both starting up on the ledge of rock, together directed their 
 looks and voices towards Evelyn and his sister, in the expression 
 of utter alarm and horror. “ Keep back the horse ! keep back 
 the horse I” they exclaimed in a breath, the very instant they 
 appeared. 
 
 “ Keep him back 1” continued the beautiful girl, clapping her 
 
 hands in agony ; “ his hoof is almost on the last sod between ye 
 
 and vour ruin!” 
 
 %/ 
 
 “ The sea-precipice 1 the precipice I” re-echoed her young and 
 nearly as handsome companion, as he bounded like a wild-deer 
 from his place, and rushed towards the brother and sister. 
 
 Upon the first announcement of the dreadful peril they had 
 before only apprehended, Esther swooned in her saddle, still held 
 in it by the straps, and Evelyn, abandoning the rein, made a 
 last desperate and instinctive attempt to catch at one of the ank 
 
44 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 mal*s fore-feet, and thus, if possible, bring him to the ground. 
 The horse reared up the moment he was touched—for the brother 
 so far succeeded in his first effort—and flinging Evelyn a good 
 distance from him, moved back more alarmed than before. 
 Again, the young girl cried out in treble terror, and, abandoning 
 her station, descended after the youth. Evelyn, starting up from 
 the confusion of a moment, found himself too far to reattempt 
 instantaneous assistance ; yet he ran, or rather staggered on¬ 
 ward ; the horse still backed ; he could now, himself, see the edging 
 horror, and he could see the animal step another step towards it 
 —when, like an arrow, the youth shot across the road, came up 
 with the horse, put his carbine to its head ; discharged it ; and 
 the animal fell, quite dead, going down on the side that left Es¬ 
 ther free of his fall. She was safe. 
 
 In a moment the young man released her from her fettered 
 situation in the saddle, and, kneeling, presented her to the atten¬ 
 tion of the girl, who was now by his side, and who, kneeling also, 
 tenderly and anxiously received the charge. Evelyn, tottering 
 forward, had fallen almost senseless by his sister; the youth 
 raised him also, and supported him in his arms. Oliver had re¬ 
 mained praying since the first appearance of the storm, and in 
 pious abstraction, selfishness, or cowardice, never moved till all 
 the succeeding dangers were over. Now rising from his knees, 
 he approached the group of young persons, and forced down 
 Evelyn’s throat some brandy, which he produced, in a black bot¬ 
 tle, from a side-pocket. He wished Esther to have a little also ; 
 but her youthful supporter would only use some in chafing her 
 temples. Both applications did good service ; the sister and 
 brother revived almost together, and flew to each other’s em¬ 
 brace. When they sufficiently recovered their recollection, and 
 Esther learned by what means she had escaped a dreadful 
 death, she turned, with Evelyn, in all the gratitude of human na¬ 
 ture for life preserved, to thank the stranger ; but he was gone. 
 
 “ My brother,” said the girl, “ has walked down the hill, to 
 inquire after the dame who accompanied you.” 
 
 “ He should have waited to accept our warmest and most 
 grateful acknowledgments,” said Esther. 
 
 “ They would please him, I am sure ; but still he thought not 
 of them,” resumed the girl; “ his service had been offered here, and 
 while another occasion might elsewhere happen for it, was ho 
 not right to go ?” 
 
 “ Then, you at least, maiden, will take, in your brother’s name, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 45 
 
 all the thanks, the tears of thankfulness, that are his due. For 
 yourself, too, accept our thanks ; now I can recollect that your 
 kind arms were around me when I revived.” 
 
 “My brother is overpaid in your words,” replied the young 
 stranger ; “ and, as for myself, the highest pleasure you could do 
 me, I had felt in receiving thanks for him, even before you no¬ 
 ticed my own petty service, which was naught, naught, indeed ; 
 I did not even attempt a good ; I but cried out to fright him 
 when he was about to do one ; and I have but the pride of 
 seeing such a brother act as became him.” 
 
 “ A noble young creature,” whispered Evelyn to his sister. 
 
 “ Yes ; and withal a pretty and graceful,” Esther replied. 
 Their observations were, indeed, called for. Although rather 
 below the middle size of woman, and not promising ever to 
 reach it, the sister of their young deliverer looked, while thus 
 speaking, what they had described her. Standing straight as a 
 poplar, with her head elevated, her neck curving like a swan’s, 
 and her shoulders so knit as to produce a fine curve in her back, 
 there was about her figure and air, and in the all but haughty out- 
 turning and curling of her parted lips, as well as in her slightly 
 aquiline nose, her full quick eye, straight eyebrows, and broad 
 forehead, much that would have well characterized a girlish Juno. 
 When she moved, too, her step was firm, though graceful; and, 
 child as she might be, she commanded interest and enforced re¬ 
 spect. 
 
 “ I can honor your sentiments, dear girl,” Esther smilingly 
 resumed, anxious to continue the conversation. “ And if you 
 will come and sit by me, and awhile longer give me your sweet 
 support, you shall know particularly why.” 
 
 Their former attitude was in a moment resumed, the younger lady 
 complying with the request of Esther with a manner as smiling 
 aud as kind as it had before been dignified, and perhaps distant. 
 But her little attentions were by her offered, and by her new 
 friend received, in a way that was a tacit assumption of some¬ 
 thing superior, either in rank or spirit, on her part, and a quiet 
 admission of it on the part of Esther. In fact, it was the im¬ 
 mediate ascendency which a stronger mind asserts, even at the 
 first moment of contact, over a weaker one. 
 
 “ Now, know,” Esther continued, “ that I have especial cause 
 to love and honor your admiration of your brother, because I, 
 too, am a sister—ay, sitting by my brother’s side—and can 
 therefore feel your feeling.” 
 
46 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ I saw this young cavalier strive for your safety like a broth* 
 er, indeed ; and should he not, for so fair and sweet a sister ?” 
 
 “Ay ; but we have, moreover, the ties of sorrow as well as 
 of love to bind us. We are orphan brother and sister,” said 
 Esther, w T hile her eyes filled with tears, and she instinctively 
 pressed the hand of her new friend, as if to prefer a claim on 
 her sympathy. The pressure was gently returned, as the other 
 said, in a soft, rather than a sad voice : 
 
 “ We, too, have known an early sorrow ; but not to such an 
 extent. In the last fall of the leaf, Edmund and I lost a moth¬ 
 er ?” She paused a moment, closed, and then lifted up her eyes, 
 as if silently repeating a prayer, and added, “ May she rest in 
 peace!” 
 
 The wild-looking man, who had before terrified and roughly 
 treated Mrs. Evelyn, here started up on the bit of level road 
 which afforded rest to the young party, and with continued 
 energy of action, looked earnestly around him. Seeing the 
 group, he uttered a cry of the same strange kind which had hurt 
 that lady’s ears, and quickly advanced to them. Neither Evelyn 
 nor Esther had seen him on his first appearance, and while the 
 one now rose in some alarm, to prevent his too near approach, 
 the other clung in terror to her companion. 
 
 “ Fear him not,” said the girl; “ he is my father’s brother, 
 and comes on a good intent. Some service he has already done 
 you, by placing out of the reach of danger, on the level 
 road below, your matronly friend. Do not mind his looks, or 
 action either. God has afflicted him—he is deaf and dumb ; and, 
 like most in his situation, the earnestness of his looks and motions 
 seem wild, perhaps dangerous, at the very moment that they 
 mean a service.” 
 
 The gesticulation of the man when he came up to the group 
 seemed, although extravagant, to prove the truth of these obser¬ 
 vations. He first ran to his niece and kissed her, uttering 
 strange, and, to him, unconscious sounds ; then he took Evelyn’s 
 hand, and shook it violently ; then Esther’s; and, having first 
 raised it to his lips, he passed it, where he had found it, round the 
 neck of the young girl, causing her also to pass her arms around 
 Esther ; all this affording him, as was evident by his smiles and 
 the vivacity of his eyes, the greatest pleasure. 
 
 After a few moments, his niece and he rapidly conversed by 
 signs ; and she gave her friends to understand that her uncle had 
 been sent by her brother to warn them of the necessity of im- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 47 
 
 mediately descending the hill, rejoining their party, and seeking 
 shelter for the night, which, although the thunder-storm had long 
 since ceased, now set in, black and lowering, with a threat of 
 heavy rain. Indeed, the big drops which, rather unusually, had, 
 during the thunder, omitted to fall, now began to recommend 
 this advice to Evelyn. So that, with all possible dispatch, he 
 led his sister down the steep descent, the fair young girl follow¬ 
 ing unassisted, and Oliver, after the manifestation of some timid¬ 
 ity, encouraged by the dumb man, almost in as rough a manner 
 as that which had marked his offer of service to Mrs. Evelyn. 
 
 On the level, or nearly level ground, they found Uncle Paul 
 already remounted, and awaiting, in silent consternation, the 
 further will of fate and the elements. Mrs. Evelyn, too, was on 
 her pillion, awaiting Oliver, though not in a mood quite as silent. 
 Esther was lifted to her brother’s horse, while he assumed his 
 place on foot, at her bridle ; the other sister locked her arm in 
 that of the other brother; and all were very soon ready to start, 
 when the young man inquired whither he should have the pleas¬ 
 ure of conducting them. 
 
 “ To a cottage they had lately engaged, by the seacoast,” 
 Evelyn replied, “ which could not be now far distant ; but the 
 boy would answer particularly.” 
 
 The boy, however, did not appear. 
 
 “ Paul, Paul, what hast thou done with the stripling, sir V’ 
 asked Mrs. Evelyn, losing patience. Paul did not know. He 
 believed he had run away in fright; and thankful he ought to 
 be for the ability to run away. That the urchin had at least 
 played no trick in this instance was evident, as the donkey still 
 attended with his hampers, although his master was gone. 
 
 “ This is most embarrassing,” Evelyn continued ; “ we have 
 never been to this place, contenting ourselves with sending for¬ 
 ward a friend, indeed a relative, to take charge of it for us ; the 
 urchin was by that friend dispatched from the neighborhood, 
 chiefly to guide us hither ; now that he has disappeared, we only 
 know that the residence is in the vicinity of Cushindoll.” 
 
 “ And on such imperfect information, would it be well to 
 wander about in such a night ?” asked the youth. “ See, the 
 rain begins to thicken ; we can offer you a roof, though an hum¬ 
 ble one.” 
 
 “ And, however humble, it is certain, and to be gained in a 
 certain time,” added his sister. “ Good lady, consent ; you aro 
 not formed for ill weather.” 
 
48 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 Esther did consent, and her brother too ; and the young girl 
 then asked, “ Edmund, what think you of sending our poor uncle 
 to announce us at Glenarriff ?” Edmund assented ; she made a 
 few signs to the dumb man, who, the moment he understood the 
 nature of the arrangement, showed the most excessive symptoms 
 of gratification and welcome-making. Then, though by no means 
 a young man, he hurried off at a very rapid and buoyant pace, 
 leaving his nephew to conduct slowly, over the rough mountain- 
 road, the fatigued and frightened party. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Immediately after crossing Garron Point, and falling, as be¬ 
 fore observed, nearly to the level of the sea, the road, following 
 the indentures of the coast, turned quickly to the right, almost 
 at a right-angle with its former course, and held that line for a 
 considerable way, thus describing one side, and that the longest 
 one, of Red Bay, of which the figure is, very nearly, three sides 
 of a square. All along this line, the travellers kept parallel to 
 the inland continuation of the point ; but at the next sudden and 
 angular turn, which followed nearly to its edge the second side 
 of the bay, their backs were to that chain of mountain and pre¬ 
 cipice ; on their right was the open bay, and to their left a spa¬ 
 cious valley, formed on the one side by the running, still more in¬ 
 land, of the continuation of Garron Point, and on the other, by 
 a range of hills, of equal, if not superior, magnitude. 
 
 After pursuing this course for some time, their conductor 
 halted, and informed the party that with little deviation their 
 present road would bring them, round the bay, to Cushindoll ; 
 but that they must again turn to the left, into the glen, to insure 
 file asylum he had offered them. He added, that the glen-road 
 was less fatiguing, and, indeed, less dangerous than that by which 
 they must go in search of their own residence. Accordingly, all 
 turned off the coast with him. 
 
 Nearly at the moment of thus changing their route, they were 
 faced by considerable precipices of earth and soft stone, which 
 had fallen down upon the road they should have taken to their 
 cottage ; these formed its left-hand limit, for some distance run- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 49 
 
 ning with it, and at their bases showing two or three large exca¬ 
 vations, the work of the adjacent sea, when at some former pe¬ 
 riod its tides and storms had perseveringly lashed the precipice 
 that must then have been its boundary. Through the larger of 
 these caves issued a red glare of light, which, from the dimmed 
 effect at the entrance, seemed to come a good way from the in¬ 
 side, and thus gave the idea of a rather extensive interior. In 
 turning upon the glen-road, the travellers were leaving to their 
 right these caves, and a little behind them, when a voice was 
 heard in that from which the light appeared, speaking loudly and 
 dictatorially, but in a language unknown to the strangers of the 
 party. Immediately after, the light increased in the mouth of 
 the excavation ; finally a woman approached from the entrance, 
 with a piece of flaming wood in her hand, continuing to speak, 
 and now evidently addressing the group. 
 
 “We may just stop and speak to her, Edmund,” said the 
 young girl, “ for the rain blows off.” 
 
 “ Why ?” asked Evelyn ; “ and why does she speak to us ?” 
 
 “ She asks us,” Edmund replied, translating literally from the 
 Irish, in which the woman had addressed them, “ on pain of the 
 anger of her whose anger is a cloud and a blast, not to pass her 
 house without bidding Gfod save her.” 
 
 “ And this cavern is her house ? Who or what is she ; and 
 why this unusual interruption?” 
 
 “ She is a creature without friend or relation, fortune or home, 
 except that the charitable or credulous administer to her wants, 
 and that this sea-cave, whence she has lately expelled the owls 
 and bats, affords her a chilly shelter. What she thinks of her¬ 
 self, and what others concur in thinking her, it would not be for 
 her safety to declare. For my own part, I sometimes think her 
 mad, although more close observation banishes the idea. Per¬ 
 haps, to extreme ignorance, her mind joins much enthusiasm and 
 more cunning ; and hence is she able to impress the character 
 she generally bears, and to which, for your information, I have, 
 doubtless, sufficiently alluded.” 
 
 During this speech, the woman advanced to meet, half-way, 
 the party who were in motion to her. In age, she was about 
 twenty-five ; in height rather tall, in person slight, in feature 
 spare and pallid. Her black hair was uncovered ; and over the 
 vulgar female dress, that scarce ever varies in any time or coun¬ 
 try, fell the old Irish mantle, heavily hooded, and of a dark 
 color. 
 
 3 
 
50 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Having stood before the vonng man, her flaming brand held 
 up, she asked him, in Irish, to bid God save her. He did so. 
 She made the same request, with the same success, of his sister, 
 and then turned to Mrs. Evelyn ; but that lady’s “ Go, woman, 
 go,” uttered half in fear, half in anger and disgust, was all she 
 could in this instance accomplish. As to Paul, he was corn- 
 
 silent. 
 
 ' “ Then,” said the woman, in Iris-h, “ the heaviest suffering 
 
 you can both feel, be upon ye ! Starve!”—and she turned 
 from them. The young man and his sister, who understood 
 what she had uttered, laughed at a malediction that, to all ap¬ 
 pearance, could never have effect; but neither Mrs. Evelyn nor 
 her husband felt so comfortable when it was translated for their 
 advantage. 
 
 The strange woman passed Oliver without stopping to com¬ 
 mand his benison, as if she made very light of it, and once more 
 halted before Esther, holding high in her hand the blazing wood, 
 in order to afford herself a good view of the young lady’s face, 
 who, it will be remembered, was on horseback. But no sooner 
 had she got a glimpse of Esther’s features, than she uttered a 
 low howl, and running back to Edmund, spoke to him in a very 
 animated tone and manner, as if endeavoring to impress upon 
 him something which he seemed either careless or unwilling to 
 admit. Again she returned to Esther, and again manifested 
 the same unaccountable sensation. Finally, she stood before 
 Evelyn, and with more respectful demeanor than she had hither¬ 
 to shown, asked, and, under the instructions of Edmund, received 
 his “ God save you and then she continued to speak in Irish, 
 which we will translate. 
 
 “Now go your ways, and let nothing fright you through the 
 clouds of the night. I have your good word, and it will rest 
 with me ; they say it does not rest with me, and that I often 
 need it, from the Christians, to charm me against what does. 
 Go your ways,—unless that you cross the cold threshold of my 
 house, and taste the cup, or break the bread, to speed you on 
 your road, or sit down with the old and crippled who talk to 
 me- all night long, and tell me what I should not listen to, though 
 ’tis known I do.” 
 
 “ And who are they, Onagh ?” asked Edmund. 
 
 “ One that, when I came to my house, I found already in it; 
 and another that was sent far to us. But go your ways, since 
 you will not enter ; go, with a curse for some, a sorrow for more, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 51 
 
 and a blessing for a few !” She walked slowly and heavily to 
 her cavern, thus leaving behind her a prophecy that, inspiration 
 apart, any one might venture to apply to the future fortunes of 
 any half-dozen of human beings. 
 
 The party entered the solitary valley of Glenarriff, just as the 
 moon was risen to faintly show as much of its general aspect as 
 mist and shadow did not envelop. A short distance up the 
 glen, Edmund and his sister were rather startled by the re¬ 
 appearance, at their side, of Onagh of the cavern. They had 
 for a moment fallen behind the party, and she came up with 
 them unperceived by the strangers. 
 
 “ What means this, Onagh ?” asked Edmund. 
 
 “ I speak not to him,” she replied, addressing his sister; “for 
 he has already scorned my words. But you, Eva M’Donnell, 
 who, though you love and like me not, have ever shown the open 
 hand to Onagh, you I command to remind him of my warning. 
 Tell him it is the very face I saw, though he could not see it, last 
 All-hallow Eve, when, together, we sowed the rape-seed by the 
 river-side, while the moon was shining for us ; and tell him to 
 shun that face.” 
 
 “ What face, Onagh ? and what warning am I to repeat to 
 my brother ?” 
 
 u He will remember it; for yourself, Eva”—she took the 
 young girl’s hand, drew her aside, and added in a low whisper— 
 “ your fate is near you, too, but you need not shun it. You will 
 love him, and you may.” 
 
 “ Absurd !” Eva said, and was about to add more comment, 
 when the self-important Onagh rapidly left her. 
 
 “ Dear brother, what of all this ?” she then asked, rejoining 
 Edmund. 
 
 “ I care not ; nor should you care to know or ask, Eva ; cer¬ 
 tainly not now, when yon strangers require our guidance to the 
 Strip of Burne. Let us forward to them.” 
 
 Up to this moment Evelyn had been observing the features 
 of the glen, so far as they were revealed by the moonlight. Close 
 at the right, arose from the very level of the road piles of swell¬ 
 ing ground, upon which, midway, a thick white mist rested, but 
 not so steadily as to withhold, when occasionally agitated by the 
 high wind, faint indications of immense precipices, shooting up 
 behind into the loftier clouds. On the left, the ground fell to 
 the bottom of the glen, until it met a river, of which some spark¬ 
 ling glimpses were to be had, some rippling sounds to be heard. 
 
52 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 beyond the river uprose, again, vast mountain swells ; the mist 
 here interrupting, likewise, a continued view of their utmost as¬ 
 cents ; or, as at the other side, only permitting a dreamy glance 
 of cold pale summits, half touched by moonshine. Straight on¬ 
 ward the glen spread out and ran to a distance. Its sides, as 
 they curved, appeared to meet ; the moon settling, with an un¬ 
 disturbed breadth of light, on the top of a distant hill, that 
 seemed to close the grand, the silent, and shadowy vista. 
 
 As he looked down the valley, Evelyn’s observations were 
 broken by the glare of a number of lights, and the sound of many 
 voices. 
 
 “Yonder is the Strip of Burne,” said Edmund M’Donnell, 
 “ and these are my father’s people come out to welcome us. But 
 let my father’s son first have the honor of welcoming you to a 
 home too humble for your apparent rank, and, indeed, for the 
 early fortunes of his own family.” 
 
 The lad, with a blush so positive as to be visible even in the 
 imperfect light, yet with a grace and ease that more than bal¬ 
 anced such a departure from courtly manners, took off his Scotch 
 bonnet, and bowed separately to the travellers. 
 
 “And you, lady,” said Eva, “ welcome with all possible joy 
 to a night’s rest under a roof that I am still too proud to call 
 too humble she playfully waved her hand, and Esther as gayly 
 stooped from her saddle to kiss the young girl’s cheek. 
 
 “ Our father himself is, as he should be, at the head of his 
 own people,” Eva resumed, as the advancing party came up ; and 
 soon, indeed, the old man was visible, with his dumb brother by 
 his side, his white head uncovered, his hale, fresh-colored cheeks 
 glowing with unusual brightness, and his mild and still fine eyes 
 anticipating the expression of the sentiments he was about to 
 speak. Bending low to the strangers, he first uttered a sentence 
 in Irish, which Edmund thus rendered : 
 
 “ My father says, that, while he joyfully welcomes you to a 
 house he might once have been ashamed of, he blesses the day 
 on which his brother and son, going out to shoot sea-fowl, have 
 been so happy and honored as to do you a service.” 
 
 While Mrs. Evelyn, her husband, and Oliver held profound 
 and, it might be, uncourteous silence, the younger strangers fitly 
 expressed themselves in return to this address. Then the rude- 
 looking kerne in attendance shouted joyfully ; old M’Donnell, 
 taking Evelyn’s hand, led, with the other, Esther’s palfrey ; his 
 son led the horse that bore Mrs. Evelyn and Oliver ; the dumb 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 53 
 
 man took in charge Paul and his steed ; and the two united par* 
 ties proceeded to the “ Strip of Burne.” 
 
 This name seemed to be given to a spot of broken, though 
 not very abrupt ground, lying, as Evelyn could indistinctly ob¬ 
 serve, immediately under a tremendous precipice, perhaps the 
 steepest part of the range they had found on their right since en¬ 
 tering the glen. A small streamlet, deriving its source from the 
 rocks above, made way through a deep rock-strewn channel in 
 the middle of this ground ; on the near side of it stood the lone 
 residence of the M’Donnells, a thatched dwelling, of about three 
 times the size of those inhabited by the peasantry of the country, 
 with a few pines and mountain-ash behind, that, at different 
 heights, found root in the barren soil, or in the crevices of the 
 rock. The house was nearly at the edge of the road by which it 
 was approached, and some distance from the precipice. 
 
 With repeated, yet not irksome, assurances of welcome, the 
 strangers were ushered into a large apartment, that seemed to 
 serve as kitchen and common residence, except during the hours 
 of rest, to the servants as well as the heads of the family. At 
 the end blazed a turf fire, lighted on the hearth, and finding vent up 
 a capacious chimney, over and about which hung, interspersed with 
 sides of bacon and haunches of dried venison, many old swords 
 and pistols, otter-skins, fox-brushes, and the antlers of the deer. 
 Along the walls stood a dresser, containing the then necessary 
 articles of culinary and table equipage, two rudely-shaped presses, 
 a few chairs, as rudely fashioned, and a range of forms. The 
 floor was earthen ; and, overhead, appeared the joists, wattles, 
 and thatch, as naked as the interior of a peasant’s cabin, with the 
 sole difference, that they were not blackened with smoke and 
 soot. Otherwise, from its extent, furniture, and particular clean¬ 
 liness, the apartment bore little resemblance to the more humble 
 huts that were sparingly strewed in the district about. 
 
 At the fire, an old woman, assisted, or rather interrupted, by 
 one or two wenches, comely and bare-legged, were employed in 
 cooking. Around her, at by no means a respectful distance, sat 
 some men, retainers or servants of the family, who had not, for 
 special reasons, accompanied old M’Donnell to meet the strangers. 
 The hobs were also occupied. On one reposed a tall, gaunt man, 
 about sixty years of age, whose haggard face and sunken eye be¬ 
 spoke an ill state of health, while his manner, and a slight pecu¬ 
 liarity in his dress, betokened a person distinct from, if not supe¬ 
 rior to, those around him. On the other, his knees crippled up 
 
54 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 to his chin, a large pieoe of oaten-cake in his hand, and his jaws 
 employed with the celerity of those of a rabbit in making way 
 through it, sat the chief cause of almost all the delays and perils 
 that had overtaken the strangers—the donkey’s guardian. 
 
 The moment Evelyn entered, the little rascal’s eyes met his, 
 and he instantly ceased the rapid motion of his jaws, looking as 
 conscious as a monkey detected amid the sweets of a pantry. 
 Evelyn instantly closed on him, whip in hand, with an angry 
 query as to the cause of his sudden disappearance at Garron 
 Point. But ere he proceeded to inflict any real punishment, the 
 boy flippantly explained, that having first run for his life from, as 
 he called it, “ the muckle mirk cloud”—a proceeding that no 
 gentle or Christian could blame him for—he thought his better 
 plan then was to hasten to Evelyn’s Uncle Jeremiah, who kept 
 possession of the cottage at Cushindoll, and inform him of the 
 distress of his friends. That, Jeremiah being out (he believed 
 supping with the priest), he was returning to Evelyn, accompa¬ 
 nied by friends of his own, when, passing by Onagh’s house, he 
 saw the party, along with their new acquaintances, whom he 
 knew well, speaking to her. And that, not liking to come in her 
 way, he just bid his friends good-night, and ran on to Randall 
 M’Donnell’s house, whither he plainly perceived all were travel¬ 
 ling. 
 
 This statement appearing, on the whole, reasonable, Evelyn 
 restrained his hand, and as the imp, with a self-gratulatory 
 chuckle, recommenced his attack on the oaten-cake, he turned to 
 his host to request from him a guide, by whose assistance he 
 might immediately visit his Uncle Jeremiah, and ascertain at the 
 same time whether or no the road between them permitted a 
 speedy departure to his own cottage, in which, if possible, he 
 was now determined, with his friends, to lodge for the night. At 
 this intimation, when he understood it, old M’Donnell looked 
 blank, his son grieved, aud his daughter haughty; while the 
 dumb man, as soon as he read their countenances, looked every 
 kind of extreme astonishment, anxiety, aud it seemed impatience, 
 if not anger. Mrs. and Miss Evelyn, with Uncle Paul, just en¬ 
 tering, he sprang to the fire, at which, as before noticed, some 
 men were seated, hurled them from it to the other end of the 
 apartment, returned to the ladies, and, seizing a hand of each, 
 led them to the seats the former had occupied. Uncle Paul he 
 also twirled to a seat at the blaze, with a hospitable energy 
 rather inconsiderate ; aud, finally, having placed Oliver on the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 55 
 
 hob with the boy, and Eva by the side of Esther, he took his 
 station at the back of his brother, seemingly in a mood at once 
 offended and determined. 
 
 But, for the time, disapprobation or entreaty were equally in¬ 
 effectual to prevail on Evelyn to alter his plan. He averred that, 
 all along, it had been his intention to avail himself of the hospi¬ 
 tality of M’Donnell’s roof, only during the time necessary to 
 ascertain the situation of his own, and whether or no he could 
 that night properly conduct his sister to it. Perhaps his glance 
 at the seeming want of accommodation for so large a party, 
 might have served to confirm this resolve ; and, perhaps, he was 
 further assisted in it by a disposition naturally distant, averse to 
 accept unnecessary favors, and fixed in its bent by an English 
 education. So, with a manner that appeared somewhat churlish, 
 though he was really unconscious of the appearance, Evelyn, 
 pressing his request for a guide, obtained one in the person of 
 the dumb man, whose offer of service was voluntary, and not to 
 be refused. 
 
 Both instantly got on horseback, and, retracing the road 
 through the glen, passed Ouagh’s cavern, and then encountered 
 an up-and-down and rock-strewn road, which, ere Evelyn had 
 half mastered it, made him speedily come to the opinion that, 
 until morning, and recovery from her previous terrors and fatigue, 
 he dare not venture to convey Esther to her own home. An in¬ 
 terview with his Uncle Jeremiah he was, however, resolved to ob¬ 
 tain, and therefore continued on to the little hamlet of Cushin- 
 doll, then consisting of a few wretched cabins, lying at the bot¬ 
 tom of the rugged ascents over which he and his dumb guide 
 had for some time been journeying, although the curious travel¬ 
 ler of the present day will find it a smart, neat village, with, by 
 the way, more than usual facilities to “ take his ease in his inn 
 with a smooth seashore road leading to it, sometimes cut through 
 vast rocks, or having them scooped out into an archway over 
 his head ; and, altogether, holding out to him the attraction of a 
 most delightful residence on one of the grandest coasts in the 
 world. 
 
 Before leaving his brother’s home, the dumb man had under¬ 
 stood, on the report of the boy, that he was first to lead Evelyn 
 to the priest’s house, in search of his uncle. Thither he accord¬ 
 ingly bent his course,—Evelyn, though all along not without a 
 mixture of vexation, misgiving, and a sense of the ludicrous, pas¬ 
 sively following in his track. 
 
56 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 They gained and dismounted before a thatched dwelling, which 
 bore, however, some appearance of comfort and neatness superior 
 to the cabins around it, having a wall in front, with a cross- 
 barred gate, that the visitors found well secured. The dumb 
 man knocked loudly, but no one came in answer ; he knocked 
 again and again, and still they remained at the wrong side of the 
 house ; until, losing all patience, he tied his own and Evelyn’s 
 horses to the gate, and rapidly beckoning him to follow, ap¬ 
 proached the back of the cottage, where, by a stile, he intro¬ 
 duced himself into a little kitchen-garden, and, through it, to a 
 poultry-yard and back-door. 
 
 The moment Evelyn entered the garden, he heard his Uncle 
 Jeremiah’s cracked voice performing, at its loudest pitch, a 
 favorite song, of which the well-known chorus ran as follows : 
 
 “ So let old ship go up or down, 
 
 And her flag be of red, or black, or brown, 
 
 Blazing away, or sailing merrilie, 
 
 Merry, merry, ever let her jolly hands be.” 
 
 In this he was faintly, and as if only through courtesy, joined by 
 a voice still more cracked than his own, although, between them, 
 they made a good shrill chorus of it; and, at the end, two per¬ 
 sons might be heard quaffing, separately, a long draught, and 
 afterwards smacking their lips. 
 
 Evelyn’s conductor seemed, almost as soon as himself, to be¬ 
 come aware, though it was hard to tell how, of the scene that 
 was going on within ; for he had scarce entered the yard, when, 
 pointing to an open window, through which light issued, he made 
 signs to his follower to step cautiously ; and setting the example 
 he wished to have imitated, stole towards the window, with 
 strange convulsions of feature, that betokened great, though 
 checked delight. Both thus gained a spot from which, unseen, 
 they might easily observe those inside. 
 
 Evelyn’s Uncle Jeremiah sat, with his jovial side-face to them, 
 at a small table, on which was provision for the good-humor he 
 so earnestly inculcated. A little man he was, clad in a sailor’s 
 tight-bodied blue cloth dress, gathered round the hips into some¬ 
 thing of the shape of a kilt, and just allowing to be seen the ori¬ 
 gin of his Jersey carnation stockings, with great clocks in them ; 
 he was nearly as short and as round as his brother Paul, and had, 
 like him, a button-nose, studded with gray bristles. But in the 
 twinkle of his merry and sensual black eye ; in the half-gaping 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 57 
 
 bacchanalian expression of his mouth ; in his placid forehead, 
 hale, weather-tanned cheeks, and long, white locks, despising a 
 periwig, as well as in the well-braced air of his limbs and body, 
 no further likeness appeared. 
 
 Opposite to him sat his host, seemingly an unwilling one. A 
 very little man, too, as chance would have it, and nearly twice 
 the age of his guest—that is, he could not be less than ninety. 
 His features were of a large intellectual order ; his head (covered 
 with a black skull-cap, of some hard, rough substance, having an 
 iron ring in the top, large enough for a trap-door) sunk between 
 his shoulders ; his neck and body stooped ; and a violent palsy 
 shaking every joint, limb, and part of his body. This old gen¬ 
 tleman seemed, we say, as if he had not invited Jerry that even¬ 
 ing ; as if the visit at supper-time had been unlooked for and un¬ 
 welcome ; but, now that the matter was to be got over, as if he 
 strove to make a virtue of a necessity ; and lastly, as if it was 
 not in his nature or habits to express chagrin or dislike in an un- 
 courteous manner. 
 
 “ That’s a spice of a good song, holy brother / 7 continued 
 Jeremiah ; “ though it be none of thy business to say me yea. Ye 
 would fain ever hold us sorrowful, ye chaplains, with your preach¬ 
 ing up a bit of a good life, never a hearty one ; but hark thee 
 agaiu— 
 
 “ ‘ The black-gown swears ’tis wail and woe, 
 
 And raves if we drink and doubt him ; 
 
 But let him to his prayers go. 
 
 And we’ll be merry without him ; 
 
 For a merry, merry, we will ever be, 
 
 Though he lay on liis back at the bottom of the sea — 
 
 Never meaning so much of your reverence, seeing that thou 
 art a hearty old mate, too good to work ship with the galley- 
 foist crew of 7 em ; and seeing, moreover, that I be merry here, 
 thi> night, under favor of thy locker. Fill, brother.” 
 
 “Fill thou for me, admiral / 7 answered his host, “and mind not 
 my cloth if I pledge thee. I dislike two tliiugs in this mortal es¬ 
 tate ; sin, first—austerity, second ; with mayhap, a third, and 
 that is an over-indulgence in good liquor. But for a healthful 
 cup, especially when the blood grows old, and requireth gentle 
 nourishing, why, I can give it or take it. I have seen France— 
 ah, la belle France !—her velvet claret o’ervalues all other bev¬ 
 erage ; and even there found reasonable potations an esteemed 
 
 3 * 
 
58 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 fashion. I have seen the world near to one of its crazy centu¬ 
 ries, and never found any but fools or knaves to say it was bad. 
 Does not King Solomon himself aver that no pleasure surpasseth, 
 in the heart of man, that of fair wine, with the face of a friend ? 
 Buvons done !” 
 
 With these words of mixed encouragement and caution, the 
 fine old gentleman surrounded his cup with his ever-shaking 
 hands, and scarce venturing to lift it from the table, gradually 
 bore down his lips to the brim, at last made a successful lodg 
 merit on it, and then quaffed the grateful beverage. 
 
 “ To voice sante , Monsieur Cure ,” replied Jeremiah, in broken 
 French, which, along with scraps of many other tongues, he had 
 picked up during his roaming life, at the same time that he 
 drained to the dregs his own mantling measure. “ And I have 
 seen France, holy brother, and mayhap touched at Portugal and 
 the Canaries, to speak naught of a bit of a cruise about the 
 main, long before I turned skipper to brother Paul, where, per- 
 adventure, I saw spilt some good red stuff, that was not red wine, 
 neither—but let that pass ; a closed mouth mars no secrets. I 
 I was only a saying, that wherever old ship tacked—whosoever 
 were my mates, Dutch, English, French, or—no matter whom— 
 let it pass, I say ; a good flagon and a pretty face—no treason 
 meant, though your reverence guess of what sex—and, ‘ hearty 
 and merry forever and a day’ (singing), that was my word, and 
 never have I seen the man I could love that did not steer by just 
 such another. Fill, I entreat thee, brother.” 
 
 “Thou shalt fill thine own cup for mine, this round, admiral, 
 if it be not irksome,” answered his host, vainly hoping to convey 
 a hint in a hospitable guise. 
 
 “ Think not of it, holy brother ; I would obligate thee more, 
 in the way of a real service, credit me and Jerry's cup was 
 again filled and emptied. “ But,” sounding it against the table, 
 as to provoke anew some courteous entreaty, “ touching pretty 
 faces, saw’st thou ever such a lack of ’em as is encountered in 
 this northern country ?” 
 
 “ What, sir!” cried his host, very simply taking fire at any, no 
 matter what slight, cast on the place of his birth and affections ; 
 while his disguiset impatience of his guest assisted, perhaps, the 
 sudden humor. Jeremiah went on. 
 
 “Why, beshrew my merry heart, if I met, from Lough Neagh 
 to this port, a bit of a sail that was worth the hailing. Not one 
 that an old seaman would board for the asking ; to say naught 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 59 
 
 of a chase, which all the world knows is the very sweet of the 
 action. Credit me, holy brother, never met I on any sea—ex¬ 
 cept, mayhap, while we touched at the Cape—such ill-built, ill- 
 rigged, ill-mizened—” 
 
 “What, what the deuce, sir!” again interrupted his host 
 looking flushed and angry, while excitement added to the palsy 
 of his hands and arms, as he strove to gesticulate with them; 
 “ what wouldst thou say ? pretty faces ! Sir, I will get thee in 
 my own parish—sir, if thou hast the grace to attend my con¬ 
 gregation the next Sabbath, I will show thee such features— 
 such faces, angel ones, divine ones !”—the simple-hearted old man 
 went on, unconscious of the questionable zeal with which he 
 expressed his raptures, and volunteered his services—“ yes, sir, 
 and this moment have I under my roof a cherub, sir my own 
 great grand-niece—whose mother—and whose mother’s mother 
 —here, Peggy!—and whose aunts, sir, and relatives, to the 
 twentieth— Peggy, I say !” 
 
 While speaking, the old gentleman arose to approach the in¬ 
 terior door, as a light foot came tripping from the remote part 
 of the house towards it ; but a stop was put to his further 
 speech and demonstrations by a prodigious laugh, of unnatural 
 sound, which burst from the dumb man, just outside the window ; 
 and at nearly the same moment, Evelyn knocked at the back¬ 
 door. The host started ; and ere he would reply to the knock¬ 
 ing, strove, requesting Jeremiah’s assistance, to huddle together 
 and remove out of view, all evidences of unseasonable merry¬ 
 making ; Jeremiah only tardily assisting, however, and repeated¬ 
 ly urging the retaining, without ceremony or pother, in the face 
 of any serious fellow who might enter, the means and the dispo¬ 
 sition to be merry. 
 
 When the door was at last opened, the dumb man, pushing in 
 first, and receiving a hearty welcome from the priest, to whom 
 he was known, proceeded to acquaint him, in his own language, 
 with the cause of the visit of Evelyn and himself. While thus 
 engaged, the young gentleman also entered, and advanced with 
 a grave brow to greet his Uncle Jeremiah. 
 
 “ A-hoy ! ship, a-hoy! welcome, nephew, welcome to port 1” 
 cried the really good-hearted little sailor, grasping his hand. 
 “ What—art thou hearty, man ? art thou merry ? Eh ! what’s 
 to do here ?—no, hearty nor merry thou art not—is all square 
 and tight, eh ? How’s Essy ? safe in port, too ? eh, nephew ?” 
 
 “ I fear, Uncle Jerry, any evil might have befallen her, or any 
 
60 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 of us, while you were revelling it here, instead of looking out foi 
 us on the road, or, at least, remaining to welcome us in, for the 
 time, your own house.” 
 
 “ Tut, now, be not serious, goodman nephew ; thou knowest I 
 hate it, and thou wert wont to be the last to bear a hard hand 
 Uncle Jerry I may be, a poor tar paid off without pension, and 
 threatened with the hulks ; but no matter for that— 
 
 “ ‘ While his name is Jerry, he will be merry, 
 
 Without a sous in poke, still merry, merry Jerry.’ 
 
 Thou knowest I hate it; and thou knowest, too, I could not 
 tell when thou mightst ha’ hove in view. An’ as to manning the 
 new sloop by myself, and looking out a-head, day and night, for 
 the whole fleet o’ you, beshrew my heart, ’twas what would never 
 do me no great good. So I even scuttled across to the chaplain, 
 here, to rack off a little ; and every one must rack off a little, 
 now and then ; ’tis natural, isn’t it ? 
 
 The clergyman, having derived sufficient information of the 
 case from the conversation of the uncle and nephew, as well as 
 from the mute statement of the dumb man, advanced to pay his 
 respects to Evelyn ; regretting that his poor house— 
 
 But here he was unseasonably interrupted by his dumb friend, 
 who, first shaking violently by the hand the astonished and yet 
 pleased Jerry, ran to the very cupboard in which the bottle and 
 wine-cups had been deposited, and, with extravagant gestures and 
 cries, meant to be a pleasant attack on the priest’s caution, re¬ 
 placed them on the table, sat down, and motioned all to join him 
 in a hearty draught. Evelyn requested their host to express his 
 disinclination to a carouse, on account of his great anxiety to re¬ 
 turn to his sister ; but Jerry, his eyes fixed on his new acquaint¬ 
 ance, in admiration of his movements, readily took a seat at the 
 table. 
 
 “ Be not surprised at his manner,” said the old clergyman, 
 supposing Jerry’s attentive observation to proceed from misgiv¬ 
 ing of some kind, and not—as it really did—from pure delight, 
 “ the man is deaf and dumb, but harmless.” 
 
 “ Be he deaf as a mast, and dumb as the sea in a calm, I say 
 he is hearty. Your health, my tight lad,” Jerry continued, nod 
 ding graciously, a full cup in hand, to his companion, who re 
 turned the salutation with many, many nods, and many grimaces, 
 too, of excessive pleasure. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 61 
 
 But this could not last. A few words of emphatic request 
 from Evelyn, and Uncle Jerry was soon sprawling on the back 
 of the priest’s horse, attending his nephew and guide back again 
 to the Strip of Burue. 
 
 They had scarce begun to ascend the first toilsome and, now 
 and then, perilous inequalities on their road, when a stranger, 
 also on horseback, joined them at a brisk trot. By the Jiglit of 
 the moon, he appeared to be a young man of about Evelyn’s own 
 age, but shorter, perhaps, and slighter, with a pale face, and 
 features which, although not by any means of a handsome cast, 
 yet wore an impression of grave, abstracted, and intellectual 
 melancholy, that was interesting. At his back hung something 
 enveloped in a dark cloth. “ The blessing of the night on ye,” 
 he said, as he drew up and joiued the party. 
 
 “ This fellow is not hearty,” said Uncle Jeremiah, after looking 
 in his face ; and again, when he had seen the appendage at his 
 back, “ a poor serious pedler, I reckon.” 
 
 But the dumb guide cried out joyfully the moment he per¬ 
 ceived the stranger, and stretched forth his hand to greet him ; 
 and, as soon as he heard the cry, the young man as joyfully shook 
 the proffered hand, and said— 
 
 “ Ah, my poor Con M’Donnell, is it you ?— Dieu-uth , Dieu - 
 uth, and God look down on you P 
 
 “ Do you take our road, friend ?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “ If your road lies straight to Randall M’DonnelPs house, in 
 the glen, as I suppose it does, by finding this afflicted creature 
 in your company, then we are to be together,” answered the 
 stranger. 
 
 “I am glad of it,” resumed Evelyn ; “as, however good his 
 intentions may be, it is rather comfortless to be guided on such 
 a road as this by a man deaf and dumb.” 
 
 “ He has a quick eye, sir,” said their new comrade. 
 
 “ Doubtless, sir ; but I should prefer the guidance of one that 
 can speak to me with sufficient plainness and quickness to point 
 out a danger ; yourself, for instance.” 
 
 “ I shall do my best to serve you,” resumed the young man, 
 smiling expressively ; “ but do not depend on me too far.” 
 
 “You know the road, do you not?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “ Well, sir, every stock and stone on it ; or I could not venture 
 out alone m such a wild quarter.” 
 
 “ May I inquire if you are a native of this part ?” still ques¬ 
 tioned Evelyn. 
 
62 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ No,” answered the other, with a sigh that spoke deep feel¬ 
 ings and sad recollections of home ; “ I was born far from the 
 black North. But, to begin my safe guiding, mind yourself now, 
 sir,” he continued, altering his tone ; “ as we have got under the 
 darkness of the rocks, and there is a large black stone, hardly 
 visible, just to your right ” 
 
 Evelyn looked, and saw, indeed, by attentive observation, the 
 almost hidden danger. 
 
 “Thanks,” he then resumed ; “and you have spoken but 
 lightly of your own ability as a guide ; for, though Con M’Don- 
 nell has, truly, a keen eye, and though my own may serve a turn, 
 I should have been on that rock but for your warning.” 
 
 The young stranger smiled again with peculiar meaning, and 
 rejoined : 
 
 “ Be it as it may, sir, I say I shall do my best to please you ; 
 and now, again, hold to the right as much as you can ; for at 
 this place the road has no left-hand fence, and slants very sud¬ 
 denly over the edge of the hill; but perhaps I had better lead 
 the way” 
 
 Spurring his horse, he accordingly took the lead, and so con¬ 
 tinued during the rest of the journey to M’Donnell’s house, oc¬ 
 casionally exhorting Evelyn, over his shoulder, to pull up in one 
 place, and turn aside in another ; and Evelyn feeling all along 
 much gratified to have at last, for a guide, a person who could 
 intelligibly point out dangers, and use his eyes so well. 
 
 When all halted together at the Strip of Burne, his guide fell 
 back to disengage from its envelope whatever it was that hung 
 at his shoulders. The noise of the horses’ hoofs brought out to 
 the door old M’Donnell, his son, and a crowd of people. Just 
 as they appeared, the young man had got a small harp in his 
 hand ; he touched its chords ; they stood as if spell-bound on the 
 threshold—listened a moment to catch the continuation of the 
 air—then at once recognized the visitor—and— 
 
 “Carolan ! Carolan!” was shouted by every voice : 
 
 “ Gead-mille-phalteagh , Carolan !” 
 
 Evelyn’s late judgment of the efficacy of his guide’s eyes, mis¬ 
 gave him as the name struck on his ear. He had before heard 
 —as who in Ireland had not ?—of young Carolan, and always 
 as a man blind from his early age : now, by the full light of the 
 flaming stakes the men bore, he gazed attentively at him. The 
 eyeballs of the youthful bard were, indeed, blank ; and Evelyn 
 had the mortification to know that he had been indebted for safe 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 63 
 
 guidance over a perilous road, not merely to a dumb man, but 
 to the deaf and dumb, and to the blind, together. 
 
 “ Am I a good guide, sir ?” Carolan asked, as they entered the 
 cottage, turning to him with one of his expressive smiles. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 “Carolan!” said Jeremiah, as all entered ; “a right hearty 
 fellow, doubtless ; I have heard his name, and more than that 
 of him, too ;—there is Carolan’s Receipt—a merry air as man 
 ever drank or danced to. Master Carolan, your hand.” 
 
 Having received from the harper a warm return of his greet¬ 
 ing, Jerry’s eye lighted on Esther ; and, “Aha! fair niece, bless 
 the little heart in its body ; art thou well, woman ?” he went on, 
 kissing her chirpingly. “ Welcome to port. Not yet safe landed, 
 indeed ; but yon’s land, and its only putting off in the jolly-boat 
 on the turn of tide to-morrow morning—eh ? Art better ? art 
 merry ? that’s the word. Sister Janet, art thou hearty?” 
 
 “No, Jeremiah, I am not ,” answered the lady bitterly, who, 
 since his entrance, had been 
 
 “ Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.” 
 
 “ Then thou mightst have been, for once in a whole voyage, 
 were it only to try how thou hadst liked it—deep sea take my 
 tongue to pipe the word to her,” he continued, between his teeth, 
 but still in pure good-humor, “ when she knows not even its 
 meaning. Well, brother Paul” (cautiously), “ art thou ?” 
 
 “ I believe,” answered Paul, glancing inquiringly at his spouse, 
 “I believe I am, brother Jerry.” 
 
 v “ Marry—come up and amen !” observed Mrs. Evelyn ; “ and 
 why should not all ruffle it bravely, who can, forsooth ?” 
 
 Jerry understood this allusion, but for the hundredth time let 
 it pass without any notice. Just then, Carolan, after speaking 
 a moment with the other members of the family, approached 
 Eva, his little harp in his hand, and asking her, in a rallying 
 tone, how many hearts she had subdued since their last meeting, 
 struck up a sprightly air, which, he said, be had composed while 
 
64 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 thinkiug of her, and of which the accompanying words may be 
 thus translated from the Irish : 
 
 My bright young eyes, my bright young eyes, 
 
 No earthly use they be ; 
 
 From morn to night they make no prize, 
 
 For none they ever see. 
 
 My cherry lips, my rose-red cheek. 
 
 My bosom, lily white; 
 
 No lover’s heart for them will break, 
 
 For none comes morn or night. 
 
 With my bright young eyes, my bright young eyes, 
 So swimming, soft, and blue, 
 
 My lips and cheeks and simple sighs— 
 
 What shall I, shall I do ? 
 
 Supper was now laid 6ut upon the table, and old M’Donneil, 
 standing at the head, pronounced in Irish, and with much earn¬ 
 estness, a thanksgiving. Immediately around him sat, inter¬ 
 mixed with the strangers, his brother, son, and daughter. The 
 table reached to the other end of the extensive apartment, and 
 at the bottom, with a little space between them and the party 
 at the top, clustered almost all the rude men who had attended 
 M’Donneil up the glen, together with those whom the travellers 
 had found in the house—the household women, old and young, 
 and him of the donkey. The materials of the supper were fresh 
 red trout, dried salmon, venison, from the deer-park of Glenarm, 
 and oaten cake and porridge in superabundance ; qualified, at 
 pleasure, by a stoup of canary, and brandy and hollands of such 
 a flavor as Jerry well knew could have been had only in a cer¬ 
 tain way. 
 
 The meal proceeded, if not in great order, at least in harmony. 
 Even Mrs. Evelyn, whose nerves had been much outraged by 
 witnessing the cooking of it, and who could therefore promise 
 herself little enjoyment from a participation in such a Scotch- 
 Irish hodge-podge, silently acknowledged to her own heart—as¬ 
 sisted, perhaps, in the concession by a keen appetite—that, ulti¬ 
 mately, it was worth tasting. The meal was done—the table 
 cleared—the cups and horns filled to the brim ; and old M’Don¬ 
 nell rose, and with him all his family and people, to give (Ed¬ 
 mund supplying a translation)— 
 
 “ Welcome and honor to the strangers in Glenarrifl*!” He 
 was pledged in a joyful echo of voices, that rose almost to a 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 65 
 
 sheer. Again the cups were mantling ; and again the old man 
 rose— 
 
 “Welcome and honor in Glenarriff to the bard : may he that 
 gives joy in song never know sorrow in the heart l” 
 
 All, including the travellers, rose to acknowledge this pledge 
 also. Even the ladies of the party, following the example of 
 young Eva, stood up, and raised high their cups ; and she—the 
 enthusiasm of her heart coming in tears to her eyes—added, ere 
 her lips touched the brim : 
 
 “ The praise of women and the honor of men ! Sorrow should 
 not darken his soul, who can change into pleasure the sorrow of 
 others.” 
 
 The old man looked fondly and proudly at his daughter, and 
 the tears filled his own eyes. Without speaking, he extended 
 his arms, drew her towards him, and placing her head on his 
 shoulder, as he sat, and as, when she was more a child, he used 
 to do, kissed her, and once more uplifting his cup, gave— 
 
 “ Chorra-ma-chree, ma colleen !” —“ The pulse of my heart, 
 my child 1” 
 
 Evelyn, surprised into an enthusiasm rather unusual with him, 
 started to his feet, along with every man present, and as Carolan 
 exclaimed, and all echoed him—“ M’Donnell’s only daughter— 
 the place and the wealth she has lost for her !—a throne for her 
 to do her honor 1” he drained to the bottom his overflowing cup, 
 and waved it again and again. As he sat down, he caught Eva’s 
 eye fixed on his, with a depth of expression that found way to 
 his soul. But, in an instant, she removed her glance, kissed her 
 father’s cheek, and resumed her seat at the table, gracefully tak¬ 
 ing the hand of her new friend, Esther. Carolan spoke on. We 
 must be candid enough to declare that we do not follow him, 
 word for word, as he delivered himself. Having rather advanced 
 in boyhood before he began to learn English, Carolan, to the 
 time of his death, spoke that language but indifferently; and as 
 other individuals of less interest than he may serve to illustrate 
 the blunders—always attended by a portion of the ridiculous— 
 into which one so situated must fall, endeavoring, while he thinks 
 in one tongue and speaks in another, to express the conceptions 
 of a rapid and poetical mind, we may be allowed so far to show 
 our respect for the bard, as to save him, by passing over his 
 verbal errors, the chance of a dishonoring smile ; not wholly giv¬ 
 ing up, meantime, the native phraseology of his discourse, 
 Is early as follows, then, he continued to speak : 
 
66 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ For my own welcome, M’Donnell, thanks to you and yours ; 
 and thanks for the kind wish, too ; but you know it is spoken 
 in vain—God frees none of his creatures,—the king no more than 
 the beggar—the bard no more than him whose soul is dark to 
 song,—from the common lot of sorrow and suffering. You 
 know why I am away from the pleasant places, the hills and 
 rivers of my childhood—the only hills and rivers I ever saw, or, 
 now, can ever see ! You know I am in the North, and in your 
 house to-night, because, for a time, I would strive to forget 
 sorrow, by wandering far from the old haunts and the old voices 
 that make it ever flow afresh. You know that he who gave me 
 the song—that was the light to my clouded mind—my old 
 master, friend, and brother, is gone from me ; you know that 
 O’Kief is dead,” he added, tears gushing quickly from his sight¬ 
 less eyes, as, his voice sinking, he let his head fall on his breast 
 
 There was a pause, which no one interrupted by a word; the 
 young bard’s sorrows were too sacred for commonplace condo¬ 
 lence. He continued : 
 
 “We parted but one summer ; I came back to meet him ; to 
 take his hand, to hear his pleasant voice, to join him in the song 
 again. My heart was happy within me on the road ; I felt the 
 breeze blowing from his glen, fresher on my brow than the breeze 
 of any other spot the sky covers. At the turn of the church¬ 
 yard I met a peasant, and asked him for O’Kief ; 4 1 am look¬ 
 ing on his grave,’ he said, and wept.” 
 
 Again there was an unbroken pause of some length ; even the 
 strangers of the party, with, perhaps, one or two exceptions, 
 sufficiently estimating what they heard to pay it the proper re¬ 
 spect. The appearance alone of all conveyed their feelings. Eva, 
 holding Esther by one hand, had passed her left arm round 
 her neck ; and now, while the pale cheeks of her companion 
 were moist with tears, and her head drooped in the expression of 
 the native softness and tenderness of her character, Eva herself 
 looked wistfully at Carolan, through brimming eyes, that scarce 
 ever gave a full loose to womanly showers. Old M’Donnell, sit¬ 
 ting back in his chair, turned away his face, as if in shame of 
 what he felt. Edmund had grasped the young bard’s arm, as 
 they sat together, and—his figure twisted almost round—seemed 
 closely to watch his sorrow (they were affectionate friends, and 
 brother-minstrels, too, since Carolan’s arrival in the north). 
 Evelyn looked downwards, his hand resting on the table. Con 
 M’Donnell gazed, like his niece, on the features of the blind 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 67 
 
 musician, plentiful tears rolling over his harsh cheeks. While 
 the rude group, in their mixed Irish and Scotch costume, lean¬ 
 ing across the board, also fixed their eyes on the same person, 
 or else sorrowfully and expressively on each other. Eva first 
 spoke. 
 
 “ Since the cause that brought Carolan to our glen is sorrow 
 to him, we must regret even the coming of the joy of his harp, 
 although, else, we should never have felt that joy.” 
 
 “ Is not the instrument well known in this country ?” Evelyn 
 ventured to ask. 
 
 “ No,” Eva replied ; “ the common music in our glen is, I sup¬ 
 pose, on account of our old highland descent, the bagpipe.” 
 
 Evelyn, for the first time getting a clue to many novel appear¬ 
 ances of dress, manners, and habits, which in contrast with the 
 general aspect of the north, well known to him, had, in this 
 mountain district, forcibly struck him, wished to continue his 
 questions ; but Eva anticipated it by more directly addressing 
 the young harper. 
 
 “ Did your time pass pleasantly in the castle of the old 
 M’Donnell of Glenarin, Carolan ?—and how is our noble cousin 
 of Antrim ?” 
 
 “ It was not that good lord’s fault if my days were clouded 
 uuder his roof; and he is well, Eva, in peace, plenty, and a 
 green old age.” 
 
 “ His lordship is also of Highland descent, then, being your 
 relative ?” Evelyn inquired, again endeavoring to lead the con¬ 
 versation. 
 
 “ The answer is a long one,” said Edmund, “and involves the 
 fortunes of our family. The ancestor of the present Antrim, 
 Surlebuoy, or Yellow Charles, was a Scottish Highland chief¬ 
 tain, who, in the old feudal times, coming over at the head of 
 his clan M’Donnell, wrested from native possessors what has 
 since continued to be the property of his descendants, and the 
 descendants of his people.” 
 
 “ It was a great battle the two chieftains fought,” said Caro¬ 
 lan, “ the battle of Orra ; and on the top of Orra mountain, 
 only a few miles from the house we sit in, the cairns of those 
 who fell are to be seen to this day. I know a story, Edmund, 
 about that battle ; it was told me yesterday by the old lord. 
 One of your name, and of his own name, too—for you are all 
 M’Donnells—came suing to him for a new grant of land, the first 
 grant being worn out ; the earl was fretted with something else, 
 
68 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 and spoke short words to put the man off. But he was not to 
 be put off; he asked him the boon again and again, saying he 
 was a M’Donnell. The earl lost temper, and told him there 
 were too many M’Donnells. But the man, fixing his eyes on 
 him, answered, ‘ There were not too many at the battle of Orra 
 and so turned off and left him.” 
 
 “ M’Donnell is not the right name,” observed the tall, sickly 
 looking man we have before taken notice of, when he sat on the 
 hob—he spoke in Irish, which was translated for the strangers, 
 as we translate it for our readers—“ neither was Surlebuoy a 
 true Highland chieftain, nor his clan Highlanders. Here is the 
 story : ‘ The great grandfathers of those who lost the lands to 
 Surlebuoy, had, a long time before, taken the same lands from 
 his great grandfather, and driven him to the Highlands, with his 
 sept. Both were Irish septs then, and the conquered sept were 
 O’Donnells, part of the great O’Donnells of Innishowen, not 
 M’Donnells. But their children’s children, and the children of 
 them again, living so long in the Highlands, took the Scotch Mac, 
 and laid down the Irish O. So that when Surlebuoy came over 
 to fight a battle for his right, he was a M’Donnell, instead of an 
 O’Donnell. Sure he brought other marks of the Highlands as 
 well as that ; his philibegs and his bonnets, that are hardly yet 
 worn out; and his half-Gaelic Irish, to corrupt our pure tongue.” 
 
 “ The words of Manus Oge have weight,” said Eva, addres - 
 ing Evelyn ; “ he is a descendant of the undoubted old Irish, 
 who, before the battle of Orra, wholly possessed this glen. His 
 fathers have, for centuries, been famous for correct tradition. 
 As authentic reciters of the poems of Ossian, they are also cele¬ 
 brated ; and he inherits their lore and their character.” 
 
 “ However authentic his tradition may be as to the original 
 derivation of our ancestors,” resumed Edmund , il or the true sound¬ 
 ing of our name, I believe I have correctly informed this gentle¬ 
 man of the manner in which the present Antrim estate came into 
 the hands of the first known possessor. To continue : One of 
 the most powerful of Surlebuoy’s clan, and one of his nearest rela¬ 
 tives, was the founder of cur family in Ireland. He received a 
 good portion of the conquered lands, after the chief had possessed 
 himself of enough for an earldom. He had his castle, his estate, 
 and his own clan, a short distance from our present home ; and 
 they continued in the hands of his successors, descending to my 
 father, the old man who sits there before you, until Cromwell, 
 because my father fought for his liege king against a bigoted 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 69 
 
 and bloody conspiracy, took them from him, and bestowed them, 
 up and down, upon some of the very rabble of his army.” 
 
 Young M’Donnell began this statement with the modesty, hesi¬ 
 tation, and even blushes, w r hich marked his usual demeanor ; but, 
 as he proceeded, his voice grew firm, his words flowed, his mild 
 blue eyes opened and kindled, his round, boyish cheeks reddened 
 with a blush different from that which usually dyed them ; he sat 
 erect in his chair, shaking his yellow hair in parted curls about 
 his face and forehead ; and, in an instant, started into such inter¬ 
 est and importance of character, as fixed upon him the regards 
 of his whole auditory. 
 
 “ Yes,” Eva added, with calmer energy ; “ and now, Edmund, 
 you must touch your bonnet, on your own lands, to the son of an 
 old trooper ; and I must—that is, it is expected I must, if I could 
 —abase my eyes before a trooper’s daughter.” 
 
 “ Anent that righteous division of lands,” Oliver began, from 
 the end of the table, when, the moment he had so far proceeded, 
 Con M’Donnell, directed by the eyes of the party, sprang from 
 his seat, gained his side, and seizing him furiously by the arm 
 with one hand, and with the other covering his mouth, signified, 
 by shakings of the head, frowns, and abominable grimaces, that 
 he should on no account utter another word. 
 
 “ This,” Oliver tried to mumble, notwithstanding—“ this is a 
 plain”—but immediately experiencing such a shake by the arm as 
 set the bones rattling throughout his body, and catching, at the 
 same time, the expressive observations of the group of wild fel¬ 
 lows who sat about him, he held his tongue in good earnest, con¬ 
 tenting himself with dispatching a long look to Mrs. Evelyn, 
 who sat as pale as death. The dumb man then released his arm, 
 and took a seat by his side. 
 
 “ But,” Evelyn rejoined, too deeply interested with the pre¬ 
 vious conversation to take much notice of the interruption, “ why 
 was not your family assisted by the act of royal grace, towards 
 his suffering Irish subjects, which marked the restoration of the 
 kite king ? Many noblemen and gentlemen then recovered 
 t heir properties from the confiscations of the Protector.” 
 
 “ Not many, after all,” replied Edmund, “ and few of them 
 lioman Catholic families, although to Roman Catholics, almost 
 exclusively, Charles owed gratitude for the struggle made, and 
 the miseries and losses incurred, in Ireland, on behalf of his 
 father. Their Lordships of Clanricard, Carlingford, Cloncarthy, 
 and Lord Dillon, of Costelloe Gallon, received back, I grant ye, 
 
70 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 as much land as they had possessed before 1641 ; more, perhaps, 
 if the truth were known and justice done. But what shall wc 
 say of the great body of the rightful proprietors of three provinces 
 out of the four, which make up onr kingdom, whom Cromwell 
 had nearly to a man disinherited, and driven into Connaught and 
 the county of Clare ? The very statement, issued in the name of 
 the restored prince, of the reasons for confirming the disposses¬ 
 sion of this great majority, says, that such a measure was called 
 for, because the most powerful and armed party in the country 
 were the usurpers, and necessary to support English ascendency 
 amongst us. And that those whose lands they had usurped, 
 though they did not merit to lose their birthrights for the cause 
 alleged by Cromwell—namely, their support of Charles I.—yet 
 merited it, because long before that struggle they had stood up 
 on their own account against the tyranny of the very government 
 that, a few years after, cut off Charles’s head. Was this reason¬ 
 ing for the son of Charles ? or if, speaking generally, it was— 
 how can it stand when limited by this particularity, that, in 1647, 
 the Irish Catholics, chief movers in the insurrection against that 
 government, concluded with the lieutenant of Charles I., the 
 great and good Ormonde, a treaty sanctioned by his master’s 
 name, and which conferred on them pardon and indemnity for all 
 that had gone before ? Be assured, sir, continued the youth, 
 now naturally warmed with his subject, “ that the best English 
 ascendency to have kept over us, would have been a sense of 
 English justice, if not gratitude.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Evelyn, “ supposing Irishmen to have natural 
 affections for liege fealty, or common reason to calculate their 
 own interests.” 
 
 “ One of our relations,” old M’Donnell here observed, having 
 been all along aware, partly by Eva’s assistance, partly by a 
 general comprehension, though he never attempted to speak in 
 English, of the subject of discourse—“ one of our relations was 
 more fortunate, though not more deserving than we of Crom¬ 
 well’s indulgence. He got back his estate for giving him a good 
 hard blow on the head ; and it is well known we did our best to 
 give as good a one.” 
 
 “ I know that story, too,” said the chronicler of Glenarriff— 
 we scarce pause to say that he, as well as old M’Donnell, con¬ 
 tinued to speak in Irish, which, as usual, was rendered for the 
 strangers, and this shall be our last notice of the fact—“ I know 
 that story, too, Randall M’Donnell. The cousin you speak of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 71 
 
 is Daniel M’Donnell, who holds Layd from M’Donnell Antrim, 
 the cousin to both of you, again, for five hundred years. Layd,” 
 he continued, addressing the strangers, “ is on the north side of 
 this glen, divided from us by the river. Well, when Black Noll 
 first came over, no hand was so hard against him as Daniel 
 M’Donnell ; he made a vow to look for him all over the field, 
 whenever there was a battle, and take his life, or do his best to 
 take it. And, sure enough, they met often in the fight; 
 Cromwell, in time, knowing him well ; until, at last, Daniel gave 
 him a sharp cut in the top of the head, but no more. Soon 
 after they met again, in the same way, and had another trial for 
 it, but this time Black Noll was the man ; for he struck the 
 sword out of Daniel M’Donnell’s hand, brought him to his knee, 
 and uncovering his own head with one arm, and with the other 
 holding him tight, asked, ‘ What ought to be done to the man 
 who gave that blow V 1 The devil confound him,’ answered 
 Daniel, 1 for not sending it down through skull and jaw to the 
 chink !’ Upon which, they say, his land was left him.” 
 
 “ Since we lost ours,” resumed Edmund, “ we have lived in 
 this glen, among a people the most congenial to us of any 
 in the north, endeavoring to support life by such agricultural 
 pursuits as the times, and the aspect of the country, render 
 available—that is, my father and uncle have resided here more 
 than thirty years. But when my sister and I were children, we 
 went to Spain, to a relative of some importance in that country, 
 for the purpose of receiving an education, such as our reduced 
 circumstances, and, alas! our religion, did not permit at home. 
 We have also been in England.” 
 
 “ It was mostly as a husbandman,” said old M’Donnell, “ that 
 I strove to make a poor living for my poor children ; and we 
 prospered well enough, as long as we were allowed to send our 
 cattle to England. But since the churlish law passed by the 
 English parliament against us, in that trade, even our little cabin 
 often felt distress, and the most we could do has not always kept 
 the wolf from the door.” 
 
 “ It was indeed a churlish law,” said Evelyn, calculated to 
 keep this country poor, while it could not enrich the other, at 
 least to any extent; and also serving, as I believe my lord oi 
 Ormonde represented to his master, to cut the bond of mutual h* 
 terests, if not kindnesses, between both.” 
 
 “ It was, sir,” said Edmund, “ a tacit declaration that they 
 would hold us only at the point of the sword ; that, if they kept 
 
72 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 us at all, they would keep us down. It came, too, immediately 
 after the final decision that dispossessed us of our hereditary es¬ 
 tates ; thus seeming to intimate that we should not live indepen¬ 
 dent, either by our fortunes, as gentles, or afterwards even by 
 the humbler effort of buying and selling ; that having, without 
 one just or generous plea—without even the right of conquest— 
 made us poor, they would, by any means, hold us so. We were 
 even cruelly and tyrannically insulted by hearing that parliament 
 called our trade * a nuisance and this language was addressed 
 to men—to men of gentle blood—who, without one disrespectful 
 murmur, had just submitted to the decree that, on account of 
 their loyalty to Charles I., made them paupers, and who, manful¬ 
 ly resisting the struggles of old pride and old recollections, had 
 iust condescended to embrace the industry of which the law, con¬ 
 taining that insult, forbid them the practice. But well did such 
 acts and words become the spirit of almost the same men who 
 murdered their sovereign, and who, when Ireland sent over her 
 best soldiers to fight for that sovereign, on his own ground, passed 
 another law forbidding any quarter to be shown to Irish royalists, 
 —a bloody mandate, well obeyed by the Roundhead, until the 
 gallant Prince Rupert made some terrible retaliations.” 
 
 “ Least of all people in Ireland,” said Eva, who, with glisten¬ 
 ing eyes fastened on her young brother, had heard his unusual 
 warmth of statement; nor was the gentle Esther indifferent to 
 it or to him—“least of all people in Ireland did the northern 
 McDonnells merit ingratitude from the restored son of Charles I. 
 —is it not so, father ?” 
 
 “ Many of them,” answered old M’Donnell, “were in the army 
 that the English parliament doomed to be slaughtered in cold 
 blood. And Montrose could not raise his head in Scotland, till 
 he received an Irish levy, mostly from this part of the north— 
 who, when all other friends fell off, stuck to him through every 
 change of fortune.” 
 
 “ My father,” said Edmund, “ was the king’s soldier on both 
 the occasions he speaks of. He fought under Montrose, in that 
 /ery army, sent to him by our cousin, the old earl of Antrim, 
 which, with a re-enforcement only equal to its own number, defeated 
 the Lord Elcho, at Perth ; and which, by the falling off of Scottish 
 allies, afterwards left almost alone, put to rout the great chief¬ 
 tain of the Campbells, at Innerlochy, although he had nearly three 
 times as many as they were, and although Sea forth, at the head 
 of six thousand men, was within hearing of the battle that day.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 73 
 
 “ I put a sudden question,” resumed Evelyn, “ but my interest 
 in all the information you have given me, will, I hope, excuse it. 
 Have the people of this immediate district ever changed their 
 religion since the possession acquired by the chieftain Surlebuoy?” 
 
 “ No,” Eva answered, emphatically; “ while the banishment 
 or extermination of the natives took place, at different periods, 
 all around them, the inhabitants of Glenarrifif remained, and still 
 held, at least, their religion, their manners, and their native sim¬ 
 plicity of character. While colonies of strangers overran, almost 
 entirely, every other part of Ulster, or became so mixed up with 
 the remnant of the old people as, in a few years, to confound all 
 distinction between both, this glen continued shut out from them, 
 and has since continued shut out, keeping its own customs, its own 
 language, and its own race.” 
 
 “ That is singular. I was, indeed, struck with the difference, 
 even in the dress of the people, from that worn throughout other 
 parts of Ulster I have seen. It closely resembles the costume of 
 the peasantry of Louth, and of counties more southern, except 
 that there is some intermixture of Highland dress, which your 
 former anecdotes explain. But nothing I have yet heard explains 
 the chief wonder, that during repeated colonizations and trans¬ 
 fers of property and inhabitants, in this northern province, I 
 should here meet a considerable number of people who have never 
 been affected by such changes.” 
 
 “ I admit it is singular,” said Edmund, “ and, perhaps, am at a 
 loss, as well as yourself, to explain it. The fact of the lands them¬ 
 selves having never changed their head proprietor, would, however, 
 much assist in resolving the question. As my lord of Antrim 
 had the luck to be recognized by Charles II. for his good ser¬ 
 vices in Scotland, he might also have had the power of saving 
 from expatriation, or worse, his own people, and the inhabitants 
 of Glenarrifif among the number. And, thus permitted to cling 
 together, perhaps the isolated situation of the place, its remote¬ 
 ness from large towns, and, withal, its mountain aspect, held out 
 uo inducement to the new settlers, whether Scotch or English, to 
 intermix, in the prosecution of manufacture or agriculture, with 
 the old natives.” 
 
 “ What kind of Irishman are you at all, from your own story ?” 
 asked Carolan ; “ Irish-Scotch or Scotch-Irish, or what ?” 
 
 “ Irish,” answered Eva, “ to the last drop in our hearts.” 
 
 “ I was sure of the women, Eva, as long as you are among 
 them,” he resumed ; “it was of the men I put the question.” 
 
 4 
 
74 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 ** Irish, then,” cried Edmund, “ and, as poor Eva says, to the 
 last drop of blood within us. If, indeed, our first derivation was 
 from Scotland, the memory of it has passed away. This”—stamp¬ 
 ing his foot on the ground—“ this is our native land. Irish we 
 are, in feeling, and I will say, in generosity ;—Irish enough to 
 forgive and forget all the wanton cruelties that have been prac¬ 
 tised upon us ;—to forget the rank we have lost, and be content 
 with that which we toil and sweat to earn, if, indeed, that poor 
 privilege of humanity be left to us. I would not draw a sword 
 this moment, for the recovery of my old right, when blood and 
 convulsion must be the consequence. Sensible of my father’s loss 
 I must be, and prompt to speak of it warmly. But I find my¬ 
 self born under a new order of things ; the voice of law, and of a 
 king, have sounded in my infantine ears, to command obedience 
 to that new order ; and I say to myself—as my ancestors gained 
 their lands, so I forfeit them. It is the chance of the world, and 
 £ am content.” 
 
 “ The words of a good man, a wise man, and a Christian,” 
 said Carolan, who, by the way, was remarkable for the equanimi¬ 
 ty and piety of his character ; “ and I do not mean to praise 
 myself when I so agree with you, Edmund ; as you know that 1 
 was born at Nobber, on the lands of Carolanstown—the very 
 lands taken from my people in a time further back than you 
 speak of, and given to the family of the Nugents. But what 
 have I to do with that ?—I never enjoyed those lands, and so 
 never miss them ; and God has given me a gift I can enjoy, and 
 —let the poor harper speak—am more proud of. For, does it 
 not get me the praises of lords, and—look at me, Eva M’Don- 
 nell—the smiles of ladies ? Does it not make my welcome from 
 the castle of the chief to the cabin of the peasant ? And sit ye 
 not here around me, this night, who will swear, and, if need be, 
 fight to prove, that already it has hung a wreath on my harp, 
 which shall hang green there in the days to come, and call me to 
 mind among the unborn children of my native land ? Oh !” the 
 minstrel continued, excited by the theme he had thought but to 
 sport with—“ Oh! let that be the fate of Carolan—let him have 
 fame in green Ireland—let him leave behind some strains that 
 will gladden or touch the hearts of her future sons and her fair 
 daughters, and little will he think of any loss besides.” 
 
 All, except Mrs. Evelyn and her husband, who had both fallen 
 asleep, rose, delightfully affected with the simple pathos of the 
 harper’s feelings, and once more pledged his health 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 75 
 
 “ I am poor, and I am blind,” he continued, and, worst of all, 
 1 have lost a friend. But, come!—I will try to be merry. Ed¬ 
 mund, put the cup in my hand.” 
 
 “ Thou need’st not try, thou art merry,” said Jeremiah, his 
 eyes running over with good feeling. 
 
 “ Well, I am, then. What is it to be poor in worldly wealth ? 
 —give me the riches it cannot buy. What is it to be blind ?— 
 my eyes have only passed into my ears, to give them a double 
 sense of soft sound. And why should I even grieve for my old 
 master ? he is happier than he was here. So, come!—some toast, 
 now, to outdo the last—fill !” He stood up, his face, and par¬ 
 ticularly his lips, eloquent with expression, that made the want of 
 eyes forgotten—“ I give the father of Irish song—the son of 
 Eion—the son of Comhal—Oisin, Oisin !” 
 
 It was quaffed in a roar, to which Evelyn himself contributed. 
 Carolan buoyantly spoke on : 
 
 “ Manus Oge ! come here, old Manus Oge.” The chronicler 
 of the glen rose and advanced : his very tall figure was somewhat 
 stooped from illness, his long limbs moved gracelessly, his long 
 arms swung or fidgeted about, and his shoulders often shrugged 
 up and down, perhaps from an inward impatience of indisposition. 
 “ Sit down here, near me, and sing us the Laoidh of Oisin 
 that we all like best.” The bard went on : “ Edmund, get your 
 large harp and accompany him ; you know the old chant ; I 
 will help you, now and then, with this little Clarseech ; though no 
 man can play even my own airs worse than myself. I have often 
 told you I only use the harp to assist me in composition ; running 
 over it with my fingers, in search of the melody that is in my 
 brain and heart. Come, your harp, and sit down by Manus Oge.” 
 
 “ Is it the Laoidh of Con-More-mac-an Deirgh, you want, 
 Carolan?” asked Manus; “or the Laoidh of Cagavra, where 
 Oscar was killed by Cairbre, the king ? or of Conloach-Mac- 
 Cuchullin ?” and so he continued to run over the names of poems, 
 others of which, as well as those mentioned, were on subjects which 
 another chronicler has since given, in an adapted shape, to the 
 world. 
 
 “ It is Conloach-Mac-Cuchullin I want, Manus Oge,” replied 
 Carolan ; and the selection being thus made, and Edmund’s harp 
 ready, Manus began the recitation of a poem, which, in a different 
 style of language and arrangement, may be found among the col¬ 
 lection of Ossian’s poems, before alluded to ; but which, it is our 
 impression, has not been improved in the hands of the Scotch 
 
76 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 editor, or in the hands of those from whom he received it; 
 though, even at this day, it may be obtained in Irish, very near¬ 
 ly word for word as it shall now be translated, from the lips of 
 the descendant of Manus Oge, and on the very spot which is the 
 present scene of our story. 
 
 “ CONLOACH-MAC-CUCHULLIK 
 
 “ From Scotland came a haughty young hero, the valiant 
 champion, Conloach, unto the grand court of pleasure, Trach- 
 tisha, in Ireland. 
 
 “ Connor, Ulster’s king, quickly sent a messenger to inquire 
 the cause of his visit, whence he journeyed, and what was his name. 
 
 “ ‘ I am a messenger sent by Ulster’s king, to thee, young 
 warrior, to inquire the cause of thy visit, whence thou comest, 
 and what is thy name.’ 
 
 “ ‘The cause of my visit does not concern your king ; my name 
 is of little import ; yet there lives no king or champion to whom 
 1 will disclose it.’ 
 
 “ The king, when he heard these bold words, to his valiant 
 heroes spoke again— 
 
 “ ‘ Who will force this youth to answer ? who will make him 
 tell his name V 
 
 “Out spoke Connell, the ever-dauntless hero— 
 
 “ ‘ I will bring back a true answer ; I will tell you why he has 
 come to Trachtisha.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Welcome, gay glittering warrior, brave youth, the comeliest 
 of men ; but I see, by thy coming towards us, thou art out of 
 thy intended way.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I come from the East ; from the brightest bower of the 
 earth, resolving to try my arm amongst the chieftains of Erin.’ 
 
 “ 1 Shun that dangerous course, in which great heroes have 
 fallen, or else your tomb will soon be raised where theirs have 
 arisen.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Is it thus you have done in former days ? did no hero 
 escape your sword ?—yet will I subdue ye, for all others, from 
 this day to the day of doom.’ 
 
 “ Connell of the mighty hand arose upon hearing the young 
 mans speech ; but before his mighty hand was lifted, Conloach, 
 the fierce and nimble at Trachtisha (though it should not be 
 told), bound Connell and part of his men. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 77 
 
 “ Then the king spoke again—‘ A messenger from us to 
 Cuchullin P 
 
 “ * I am a messenger sent from Ulster’s king, to thee, great 
 Cuchulliu, the victorious, to tell thee that Connell and part of 
 his men are bound by the stranger at Trachtisha.’ 
 
 “ Cuchullin instantly moved : he came from Dhoon-Gallagan, 
 of the pleasant bowers, to Trachtisha, of the great warriors. 
 
 “ ‘Welcome to thee, noble hero ; but too late hast thou come 
 to our aid ; for Connell and many of his men are bound, unless 
 you give them freedom.’ 
 
 “ ‘ ’Tis hard for me to see in bondage the friend who would free 
 me in distress ; but ’tis harder to combat with the sword the 
 heroic man who has conquered Connell.’ 
 
 “ * Refuse not with him to combat; let thy spear and sword be 
 reddened for Connell’s bondage.’ 
 
 “—Conloach spoke as he came—‘Peace between us, noble 
 hero ; look not on me as an enemy ; let our tongues speak in 
 prudence, and thou need’st not fear our combating.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I never feared ; and surely must I fight with thee, unlebS 
 thou showest thyself a friend ; tell thy name, young man, or 
 combat with me.’ 
 
 “ ‘ The voice of a parent has bound me not to tell my name to 
 any ; if I could tell it to one under the sun, thou shouldst be 
 the man.’ 
 
 “ Then the two heroes engaged. Equally strong and brave 
 was the desperate conflict ; for of equal courage and great mind 
 were the two most mighty champions. 
 
 “ When Cuchullin saw that he could not soon quell the 
 stranger, he a sudden spring made to the stream, and returning 
 swift as an arrow, then cast the fatal spear—with all his might and 
 strength he cast it—and pierced was the youth’s body through. 
 
 “ ‘ Brave young hero of the East, behold thy mortal wound ; 
 thy tomb will now soon be raised, thy name concealed no longer.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I am Conloach ; never—though ’tis my own boast—never 
 before overcome in fight, and who would never yield to any hero, 
 though I yielded to thee—father !’ 
 
 “ Conloach 1—the son of Cuchullin ?—the rightful heir of 
 Dhoon-Gallagan ?—the sacred pledge of fame I left in the womb, 
 when from Skiach I parted ?” 
 
 “ ‘ Conloach I am, the son of Cuchullin ; the rightful heir of 
 Dhoon-Gallagan ; the pledge thou didst leave in the womb, when 
 from Skiach you fatally parted.’ 
 
IS 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 11 Oh, my dark fate !—Oh, my mild Conloach !—heir of a 
 crown—brave—peerless !—oh, that I had met a dreadful death 
 before I pierced thy beauteous body !” 
 
 “ ‘ Oh, Cuchullin, my gentle father !—now is thy knowledge 
 of me too late ; but I knew thee, and therefore weakly raised my 
 sword, and let it fall harmlessly ! Oh, Cuchullin, my great and 
 wise father! who ever overcame difficulties ! JSTow that thou 
 mayst know thou shalt be without a son, behold the ring on my 
 finger ! oh, Cuchullin, the most active and mighty, since I am 
 weak and dying, take off the ring and chain, and bear them with 
 thee ; my sharp spear, and my keen sword, and my red shield, 
 that lies low aud lonely I Cuchullin !—father !—how hard a 
 lot is mine !—accursed be my mother ! she it was who laid me 
 under a vow, and sent me to thee, Cuchullin, to try my persua¬ 
 sion on thee!’ 
 
 “ ‘ A second curse attend thy mother! ever was she evil 
 and deceitful; it is the greatness of her many faults that has 
 covered my son with blood. Oh, that she was now here to be¬ 
 hold the fatal end of her counsels ! Still lean on me, ConRadi.’ 
 
 “ * Let me now fall forward, since thou hast said thou art truly 
 my father !—although no other man lives in Innisfail for whom 
 I could yield or fly! My blessing with thee, loving father ; it 
 is all thou canst now have of Conloach. I am devoured by a 
 raging agony : I came to meet and to love thee, father !’ 
 
 “‘Oh, that thou wert still safe without a wound, in any 
 wide country of the earth, still absent from me, so that thou 
 cam’st not to kill thy father’s soul ! But it is good for the 
 Dane—or for Spain, of the armed king—or for the chieftains of 
 fair Scotland—that my mild Conloach by them did not fall! 
 And it is good for Connor of the Red Branch, the chief of the 
 host of champions—it is good for him aud for them, that it was 
 not by his means my only son did perish ! Hadst thou fallen by 
 any other hero, from any other quarter of the world, I would, to 
 satisfy thy death, sacrifice countless thousands ! or if I and my 
 beautiful Conloach were in one cause, no two heroes of the earth, 
 without treachery, could do us harm! If I and my beloved Con¬ 
 loach were together on a hill-side, united Erin, from shore to 
 shore, between us we would make tremble!’ 
 
 “ ‘ Five Heroes have been born to me ; the last, under my eyes, 
 lies cold and mangled ! The other four fell in many fields : but 
 I am the miserable father that has slain his only child, with the 
 spear that overcame the mighty ! From the hour that this black 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 7 !) 
 
 deed is done, as black be my heart forever ! Oh ! the dark 
 grief chokes my voice and smothers my bosom. The head of my 
 only son hangs lifeless on one arm, and his bright shield and 
 weapons on the other V” 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Notwithstanding some anticipations of want of room in 
 M’Donnell’s humble abode, Evelyn, when the party separated for 
 the night, found himself well disposed of. Mrs. Evelyn and her 
 husband had first retired ; and as the lady remained quiet after 
 leaving the sitting apartment, it was to be taken for granted 
 that she condescended to put up with her accommodation. Jere¬ 
 miah, heedless of the weather, returned to Cushindoll, to keep 
 possession of the cottage ; and Eva led Esther into her own 
 chamber—a small one, indeed, but decorated in a style of neat¬ 
 ness and simple ornament that argued well of the taste of the 
 young and fair possessor. As it was the season of flowers, every 
 fragrant one that gave out its perfume to the dells and mountains 
 of Glenarriff had been culled to grace the lowly bower of the hill- 
 maiden, and lay in bunches around, and even hung wreathed in 
 garlands over her couch. The pale primrose, flower of mildest 
 scent, abounded, and looking still paler and more delicate by the 
 light of a lamp, seemed fitly to adorn the midnight solitude of a 
 girl so young, so pure, and so innocent. On the walls hung some 
 shelves, containing books, a picture of the crucifixion, and a Span¬ 
 ish guitar. 
 
 After a little pretty gossip, which the fair reader may be as¬ 
 sured was even then in fashion between two young ladies prepar¬ 
 ing for slumber, the maidens knelt to perform in silent prayer, 
 though not in the very same words, or according to the same 
 prescribed form, their sincere devotions to their common Creator, 
 and then lay down to take their innocent sleep, sweetly kissing 
 each other’s lips (sweet creatures!), Esther held in the arms and 
 pillowed on the bosom of her new friend. It is amazing how 
 suddenly young ladies hate or love one another ; they would seem, 
 indeed, by their promptness in coming to the point with their own 
 sex, to make up for their unintelligible dallying with ours ; but, 
 however that may be, never was seen a more sudden friendship 
 
80 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 than, ere they closed their damask eyelids, this night sprang up 
 in the bosoms of Esther and Eva. Perhaps, simple and sincere 
 as both were, they had their own little reasons for fully encour¬ 
 aging the separate impulse. But, as this supposition is treason 
 to the magnanimity of disinterested female friendship, we shall, 
 for the present, press it no further. 
 
 It should have been before noticed that, from the return or 
 Evelyn to M’Donnell’s house, until the hour of repose, the rain 
 that, during the early part of the evening, had been blowing off 
 and on at intervals, had come down with constancy, though not 
 with violence. At the gray break of morn, Evelyn’s ears were 
 filled with a tremendous noise of rushing waters, that, as he 
 sprung up in alarm to ascertain the cause, he recollected was not 
 to have been heard the previous night. Running to the little 
 window of his apartment, which was at the back of the house, 
 and looking up to the precipice that, at but a short distance, 
 overhung the glen, he saw a torrent shooting down its perpendic¬ 
 ular face, with a fall of more than a hundred feet. The mists of 
 the previous evening had ascended nearly to the summit of the 
 wall of rock ; but as they still hid the topmost outline, extending 
 themselves in monotonous gray over the sky, Evelyn, unacquainted 
 with the real boundaries of the great objects around him, could 
 not calculate how much more of the precipice remained hidden 
 from his view. And as the origin of the cataract was also con¬ 
 cealed by those wreaths of mist, imagination began to refer it to 
 an illimitable height, or else to suggest that it was poured forth 
 by the swollen clouds, from the bosom of which it took, indeed, 
 its first apparent source. In removing his eye to the bottom of 
 the precipice, a like mystery enveloped the certain depth of the 
 torrent’s fall; for it glanced and disappeared, behind a natural 
 parapet of rock, in a sheet so unbroken as to give no idea of any 
 rest or interruption, a considerable way downwards. The noise 
 was, to an ear unused to it, appalling ; but, after some observa¬ 
 tion, Evelyn became aware that the chief roar of waters was 
 caused by the furious stream that struggled along, over rock and 
 inequality, in the deep gulley beside which the house stood, and 
 which, the evening before, contained but a puny rill, that, almost 
 unheard and unperceived, wrought its way to the distant river. 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of Oliver Whittle, iu 
 much solemn agitation, for which it is convenient, under the 
 reader’s favor, to account at some length. 
 
 The house that gave shelter to the benighted personages of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER* 
 
 81 
 
 onr story did not appear to have been the work of a first simple 
 idea, but rather as if it were constructed at different times, as 
 whim, necessity, or reflection caused the proprietors to recon¬ 
 sider, after a part had been perfected, the plan in hand. The 
 middle of the building, that which inclosed the common apart¬ 
 ment, or room of all-work, seemed to have been the primary 
 structure : at the end of it, and facing the huge fireplace, a door 
 as nearly in the middle of the wall as could reasonably be ex¬ 
 pected, opened into a narrow passage, at either side of which 
 four others gave admission into four opposite chambers. Al¬ 
 though it could now afford lodging to all the immediate mem¬ 
 bers of the family, together with their guests of the night, this 
 wing appeared a second-thought. 
 
 At the right-hand side of the fireplace, a small door also led 
 into a second narrow passage, which again opened to the night 
 chambers of the menials—a large apartment, at the back of the 
 fireplace, receiving the males ; and one as large, divided from 
 this by a good substantial wall, inclosing the females. Into the 
 latter it is none of our business to enter ; but into the former, 
 preceded by a grayheaded retainer of the family, who had been 
 with old M’Donnell in the wars of Montrose, and who, after the 
 peace, had taken upon himself, without any special appointment, 
 but by a kind of acknowledged right, a general superintendence 
 of every thing about the reduced establishment of his old com¬ 
 mander—preceded, we say, by this aged follower, bearing a rude 
 lamp, and using much dumb show of courtesy, stalked Oliver 
 Whittle, whom we are at liberty to accompany anywhere. 
 
 He strode into the room with a face as long and as suspicious 
 as if he were about to put up his quarters among the spirits of 
 those he had helped to slay at the Gobbins Heughs. The large 
 chimney of the outer apartment protruded into this chambre-a 
 coucher ; and at one side of the bulk, where the heat penetrated 
 for his benefit, nestled on a bed of fresh heather, the donkey’s 
 driver, in what he denominated “ a cosey nook.” While around 
 the rough walls, as Oliver stood erect in the middle of the floor, 
 he could discern some dozen large heads of hair, shading as many 
 harsh visages, pushed from under coarse coverlids, which screened 
 the giant limbs of a like number of stalwart kernes of the sept 
 M’Donnell. 
 
 “ Whilk is to be my place of repose, brother ?” he asked, soh 
 emnly, after a pause. 
 
 “ Phat will hur sav ?” asked his seneschal in return. 
 
 4 * 
 
82 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “Wliar maun I stretch my limbs? Whar am I to taste 
 sleep ?” 
 
 “ Kaw ahee aun suh” (here it is), thrusting his lamp under 
 the wagon-like structure intended for a bedstead, the sole re¬ 
 semblance of that article in the place. Oliver only understood 
 the accompanying action. While looking at his couch, his glance 
 became riveted, and he resumed, in mixed gruffness and nausea, 
 “ Tak’ away from my eyes yon symbol of idolatry,” pointing to 
 a roughly sculptured crucifix that dangled over the head of the 
 bed. 
 
 The major-domo stared ; and “ hear til him, noo,” said the 
 donkey’s driver, in a corner. One of the listening kernes inquired 
 in Irish what Oliver had said, and on a translation given by the 
 young promoter of mischief, three or four jumped, primitively 
 naked, from their heather couches, muttering no very peaceable 
 intent. Oliver’s brow assumed a deeper curl, but it was a valiant 
 one ; his hand flew to his sword ; he confronted the row of hid¬ 
 eous apparitions before him ; and blood might have flowed, had 
 not the old man compelled them, by a few words in Irish, once 
 more to ensconce themselves beneath their coverlids. Then he 
 placed the lamp on a large box near at hand, and after hemming, 
 and stopping more than once in his effort to speak English, 
 “ God lend hur the good night’s shleep,” he said, and retired. 
 
 Oliver bent his knees against the bedstead, and giving his 
 shoulders a preparatory shrug, and swallowing his saliva before he 
 began, performed, in a loud dolorous pitch of voice, a long- 
 winded extemporaneous prayer. Then throwing a suspicious 
 glance around, and ascertaining that all slept, or appeared to 
 sleep, he drew off his great trooper’s boots, and, his eye again 
 scowling around, stole his great sword under his head, and crept, 
 like an old wasted spider, into the recesses of his nightly habita¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fatigues of the day, his fears and disgust 
 kept him waking ; and, some time after he lay down, he per¬ 
 ceived the old servant steal in, shut the door softly, and walk 
 watchfully across the room. Half closing his eyes, Oliver close¬ 
 ly followed the motions of this person. The old man approached 
 the bedside, and reached his arms over him ; then Oliver grasped 
 firmly the basket-hilt of his sword ; but the aged servant only 
 took down the rude crucifix, placed it on the box, knelt before 
 It, and with a prefatory flourish of his arm, that Oliver construed 
 into determined insult, went through the ceremony of, as it is 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 83 
 
 technically denominated, “blessing himself/’ while the accom¬ 
 panying words were uttered in Irish : 
 
 “ In-om-in-a-naigh, augus avich, augus a-spridth rtaiv ,— 
 amin an invocation, separately, of the persons of the Trinity ; 
 and then he continued to pray fervently, in the same language 
 often thumping his breast. 
 
 “Idolatry—papistry—abomination,” groaned Oliver; the 
 words, however, indistinct. The object of his aversion turned 
 his eyes towards the bed ; another loud “ in-om-in-a-naigh ” fin¬ 
 ished his orisons, exciting another “ abomination,” and another 
 groan from the bowels of Oliver. Finally, the old man arose 
 from his knees, took an earthen jar off a shelf, spilt some 
 water from it into the hollow of his hand, sprinkled his own fore¬ 
 head, then the couches of the kernes, then all round the room, 
 and then giving the jar a secoud good stoop into his palm, he ap¬ 
 proached Oliver, his evil intent manifested by the zeal of his 
 glances. 
 
 “ Ay, jest sprinkle him weel wi’ the holy water, to kill the 
 muckle de’il that’s in him,” remarked the imp of the donkey from 
 his “ cosey neuk.” 
 
 “Holy water!—the waters of filth!—I’ll have nane o’t!” 
 roared Oliver, springing up in a sitting posture. But the vrords 
 came too late. The man conceiving he had moaned in his sleep, 
 in consequence of some bad dream, charitably came to drive 
 away the fiend with an ablution that he deemed a specific for 
 the purpose ; and ere Oliver could prevent it, the deed was done. 
 A good splash visited his face ; he sputtered, shut his eyes, 
 made various grimaces, and hastily wiping away the water— 
 
 “ Defilement I” he exclaimed ; “ the waters of the sink of 
 Sathan ! I say, begone awa’ wi’ your abominations, or the hilt 
 o’ this sword”—here he was stopped by the reappearance at 
 his bedside of two gigantic kernes, each with a rude dagger, or 
 skeine, in his hand ; and again there might have been blood’ 
 shed, but that the old servant, as on the former occasion, im¬ 
 pressed on his allies that, according to the command of their chief, 
 no insult must be offered to the stranger. So they a second 
 time retired, muttering, to their repose ; while he, in unintelli¬ 
 gible English, proceeded to offer an apology to Oliver, and 
 moved him to lie down. After some time, his entreaties were 
 successful ; and at last he extinguished the lamp, and, to Oliver’s 
 continued annoyance, took a place by the side of his guest. 
 
 The old man’s snore soon gave testimony of deep sleep ; the 
 
84 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 other sharers of the apartment were not long in supplying evi¬ 
 dence of the same fact ; the donkey’s lord contributed his minor 
 note to the grand bass concert around ; and through the solid 
 thickness of the far wall the gentle maids and matrons of the 
 neighboring apartment sent in an echoing chorus. But the un¬ 
 lucky Oliver closed not his eyes. He was haunted by the night¬ 
 mare of Popery ; he imagined he still felt the holy water trick¬ 
 ling over his defiled brows ; he panted for the cleansing facilities 
 of some ample, clear, running stream ; and the summer morning 
 found him still waking. 
 
 As, with the light of day, children lose the terrors of super¬ 
 natural appearances, so the morning beams gave him a little con¬ 
 fidence ; and he just hoped to settle himself to repose, when his 
 mates of the night jumped up, hastily donned their rude gar¬ 
 ments, and, along with the boy and his own bedfellow, withdrew 
 from the chamber. During this disturbance, it was impossible to 
 sleep. When he was left in solitude, sweet visions again began 
 to float round his pillow, but the sharp tinkle of a little bell 
 once more roused him ; he started at the sound ; it was incon¬ 
 testably Popish ; his ears opened to listen ; and, just then, the 
 imp of the donkey re-entered. 
 
 “ Come to the Mass, Oliver Whittle,” he said, “ the Mass is 
 going to be said, mon ; and it will make a gude body o’ you— 
 that and the holy wather.” 
 
 “ Awa’ wi’ you, limb of darkness !” cried the tortured trooper, 
 bounding out of bed ; and his grinning tormenter skipped off. 
 
 It was Sunday morning. The celebration of Mass was, b) 
 law, a serious offence, subjecting the officiating clergyman to 
 heavy punishment. Of late, however, the matter, if done pri¬ 
 vately, had been tolerated ; and the priest, either not having a 
 regular place of worship, or else afraid to use it, generally at¬ 
 tended at the house of some one of his more considerable parish¬ 
 ioners, to honor the Sabbath according to the rights of the Ro¬ 
 man Catholic Church. 
 
 In the large apartment of the house, old priest M’Donnell had 
 furnished up a rude kind of altar. A high chest was covered 
 with white drapery ; on it were laid candles, the chalice, and the 
 book, with the other essentials used in the performance of the 
 Mass. The aged priest stood before it in colored silk vestment, 
 having a large cross described on the back ; two little boys, ia 
 white surplices, kneeling at each side, attended him for the pur¬ 
 pose ol making the prescribed responses, of occasionally a& 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 85 
 
 justing the book, or of giving the elementary wine, or the water 
 of ablution. Around knelt old M’Donnell, his brother, sou, 
 daughter, servants, and followers ; while a considerable group, 
 collected from ervery cabin in the glen, reached past the door, 
 which faced the temporary altar. 
 
 The deliberate clang of Oliver’s boots announced his approach 
 to the little congregation ; and presently he strode in among 
 them, scowling around, his face more haggard even than usual, 
 and his eyes bleared for want of sleep. Assuming a kind or 
 superiority which impudence accords to such as he, and indulging 
 in the terms of insult and threat, which improved good sense 
 has since rejected, but which, by the way, were perpetuated in 
 that day by a sense of impunity—the members of the degraded 
 creed not daring to utter a word. 
 
 “I set up my face,” he cried, u against this open idolatry ; this 
 unloosed wantonness of the scarlet strumpet. Retire ye to your 
 homes ; gi’ ower ; avoid ye ; or verily I say unto ye, my voice 
 shall be raised in testimony against ye before the counsellors of 
 the land.” 
 
 All eyes were instantly fixed on Oliver ; some half under¬ 
 stood him ; some not at all; but his manner was intelligible to 
 every one. Edmund M’Donnell arose, and approached him. 
 
 “ You must needs retire, good-fellow,” he said, “nor disturb 
 nor insult the devotions of the household.” 
 
 “ It is to retire that I cam hither,” returned Oliver. “ Whai 
 is the chamber of the youth, Robert Evelyn ?” 
 
 Edmund took him by the arm, and led him to the passage. 
 
 Evelyn’s observations, from his window, of the novel and in¬ 
 teresting objects we left him contemplating, were, even previous to 
 the entrance of Oliver, interrupted by the voice of his aunt-in¬ 
 law, sounding through the partition that divided him from her room. 
 
 “ Paul, Paul,” she cried, in a tone of stately authority ; 
 “ awake thee, man ; thou’rt but a drowsy knave, and sleepest the 
 morning away.” 
 
 “ 1 am awake, Janet, dear wife,” snuffled Paul. 
 
 “ Open those eyes of thine, then.” 
 
 “ They are open, Janet.” 
 
 Evelyn guessed she had already arisen.—“ Hear’st thoi 
 naught to stir alarm in thee ?” 
 
 “ What should alarm me, dear wife, and thou so—” 
 
 “ Ask you what, man ? Hear you not waters rushing and 
 roaring, as though they would sweep the dwelling hence ?” 
 
86 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ In sooth, I believe there be such noises, Janet,” putting on 
 a childish face of mock terror. 
 
 “ Rise man ; rise, and let us speed away, then, from the dan¬ 
 gers of this wild place.” 
 
 Oliver here entered Evelyn’s apartment. 
 
 “ It is not good to abide here,” he said ; “ the wrath of ihe 
 Lord may, peradventure, overtake us for the same.” 
 
 “ What mean you t now, Oliver ?” 
 
 “ I mean,” he replied, raising his voice, “ that the idol of the 
 Mass—the calf—the dragon, is set up beneath the very roof wi’ 
 us.” 
 
 “ Mind me, sir,” observed Evelyn, angrily, “ neither you, nor I, 
 nor any man, holds a right to scoff at the devotions of others : 
 therefore, address me not in such language, and beware how you 
 offend those whose roof gives us a hospitable shelter. Begone, 
 sir.” 
 
 “If it likes you to sojourn here,” Oliver answered, “ you can- 
 na’ mak me abide by your shouther ; wherefore, I will awa’ frae 
 the accurst hoose ;” and he stalked out of the room. 
 
 “An’ hear you that, too, husband?” resumed the voice of 
 Mrs. Evelyn, who had overheard this discourse, as she ran to 
 meet Oliver at the door of her chamber. 
 
 “ Dinna come forth,” he said, addressing her, “ rest you in 
 your ain place of secrecy, that your eyes may not be defiled by 
 saul-killing abominations.” 
 
 He strode on, but Mrs. Evelyn strode by him, and entered the 
 outer apartment, Oliver closely following. The old priest had 
 just commenced, as they made their appearance. Mrs. Evelyn 
 stared about her with a look which she intended should convey 
 dignified importance, but which might be construed into vulgar 
 arrogance. She beckoned slowly to Edmund, who was again 
 on his knees ; he arose and approached her, modestly wishing 
 her a good-morrow, in a low voice, out of respect to the occu¬ 
 pation in which all the others were engaged. 
 
 “ Youth,” said she, coolly, and without deigning to answer 
 his courtesy, “ is not this the superstition of the Mass I see 
 before me ?” 
 
 “ The sacrifice of the Mass is about to be celebrated, madam,” 
 he replied, coloring with indignation, yet his boyish respect for the 
 catechist’s sex curbing the expression of it. 
 
 “And is not yonder the Jesuit priest to minister in the idola 
 try ?” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 87 
 
 4 ‘ Yea,” said Oliver, “ robed in the robes of—” 
 
 “ And is treason and superstition to be done under our very 
 eyes ?” interrupted Mrs. Evelyn. “ Could you not have tarried, 
 youth, with your damnable practices, till we had retired from 
 hence ? Paul! Paul,” striding back, and thrusting her neck 
 into his chamber, “ speed you, man, speed ; and now, at the 
 least, let us take the road.” 
 
 Evelyn came, at this instant, upon the scene of foolish insult. 
 The old clergyman had turned round when the first words met 
 his ear ; and the hectic of unwilled resentment flushed his pale 
 cheek, and his frame shook with more than age’s palsy. Eva 
 started to her feet, and stood with her brow bent, her head 
 erect, her cheeks and lips blanched, and her bosom panting, 
 while she grasped her father’s arm, who, also standing, and one 
 hand catching his long, white beard, frowned on the intruders. 
 Con M’Donnell approached Oliver, as usual, with ominous looks, 
 till he was beckoned back by Edmund ; while a group of harsh- 
 featured mountaineers more obstinately surrounded the old 
 trooper, seeming to await but a signal to punish him for his 
 temerity. 
 
 “ What is the meaning of this, madam ?” asked Evelyn of his 
 aunt, at this juncture. 
 
 “ The rather do I ask where be your eyes, nephew,” she an* 
 swered, “ that they see not here the Popish—” 
 
 “ Madam, madam !” he began, abashed and confounded. 
 
 “ The jesuitical treason of the Mass,” his aunt-in-law con¬ 
 tinued. 
 
 “ Madam, this must not be ; allow me to lead you to your 
 chamber.” 
 
 “ No, nephew ; I will depart forthwith from the roof that 
 covers them. Paul! Paul ! I say ; lazy churl, why tarryest 
 thou ?” 
 
 “ I am here, dear wife,” he answered, just then tottering in. 
 
 “ Hie thee, hie thee, man,” Mrs. Evelyn went on, striding 
 through the crowd, that, aware o'* the danger heretofore in¬ 
 curred by attending a prohibited mode of worship, quailed under 
 the frown of the amazonian lady. It was an evidence of the 
 terror arising from acting by stealth, which, with other causes, 
 has broken the spirit and debased the demeanor of the peasantry 
 of their country. 
 
 “ Oliver !” Mrs. Evelyn resumed, outside the door with her 
 husband. 
 
88 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Abomination 1” cried Oliver, striding through the crowd, 
 after her ; “stench !—the scarlet woman!” 
 
 “ Niece ! nephew !” continued the lady. 
 
 “ Your husband’s niece and nephew will stay where they are,” 
 answered Evelyn, “ and endeavor to make some apology for the 
 rudeness—your pardon, madam, for the most fitting word— 
 which you have shown to the hospitality of this roof.” 
 
 “Young sir,” demanded his aunt-in-law, “darest thou insult 
 a lady, and thy relative ? darest thou afford countenance to Jes¬ 
 uits and plotters ? Mayhap, it is thy intention to conform : but 
 have a care, young sir,” her wrath somewhat aroused by a re¬ 
 sistance she did not expect, and was not in the habit of expe¬ 
 riencing ; “fly not in the face of your lawful guardians, I say; 
 hither with thee, presently, or my lord the chancellor—the par¬ 
 liament—the king—no, not the king—but all else you should 
 fear, shall hear of it.” 
 
 “ Madam, I rest where I am ; you are not my guardian.” 
 
 “ Command him forth, Paul.” 
 
 “I do command him, Janet,” but with a voice and a face little 
 expressive of authority ; in fact, he looked about to cry. 
 
 “ Take thy sister’s hand, now, youngster, and come forth, or 
 abide the consequence.” 
 
 “ I will not stir, madam ; neither shall my sister ; and I will 
 abide the consequence.” 
 
 “Naught is this, stripling, but Papistry, and treason, and con¬ 
 forming ; and all because of yonder Jesuit maiden, on whom I 
 saw thee look so loosely last night.” 
 
 “ Come, madam,” he replied, at last provoked beyond bounds, 
 “we here interrupt most indecently the devotions of people 
 whose creed is only between their God and themselves ; you are 
 welcome to depart in searcn of my house, as soon as you list, 
 and I wish you a pleasant ride so early in the morning ; come 
 in, poor people.” 
 
 He waited till that part of the crowd who were without had 
 got under the roof of the dwelling, and then closed the door; 
 his aunt-in-law bursting at the moment into bitter tears, in 
 which Paul joined her. 
 
 “ Excuse this, M’Donnell,” Evelyn then resumed, as young 
 Edmund met him in the middle of the apartment ; “ come into 
 our sleeping chamber”—they gained it—“ excuse this,” extending 
 his hand ; “ it has happened in none of mine or my sister’s feel* 
 ing ; nor in ray uncle’s feeling either, if he dared assert himself. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 89 
 
 Forgive us, if you can ; and do not let woman’s freak come be¬ 
 tween you and me, and the high esteem I must ever feel for those 
 who have borne towards us all so kindly.” 
 
 “ It is entirely forgotten,” answered Edmund, his face bright¬ 
 ening up. “We are, alas! too well used to such unthinking 
 slights ; for I use no harsher name. I am only sorry the observ¬ 
 ance of our duty should have caused any disquiet to your aunt: 
 indeed, the Mass was begun very early, in order, if possible, to 
 be done with it ere she or any of you had left your chambers.” 
 
 “ And, believe me, she would have slept long enough, but for 
 her fright of the falling waters. Please now to return to the 
 outer apartment : I shall stay here till you can again conve¬ 
 niently join me. Hark ! there my aunt rides off, with my uncle 
 and attendant ; can my sister and I break our fast here ?” 
 
 A ready and pleased assent naturally came from Edmund. 
 
 “ And tax you for an afternoon repast ?”—his host looked 
 more and more gratified. “ Then let my aunt entertain herself 
 till the evening at least • some show of spirit it is necessary to 
 make to her folly. Thanks, M’Donnell, and farewell till you are 
 at leisure.” 
 
 The Mass was said ; Edmund returned to the sleeping cham¬ 
 ber, and, accompanied by Esther and Eva, the young men went 
 out to enjoy the morning air and prospect. Esther’s statue-like 
 beauty of face, and her usual sad eye, were now excited into 
 some glow and sparkle from the novelty of her situation. 
 
 All mist had by this time rolled away from the mountains and 
 precipices ; the sun was up ; the sky blue and fleecy ; the glen 
 visible in all its extent and grandeur ; the river, almost unseen 
 the evening before, swelled into a wide inundation ; the hoarse 
 voices of many other torrents than the near one Evelyn had 
 seen from his apartment, heard at different distances around ; 
 and altogether the character of great mountain scenery fully 
 developed. With their back turned to the house, the young 
 party looked down the glen, as it swept and opened to the bay ; 
 its far side running out into the expanse of the ocean, and end¬ 
 ing in Garron Point ; the barrier to the left turning before its 
 termination could be seen, but taken up at a distance by other 
 heights, on which stood the ruined fragment of Redbay Castle, 
 and also running into the blue sea ; while the remote distance 
 gave glimpses of the sister country of Scotland. 
 
 They returned to the house, and met, at breakfast, old 
 14 Priest M’Donnell,” of whose irritability of the foi mer night 
 
90 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Evelyn could perceive no symptom, in the bland and venerable 
 demeanor which now marked the character of, with all his age 
 and infirmities, a travelled and educated man. Breakfast—din¬ 
 ner was done ; and, ere the evening should overtake them on the 
 road, Evelyn and his sister mounted their horses, at last to join 
 Mrs. Evelyn’s family circle. Their parting from the M’Donnells 
 was warm on both sides ; some tears, even, were dropped be¬ 
 tween the maidens ; those of Esther coming most abundantly. 
 Eva was besought to name a day to make her a long visit at her 
 cottage ; Edmund was also prevailed upon by Evelyn to accom¬ 
 pany his sister on that future occasion ; and Carolan, repeatedly 
 solicited by the young strangers, consented to accompany both. 
 Finally, they left the Strip of Burne, convoyed through the glen 
 by even a greater body of people, with the M’Donnells at 
 their head, than had come out to welcome them on their arri¬ 
 val. As the road approached the coast, farewells were renewed, 
 and, with a single guide, they thence proceeded to their own 
 cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn received them with sullenness, intended for dig¬ 
 nity ; but Evelyn could perceive that this was only a disguise 
 to cover the real crestfallen consciousness of his good relative. 
 He had expected such a pleasing result ; for, young as he was, 
 he knew human nature sufficiently well—even that half of it 
 which is honored by being of the fair sex—to calculate on a vic¬ 
 tory over noise and words by a seasonable show of resolution. 
 In fact, he now had, what is called, the upper haud ; and he 
 wisely determined to keep it, in his own house ; trusting that, for 
 the time he was compelled to live with his uncle, and therefore 
 with his aunt-in-law, it might serve to obtain him some quiet. 
 Nor was he mistaken in his views. Still wrapping herself up in 
 much dignity, Mrs. Evelyn grew meek as a child. If she was 
 sublime, she was, at the same time, silent ; or, in their hours of 
 connubial retirement, satisfied herself with revenging every thing 
 on her husband. 
 
 The day appointed for the visit of the M’Donnells brought 
 them, even with the full assent of Evelyn and Esther’s guardian, 
 to the seashore cottage of their young friends ; and the harper 
 accompanied them. The weather was now beautifully fine ; the 
 walks by the coast delightful. Esther rapidly improved in spirits 
 and health. Carolan composed airs to words of Edmund’s wri¬ 
 ting, and both played, while Esther and Eva sung them ; peace 
 was with them, and about them, as well as over the whol 1* ad 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 91 
 
 -even the rare peace of sectarian toleration. They were all 
 y<tang ; all, in different shades of feeling enthusiastic ; all imagi¬ 
 native and simple-hearted ; and—they all loved. 
 
 “ ’Tis an old talc, and often told,”— 
 
 and a curious thing to account for, how young hearts get en¬ 
 tangled with each other, and beating and swelling for each other. 
 Apart even from the great solution of the riddle proposed 
 in speeches about sympathetic minds and souls, by which is 
 meant minds and souls very like each other, it has remained for 
 us, we think, to discover the true solution—-proximity. They 
 were together, and they loved ; that is our syllogism. If it be 
 combated in favor of the old doctrine, we rejoin, by first asking, 
 rather tritely indeed, how could they ever have loved, had they 
 never come together ? Next, if similarity of character was to 
 have done every thing, and proximity nothing, how could the 
 fiery-spirited Eva have loved the matter-of-fact Evelyn ? Aud 
 the weak, tender Esther have loved the bold, manly, although 
 modest Edmund ? And how could the poor harper have pined 
 —we were about to say, indiscreetly, for whom he pined ; but 
 as it was not so quickly ascertained, in the reality, neither should 
 it be all at once declared in the story. Moreover, since his 
 own tardy declaration of his feelings was the immediate cause 
 why others admitted the state of their own, the whole matter 
 seems to require a progressive and circumstantial development. 
 
 Evelyn and Edmund had gone for a day to hunt the deer in 
 the great chasse belonging to Antrim Castle ; and their sisters 
 thus left without any company but that of Carolan (they did 
 not admit that Jerry, Mrs. Evelyn, or her husband, were com¬ 
 pany), walked out, arm in arm, to enjoy the air and the shade 
 in one of their usual haunts. It was a little dell, formed by high 
 and sloping ground on every side, which entirely shut out, at 
 certain points, the sea, the mountains, every thing but the sky. 
 The hoarse roar of the ocean came subdued to the lonely place, 
 and its own insect buzz, and the hum of the wild bee among its 
 primroses and buttercups, were the predominant sounds that 
 filled the ear. The young harper, acknowledging a fit of musical 
 impulse, had parted from them to reach a favorite retreat, which 
 was sacred to his hours of melodious study ; so that they were 
 completely alone. 
 
 Hitherto the maidens had never trusted to one another a hint 
 
92 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 on the state of their hearts ; each plainly seeing the love of each, 
 yet sure that her own bosom was perfectly disguised. They 
 had been unusually silent during their little walk; and having 
 gained their resting-place, they sat down without a word. At 
 last Esther asked rather suddenly : 
 
 “Do you remember the strange woman we met on the 
 way to vour house, Eva, the first evening I saw you and you. 
 brother ?” 
 
 “Yes ; but I have since scarce thought of her.” 
 
 “I have, often. You remember her extraordinary manner 
 when she looked in my face ? What was her cause for that ?” 
 
 “ Something very absurd, doubtless, dear girl.” 
 
 “ But why did she speak of me to your brother, after her 
 strange scrutiny of my features ? You were near enough to 
 hear what she said, and you know her language—what said 
 she ?” 
 
 “ It is not worth the while to know, Esther ; and it would 
 be idle iu me to inform you.” 
 
 “ Any thing is worth the while to ask or tell on this idle day 
 —inform me, pretty Eva.’* 
 
 “ Never a word for that base flattery.” 
 
 “ Then, Eva only, or dear Eva, let me hear ; the matter has 
 lain on my mind, and made me uneasy.” 
 
 “And for that reason I must not tell you a foolish story. 
 Had you thought nothing on the matter—had you a mind in¬ 
 different to such childishness—I would freely impart what that 
 idle woman said; but, as it is, I will save you from imaginary 
 flights, that cannot increase your happiness, Esther.” 
 
 “ Now, indeed, you startle me. The occurrence I witnessed 
 had no such effect as your reasons for remaining silent, Eva ; 
 nor can your free confidence and speech, whatever you may dis¬ 
 close, do half the injury to my mind and spirits, that your allu¬ 
 sions have done already.” 
 
 “ I see, indeed, I used an injudicious method of discourse with 
 you, and am sorry for it, dear Esther ; and perhaps my speaking 
 t'reely will, as you say, now do less real harm than my silence : 
 but can you faithfully promise me to laugh, as I do, at the whole 
 you shall hear ? ’Tis silly, Esther, from beginning to end, with 
 nothing to depend on but the ravings, or perhaps wilful false¬ 
 hood, of that poor woman.” 
 
 “ Be assured I shall treat it as lightly as, on such showing, 
 it deserves, or as you do ; but go on.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 93 
 
 " You know that on the eve of All Saints’ Day, along with 
 acting some harmless- pastimes, it is the weak, and indeed sinful, 
 custom of the peasantry, to invoke the evil name, that, by its 
 influence, they may see the shadowy resemblance of the person 
 they are doomed to love. Well; on the last coming of that 
 blessed eve, as my brother and I, and a circle of young friends, 
 sat around the fire in my father’s house, Onagh of the cavern 
 lifted the latch of our door, entered, and sat down silently 
 amongst us. She had great fame with the poor people, for her 
 knowledge of the little ceremonies to be gone through on All 
 Saints’ Eve, and it was her custom to visit different houses that 
 she might direct them ; but this was her first visit to us. Her 
 pale, undisturbed face, and her silence, had a disagreeable effect 
 on our sports ; yet we proceeded in them, while Onagh looked 
 on. We hid the ring, melted the lead, sent the blindfolded 
 seeker of his fate to the four plates of salt, ashes, water, and earth, 
 burned the nuts in the names of any two we destined for each 
 other, with other like things. Still Onagh did not speak a 
 word ; and at last, affected by her strange demeanor, we became 
 as silent and inactive as herself. Then, however, she found her 
 tongue. ‘ All is done that you can do,’ she said, * and yet noth¬ 
 ing that was worth the doing. I can show, any time, till the 
 cock crows for midnight, the man or the woman any of ye are to 
 love.’ A girl of the house taking her at her word, rose with 
 Onagh, and both retired into a chamber, dark but for a dull fire 
 that was allowed to burn out in it. I suppose you know as well 
 as I the various forms in which the wicked invocation is made ;— 
 in the present instance, Onagh caused the young girl to take off 
 and wash a part of her dress, and then spread it out on a chair 
 to drj before the fire. Soon after they had retired, we heard a 
 scream, and the silly girl ran to us from the dark chamber, say¬ 
 ing that a strange man had, while she and Onagh stood with 
 their backs to the door, advanced to the fire, and turned the ar¬ 
 ticle of dress which was spread out on the chair. Of course, she 
 iither wilfully told a falsehood, or else the terrors of imagination 
 had imposed on her. 
 
 “ My brother and I asserted our disbelief of what she said ; 
 and Onagh offered to convince me, in my own person, of the 
 efficacy of her invocations, if I would retire into the chamber 
 with her ; but I refused, not indeed in fear, Esther, but in 
 cou tempt, and a dislike to do, idly and uselessly, a sinful 
 thing. Edmund, in a bantering tone, challenged her to show 
 
94 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 him the lady he was to love ; and Onagh assented, on condi¬ 
 tion that he would go out with her to the river-side, as, to con¬ 
 vince him, another kind of form was to be gone through : he did 
 so against my entreaties, and left the house laughing and light¬ 
 hearted. 
 
 “ In some time he came back, alone, with an altered air ; 
 but, when we asked him of what had happened, and why he 
 looked so, he answered, again in good spirits, that he was only 
 tired from clambering over such uneven ground as lay between 
 him and the river, and that Onagh had shown him nothing 
 for all his trouble, but a white-faced horse. The subject 
 dropped ; and till the evening we met you, Esther, was never 
 renewed.” 
 
 “ But it was, then ?—and it was to it that Onagh made allu¬ 
 sion, when she looked on me ? Did not your brother report truly 
 of his adventure?” 
 
 “ He told the truth, but not the whole truth ; and what he 
 suppressed did not seem to him worth mentioning. But he 
 forgot to say that Onagh warmly insisted there had been an 
 apparition visible to her—a pale and beautiful young lady ; 
 and this he told me since your coming to our glen ; for I, as 
 well as you, wished to understand the allusions of Onagh, 
 though I made so light of them, and therefore asked him tc 
 tell me.” 
 
 “ Go on, dear Eva,” said Esther, wishing to hear recited the 
 application that was obvious to herself. 
 
 “ There is nothing to be added but what you witnessed : when 
 Onagh saw your face, at the cavern, she told him it was the face 
 of the apparition by the river-side.” 
 
 “ What, Eva ?—my face V ’—blushing deep as scarlet, and 
 affecting as much simple astonishment as was possible ;— 
 “now, indeed, I see the absurdity you promised me. And 
 yet, another question. There was, in Onagh’s recognition of 
 her old acquaintance, any thing but pleasure, or good-will, or 
 satisfaction in such a face for the very improbable destiny to 
 which she was pleased to doom it. I thought she started back 
 in alarm and dislike of me ; and her violent manner, when she 
 ran to speak with your brother, the sound and pitch of her voice, 
 certainly denoted more than a simple declaration that I was 
 the reality of her spectre. Can you explain this? Again I 
 recollect you were near enough to catch her words—what did 
 ehe say ?” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 95 
 
 “ I need not disguise, no more than any other part of the 
 foolery, that Onagh certainly expressed dislike of you, for, as you 
 say, the purposes to which she first destined you, and earnestly 
 commanded my brother to keep his heart guarded against your 
 infatuations.” 
 
 “ He has not followed her advice ; that I have plainly seen, a 
 thousand times,” thought Esther. “ Well, Eva, it was at least 
 very inconsistent, you will admit ; can you now tell me the cause 
 of her aversion ?” 
 
 “ Onagh, herself, must there satisfy you, as I do not pre¬ 
 tend ability to find, according to the calculations of the little 
 common sense I have, good reasons for the raving or misstate¬ 
 ment of a fool or impostor yet Eva was here guilty of a little 
 ingenuous reservation—she really knew the cause of Onagh’s 
 dislike to Esther as the lady of Edmund’s love, but, with a 
 general appearance of confidence, this—the chief point on which 
 she feared to give uneasiness to her friend—she was resolved not 
 to communicate. 
 
 Esther grew silent, and Eva, too, fell into a reverie, of a 
 nature not unlike that of her companion. When they again 
 spoke, it was on a subject seemingly disconnected with the former 
 one, yet really associated by it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “ Have you noticed the harper’s melancholy of late ?” asked 
 Esther, by and by. 
 
 “ I have, indeed,” answered Eva. 
 
 “ Ho you guess what is the matter with him ?” 
 
 “ I do, as well as you ;—he loves.” 
 
 “ Whom ?” 
 
 “ Either of us.” 
 
 “ But which ?” 
 
 “ That I cannot positively say ; but I think it may be yourself/ 
 “ You speak this seriously ?” 
 
 “ Seriously ; from my heart.” 
 
 “Then, as seriously, I say that I believe you are the object of 
 his devotion.” 
 
96 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Your reasons ?” 
 
 “ Why, you form the theme of his discourse whenever he and 
 I are alone ; he sighs at each mention of your name ; he has ad¬ 
 dressed a sweet air to you ; and he knows you longer than me.” 
 
 “ But he scarce ever finds a topic for my ear but Esther ; if 
 he sighs, it is in your company ; he walks ever with you ; he has 
 framed as sweet an air for you ; and,” Eva added, with a sigii o 
 her own, “he knows you long enough to love eternally.” 
 
 “ Here he comes, however, to afford us more observations,’ 
 said Esther. Carolan, indeed, appeared in the narrow, but level 
 way that led into the little retreat, walking erectly, and with 
 the measured firmness of step that marks the gait of a blind man, 
 although his pace seemed less spirited than usual. He was with¬ 
 out his harp, and guided himself merely by tapping a switch on 
 the ground before him, as he had grown quite familiar with the 
 roads and paths generally walked over by the young party. 
 
 “ He looks sadder than ever,” said Esther. Carolan caught, 
 at some distance, the very low tone in which she spoke, and his 
 pensive expression of face instantly brightened up, and his 
 mouth wore its beautiful smile, as he said, “Ay, here I knew I 
 should find you both.” 
 
 “ I sincerely hope you may err, Eva, in believing me beloved 
 by this poor young harper,” Esther continued, in a whisper, ere 
 he had quite reached them. 
 
 “ And why do you hope so, Esther ?” 
 
 “ I should not wish,” answered Esther, blushing under the ex¬ 
 pressive glance which accompanied the question, “ I should not 
 wish to see him love where he cannot find love in return.” 
 
 “ Carolan has many captivations ; it is not impossible to love 
 him.” 
 
 “For me it is.” 
 
 “ Why ?” 
 
 “ I do not know ; we cannot compel love.” 
 
 “ Is that the only reason ?” Eva continued to ask with a smile, 
 idien, fortunately for Esther, Carolan came too near to permit 
 her answer ; we say fortunately, for we believe the answer would 
 have been a little sin, in the shape of a little—we shall not say what. 
 
 “ I could not draw the tune out of my head,” he said, stand¬ 
 ing straight before them, equally balanced on both feet; “ it 
 would not come for me, or else there is no good in my clarseech, or 
 my fingers, this day ; yet, in my head and heart it is, if ever I 
 had one in them ; the music of a calling to battle, and the gatl* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 97 
 
 ering for a battle, and the battle itself, fought by fine proud sol¬ 
 diers, on fine steeds, and the victory, the shouting, and the 
 glory.” 
 
 “Idle, idle Carolan,” said Eva ; “you could have put it all 
 on your harp, if you would ; and now it will grow cold in your 
 head and heart, and we shall lose it forever.” 
 
 “ I could not put it on the harp, indeed,” he resumed; “ my 
 fingers strayed over and over the strings, but brought no sounds 
 that I wanted; only, instead of such, came sad thrillings and 
 low tones of the wire, that made me weep for company.” 
 
 “ Sit down by Esther here, and now smile to her for company. 
 I am wanted, for a little space, by your aunt, Esther, but shall 
 return to seek you.” 
 
 “ Of friendless youth and hopeless love,” the young minstrel 
 continued, taking Eva’s place, as she left them, “ were the only 
 sounds of my clarseech.” 
 
 “And why should they be the only sounds, Carolan ?” 
 
 “ They made the echo of my fortunes,” he said, sighing sadly. 
 
 “ Nay, friendless you must not call yourself; and when you 
 love, Carolan, why should it be all hopelessly ?” 
 
 “ First, sweet lady, I am a poor harper, and women’s love asks, 
 and should get, more honors than my poverty can bestow. 1 
 could honor her love in the song,” he continued proudly, though 
 mildly ; then, with another sigh, “ but even she who can feel 
 proud at the minstrel’s praise, will slight the minstrel. I am 
 blind, too ; do you think it has ever happened that a beautiful 
 lady loved a blind man ?” 
 
 “ I know not that it has happened,” Esther replied, “ for my 
 experience is little ; but I see no reason it should not. Blind¬ 
 ness, though a great visitation, is the least disagreeable of 
 bodily infirmities ; indeed, it is soon and entirely forgotten, when 
 he who is afflicted by it has gentle manners, and, above all, great 
 talents.” 
 
 “Then you, dear lady,” Carolan asked, in much simplicity, 
 “you could listen to the suit of a blind harper?” 
 
 “ I could ; but, Carolan, this matter now requires from me an 
 honorable and prompt avowal, for I must not seem to misunder¬ 
 stand you, and it is a woman’s part to end, as soon as she has an 
 opportunity, the pain she unwittingly causes. I esteem and hon¬ 
 or you for your talents, your manners, and your good qualities : 
 nor is your person disagreeable. And I could have felt—it is 
 possible I might have felt another sentiment, but that”—she 
 
 5 
 
98 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 hesitated—“ I may seem to make an unmaidenly avowal; I think 
 I owe you the full explanation it conveys. Therefore, Carolan, 
 hear me say—but that I loved another.” 
 
 “ I have erred,” he resumed, with little of the agitation the 
 gentle maiden supposed should be visible after her repulse. “ I 
 must have greatly erred in my words to make you think this 
 confidence necessary ; and I crave your pardon, dear lady, for 
 the imperfection of my English speech. Alas! alas! Eva 
 M’Donnell it is that has put the sorrow on my heart this day.” 
 
 “ Then, Carolan,” said Esther, rising, and not half so pleased 
 with her exemption from the harper’s devotions, as her former 
 avowals to her friend would seem to make certain, “ why not at 
 }nce afford Eva M’Donnell the occasion of speaking to you as 
 plainly as I have done, and which, however she may regard your 
 love, I know she will do ?” 
 
 “ I fear to offend her ; I feared all along to show her that I 
 dared to love. Her grand spirit, if she knew it, would crush and 
 kill my heart.” 
 
 “ I will engage for my friend, that no word she utters, what¬ 
 ever may be her answer, will hurt your ear. I will do more ; if 
 you permit me to save you an intimation of your feelings, I will, this 
 moment, seek her, and engage that she shall come hither to reply 
 to them.” 
 
 “ Oh, that would be too sudden,” he said, greatly agitated ; 
 “ but, do you think—do you know, as from your speech I fear 
 you do, that the flower of Glenarriff has already seen, and already 
 despised my love ?” 
 
 “ I know that she is unconscious you love her ; what may be 
 her affections towards you I cannot tell. But I see her approach¬ 
 ing us at a distance ; shall I speak to Eva for you, Carolan ?” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands. But after a 
 pause, “Yet do—do, sweet lady ; I will know my lot at once, 
 do, and,” taking her hand and kissing it, while his tears fell fast, 
 “the joy of this life, and the blessing of God be upon the wish of 
 your own heart !” 
 
 Esther accordingly went to meet Eva. The young ladies spoke 
 but a short time, when Eva M’Donnell parted from her friend, 
 swept along the little approach to the dell, and entered it with a 
 rapid step, an erect figure, an arching neck, and a flushed cheek. 
 
 “ That is her foot,” said Carolan, “ treading the earth as she 
 would on me, and bruising its tender flowers as she comes to 
 bruise my hope.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 99 
 
 Eva found liim standing ; the state of his feelings did not per¬ 
 mit him to remain at rest, and he still stood upright, althougn his 
 limbs shook, his face was pale, and his features showed the de¬ 
 spairing anticipations of his spirit. 
 
 “ Carolan 1” she began, the moment she entered the dell; “ but 
 sit down, dear Carolan, this affects you too much ; take my hand, 
 sit down, and grow calmer ere we speak.” 
 
 He did take, or rather touch her hand ; she led him to a bank 
 of wild-flowers ; sat by his side ; and there was a long pause, 
 which the minstrel did not interrupt, even by one of the sighs 
 that were breaking his heart for utterance. At last Eva went on : 
 
 “ You, dear Carolan, of all men upon the earth, have honored 
 me in this matter ; you, of all men upon the earth, shall not 
 suffer a moment’s uncertainty which I can prevent. Esther 
 Evelyn has told me you love me : my bosom fills with pride to 
 hear it said ; I thank you ; I am grateful; but let one word end 
 it—I, too, love—and, alas! alas ! not Carolan.” 
 
 “ Well,” he said, in a low, almost inaudible voice—“ well, it is, 
 and it is not what I expected. I knew you could never think of 
 me, Eva ; so far, your answer agrees with my despair. But I 
 feared also you would have spurned me harshly and cruelly—and 
 —and this kindness, goodness”—tears now suffused his blank eyes 
 and streamed over his cheeks. “ Oh, Eva, it is too much ; I did 
 not deserve it 1” 
 
 “Not, Carolan! what unworthy opinion do you hold of your¬ 
 self or me ? how could you fear that any woman would not own 
 herself honored by the love of him whose soul is made more noble 
 by song than by their station are belted earls or crowned kings ? 
 whose heart is virtuous and pure, and whose name, even while 
 he is yet green in youth, has gone forth towards futurity ? Least 
 of all, how could you suppose, in EvaM’Donnell, such a woman ? 
 Nay, by my mother’s sainted soul,” she continued, in high and 
 sincere enthusiasm, “ I say again, I am prouder of your love, 
 this day, the first, as it is, that has ever graced the almost child¬ 
 ish years of Eva, than if the world’s highest hero, or greatest 
 prince, knelt, where you sit, an humble suitor at my feet.” 
 
 The poor harper could only weep on. 
 
 “And, Carolan, you shall love me still—as I love you—as 
 brother and sister love, when their hearts are truly knit in nature’s 
 purest affection. This you shall promise me ; because, to lose 
 your esteem, the happiness and the honor of your friendship, by 
 what it has here been my duty to say, would, indeed, cloud the 
 
100 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 days of Eva forever. Let me still have the joy of your harp ; 
 and when I speak, in social discourse, the sentiments of an ardent 
 heart, let me still see your bright smile applaud me. For the 
 rest, the love of some more worthy maiden shall be your reward ; 
 you deserve it : forget this chance ; chance it has been. When 
 you first came to Glenarriff, I was the only maiden you often met, 
 and so it happened. But forget it ; you are very young, and it 
 must soon fade away in the brighter light that the tenderest love 
 of another and a more deserving shall pour upon your heart.” 
 
 “ I thank you, Eva,” he said at last, in a calmer melancholy ; 
 “I thank and bless you; but it will never fade away; and it was 
 not chance. More than a year has passed since first I heard 
 your voice under your father’s roof, and it thrilled over the strings 
 of my soul like lofty music struck by the hand of some great 
 master. I cannot see your face—alas ! scarce can I even im¬ 
 agine what makes a face beautiful. Early in my childhood the 
 blight came on my eyes ; and though I have since often tried to 
 discern, with the inward eye of memory, the faces* that bent over 
 my cradle, they are blank and shapeless, without a difference be¬ 
 tween them ; and, after all, I believe they come to my mind, a 
 little distinct from my cloudy notion of other objects, only by the 
 touch that has since enabled me to tell any one thing from an¬ 
 other.” 
 
 “ But the face of nature is not a blank to your memory, Car- 
 olan,” Eva said, willing to fix him in the unconscious digression 
 he had made. 
 
 “ I fear it is,” he answered, sighing ; “ the great forms of the 
 hills around my father’s house sometimes, indeed, are in my mind ; 
 but all smaller ones, little observed by infancy, have died away. 
 The trees that I have heard you speak of, as beautiful in summer, 
 the rocks, the shrubs, and the flowers, are imperfect to me. I 
 know not the rose by its color. When I have thought to learn 
 its shape by my fingers, alas ! Eva, it has stung me to the quick. 
 Even the mountains, whose form I think I recollect, are not 
 green or blue, as you describe other mountains, when seen at dif¬ 
 ferent distances, nor know I the meaning of your words. One only 
 appearance of nature dwells strongly in my mind ; it was the 
 dark red light in an evening sky, rolled over by clouds as black 
 as my fortunes, and reflected in the wide water. No, dearest 
 Eva, he who loves you better than any other man can ever love, 
 knows not the beauty of your face. But when I turn mine to¬ 
 wards it, and am sure that it is shining on me, I think it is an air. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 10J 
 
 sweet and grand as ever harper played ; oh, it makes music round 
 about me. And now, Eva, I will never more speak to you of 
 love ; you allow me to be your friend ; I thank you, and I will 
 be your friend. I thank you over and over, for all your good¬ 
 ness this day ; you shall see me smile, too. And, if you like, you 
 may even believe that smile to have been lighted up by another 
 love, and that the poor harper is happy.” 
 
 “ Then, take my hand, Carolan ; take it freely—nay, turn 
 your lips to my cheek—to my lips, even, if you will. Brother 
 and sister may so meet and part ; and where honor lives in two 
 hearts, actions cannot be misunderstood. Be happy, dear Caro- 
 Iau ; as happy as you merit, or as my prayers can make you.” 
 
 He took her hand ; he kissed, almost reverently, her brow 
 and cheek, his tears wetting Eva’s face, and calling from her eyes 
 a fuller shower than, since her mother’s death, they had sent forth. 
 
 A scream reached them from another little valley, separated 
 from that in which they sat only by the rising ground that was 
 a common division to both. Eva knew that it was Esther’s 
 voice, as they had agreed she should there await the conclusion 
 of the interview with Carolan. Seizing his arm, she rapidly con¬ 
 veyed her blind companion, by a level way, to the spot. Esther 
 was alone, but greatly agitated. 
 
 “ That woman 1” she exclaimed, the moment her friends ap¬ 
 peared ; “ that terrible woman I” 
 
 “ Whom?” they asked her, in a breath. 
 
 “ I was sitting in this lonely and noiseless place, busied with 
 deep, and, perhaps, sad thoughts, and some frightful ones—in 
 fact, dearest Eva, I was thinking of her, and, I know not why, 
 of the matters you and I talked over, in connection with her ; 
 my head rested on my hands ; my eyes buried in the ground ; 
 when, raising them, Onagh of the cavern sat immediately before 
 me, on that low, flat stone ; her shockingly pale face turned fully 
 to mine, and her dead black eye watching me. How she entered 
 the dell, and came so near without startling me, I cannot im¬ 
 agine. When our looks first met, I did not scream; nor for 
 some time after. Until, wrought upon by her fixed glare and 
 terrible silence, fear gradually chilled my heart, and at last I 
 cried out in frenzy. Then, in the act of going away, she spoks 
 — ■oh, Eva, such words 1” 
 
 “ Of what import can they be, dearest Esther, coming from 
 Each a person, whatever they were ? yet”—drawing her friend 
 aside, and whispering her—“ let me hear them faithfully.” 
 
102 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “Dearest Eva,” replied Esther, falling, in tears, on her neck, 
 and all her presence of mind fled, “ I will faithfully tell you— 
 ‘ You are thinking of him,’ she said, ‘ but, think first of your 
 winding-sheet.’ ” 
 
 “ Tush ! idle raving, all !” Eva cried disdainfully ; “ and to 
 prove it is, Esther, dear Esther—sister—he loves you as fondly 
 as you love him, and as—as I love your brother.” 
 
 “ And that,” added Esther, as the maidens embraced each 
 other—“ that is only as well as my brother loves you.” 
 
 As fate would have it, this happened to be a day of general 
 explanations. Whilst, in the first shade of twilight, the young 
 sisters thus confessed to each other the mighty secret, that, how¬ 
 ever, was no secret at all to either, though each thought 
 it was, their young brothers stood in the same shadow of 
 nightfall, surrounded by the noble solitude of what is called 
 the great Deer Park of Antrim Castle, a stag lying dead at their 
 feet, and their large, round-headed, long-eared, black-muzzled 
 Irish stag-hounds crouching, tired and contented, around. They 
 had outridden, a considerable distance, the rest of the huntsmen, 
 at whose head was the old earl of Antrim, and were the only 
 two of a numerous party at the death. Their horses, blown and 
 jaded, stood, with drooping heads, near them ; for they had just 
 alighted to dispatch with their hunting-knives the baffled chase. 
 
 “ It is but a poor triumph, after all, Evelyn,” said Edmund, 
 after they had for some time, and in silence, regarded the dead 
 stag. “ While the game is up, and the horns and cheering echoed 
 by the hills, I like a hunting well ; nay, there is hot pleasure in 
 bounding from the saddle to give, at the risk of one’s own life or 
 limb, the noble animal his death-wound. But to see him lie 
 there, butchered at our hands, while we stand holding these 
 bloody knives—this is not pleasant. I wish the other hunters 
 would come up.” 
 
 “ I wish they would,” said Evelyn, “ and I agree it is a sorry 
 prowess. Y"et better that the peace of the land allows us such 
 a pastime, than that we should be called by the voice of civil 
 discord to another butchering. Had we met only some years 
 sooner, M’Donnell, perhaps our different prejudices, made active 
 by the spirit of the times, would not have allowed us to unsheath 
 a blade in the same hunting.” 
 
 u Alas! perhaps not, Evelyn ; yet I own no prejudices in my 
 heart, that could, or ever can, make me indifferent to the happi« 
 ness of your friendship.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 103 
 
 “Nor I, M’Donnell, that could ever make me regret yours.” 
 They clasped hands. 
 
 “ It is in such pauses of civil frenzy that men get calmness 
 and reason to enable them almost to laugh at the imaginary 
 distinctions which they would before have given or taken a life 
 to uphold, and which, I fear, are only preached up into unreal 
 existence by the knave in politics, and the griping or bigoted in 
 the ministry of different religions. What, to you or me, is the 
 creed of the other ?” 
 
 “ Nothing for a quarrel, Evelyn,” said Edmund, smiling. 
 
 “ Then, let them rave as they will ; there can be faith iu 
 friendship between idolaters and heretics, Edmund.” 
 
 “ And why not in love, too, Evelyn ?” 
 
 “ Indeed, I see no reason,” his friend answered, a little out of 
 countenance. 
 
 “ So, you dare love a Papist maiden ?” 
 
 “ I dare—Edmund, I do.” 
 
 “ I know you do, Evelyn. Come, it is well that this has 
 chanced as it has ; and let it be dispatched as quickly as it 
 springs up : nay, quickly it must be ; for, hark to the call of the 
 earl’s bugle from the next valley ; first, let me answer it ;” he 
 put his own bugle to his lips, and blew an answering note. 
 “ And now, Evelyn, you love Eva M’Donnell ?” 
 
 “ I do—well and dearly.” 
 
 “ There can be no question honorably ?” 
 
 “ None—while I live to answer it.” 
 
 “ I never doubted : you honor us much, Evelyn, humbled as 
 we are, and almost as portionless as Eva is—you know she is ?” 
 
 “Perhaps I knew ; but I cared not.” 
 
 “ And in a word, you would wed her, Papists as we are, and 
 knowing this ?” His friend emphatically and warmly assented. 
 
 “ My permission, then, to address her, and my service with 
 her father and herself to join their permission also, you shall 
 have, on a condition.” 
 
 Evelyn stood more erect ; he had never observed Edmund’s 
 love for Esther, as it was better disguised than his own for 
 Eva, and the condition he expected to hear named was--having 
 heard much of the efforts of Roman Catholics to make pros* 
 elytes—thus conveyed in his answer : 
 
 “ You know I am a Protestant, on conviction, Edmund.” 
 
 “ Yes, and mean nothing to change it.” 
 
 “ And what, then ? what condition ?” 
 
104 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ You have a sister, too, Evelyn.” 
 
 “ Hold you there, now ! is that it ?” 
 
 “ That is it,” said Edmund, his rallying tone failing him, as he 
 blushed deeply. 
 
 “ Take your condition then—a bargain ?” Once more he 
 thrust out his hand. 
 
 “ A bargain, 7 ’ M’Donnell answered ; and palm met palm with 
 so loud a smack, that the slumbering stag-hounds opened their 
 eyes, and pricked up their heavy ears at it. 
 
 The earl brought up his huntsmen ; the stag was quartered, 
 and all turned their horses’ heads from the hunting-valley, the 
 old nobleman reminding the two friends that they were to share 
 his board on that evening. In a breath, they protested, how 
 ever, that it was now impossible for them to have the honor ; 
 that something had just occurred to require their speedy depart¬ 
 ure from Glenarm ; something of deep moment. In fact, they 
 urged, with no appearance of consistency, such fiery speed, that 
 the earl observed, as they spurred from him— 
 
 “ There go two gallants who may be found in the next conve¬ 
 nient glen, with skeins at each other’s throats ; a brawl about 
 field-craft, I reckon.” 
 
 But the friends turned into no glen on the road, till they had 
 reached Esther’s cottage, just as a young moon rose above th. 
 waning twilight. They entered the cottage so flushed and agi 
 tated, that their sisters held for a moment something of the sam* 
 opinion as that believed by the old nobleman ; but when the) 
 sat down to supper laughing and rallying each other, and when th( 
 maidens saw the confident sparkling of their eyes, as they exchangee 
 glances, or ventured to bestow them elsewhere, Eva, at least 
 began to guess the true reason for such excitement. And with 
 the suspicion, Eva looked as chill and as haughty as could, in 
 her teens, the little goddess to whom we have once compared her. 
 
 This corrected the exuberance of the young men’s spirits ; to 
 divert particular thoughts and appearances, Carolan was, over 
 and over, called on for the music of his harp. He complied 
 readily, but with unusual silence, if not reserve of manner. 
 Poor Carolan! he knew, though he wanted eyes, the meaning oi 
 the scene around him. Strains of young and hopeful love, Eve¬ 
 lyn and Edmund asked for, unconscious of the agony at the 
 minstrel’s heart, But, as has been since better said, by him 
 whose poetry is a happy, though a late echo of notes Carolan 
 this evening dwelt on— 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 105 
 
 u Ah, little they think who delight in his strains, 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking 1” 
 
 A seashore walk in the moonlight was proposed, upon an even¬ 
 ing so mild and beautiful, and Carolan asked to join it, with the 
 strong hope, truth compels us to own, that he would refuse ; but 
 the happy youths need not have done their warm esteem for Caro¬ 
 lan such a violence, as, for the first time, to fear his consent to 
 be of their party. He did refuse ; and the two sisters and the 
 two brothers rose to take the walk that, ere its close, was to 
 shape their fates forever. 
 
 As they went out at the door, Carolan could understand that, 
 with more than usual pertinacity, each sister clung to the arm of 
 her own brother. He remained alone in his blindness and his sor¬ 
 row. His little harp hung neglected at his arm, and for some 
 time he sat motionless, and, outwardly, not agitated. But it 
 was the boiling up within him of stronger and worse feelings 
 than he had ever yet experienced, that kept the young harper 
 outwardly quiet. He saw, in his mind, Eva relinquishing, after 
 the party had left the house, the arm of her brother, and taking 
 that of Evelyn. They spoke but briefly together : her acknow- 
 ledgme nt of love made to Carolan himself, and the spirited can¬ 
 dor of her disposition, left Eva no room to hesitate ; she sur¬ 
 rendered her hand to Evelyn, his arm stole, unforbidden, round 
 her waist—her neck—she yielded to her chosen lover the first 
 kiss of assured love. Carolan started to his feet ; he hated— 
 loathed his happy rival. 
 
 But a better nature soon asserted itself. He sat down again 
 —he touched his harp—he wept. Playing softly to himself, he 
 was found by his friends, on their return from their walk, each 
 with, not the same lady on his arm as when they had left the 
 cottage. Of this change he also became conscious the moment 
 they crossed the threshold ; and he arose to meet them, for the 
 first time, without a smile. 
 
 “ Now,” he said, “ ye are as happy as any of God’s creatures, 
 this night, and my peace and my blessing be with you”—turning 
 to the door. All asked in surprise or sorrow whither he was 
 going. 
 
 “ To be happy, too,” he answered, “ thinking of the joy of 
 this house. Give me one cup of wine.” He held it in his 
 hand on the threshold. “As there is a Judge to judge me, I 
 drink this toast from the bottom of my heart. May the joy of 
 
 5 * 
 
106 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 love returned, which you all know, never meet a blight in this 
 world!” He drained the cup. “And now farewell, and my 
 blessing again—I know the road to the village.” 
 
 “ Carolan ! dear Carolan 1” cried Eva, catching his arm. 
 
 “ No, Eva,” he said ; “ I will return ; we shall meet again ; 
 out I cannot stay here to-night. I have done enough, and it 
 was not easily done, to say what I have said, from the bottom 
 of heart. God bless you, and him you love !” 
 
 She resumed her entreaties for him to stay, and was joined by 
 Esther and the young men. But Carolan would not be pre¬ 
 vailed on j they saw him turn off from the door ; they stood at 
 the door, and watched him moving alone in the moonlight, along 
 the narrow road. He disappeared, and all sat down, more so¬ 
 berly than accorded with the new and happy situation of their 
 hearts. 
 
 CHAPTER, VIII. 
 
 But the sincerest grief for others is gradually, if not very 
 soon, forgotten in the selfishness of personal joy. The young 
 lovers quickly lost sight of every thing and person on the earth, 
 except themselves ; and many delicious months elapsed in the 
 uncloying enjoyment of walking together over the same scenes, 
 sitting together in the same places, and repeating and hearing, 
 over and over, the same vows, protestations, and flattery. By 
 mere chance they bestowed a little occasional thought on the 
 peculiarity of their relative worldly situations, and the plan 
 according to which they were ultimately to—get married. And 
 thus was the matter arranged. 
 
 In the first place, neither Uncle Paul nor his lady was to be 
 made acquainted with their loves and engagements, until Evelyn 
 should gain his twenty-first year. Then his own master, and also, 
 according to his father’s will, the guardian of Esther, a commu¬ 
 nication might be vouchsafed, and, merely as matter of form, a 
 consent asked, with slight anxiety as to whether the little gentle¬ 
 man should applaud or disapprove. It seemed worth while to 
 secure, however, the approbation of their nearest relative ; and 
 in this view, Evelvn planned to invent some means of breaking 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 107 
 
 the business to Paul, when he should be separated from imme- 
 diate collision with his good lady, and least in dread of her re¬ 
 buke. Under such circumstances, Evelyn did not doubt being 
 able to obtain, merely by a little plausibility, and the presenting 
 his uncle with a new idea, a prompt assent to every thing he 
 asked. Such permission reduced to writing, as the nephew re¬ 
 solved should happen, any subsequent recantations of the party, 
 made under the influence of threat and terror, would go for 
 nothing. Or even should he fail altogether in this quarter, 
 Evelyn was sure of success in another. Should Uncle Paul re- 
 fuse, there was as good a consent to be had from Uncle Jerry. 
 So, the full countenance of old M/Donnell being already obtained, 
 the lovers loved on, with scarce a shade of doubt to dim the 
 noontide brightness of their young hopes and prospects. 
 
 Having brought them to this happy state, we own, as nearly 
 three years are yet to elapse before Evelyn comes of age, that 
 we must omit a good deal of their raptures. But it is gratifying 
 not to be obliged altogether to lose sight for so long a period of 
 persons in whom, apart from their tiresome love-making, we feel 
 really interested. With considerable pleasure, we therefore an¬ 
 nounce, whatever may have been the feelings of the parties con¬ 
 cerned, that, in about a year, or perhaps more, after the coming of 
 Evelyn and his sister to Grienarriff, he received such an account 
 of the state of certain properties in the West Indies, as forced 
 him, in some alarm, to open his eyes to the world, its base dross, 
 and ungenerous concerns, and finally to decide on a voyage across 
 the Atlantic. 
 
 Here, again, is a pleasing situation for a renewal of lovers’ 
 vows, with, for the first time, the relief of their tears, regrets, 
 and lamentations. But all this we again pass by, or leave to be 
 supplied by imaginations more tender than our own. Supposing 
 Evelyn, therefore, clear of such scenes, we hurry him, with Ed¬ 
 mund as his companion, to the point of embarkation, over the 
 long and bad road, then lying between Cushindoll and Belfast, 
 between Belfast and Dublin. And, on the evening of a day 
 early in the year 1687, we find the two friends entering Dabliu 
 on horseback. 
 
 Not Dublin of the present day, spreading, almost equally, 
 north and south of the Anna Liffey (Auin Louffa, “ the swift 
 river”), with her spacious squares, broad streets, her clusters ol 
 public buildings, her seven beautiful bridges, and her unrivalled 
 quays ; but Dublin of 1687, a scattering of ill-built houses. 
 
108 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 lying nearly on the south side of the river only ; with no build¬ 
 ings of import except its two old cathedrals, its churches, and its 
 castle, the seat of the viceroy ; with but two ugly bridges of 
 stone, since pulled down ; with no squares, no Stephen’s-green, 
 no Sackville-street. One of the finest piles that now adorn the 
 city, was then “ Trinity College, near Dublin.” Finally, Dublin 
 with scarce ten thousand inhabitants ; for, a census having been 
 taken not twenty years before, the population amounted to little 
 more than eight thousand. 
 
 The travellers, approaching from the northern road, entered 
 the city through Church-street and Bridge-street, leaving to 
 their right a half-peopled district, boasting, however, one church, 
 St. Michael’s. They crossed the river at Old Bridge ; and then, 
 by Bridge Gate, got into the outskirts of the only important 
 part of Dublin. Continuing along High-street, they passed, at 
 the right-hand corner of Skinner’s-row a handsome, modern-look¬ 
 ing structure, built, indeed, only four years before—that is, in 
 1683—by the corporation of the city, and called the Tholsel. 
 Here the worthy men held their “ courts.” Though every trace 
 of the building has passed away, yet the proceedings of the loyal¬ 
 ists of Skinner’s-row, do—and of their collateral descendants, 
 the aldermen of Skinner’s-alley—find some record in the minds of 
 even the present generation. 
 
 While approaching the castle, the friends met a crowd of men 
 issuing from one of its gates, who, as they walked together in 
 some military order, and wore military uniform, seemed, although 
 now unarmed, to have recently been soldiers ; and this presump¬ 
 tion was assisted by seeing at their head, or mixed up with them, 
 many gentlemen in the full attire of officers of different rank, ex¬ 
 cept that, like the crowd, they had no arms. While these passed 
 our travellers, they showed, in the expression of their faces, much 
 discontent, astonishment, or dejection ; or else bitterer and more 
 angry feelings, as they turned to scowl at a mob of brats and 
 women who walked by their sides, and saluted them with groans, 
 hissings, and revilings. 
 
 Evelyn and M ? Donnell regarded this scene in complete igno¬ 
 rance of what it meant, until a gentleman, one of a few in civil 
 costume, who accompanied, as if in condolence, those who seemed 
 officers, fixed his eyes on Evelyn, saluted him, and received his 
 salute, and hastily shaking hands with his companion, advanced 
 to welcome him to Dublin. Evelyn introduced this individual tc 
 Edmund as Mr. Robert Fitzgerald, the old friend of his father. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 109 
 
 and the person on whose account he had come out of his way to 
 embark at Dublin for England. Evelyn inquired the meaning of 
 the scene of which they were spectators, and his new companion 
 answered, in an emphatic whisper, and while he trembled with 
 agitation : 
 
 “ You see some of the flower of our loyal Protestant army, 
 and our only protectors, disbanded—stripped—plundered, by the 
 bigoted Papist, Talbot, and thrust out unprovided for, and 
 almost naked, to make room for an army of his own choosing.” 
 
 Both the young men expressed their unfeigned astonishment at 
 this explanation. Living in a remote and isolated district, as, 
 for the last year, they had done, enjoying the idle dreams of love 
 alone, and voluntarily shutting out even the echoes of the great 
 world, they were completely ignorant of the political aspect of 
 things, and of the changes that had taken place in the mean time. 
 They only recollected that, ere the commencement of their dreamy 
 existence, a new king had ascended in peace the throne of Great 
 Britain, and in welcome, too, from all classes and sects of his 
 people. Continuing at peace themselves, they took it for grant¬ 
 ed that so did the world also ; that nothing could occur to dash 
 the national quiet, at first so apparently certain, and, by the way, 
 so sympathetic with the union of hearts and hands they expe¬ 
 rienced and proposed to further amplify. But here was a stern 
 reality to shake them from their dream ; here was a scene suffi¬ 
 cient to kindle anew the most violent flames of national discord : 
 nay, here was a gentleman describing it with an energy and agi¬ 
 tation characteristic of party-spirit already roused to its full sen¬ 
 sitiveness, on the one side, while the feelings evinced by the mob 
 indicated an equal vivacity of the other side. 
 
 “ Hark to the hootings of the Papist rabble !” Mr. Fitzgerald 
 continued ; “ hark to their cur-like triumph over the disarming and 
 downfall of the only men able and willing to preserve us from 
 their venom and barbarity—from plundering, murdering, and ex¬ 
 termination—from another Forty-one !” 
 
 “ What is the meaning of all this ?” Edmund asked, his face 
 reddening ; and, “ When did these changes begin to occur T } 
 asked Evelyn. 
 
 “Not so very lately: nor—since you are so astonished at 
 what you here see—is this all,” answered Mr. Fitzgerald. “ BiP 
 I perceive, buried in the country as you have been, you require 
 proper information on the true state of things—so, come with me 
 to my house, young gentlemen—a party of sorrowful friends take 
 
110 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 supper with me this evening ; come—dismount and let us walk 
 together.” Accordingly, the travellers accompanied to his resi* 
 dence the not uncelebrated man, who afterwards secured to Wil¬ 
 liam III. his good city of Dublin, the ancestor of Ireland’s only 
 duke—Leinster. 
 
 A sorrowful party, indeed, and, withal, an indignant one, sur¬ 
 rounded our young friends at supper. Silence prevailed, almost 
 entirely, during the meal; but when the host had given, “ The 
 king, and better councils to his majesty!”—and when the ser¬ 
 vants in attendance had received orders to go away, they being 
 almost all Roman Catholics, Mr. Fitzgerald, addressing himself to 
 Evelyn, resumed the conversation he had broken off in the street. 
 
 “More, much more than what you have seen, remains to be 
 told, my good young friend—” 
 
 “ But first, if you please,” interrupted Evelyn, “ why are the 
 soldiers disbanded ?” 
 
 “ On a pretence that the rebellion of Monmouth, just put 
 down in England, has spread to the old militia in this kingdom, 
 we have received from the king and the English council an order 
 to collect in, through the whole country, their arms, and deposit 
 them in the several stores of each county. I was, myself, one of 
 the first victims to this order ; but our Popish general-in-chief, 
 Talbot, now, forsooth, earl of Tyrconnel, lately applyiug it accord¬ 
 ing to his own construction, has proceeded to cashier all officers 
 who have been of the Parliament army, or of Oliver’s army, or 
 the sons of such ; Captain Coote, Sir Oliver St. George, and 
 my Lord Shannon, here, for instance.” 
 
 “ Before the Lord, sir,” said the notorious Coote, “ more than 
 two hundred of our most godly have been stripped of their com¬ 
 missions, and more than five thousand old soldiers of the Parlia¬ 
 ment beggared.” 
 
 “ The men to be deprived of their clothing, and no equivalent 
 offered for the commissions we had purchased,” said the needy 
 Irish nobleman. 
 
 “ While, said Sir Oliver, “ the refined cruelties practised in 
 cold blood, on the unfortunate adherents' of the gallant and royal 
 Monmouth, by ’the infamous Kirke, in the field, and by the as 
 infamous Jeffries on the bench, seem to give us a specimen of 
 what defenceless men are to expect from the tryannical spirit of 
 the times.” 
 
 “Then a new levy of Papists is proposed, I warrant you," 
 resumed Fitzgerald. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 “ The most extraordinary and dangerous act of power we have 
 yet seen,” said the Rev. William King, president of the chapter 
 of St. Patrick’s, “is the arbitrary dispensing with the test oaths, 
 by taking of which alone the law had contemplated the admissi- 
 bility of any man into any situation of trust. No greater safe¬ 
 guard had we for our lives and liberties, as I have shown, at 
 som? length, in my reply, ‘to the considerations’ that have in¬ 
 duced that arch-apostate, Peter Manby, late dean of Derry, to 
 conform to the abominations of the Popish creed.” 
 
 “No greater safeguard, indeed,” remarked Sir Richard Rey- 
 nel, ex-justice of the King’s Bench ; “ since, in consequence of 
 its being so illegally dispensed with, Alexander Fitten now sits 
 lord-chancellor, in the room of a worthy man, and he an apos¬ 
 tate, and convicted of forgery at Chester assizes, and in West¬ 
 minster Hall, and afterwards fined as such by the English House 
 of Lords. While creatures no better than himself rule the 
 courts of law under him ; such as Sir Bryan O’Neale, in the 
 King’s Bench, a man crippled in mind and body, but of venom 
 and zeal ; and elsewhere that able knave, Stephen Rice, one who 
 deports himself as if he feared no after-reckoning, and who 
 has sworn to drive a coach and six through the acts of settle¬ 
 ment.” 
 
 “ But what,” asked a stout gentleman, “ can equal in abuse 
 and vexation the dissolving of the charter of the corporation of 
 this city, first vainly attempted last year, and manfully resisted 
 by myself, John Knox, then Lord Mayor, but now fully effect¬ 
 ed, whereby professed Papists are admitted to civic places and 
 honors, power, and emolument ?” 
 
 “ Nothing can equal it,” answered a slim gentleman, who had 
 once been sheriff-elect—called, indeed, but never chosen—“ except 
 it may be the measures that are on foot to return Popish sheriffs 
 for every county in Ireland.” 
 
 “ What is to be done ?” said more than one of the company, 
 speaking together. 
 
 “ What, indeed,” echoed the reverend president of chapter, 
 “ when Protestants are thus jostled in all their immunities in 
 Church and State ?” 
 
 “ If it is sought,” said Edmund, “ to displace all Protestants 
 and Protestant influence, in order to substitute Catholics and 
 Catholic influence, exclusively, let Protestants resist to ihe last 
 drop of blood in their veins ; but if, after a season of Protestant 
 monopoly, it is only sought to allow Catholics, in common with 
 
112 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 other fellow-subjects, the opportunities according to which they 
 may grow, with equal merit or industry, equally distinguished or 
 independent, then let Protestants pause before they risk, by a 
 resistance, which, after all, can spring only from a reaching after 
 continued monopoly, the peace, happiness, and blood of this 
 miserable country.” 
 
 “ Ay, but, M’Donnell,” said Evelyn, as all present stared at his 
 friend, “the violent manner of these proceedings would seem to 
 make unnecessary the last case you have put.” 
 
 “ I take as granted,” resumed Edmund, “ that I have, for the 
 first time, indeed, heard truly related the manner and spirit of 
 this Tyrconnell’s measures ; and I admit that, upon such a show¬ 
 ing, Irish Protestants have cause to fear worse than equality 
 with their Roman Catholic fellow-subjects. But even so, I main¬ 
 tain that his measures and their spirit are encroachments, as well 
 upon the instructions he has received, as upon the real and sincere 
 views of Roman Catholics, in general. I say, Evelyn, that 
 neither the king, his master, nor yet the Roman Catholics of 
 this or the other country, wish to disturb the established religion 
 of the State, the established right of property, or the eligibility 
 to civil aud political power of auy sect or party.” 
 
 “ The youth speaks, I think, reasonably,” said another reverend 
 person, one of the same sentiments with those who, some years 
 after, were, in consequence of their scrupulous ideas of heredita¬ 
 ry right, called in England non-jurors. “ The professions of the 
 new king are to grant liberty of conscience to his people of every 
 sect ; witness the truth of his intentions in his indulgence to dis¬ 
 senters. And I do agree that we should pause to distinguish 
 between being deprived of the opportunity to monopolize, and 
 the freedom to participate—between changing places, and only 
 sharing places—with the hitherto excluded sect. As to the 
 oigoted fury of Tyrconnel, I again agree with the young speak¬ 
 er, that no instructions, known to us, which he has received, war¬ 
 rant him in indulging it ; and here”—laying his hand on a public 
 document—“ here is a declaration of the Popish lords, Arundel, 
 Powis, and Bellasis, lately admitted into the royal privy council, 
 saying of him, ‘ that fellow in Ireland is fool and madman enough 
 to ruin ten kingdoms.’ ” 
 
 “ Dr. Oates charged him with the plot,” observed the Rev 
 William King ; “ and, if the worthy doctor was a bad evidence, 
 he was no false prophet, as the saying is.” 
 
 “ But to the point, reverend brother,” urged the last speaker j 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 113 
 
 u if, after a rebellious attack on his crown by his bastard nephew, 
 and the old disturbers of royalty, King James has natural fears 
 of the fealty of such, in this kingdom, as fought against his 
 father, Charles I., why should we much wonder at the late mil¬ 
 itary reductions ? If the test oath be dispensed with, and, by 
 that means, Papists rendered eligible to commissions in the army, 
 to places on the bench, in the civic chair, or in the sheriff’s box, 
 are Protestants excluded at the same time ? There are yet 
 officers, soldiers, judges, and aldermen of the Established 
 Church, and there may be. Therefore, I say again, let us con¬ 
 sider ere we think of openly resisting this first act of sovereign 
 power, which seems so much to fright us all, lest men should say 
 we opposed our king, not because we were to be deprived of our 
 freedom or our rights, but because we were called on to divide 
 them.” 
 
 “ Or,” rejoined Edmund, “ lest such opposition, working upon 
 the natural passions of a king, who is no more than man after 
 all, should provoke him from the reasonable assertion of justice 
 into the rash and angry enforcement of it ; and so, indeed, give 
 ultimate cause for struggle, rancor, and bloodshed.” 
 
 “ The attempt to dispense with the tests is arbitrary, not 
 reasonable,” resumed the Rev. William King ; “ parliament 
 alone could have cancelled the law.” 
 
 “ Your pardon, brother ; the example of a number of kings of 
 England, as far back as Henry III., the admissions of many 
 English parliaments, and the opinions of the many good lawyers, 
 are there at issue with you. So late as James I., after a new 
 consultation of judges, it became an established principle in 
 English jurisprudence, that the king could permit what was for¬ 
 bidden by statue law. The very House of Commons who com¬ 
 pelled from James’s father the petition of right, acknowledged 
 that principle in its fullest extent ; none but the regicide parlia¬ 
 ment denied it. And after they and their monstrous acts have 
 been denounced and swept away by the rallied voice of the 
 nation, we are not surely going to vindicate ourselves by either. 
 Sir Edward Coke, the light of our Protestant lawyers, has con¬ 
 firmed the privilege of the sovereign, adding, that even an act of 
 parliament cannot take it away. The majority of James’s own 
 Protestant counsellors echo all these opinions ; and so, thus the 
 question stands. Call the privilege, if you will, unsuited to the 
 genius of the constitution. We have unanimously given James 
 a crown, to which we knew it was immemorially appended ; we 
 
114 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 nave not, beforehand, bargained with him not to use it. We 
 have, in fact, conferred it on him, along with his crown ; his 
 right to it has, by ourselves, been fully though tacitly acknow¬ 
 ledged. And is it now fair, in the nature of common justice, to 
 blame him for accepting and exercising what our own hands 
 have put into his ? Or is it only when its exercise happens 
 to interfere with our monopoly, that we are to deprive of his 
 ancient right our lawful sovereign ?” 
 
 “ Universal Papistry is the real object in all these wanton 
 measures,” replied the other divine ; “ the queen, a violent 
 Papist, rules the king ; Father Petre, the Jesuit, rules her 
 majesty. And hath he not also been called to the privy coun¬ 
 cil ? I say, something must be done,” the reverend gentleman 
 added, rising to go away. 
 
 “ And so say I,” echoed Coote, smiling grimly, and tapping 
 the hilt of his sword. 
 
 The company rose with him ; and Evelyn and Edmund were 
 left alone with their host to arrange the matters which, ere 
 Evelyn’s voyage over the Atlantic, had brought him to Dublin. 
 This effected, the young men retired for the night, neither ex¬ 
 changing a word upon the late topic of general discourse. They 
 met at breakfast in the morning, they walked to the vessel in 
 which Evelyn was to embark, still keeping silence. At last, 
 during the final preparations for embarking, Evelyn asked, look¬ 
 ing full into the face of his friend : 
 
 “ Well, what think you of this state of things, M’Don- 
 nell ?” 
 
 “Asa Roman Catholic, Evelyn, I must think that the deter¬ 
 mination of King James to dispense with the illiberal forms 
 which exclude from all civil and political rank a great portion of 
 his subjects, is equitable. After the uncontradicted assertions of 
 my reverend seconder, last night, I must believe it is his privilege 
 so to do ; but I also fear, that if now opposed, in equity and 
 privilege, by proud churchmen and slender politicians on the 
 one side, while he is equally inflamed and misguided by church¬ 
 men as haughty and politicians as slender on the other side, King 
 James may be driven into methods of enforcing his plain right, or 
 of punishing resistance to it, such as will, once more, involve 
 these kingdoms in anarchy, tear asunder the social ties that have 
 just been tenderly formed, array heart against heart—brother 
 against brother ; and,” Edmund continued, as his eyes ran over, 
 “confirm in wretchedness and degradation the wretched and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 115 
 
 degraded country you have now the happiness to part from. 
 Farewell!—the boat waits you.” 
 
 “ Farewell, M’Donnell!” They shook hands, and were sepa¬ 
 rated. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Again we must pass over much time that, we candidly admit, 
 we are not otherwise able to manage. The sisterly sorrows of 
 Eva and Esther at the absence of Evelyn ; the efforts of young 
 M’Dounell to make both forget their loss, and his partial suc¬ 
 cess with one, at least—all this the fair reader will please to 
 imagine ;—together with how they spent their time, in reading, 
 walking, music, and edifying conversation. Some general mat¬ 
 ters come, however, more immediately under our notice, and are 
 cognizable by even humble capacities. 
 
 Soon after Evelyn’s departure, his sister (her health now well 
 established, though even amid the sunshine of love, and of her 
 lover’s smile, the young lady’s spirits wore an unaccountable 
 melancholy), Uncle Paul, his lady, and Uncle Jerry, removed to 
 their house on the banks of Lough Neagh, accompanied by Eva, 
 and with the hope of a speedy visit from Edmund. He did, in¬ 
 deed, soon join them. Once more by the side of that great 
 lake—a fresh-water sea, as we believe it has been called—the 
 young trio resumed their endless walks, and repetitions of the 
 same ideas and feelings. But, though thus fallen into his old 
 habits of luxurious inaction, M’Donnell did not, as formerly, shut 
 his ears, or allow himself to remain indifferent to the occurrence 
 of some things, and the rumors of others, in the real world. A 
 portion of his time had, previous to his present visit to Lough 
 Neagh, been spent at the castle of his cousin, the earl of An¬ 
 trim ; and from that veteran and watchful politician he could not 
 fail to be informed of certain changes in opinions and measures, 
 for which the times were but too remarkable. Nor, when he 
 arrived among his friends, did Edmund lack continued informa¬ 
 tion of new events, though, it must be owned, they were con¬ 
 veyed in a coloring different from that in which matters had lately 
 been represented to him. Mrs. Evelyn boasted her female cor- 
 
116 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 respondents in London and Derry ; ladies of about her own age, 
 and of something of her turn of mind, too. So that, by vo¬ 
 luminous epistles from the former-mentioned city, she was advised 
 of the speedy approach of universal Papistry ; while from the 
 latter-mentioned, came weekly dispatches of the same nature, 
 joined to assurances of a great massacre, by the Papists, of 
 all the Protestants in Ireland, to take place, according to the 
 yet vaguely understood prophecies of Collum-Kill (half of the 
 name an apt one), some time towards the close of the year—day 
 and date not yet exactly known. But, as zealous men were 
 at work to ascertain both, Mrs. Evelyn might be assured 
 her dear friend would soon communicate the result. 
 
 The best of it was, that only a short time previous to Mrs. 
 Evelyn’s removal from the seashore, an old woman, the nurse of 
 Edmund, came one day, running as fast as she was able, pillaloo- 
 ing, and out of breath, and squatted down, on her knees and 
 heels, before the astonished lady, to beg her protection against 
 a universal murdering of the Roman Catholics by the Protest¬ 
 ants, then also calculated on with the utmost certainty. Soon 
 after, Mrs. Evelyn received her first hints that the matter 
 was to be all the other way. And as the old woman con¬ 
 tinued her clamorous suit, many scenes of contradiction, and at 
 last of scolding, ensued between them ; each angry of the charges 
 of the other against her own sect; each rancorously believing 
 any thing bad enough for Papists or heretics to do ; each certain 
 of the speedy occurrence of horrors beyond all powers of imagina¬ 
 tion ; and each terribly frightened, of course. And the whole of 
 this would have proved amusing, had the questions been exclu¬ 
 sively discussed by individuals such as the old nurse, Mrs. Eve¬ 
 lyn, and her correspondents. But when, for a long time, hordes 
 of the Roman Catholics of the country, strong, able-bodied fel¬ 
 lows, might be found night after night, lying out in solitary and 
 waste places to escape the great massacre ; when documents, ex¬ 
 pressive of their fears, were forwarded to England by persons of 
 the same persuasion, though of rank and education seemingly 
 sufficient to elevate them out of such vulgar terrors ; and when, 
 very soon after the advices of Mrs. Evelyn’s affectionate friends, 
 men as high and as "well educated, on the Protestant side, were 
 found to countenance and increase the second popular panic, 
 what, under such circumstances, shall be said of human nature ? 
 One may laugh at the visions and terrors of an old lady or an 
 old woman, but not so at the indiscriminate absurdity which thus 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 117 
 
 enfeebles the minds of rational people, and causelessly excites 
 the active rancor of a divided people. 
 
 More than one letter came, of course, from Evelyn, to console 
 his sister and her friend for his absence, as well as to give 
 accounts of the favorable progress of his affairs. A third or 
 fourth arrived, accompanied by one for Uncle Paul and another 
 for Uncle Jerry. Evelyn was of age, and coming home ; and his 
 epistle to Eva was to urge the naming of a day, within a week 
 after the time it would take him to get home, for their union. 
 Those to his uncles communicated the state of his affections, and 
 asked their consent. The epistle for Uncle Paul came inclosed 
 to Uncle Jerry, with a request to the latter uncle to hand it, in 
 private, to the former, and procure a written consent, as Evelyn 
 had before planned, ere Mrs Evelyn should see it. Merry Jerry 
 readily obeyed his instructions ; and setting to work with a 
 tact one would not suppose him capable of, soon got Paul to 
 write, in answer, a full permission, yea, blessing, for the nuptials 
 of his dear nephew. After this, the young party, accompanied by 
 the conscious Jerry, set out upon a long excursion, leaving the 
 house in possession of Paul and his lady ; and when they returned, 
 Paul was sitting in a corner, looking (Jerry whispered) as if he 
 had been whipped, and Mrs. Evelyn busy, with closed lips, which 
 she did not open to salute her niece or their friends, in making vio¬ 
 lent preparations for a journey to Derry, early on the next morning. 
 
 “ Powder-room on fire ! up we go in the hoisting of a gib 1” 
 said Jerry to Edmund, as they entered after the young ladies; 
 and, indeed, as soon his sister-in-law saw him, she gave a pre¬ 
 paratory fizz. 
 
 “ You—let—me—have—that—paper—brother—Jerry,” she 
 said, tugging hard, between every word, at a trunk she was 
 cording. 
 
 “ What paper, sister Janet ?” he asked, very simply. 
 
 “ No matter—I need not describe it ; thou knowest well the 
 paper I mean.” 
 
 “ Bless my limbs, how could I know, Janet ?” 
 
 “ Give me directly,” she resumed, letting go the trunk, which 
 then tumbled off the chair, flew open, and afforded vent to a 
 bundle of hard-crammed things, among which were many bottles, 
 small and great, green and transparent, that the fall reduced into 
 shivers, while their various contents splashed over the floor ; 
 “ give me directly, I say,” fully ignited by the accident, “ the 
 letter you forced Mr. Evelyn to write to his base nephew.” 
 
118 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ I would if I could, sister ; but it has gone long ago for the 
 post”—though Jerry well knew he was to keep it till Evelyn’s 
 arrival, and so had never sent it for the post. “ Lend a hand,” 
 he continued to Edmund, in a whisper, “ if she boards me on a 
 search.” 
 
 “ Thou wilt not ?” resumed the lady, approaching. 
 
 “Why, look you, sister, I cannot,” getting Edmund between 
 him and his relative. 
 
 “ Then beg and starve 1” Mrs. Evelyn went on ; “ for a foot in¬ 
 side my door thou shalt never set. My bread thou shalt never 
 eat, my cup never drink again. Too long hast thou done so, in 
 idleness, and worse, in beastly drunkenness.” 
 
 “ Merry I was, sister, doubtless.” 
 
 “ After thy life of sea-roving and sea-robbing, and, mayhap, 
 something else ; ay, home you came to fatten, lazily, on the 
 hard earnings of honest folk. But take my warning, never let 
 me see thy face at my door 1” 
 
 “Poor I was, poor I am, sister Janet, and poor I shall be, 
 but hearty ; poor on the sea, on land, in your house, and in 
 others, but hearty still. And though you discharge me, some 
 other will want a hand, and so hearty still and still ; or let the 
 whole fleet say me nay, hearty, hearty forever! that’s Jerry’s 
 word!” 
 
 “As to thee, madam niece,” Mrs. Evelyn rejoined, not deigning 
 to take further notice of him, “ no use, I suppose, in asking thee 
 to join your natural protectors early to-morrow morning.” 
 
 “ I am in my brother’s house, madam ; and, till he comes 
 home, will have the protection of my Uncle Jeremiah.” 
 
 “ Will you ?” interrupted Jerry, running to salute her. “ Hearty 
 and merry, then, we will be! Let her go 1” in a confidential 
 whisper. 
 
 “ I see how it is, lady niece ; this is not to end in the intro¬ 
 duction of one beggarly Papist, alone, into the family,” scowling 
 at Edmund. “ But do, do have them—have them both ; and 
 look well to your throats afterwards, at the end of the year. As 
 to me,” she continued, clasping her hands, glancing upwards, and 
 ending in the pathetic, “ as for me and my husband, and the other 
 good and unhappy Protestants of this afflicted land, the merciful 
 Providence that has ever shielded us, will' not now see us perish ; 
 come, Paul!” She rushed out of the apartment, and obedient 
 Paul, pattering rapidly on his little legs and cane, followed her. 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn kept her word. Next morning, at daybreak, she 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 119 
 
 departed for Derry city. A few days after, Edmund also under¬ 
 took a journey to Carrickfergus, to meet Evelyn on his landing, 
 as his letter intimated that he should embark from an English 
 port for that town. The lady of the earl of Antrim had some 
 time been expecting a visit from the two sisters, and previous to 
 Edmund’s departure, it was arranged that they should go, during 
 his absence, to Glenarm Castle. 
 
 Accordingly he accompanied them thither ; and afterwards 
 spent, under his father’s roof, the night previous to his intended 
 setting out for Carrickfergus. The next morning his dumb uncle 
 aroused him with looks and a manner of unusual energy. Ed¬ 
 mund, arising quickly, collected from his signs that his favorite 
 roadster had been stolen, overnight, from the field in which it 
 usually grazed; and all around him concurred in attributing the 
 theft to “ The Tories,” or “ The Rapparees,” names used in com¬ 
 mon—though one of them has since become the honorable ap¬ 
 pellation of honorable men—to describe the bands of freebooters 
 who were then beginning to be heard of in Ireland. 
 
 “ An’ it’s them that lifted hur horse,” added some that could 
 attempt Euglish, “ wid Rory-na-chopple” (Rory of the horses) 
 “ at their head, if he’s alive to do it. For, barrin him, an’ we 
 that the baste knows, no man in the north could lay hands on 
 wild Pawdhrick, hur honor’s own coult.” 
 
 This accident was provoking at such a time. Edmund had no 
 second horse half so well able for a rapid journey over very bad 
 roads ; yet, as delay was out of the question, he resolved to do 
 the best he could. So, procuring but an indifferent animal, and 
 accompanied by his dumb uncle and Oliver, both equally anxious 
 at once to protect him from the Tories, and to welcome Evelyn 
 home, M’Donnell bent his way to Carrickfergus. 
 
 With much difficulty he urged on his feeble and ill-paced steed 
 to within the last stage of Carrickfergus ; and there it dropped, 
 exhausted and in convulsions, under him, on a wild road-side, out 
 of view of any house at which he might hope to borrow or pur¬ 
 chase another. Casting his eyes impatiently around, he saw, 
 however, a handsome and well-limbed colt grazing in a field near 
 the road. Further on, and on a rising ground, stood a man, as 
 if observing Edmund’s accident, who, he hoped, might be its 
 master. To this man he therefore moved, with his companions. 
 His calculations proved correct; the peasant was, or said he was, 
 the proprietor of the young horse—willing to part with him. A 
 bargain was soon concluded. 
 
120 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEft. 
 
 “ It’s the only bother you’ll have is to ketch him,” observed 
 the man, when he had put up the purchase-money, and speaking 
 a southern patois ; “ when he’s in the field, he’s the devil entirely 
 in regard o’ that.” 
 
 “But supposing him caught, can I ride him, my good-fellow? 
 has he ever been crossed ?” inquired Edmund, who, in his eager¬ 
 ness to obtain the horse, had asked few questions as to his quali 
 fieations. 
 
 “ Musha, to be sure it has, many’s the odd time ; and nevei 
 the much he’s the better o’ that same.” 
 
 “No matter,” resumed Edmund, who complimented himself on 
 much skill in the management of horse-flesh ; “Ill catch him and 
 tame him too.” 
 
 He bounded into the field after the colt. At his first appear¬ 
 ance, the animal threw up his head, snorted, and gave one or 
 two wheels round about ; when Edmund approached nearer, he 
 kicked up his heels, and galloped buoyantly, and as if in mock¬ 
 ery, across the meadow. His pursuer, changing his plan, stopped 
 some time, and then slowly advanced again, holding out his cap, 
 and using his softest tones of entreaty : but all to no use ; the colt 
 either waited until he was about to come too near, and then re¬ 
 sumed his race, or else did not let Edmund within forty yards of him. 
 
 “ Curse you then,” M’Donnell cried, standing to look, near the 
 road-side, at the mad pranks of the horse he had purchased, but 
 could not catch ; “ curse you for a wild devil ; the only colt, 
 except my own that I have lost, I could not lay hands on at the 
 first offer. He is like Pawdriek, too, in make, though so differ¬ 
 ent in color.” 
 
 “ It minds me,” said Oliver, condescending to mirth, “ of the auld 
 receipt to make hare-soup, beginning thus—first catch the hare.” 
 
 “ I’ll try him again,” said Edmund. 
 
 “Little’s the use to go about it that a-way,” observed a man, 
 a traveller, but a pedestrian, who, advancing in the direction our 
 friends had come, now halted at the almost unfenced edge of the 
 field that bordered on the road. 
 
 “ And in what way then, friend ?” M'Honnell asked, turning 
 to the speaker, whose first appearance instantly attracted his at¬ 
 tention. The man was of middle-age, barefooted and bare¬ 
 legged, and bareheaded too, his profuse and matted black hair 
 seemingly encouraged in its growth to do away with the super 
 fluity of a hat; his neck had a strange twist in it ; his body 
 stooped a little from the hips ; his nethor limbs were crooked 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 121 
 
 and ill-jointed, so that when he walked his gait appeared half¬ 
 shuffling, half-hobbling ; and his face, of a tanned, tawny color, 
 showed small black pig-eyes, crow-footed and wrinkled all round, 
 and a mouth ever smiling, or simpering rather, of which the ele¬ 
 vating muscles of the upper lip, that ran down from the nose, 
 were, from constant use, strongly marked. The old coat and 
 inexpressibles he wore, seemed of southern fashion and color ; 
 and at his heels trotted a little bov, bareheaded and barefooted 
 also, attending on him with something of the air of a young 
 sweep of the present day pattering after his overgrown director. 
 
 “ I could soon show you, genteels, in what way,” this master 
 resumed, answering Edmund’s question, “ only it’s my thrade, 
 afther a manner, an’ I lives by it.” 
 
 “ And that’s the very reason, I should suppose, why you ought 
 to show me instantly, instead of being a cause for your objec¬ 
 tion, friend.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you !” simpering, and shuffling a step forward, 
 “ barrin it war in regard o’ the thrifle o’ lucre, that the neigh¬ 
 bors, God bless ’em, gi’ me the fashion o’ lookin’ for.” 
 
 “ Oh, is that all? Catch the colt then, and depend on being 
 paid for your trouble.” 
 
 “No throuble in life,” taking a step into the field ; “bud,” 
 stopping again, “ maybe, genteel, you’d as lieve throw it to us 
 aforehand, jest to save time, and see the coult well-cotched ?” 
 
 “ My good fellow,” said Edmund, beginning to suspect his man, 
 “no colt, no pay ; so set to work, or go about your business.” 
 
 “Musha, haw um sauxtha; sure it’s all as one as the same 
 thing,” the man resumed, not a whit out of humor. He moved 
 towards the young horse, crying out, or rather simpering : 
 
 “ Phree-a, phree-a , go-aun-sugh, go-aun-sugh, brommaheen 
 dhuiv” (come here, come here, young black horse). The colt 
 stopped, and gazed wistfully on the stranger, who, not advancing 
 more than midway in the field, stood still, contenting himself 
 with merely beckoning to the animal. M’Donnell, to his perfect 
 amazement, saw the colt walk towards this conjuror, and submit 
 his head to his grasp. Both came together to the unfeuced 
 road-side, and there halted. 
 
 “ Fon lath, fon lath ,” continued the captor ; “fon lath, avich ” 
 (stand there, stand there, my son). The horse remained quiet as 
 lamb. 
 
 “Well caught, indeed,” said Edmund, giving the man some 
 money; “ but how have you done it ?” 
 
 e 
 
122 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Nothin’ asier in life,” putting up his fee, and still simpering 
 very iunocently ; “ only it’s jest a little bit of a sacret that I had 
 from the father afore me, an’ ’ill leave to this son that is to come 
 afther me,” pointing to the boy, “ an’ no one else, plaise God. 
 But I may as well tell you, genteel, some of it. Sure I give ’em 
 a whisper, that they hears acrass the field, an’ nobody else can • 
 an’ then they’d come to me, two fields aff, an’ folly me the world 
 over, out of a likin’ they takes to me, or a thing o’ the kind. 
 Look at them now,” he continued, pointing to the rudely-fenced 
 extremities of the field, over which more than one horse had, in¬ 
 deed, thrust their heads, while others actually cleared the fence 
 and seemed well inclined to approach the stranger. 
 
 “ And from whom did your father get the secret ?” 
 
 “ Why, then, I jest may’s well tell you that too, genteel, while 
 the man is liftin’ the saddle from the one baste to put it on the 
 other. The father that God ga’ me follied the thrade o’ making 
 o’ shoes for horses’ feet, an’ had a bit of a forge, you see, on the 
 borders o’ the bog of Allen, where people frum all parts used to 
 cum to get their bastes shoed ; an’ a good hand at his trade my 
 father war, only one thing gave him the laste bit o’ throuble in 
 the world, an’ that was shorn’ o’ young wild coults for the first 
 time, cratures that never afore could tell a shoe from the horn o’ 
 their hoofs, an’ for the same raison didn’t like it, an’ wouldn’t 
 stand steady. Well, a-roon ; one day that he had a raal mad 
 coult in his hands, my father couldn’t dhrive a nail, nor put on 
 the shoe at all at all, an’ the coult broke loose from him in the 
 long-run, and galloped into the bog, lavin’ him standin’ at the 
 forge-dour, wid his hommer in his hand, as bothered as a bee in 
 a fallow-field.* Upon that, up comes a lame throoper wid a pale 
 face, that said he was on the road home from the wars. It 
 happened in Ould Noll’s time (what ails the genteel by the side 
 o’ you ?) an’ he axed for a dhrink o’ wather. ‘ Wather I won’t 
 gi’ you, bud milk I will,’ my father made answer, pityin’ the lame 
 throoper’s case, bothered as he was ; so they turned into the 
 forge, an’ he made the throoper sit down an’ dhrink the good 
 nfilk. ‘Well,’ the throoper said, after a rest, ‘it rises my heart 
 eq’l to red wine ; an’ for your charity to the thraveller that cum 
 lame an’ tired to your dour this day, I’ll tell you how to ketch 
 
 * I. e. f out of his element, or not knowing wliat to do ; as the bee in 
 a fallow-field flies from one clod to another, and has his labor for liii 
 pains—no honey to be got. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 12? 
 
 the coult that broke frum you afore I came in sight o 7 tht 
 place.’ 
 
 “ ‘ An’ how did you know it at all, thin V my father axed. 
 
 “‘Never mind that/ says the throoper ; ‘only listen to me 
 well . 7 Wid that, young genteel, he said in my father’s ear some 
 words, biddin’ him to whisper them acrass the field, an’ the horse 
 hid come, if the divil itself war in him, to his hand. An 7 agin he 
 whispered more words, that whin they 7 d be whispered in like 
 manner in a horse’s ear, let him be ould or young, or to be crossed 
 or shoed, 7 ud bring him to raison, an 7 make him stand like a lamb, 
 so that a child might rise his leg or mount him. An 7 sure enough, 
 when my father went into the bog, an 7 whispered the first words 
 to the coult, he came to him like a little dog ; an 7 when he said 
 the second words in his ear, at the forge-dour, he stood like a 
 child for a whippin 7 . An 7 ever afther my father, God rest him, 
 had no bother in his thrade ; an 7 people called him the Whis¬ 
 perer from that day out, the same they calls mysef at the 
 present time. Only whin my father cum back to the forge to 
 give the sick throoper thanks, sure he was gone, an 7 no sight of 
 him on the road for miles about, an 7 no one hard of him sence, 
 or before, I 7 m thinkin 7 , barrin 7 himsef an 7 whosomever sent him. 7; 
 
 “Standi stand there ! 77 now interrupted Edmund, roaring at 
 the colt, which, at last bridled and saddled, refused to let himself 
 be mounted. His new master once or twice strove to vault sud¬ 
 denly on his back, but the excessive bounding and prancing of 
 the spirited young animal baffled him. 
 
 “ Talkin’ so loud isn’t the way, neither,” said the Whisperer ; 
 “jest let mysef spake to him agin.” 
 
 And as he hobbled forward, the colt became quieter ; suffered 
 him to catch his ear and lower his head ; and the man seemed 
 about to put his lips to the ear, when he stopped suddenly, and 
 turning to M’Donnell, resumed : “ You’ll remember, genteel, it’s 
 another branch o’ the thrade ? 77 
 
 “ There, there , 77 throwing more money on the road, and im¬ 
 patient of losing time ; “ get me on his back, and go to the devil . 77 
 
 “ We thank you kindly, genteel , 77 looking after the second 
 fee “ Stoop a bit, ma bouchal , an 7 pick up what God sends . 77 
 The urchin accordingly gathered the money from the road, 
 while his father applied himself to the colt’s ear. No one heard 
 his whisper, if whisper it was ; but, in a moment, the animal 
 stood stock-still, his tail turned between his legs, and his whole 
 frame trembling. 
 
124 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ There, now, get up; an’ the Lord speed y mr open hand 
 on the road,” added the Whisperer. 
 
 Edmund accordingly mounted at his ease, and set forward to 
 Carrickfergus, with his friends ; his new purchase quite man¬ 
 ageable, though still spirited. When some distance from the 
 Whisperer, he turned in his saddle to have another look at a 
 person so gifted, and he thought he perceived him and the man 
 with whom he had dealt for the horse, laughing and chuckling, 
 in a knowing way, together ; but in a few minutes he looked 
 again, and the Whisperer had parted from the peasant, and was 
 rapidly shuffling on after the travellers, followed at a quick trot 
 by the little boy. An angle of the road soon hid him alto¬ 
 gether from Edmund ; and the party reached Carrickfergus 
 without further sight of him. 
 
 It was on a chill, dark evening, early in the October of 1688, 
 that they entered the town. The streets were filled with groups 
 of people, talking earnestly together ; their brows and faces as 
 gloomy and ominous as the evening ; and their voices not rising 
 high enough to give even the relief of clatter to the scene. 
 These, Edmund could perceive, by their dress and air, to be the 
 Protestant inhabitants. Passing “ the Queene’s Majestic’s cas- 
 tell,” the party got into the place where markets were holden ; 
 and here was another crowd, of a different kind. It had been a 
 market-day; and the peasantry that, from an extensive vicinity, 
 all round, had attended the market, joined to such of the towns¬ 
 people as were of the Catholic persuasion, clustered about a 
 young man, who, wearing a sword and periwig, along with what 
 otherwise seemed a clerical costume, harangued them from a 
 turf-car. 
 
 His discourse was at once vague and alarming. He spoke 
 to them of a time that was past, and a time that was coming ; 
 of the pouring out of certain of the seven vials, of the right¬ 
 eousness of self-defence, and the moral and religious necessity to 
 anticipate, under terror of the loss of life, and of injury to God’s 
 Church, retaliation by attack. He put the people on their guard 
 against false preachers—firebrands of heresy and destruction, 
 who were travelling about to kindle, among their enemies, the 
 flame that would roar to devour them ; and he particularly 
 named a heretic minister, named George Walker, called rector 
 of Donoughmore, in the county of Tyrone, who was distinguished 
 for devilish zeal against the Catholic religion. Then, changing 
 his theme, with some address, the young man warned them that 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 125 
 
 they were not, in such a dangerous situation, to wait for the 
 cold and tardy command of rulers, lukewarm and hard-hearted 
 to the voice of a suffering people, and the groans of a persecuted 
 religion ; that if such rulers did not discharge their functions, 
 he would turn from them to the people, who always attended 
 to the counsel of their clergy. He concluded by this remark¬ 
 able illustration : that as God abandoned Saul in his lukewarm¬ 
 ness, and for his treatment of the Amalekites, took his kingdom 
 from him, and ruined his family ; as certainly would he punish 
 all who should be guilty of a similar disobedience ; adding, that 
 as, at that time, the people were commanded to take all their 
 directions from Samuel, as from God, so, under a like dispensa¬ 
 tion, would the people of the present day be obliged, at the peril 
 of their souls, to listen to the bidding of their pastors. 
 
 “ Good heaven 1” cried Edmund, almost unconsciously, as the 
 preacher ended ; “ what can this warning mean ?” 
 
 “ It means,” answered a person by his side, “ that this evil 
 man, a Papist minister, not satisfied with even the gallop at 
 which his master hastens to his ruin, when he but thinks to com¬ 
 pass ours, would rouse up the brutal bigotry of his sect, to crush 
 him and us together—us, in deep-rooted hatred, him, in impa¬ 
 tience and wrath. This is O’Haggerty, the Dominican friar, the 
 plague and danger of the north.” 
 
 The preacher just tnen passed them, bending on M’Donnell a 
 fixed and peculiar regard. In him Edmund saw, indeed, the 
 same person who had met Evelyn, his sister, and their friends, 
 outside Carrickfergus, as mentioned at the opening of this story ; 
 though his face and manner were much changed by the periwig 
 and half-military dress and air he had lately adopted. 
 
 “ Observe the previous effects of this accurst ministry on the 
 ci owd he has been addressing ; see—almost every man and lad 
 is armed with the skein, or the half-pike, or with both,” continued 
 the stranger. And M’Donnell could not fail to notice that the 
 people were, indeed, armed, as had been pointed out; he also 
 recollected that, for some time before, the peasantry in his own 
 neighborhood generally carried weapons of the same description. 
 
 “ God defend us from either of the results this rash man would 
 aim at, sir !” M’Donnell involuntarily said. 
 
 The individual (also mounted) looked at him quickly, aud as if 
 somewhat surprised and startled. Then, touching his hat, and 
 keeping his cloak tight about him, he rode slowly down the 
 street. 
 
126 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 A stir towards the end of the street that approached the quay- 
 wall, drew the notice of M’Donnell and his friends. Hastening 
 thither, they were told a ship had just appeared in view, 
 steering for the bay. In much interest and anxiety, Edmund 
 looked over the ocean ; but, to his eyes, all was one blank mass 
 of water, mist, and heavy clouds. A man handed him a tele¬ 
 scope, with which he had, himself, spied the vessel, and M’Don¬ 
 nell could then discover the shadowy form of a ship, emerging, 
 like a pale sea-spectre, through the fog and drizzling rain of the 
 cheerless evening. 
 
 “She is nearer than you think, too,” the man said ; “ the haze 
 hides her. In a short time ) ou will see her cast anchor.” 
 
 It was even as the experienced old fisher said. Scarce ten 
 minutes had elapsed when the vessel became visible to the naked 
 eye ; in ten more, her motion was observable, as she strove hard 
 with a rough sea and an ebb tide ; another pause, and her crew 
 and passengers appeared grouped on her deck, and she could be 
 seen hoisting a flag, in honor of the royal standard that floated 
 over the old fortress. Yet another—and amid the faces that 
 silently turned to shore, M’Donnell gazed with a beating heart to 
 try if he could discover the face of his friend—of the brother of 
 his Esther. Even at too great a distance he selected one, and 
 kept his eyes riveted upon it; the vessel hove nearer and nearer 
 —he became more and more certain ; nearer still—and it was 
 the face of that friend, unseen for nearly two years, and coming 
 to him, over the ocean, from a burning sun and a strange people. 
 
 The friends recognized each other at the same moment, and 
 together waved their hats to each other. M’Donnell cheered ; 
 even Oliver chimed in ; the people around, straugers as they 
 were, caught up the joyous shout ; it was sent back from the 
 vessel, now just at anchor ; there was a bustle, a confused noise 
 of voices, and a crowding around the pier ; and, in another mo¬ 
 ment, the friends had clasped hands. 
 
 After a necessary pause, the party, with their newly-found vis¬ 
 itor, hastened to seek refreshment in the only inn, or public, the 
 town afforded. It was a thatched house, containing, for the 
 purpose of sitting, and eating, and drinking, of all comers, but 
 one large apartment, badly ceiled, earthen floored, whitewashed, 
 and with three or four deal tables, at each side of the fireplace, 
 or at its different ends, flanked by long deal forms. 
 
 A man with a wooden leg, a military cocked hat, a red coat, 
 and his remaining leg decked out with a clean white stocking, a 
 
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 127 
 
 well-brushed shoe, and a bright buckle, first attempted, as mas¬ 
 ter of the house, to show them into this room. He was shoved 
 aside by a fresh-faced, portly woman of forty, his spouse, who, 
 smoothing down her apron, seemed to think herself most worthy 
 of doing the honors of her tavern. They had a few words, in¬ 
 deed, on the point, before he yielded, from which it was evident 
 that the husband was an Englishman, corrupted by the Scottish 
 accent around him, and the wife a native Irishwoman, attempting 
 to speak his language ; but, at last, her emphatic—“ Yield, 
 Brass! will ye yield, mon ?” quite prevailed, and our friends 
 gained admission. 
 
 All the tables, with one exception, were filled by different com¬ 
 panies. At the one end of the room sat a number of peasantry, 
 some of those we have already seen in the market-place, collected 
 in twos and threes, from distant parts of the surrounding coun¬ 
 ties, which had once been wholly populated by people of their 
 caste and religion. At the other, an almost equal number of 
 townspeople, manufacturers, and fishers ; round the table, to the 
 right of the hearth, were half a dozen soldiers of the garrison. 
 The peasants talked loudly, in Irish ; the townspeople as much, 
 but in a lower tone ; the soldiers said nothing. But all were 
 employed in one common occupation—that is, the drinking of 
 strong ale. 
 
 Evelyn, Edmund, Oliver, and Con M’Donnell took possession 
 of the spare tables. Such a dinner as the house could afford 
 was laid before them ; and such as it was, all ate heartily. It 
 was removed, and replaced by good liquor of various kinds ; and 
 Evelyn and Edmund at last had time to ask and give much in¬ 
 formation about home, and all at home. Both then wished to 
 exchange opinions on another topic, but their situation, amongst 
 such a crowd of people, and finally, a toast proposed, in a cup 
 of ale, by one of the peasants, with its consequences, prevented 
 them. 
 
 “ Rhia Shamus Abo !” cried the man, raising his cup, and ad¬ 
 dressing himself to the whole room. None but his own party 
 jo ok notice. 
 
 ‘‘King Shamus!” repeated another, translating his friend’s 
 Irish, and also looking round, as if he called on every one to 
 pledge him. 
 
 “ King James I” said the soldiers quietly, and as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 “ King James!” echoed the townspeople whispering some- 
 
128 
 
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 thing, perhaps an addenda, to each other ; and, “King James I* 
 our party also repeated ; Oliver, however, moving his lips, ere 
 the cup touched them, and looking expressively at the natives of 
 the place. 
 
 “ Fat is doing hur tamned thief at ta hearth ?” asked the sec¬ 
 ond peasant who had spoken, “ will hur dhrink men Rhia Sha- 
 mus ?” 
 
 “ Yoursef is discoorsin’ mysef,” answered the Whisperer, who, 
 hitherto uunoticed by our friends, had edged himself, on the end 
 of one of the forms occupied by the soldiers, near to the fire, his 
 little son sitting at his feet ; “ but you can jest spake plainer, in 
 the English or the Irish, whichever you like, an’ then we’ll know 
 what it is you mane.” 
 
 “ You are required,” said Edmund, wishing to anticipate an 
 angry rejoinder from the offended linguist, “ to drink King 
 James’s health.” 
 
 “ Avoch, is that all ? Musha, here’s his health, wid a heart 
 an’ a half, an’ good loock to him ; an’ more loock nor some that 
 dhrank it afore had on their lips or in their hearts for him, may¬ 
 be.” 
 
 “ Curp-an-duoul!” cried the peasant, appropriating this in- 
 uendo, “ fat will hur say ?” He rose very angrily. 
 
 “ Asy now, a-vich !” the Whisperer answered, “ how do you 
 know I was spakin’ to you, at-all at-all ? Sure there’s more 
 people in the world nor yoursef, and them that’s along wid you ; 
 though it’s far an’ near a body might thravel, of a summer’s day, 
 an’ not meet sich a clane set o’ boys, an’ you at their head— Sha- 
 dhurth .” He nodded smilingly, and again drank. 
 
 “ Sha-dhurth a-bouchal ,” replied the peasant, others joining 
 him, while almost all held out their pottle-pots that the Whis¬ 
 perer might drink of their liquor. No ways tardy was he in 
 accepting the courtesy. 
 
 “Yon’s meaning our company,” observed one of the towns¬ 
 people, aloud ; “and he mocks us before the Irish-folk.” 
 
 “ He is one o’ them, his ain sel,” said Oliver. 
 
 “Do you speer ony thing at us, mon ?” inquired many voices. 
 
 “ Shpeer ? what ’ud that be. genteels !” said the Whisperer, 
 smiling simply, as they scowled at him. 
 
 “ Have you meant to accuse any of these gentlemen of hidden 
 disloyalty to King James?” Edmund again asked, still for peace 
 lake. 
 
 “ Me ! them good gintlemin ! Musha, ’ud I be mad, or 
 
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 129 
 
 cracked, to do any sich thing ? Civil, dacent people, like ’em, 
 that minds their callin’, an’ owes no ill-will to anybody. My 
 sarvice to you, genteels !” 
 
 “ Aweel ; health till you, lad ; and what for no taste of our 
 pint-stoup ?” they answered. 
 
 “ Never a know myself knows, then and dragging his ill¬ 
 framed limbs across the room, he took a long draught out of the 
 proffered pint. 
 
 “ Hark ye, good fellow !” said one of the soldiers, intercepting 
 him on his return to the ingle-corner, “hast any thing to say to 
 us ?” 
 
 “To be sure I have, then, and why wouldn’t I ? Hearty good 
 wishes every day ye get up, an’ my blessin’ over an’ over on the 
 sodgers that keeps all in pace an’ quietness, out o’ love an’ likin’ 
 for King James—God look down on him !” 
 
 “ A simple-witted fellow,” said the soldier to ms companions. 
 “ Here, then, let’s be friends, man and they, too, shoved him a 
 cup of ale, of which he did not drink sparingly. The soldiers 
 then called their reckoning, paid it, and went away. 
 
 “ Good loock to them, I say agin,” the Whisperer continued, 
 as he resumed his seat, “ for it’s them that won’t let poor bos- 
 thoons like us have it all our own way,” glancing at the peasants, 
 while he looked his meaning elsewhere. 
 
 “ Fat will hur mane now ?” said their spokesman, once more 
 rising wrathfully. 
 
 “ Sure you knows, whatever a poor boy like me manes, he 
 doesn’t mane ye ,” winking at them. They broke into a loud 
 roar of assent, and some rose to clasp his hand, and give him 
 more ale, gratis. 
 
 “No more nor the genteels foment ye,” he went on, seeing the 
 other table look threatening. “Sure none o’ them is auld enough 
 to remember Black Noll, any way, that came to kill us all for the 
 risin’ we had out o’ the love for King James’s father. An’ so 
 none o’ them ’ud want to kill us all now, over again, for likin’ his 
 father’s son.” 
 
 “ I remember my righteous namesake weel,” said Oliver ; “ and 
 I remember other things before his time in this land. I remem 
 ber the Forty-one.” 
 
 “ Why, then, your memory is nothin’ to brag of, a-vich,” ob 
 served the Whisperer, still simperingly. 
 
 “ And our forbears remember it too,” added the townspeople. 
 
 “That’s no fault o’ your own, genteels,” he replied. 
 
 6 * 
 
130 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ But is it mine, if I do ?” asked Oliver. 
 
 “ Troth, an’ it’s yoursef knows that best, a-bouchal machree ; 
 sure no one minds what a poor boy like me says ; one that was 
 burnt wid the frost the last hard year, an’ has no sense. Only— 
 bad loock, seed, breed, an’ generation, to the bloody dogs o’ the 
 Forty-one.” 
 
 “ Thou hast said it,” exclaimed Oliver sternly, and half-un¬ 
 sheathing a horseman’s old sword as he rose. The townspeople 
 rose with him ; and the peasants started up at the other end of 
 the room. 
 
 “ Pullaloo!” cried the Whisperer, the only unruffled person in 
 company, “do you ever ax yoursef what you’re goin’ to doafore- 
 hand ? A word in your ear, gossip.” Oliver was now near enough 
 to stoop down, still on his guard, and comply with this invitation. 
 “ Jest raison a bit, an’ thry in your own mind what bloody dogs 
 I mane the rest was a very close whisper. 
 
 “ Say’st thou ?” again asked Oliver. 
 
 “ Arrah, to be sure I do. There, now, sit down again wid the 
 genteels ; an’, stay—you an’ mysef didn’t dhrink a drop yet— 
 here, taste this. Musha, bad end to it, but it’s afther makin’ it- 
 sef empty!” 
 
 “Nathless shalt thou drink with me,” said Oliver; and he 
 brought from the table his own liquor, of which the Whisperer 
 did not spare a mouthful. 
 
 “ The chield can whisper to a purpose,” resumed some of the 
 townspeople. 
 
 “The man hath spoken words of plain sense,” said Oliver, 
 “ whilk sufficed to quiet me. He hath declared that he meant, 
 by his denouncing of the bloody dogs of the Forty-one, neither 
 me nor those of my persuasion.” 
 
 “ Musha, did I, gossip ?” resumed the Whisperer, now removed 
 from the hearth to a seat among the peasants ; “ maybe it’s jokin 
 you’d be ; or maybe it’s the burnin’ I got in the frost that bid 
 me say it. An’ maybe, agin, it’s the same thing bids me say now 
 —ill-end, kith an’ kin, root an’ branch, to the murtherin’ villains 
 of the Gobbins Heughs.” 
 
 “ Ha !” cried Oliver, starting to his feet, fully unsheathing his 
 sword, and aiming a furious slash at the Whisperer. One of the 
 peasants took it on a half-pike, and all sprang up with other half¬ 
 pikes, or rude skeins, iu their hands. At the same moment, the 
 townspeople rushed to support Noll, some of them showing pistols, 
 hitherto concealed, some seizing the pewter vessels. A man of 9 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 131 
 
 inperior air to the rest, whom our party did not before notice, 
 but whom Edmund recognized as the person that spoke to him in 
 the street after the friar’s sermon, put himself at their head, and 
 also presenting a pistol, cried— 
 
 “Down with the cruel Papists! down with them !” Just then 
 the door flew open, and in ran, followed by the host and hostess. 
 Friar O’Haggerty himself. He, too, drawing his sword, assumed 
 command of the peasants, encouraging them with— 
 
 “ Defend yourselves, Catholics, against the cruel heretics I” 
 
 “ Peace! peace ! w cried the landlord and landlady. 
 
 “ Peace ! peace !” echoed Edmund and Evelyn. 
 
 The dumb man bounded at Oliver’s throat like a mastiff*, in¬ 
 stantly got him down, and wrenched the sword from his hand. 
 Yet other weapons clashed, and more than one shot was fired, 
 when two new peacemakers entered ; one, old Priest M’Donnell, 
 of Cushindoll, another a tall, spare man, of very primitive dress, 
 manner, and appearance. The former, shaking more violently 
 than ever, seized O’Haggerty’s hands—he could reach no higher ; 
 the other confronted the leader of the townspeople. 
 
 “ I entreat you—I command you, sir !” cried the old priest; 
 “ obey me, as you are bound to do—sheath your sword.” Then 
 addressing the peasants in Irish, he similarly exhorted and com¬ 
 manded them. 
 
 “ Art thou a Christian ?” demanded the second peacemaker of 
 the other leader ; “ dost thou believe in the word as a message 
 of peace and good-will to all ? and yet wilt thou urge on these 
 poor sinful people to do murder ?” 
 
 “ Peace, I say! in the name of God, peace!” resumed 
 Priest M’Donnell ; “ and if the speaking of that name brings no 
 reason to thy mind—tremble, man, tremble !” 
 
 While these efforts "were made, the other unembroiled persons 
 of the company were not idle ; and in a short time hostilities 
 really ceased : the only persons who kept up a skirmish being the 
 landlord and landlady ; but as it was between themselves, it 
 seemed of little moment, except for our notice. Protestant and 
 Catholic as they were, their endeavors to make peace consisted in 
 rather violent assaults upon the parties they liked least in the 
 room ; and this soon bringing them in contact, ended in an as¬ 
 sault upon each other. So that, when every one else was quiet, 
 they were found scrambling in a remote and clear corner ; the 
 hostess, as was, indeed, usually the case in such domestic acci¬ 
 dents, having got her good man on his back, by tugging the 
 
132 
 
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 wooden leg from under him ; and she now held it tight, in a line 
 perpendicular to his body, as she asked, 
 
 “ Wull ye yield, Brass ?” 
 
 ‘ No, by G— ; I’ll doy mon-like,” he answered. 
 
 Her eyes flashed, and her face reddened with some hideous re¬ 
 solve, as she put both hands to the wooden stump ; but ere she 
 could carry auy thing into elFect, Edmund ran to her ; and finally, 
 Con M’Donnell whipt her up in his arms, carried her out of the 
 room, and returned with a key in his hand, which he presented to 
 the landlord. At the repeated exhortations of Father M’Don¬ 
 nell, the peasants retired ; after them, under guidance of the tall, 
 spare man, the townspeople. But when the room was so far 
 cleared, the old priest was seen to gaze in consternatiou at the 
 causer of the whole disturbance—the Whisperer, who stood shel¬ 
 tered, by the projection of the chimney, from all harm, his little 
 boy held in his arms, and simpering, like a fiend, amid the riot 
 he had called up. 
 
 “Sirs ?” cried the old man, continuing his agitated look, “see 
 ye that ? do spectres truly come amongst us ?” 
 
 “ You gaze but at flesh and blood, sir,” said Edmund ; “ we 
 know this man.” 
 
 “ Threu enough,” said the Whisperer. 
 
 “ It is yourself, then, Rory-na-cliopple 1” continued the priest. 
 
 “ Every inch o’ me, plase your reverance.” 
 
 All, except Evelyn, who had not heard of him, started at the 
 announcement of this famous Rapparee. 
 
 “ Good sirs!” continued the old man, “ as I am to be judged, 
 I confessed that fellow at the gallows’-foot, and saw him swing¬ 
 ing on it. Look at the twist in his neck!” 
 
 “ I’ll never deny their threatenin’ the life of an innocent poor 
 boy,” said Rory, “ that, afther all, the Lord wouldn’t let ’em 
 take, for a raison I knows. For when they cut me down, an’ 
 give the corpse to my people, the life was still wid me, an’ I was 
 soon brought to ; barrin’ this same crpokedturn in the neck, that 
 your reverance spakes of, an’ that didn’t hurt the bone, though 
 they thried their best. An’ it’s as far from me to deny the good 
 coufessin’ your reverance gave me, the best I ever got in my born 
 days, any how, an’ all for nothin’. God reward them that threw 
 it in my way ! it’s all the harum I wish ’em. So your reverance 
 sees it done me good. An’ more nor that, sure ; consitherin’ the 
 mighty holy life I lade ever sence ; an’ am lamin’ my poor dawny 
 crature of a child here, poor Cahier—Rory’s own darlin’.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 133 
 
 “ Well I know the life you lead, and are bringing him up to, 
 wretched man,” resumed Father M’Donnell. “Your feelings at 
 the gallows-tree assure me of that ; if, indeed, he is your own 
 child, and not one of your ’prentices.” 
 
 “ My own he is, your reverance, to the backbone ; an’, plase 
 God he lives, ’ill show it too, won’t you, Cahier, a-chorra-ma- 
 chree V ’ Cahier left his well-known life to answer. 
 
 “ Sirs,” continued the priest, “ this limb of Satan never has 
 less than four ’prentices regularly articled to him, at large fees, 
 and sent all the ways from Kerry, to learn his trade of decoy¬ 
 ing horses, young and old, handled or not handled, that he 
 got, they say, from a witch in the county of Monaghan, and that 
 brought his neck into the halter only a month since.” 
 
 “There’s no great spixhogc* on your reverance to say the 
 like, savin’ your reverance’s presence ; only from the father afore 
 me, that got it from the lame throoper, whoever he war, as all 
 the world knows. Never a one o’ the bastes mysef was thinkin’ 
 of, that same time, when they thought to prove it agin me ; bud, 
 just goin’ the road, they follied me out o’ the gap. How can a 
 poor boy help ’em, if they loves and likes me ?” 
 
 “ Where is my colt, you scoundrel ?” now cried Edmund at 
 his ear, while he seized Rory by the crooked neck ; “ where is 
 the colt you stole out of my father’s field last night ? Tell me, 
 this moment, where I am to get him, or I will bind you, hand 
 and foot, and send you to the mayor of Carrickfergus.” 
 
 “ Bind poor Rory away, plase your honor, if you like it,” the 
 man answered meekly ; “but, when that’s done, will it make me 
 know any thing o’ the coult, or larn you where to find him ?” 
 
 “ The thief speaks sense in this,” said the clergyman, drawing 
 Edmund aside. “ Depend upon it, he has so taken his measures, 
 that the robbery cannot be proved against him. As to getting 
 your colt without speaking him fair, it is impossible ; heaven 
 knows in what part of the kingdom the poor animal is. He has 
 own relations, reoeivers, and agents, in Upper Ossory, Leitrim, 
 Monaghan, and Derry, besides many others in different parts of 
 che country. Let me try to manage the rogue.—Rory-na- 
 chopple,” returning to him, “you know that by sending word 
 you are alive in Carrickfergus, to-night, we can get you hanged 
 over again to-morrow morning. Tell Master M’Donnell how and 
 where to recover his colt, and you may go your ways, and take 
 
 * Witchcraft. 
 
134 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 your own time and road, and, mayhap, find both short 
 enough.” 
 
 “ Cead mille beachus lath* your reverance ; bud what does 
 poor Rory know about it, at-all at-all ? May I never see glory, 
 no more nor the child in my arms this holy an’ blessed time.” 
 
 “And that’s just as much as will serve, mayhap,” said the 
 Hergyman. * 
 
 “ Bud I have gossips, an’ I have friends, an’ people, over-an’- 
 hether, that wishes me well, becase they have pity on their 
 hearts for a poor boy like me ; an’ I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll 
 spake to them afore I go to sleep. An’ if Neddy M’Daniel 
 rides out in a shower, to-morrow, he’ll find himself on his coult’s 
 back in the turnin’ of a hand. If this doesn’t come to pass, 
 may the soggarth be miles away when I’m hanged the next 
 time ! If you hould me here, the never a coult you’ll ever see.” 
 
 “ And why in a shower?” asked Edmund. 
 
 “ That’s the little bit of a sacret that’s in it,” Rory replied, 
 smiling very graciously, as if to say, “ sure you can’t be angry 
 wid a body for that ?” and vague and nonsensical as was this 
 promise, the parties thought it best to put up with it. 
 
 “ An’ now I may jest go an’ thry my endayvors ?” he re¬ 
 sumed ; and having got an assent—“ well, a good-night, an’ my 
 blessin’ on all the genteels o’ the company, an’ on all in the 
 house, this night, I pray Gor,” Rory said in conclusion, as he 
 shuffled through the door. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 W hen Rory-na-chopple had shuffled away, our friends resumed 
 the seats they had first occupied. They saw that Father O’Hag¬ 
 gerty, the friar, was placed, in sullen mood, at the now empty 
 table, round which the peasants had been gathered, and that the 
 stranger, the encourager and director of the townspeople, was 
 seated at that his adherents had occupied. This man’s head 
 rested on his hand, while his defiant eyes closely and deliberately 
 scanned the remaining company. 
 
 “ It is to witness such scenes as these enacted here to-night,” 
 
 *■ Hundred thousand thanks. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 135 
 
 said Evelyn, iloud, addressing his friend, “ that I have returned 
 to my native country ?” 
 
 “ Alas! it is, Evelyn/’ Edmund replied ; “ and I fear me 
 much what we have seen is but indicative of events even more 
 serious and more painful” 
 
 We surmise that both the young men may have, at the same 
 moment, felt somewhat like a foreboding that their relations to 
 each other might be affected by the disruption of the times—by 
 the disseverance of parties, so evident from what they had just 
 been, to a degree, participators in. 
 
 “Such encounters must take place,” said the friar, Father 
 O’Haggerty ; “ and they must take place on a wider field, and 
 more to the purpose, ere there is peace to the land. Peace to 
 the land can be had only by struggling boldly for it.” 
 
 He was not yet calmed down ; he spoke in a hasty, impetuous 
 manner, while his flashing eye fixed on the stranger, who was 
 seated at the opposite extremity of the apartment. 
 
 “ I am of accord with the friar,” the stranger said in reply. 
 He uttered his words slowly and emphatically, while he returned 
 the first speaker’s hasty glance with an unflinching look of reso¬ 
 lute defiance. 
 
 “ You left but little sign of quiet behind you in England,” 
 Edmund M’Donnell resumed, again addressing Evelyn. “ They 
 tell me that the king’s acts of absolute authority are rousing his 
 English subjects against him.” 
 
 “ And justly rousing the people of England,” the stranger in¬ 
 terrupted, speaking, as before, slowly, and, although in a sub¬ 
 dued tone, every word heard distinctly by all present. 
 
 “ Seven reverend bishops of the Church imprisoned,” he said. 
 
 “Justly imprisoned,” expostulated Father O’Haggerty, “as 
 the abettors, in the king’s teeth, of a foul-mouthed libeller and 
 preacher of sedition—a preacher of treason against his sacred 
 majesty.” 
 
 The stranger sat up more erectly than he had done ; he raised 
 his hitherto subdued voice to a lofty pitch ; he waved his hand 
 before his face with a wide peremptory sweep, as if he would 
 dash aside, authoritatively, the interruption that had been offered 
 to him, and he continued to speak : 
 
 “ A member of parliament arrested for using his time-sacred 
 and constitutional privilege 1 An attack on the colleges to force 
 in Popish members! As if it were the arbitrary, domineering 
 Grand Turk who sat on the throne of Britain !” 
 
136 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Papists were the founders of the colleges, and not-—” 
 
 Another impatient wave of the arm, and the stranger con¬ 
 tinued : 
 
 “ Papists placed on the bench of justice ; Papists seated at 
 the council-board ; nay, a known Jesuit, James’s confidential 
 adviser, there! A Popish nuncio, forsooth, undisguisedly ac¬ 
 knowledged, which is treason by the law 1 An ambassador 
 sent to confer with the Pope of Rome ; at the very fountain¬ 
 head of Papistry ! The superstition of the Mass openly per¬ 
 mitted 1 the Protestant charters throughout the kingdom with¬ 
 drawn, to open a way for the entry of Papists—” 
 
 The speaker paused an iustant. 
 
 “ All that you have urged tends but to show that the king is 
 naturally desirous to give to his Roman Catholic subjects a share 
 of the privileges hitherto appropriated exclusively by others of 
 a different creed.” 
 
 Edmund M’Donnell put forward his opinion somewhat warmly. 
 
 “Sir,” replied the stranger, “Papists are unfitted to be al¬ 
 lowed the exercise of civil power—unfitted, I say, they are ; 
 subservient slaves, as they be, to the domineering influence of 
 their Church. It is not the toleration of Papists that is sought; 
 it is the domination of exclusive power in their hands that is 
 contemplated, and the total exclusion of Protestants !” 
 
 “ I do not think that is a fair inference,” Evelyn remarked. 
 
 “ There are those who say,” Edmund M’Donnell spoke, “ that 
 the opposition giveu to our king is but a pretext, and that there 
 is treachery to the sovereign at the bottom.” 
 
 “ They were not Papists who brought his martyred father to 
 the block,” Father O’Haggerty cuttingly remarked. 
 
 “ The righteous taking of the life of that man, Charles, they 
 never got the grace to do,” interrupted Oliver. 
 
 The mettle of the old Cromwellian was aroused by the last 
 remark. 
 
 “The mind of James”—the stranger addressed his renewed 
 speech to Evelyn, not noticing either Edmund M’Donnell or the 
 friar—“ the mind of James is scarce of capacity to comprehend 
 the tendency of his outrages against the constitution. But there 
 are those about him—those priests and Jesuits—who know how 
 to direct the arbitrary index of the sceptre.” 
 
 “ I do believe as much,” replied Evelyn ; “ and—” 
 
 “ What is it you believe ?” Edmund questioned, with some 
 
 fire. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 137 
 
 The stranger supplied the answer to the query : “ The rever¬ 
 end friar yonder can satisfy you, if he will, young sir.” 
 
 “ Mayhap he can,” Father O’Haggerty broke in. “But rever¬ 
 end friars do not tell all they know to all that question them. 
 Mayhap the reverend friar could tell of the promptings of Bur¬ 
 net at the Hague.” The stranger started as if the thrust were a 
 home one. “ Hah ! and mayhap the reverend friar could tell of 
 the incendiary proceedings of George Walker through these 
 northern counties.” 
 
 “ Talk not of men too much above you to warrant you in 
 meddling with their actions, irreverent friar 1 As to George 
 Walker, slander him not by foul words, until you believe you 
 dare do so to his face.” 
 
 “ Is the traitor known to you ?” 
 
 “ I will not answer yea or nay.” 
 
 “ If he be of your acquaintance, bear to him this greeting : 
 That, until I do meet him, face to face, I will, in the plainest 
 words I can select, denounce him as the propagandist of treason, 
 as a traitor to his king !” 
 
 “ To his front you would not repeat your bold words.” The 
 stranger stood up, no longer calm as he had been. “If to his 
 front, you so spoke, he would retort, and tell you that your 
 tongue uttered words of falsehood ; he would tell you that you 
 were knave and traitor, and not he 1” 
 
 “ Let him but stand in your place, and I will reiterate my 
 charge !” 
 
 Con M’Donnell had been closely inspecting the stranger for 
 some time ; he had, perhaps, caught a glimpse of his underdress. 
 He now sprang forward, threw aside the disguising horseman’s 
 cloak, and the attire of a Protestant clergyman was visible, 
 over which a rusty back and breast piece were to be seen. 
 Scarce noticing the act of the impetuous Con M’Donnell, the 
 stranger advanced with deliberate, resolute step, to the centre of 
 the apartment. 
 
 “ Come forward, and stand before me, friar!” he said ; “ look 
 on ir.e, and you look on George Walker !” 
 
 Father O’Haggerty sprang to the invited presence. 
 
 “ I repeat my accusation 1” he proclaimed aloud. “ You, 
 George Walker, are a propagator of sedition—a traitor to your 
 anointed king!” 
 
 While he spoke, he drew forth from its iron scabbard the 
 unclerical appendage at his side. 
 
138 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 11 Even though thou art a prelatic preacher, and although 1 
 deuy your doctrine, take this blade that has not been unfamiliar 
 with malignant blood.” Oliver Whittle wrenched his weapon 
 from its sheath, and thrust it into George Walker's hand. 
 
 The two clerical opponents cut at each other, and their swords 
 clashed ; but before they could follow up their hostile purpose, 
 Evelyn and Edmund M’Donnell, who had been inactive from 
 surprise, rushed between the combatants. 
 
 “ Forbear! forbear 1” cried the old priest M’Donnell, ad¬ 
 dressing Father O’Haggerty. “Strike not with the sword, 
 man ! the sword is not your weapon ! You have been com¬ 
 missioned as a messenger of peace and good-will 1 Is it thus 
 you discharge your mission ?” 
 
 “ Friar 1” said George Walker, “ we shall meet again.” 
 
 “ When I will repeat my words, and make them good—” 
 
 “ Raise not your weapon ! you are under my control, and I 
 forbid it,” the old priest again addressed the friar. 
 
 “ There shall be no such scandal,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ There shall not be,” was Edmund M’Donnell’s assent. “ It 
 is the Lord’s quarrel, and it must go forward.” 
 
 Oliver Whittle vociferated. Con M’Donnell pounced at once 
 on the old trooper, whirled him to one side, and threatened him 
 uminouslv. 
 
 “I will not proceed further with the business for the present,” 
 George Walker said. “ But a time will come.” 
 
 “ Of a surety a time will come 1” Father O’Haggerty replied 
 
 “Then, friend, we will cross our swords peaceably for the 
 present.” 
 
 “ Peaceably, you say ?” questioned Evelyn of the first speaker. 
 
 “ Peaceably, for the present,” he was answered. 
 
 He put the same query to Father O’Haggerty, and received a 
 like reply. 
 
 The swords of the two clergymen crossed. 
 
 “Now pledge me, friar.” 
 
 George Walker uttered his challenge measuredly and coolly: 
 “ I swear to meet you, and soon, where we shall have clear 
 ground to decide who is knave and traitor.” 
 
 “ I swear,” answered the friar. 
 
 “ Blaspheme not 1” urged the old priest. 
 
 “ I swear,” repeated Father O’Haggerty, “ to seek for 
 you, and soon, when, with Heaven’s aid, I will uphold my 
 words.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 139 
 
 “ Then, gDod-night,” George Walker said, while he returned 
 his sword to Oliver Whittle, and deliberately withdrew. 
 
 Seed from an equal sample, sown at the same time in a simi¬ 
 lar soil, will simultaneously spring up ; and our friends, Edmund 
 M’Donnell and Edward Evelyn, as they bade farewell for the 
 night, had some slight doubt, equally felt, that their hand-grasp 
 was not as ardent as in the morning. 
 
 Edmund and Father O’Haggerty were the last to retire from 
 the room. 
 
 “ I am rejoiced that I have met you, Edmund M’Donnell,” 
 said the friar. 
 
 “ How, sir ! You know me, then ?” 
 
 “ I know you well, and for some time have been desirous to 
 commune with you. The time is come, young man, when every 
 true believer of the holy Roman Catholic faith should gird him¬ 
 self, and take the field as the champion of his religion. It is 
 imperative on such as you to be in the van—” 
 
 “ I do not distinctly comprehend you, sir.” 
 
 “ Other thoughts have, as I can learn, kept you from a due 
 consideration of more momentous affairs. Even so, you cannot 
 be ignorant of the hypocritical and fierce opposition given by our 
 enemies—ay, by the dire enemies of our religion, and by the 
 traitorous enemies of our sacred king—to us and to him. To 
 us, because they would exterminate us ; to him, because he would 
 tolerate us—because he would even partially alleviate the per¬ 
 secution we have so long endured 1 Are you ignorant, young 
 Edmund M’Donnell, that machinations are progressing to de¬ 
 prive our king of his throne and of his life ? That he being 
 murdered, as his father was, we may be once again the victims 
 of a renewed persecution, the present trampling under foot 
 exceeding, in rampant violence, all that has gone before. The 
 life and throne of King James assailed, that we, Roman Catho¬ 
 lics, may be devoted to utter destruction—to annihilation !” 
 
 “ Reverend father, the violence and the arbitrary proceedings 
 of King James, were they even perpetrated for the purpose of 
 giving equal rights to us, as to his other subjects, almost justify 
 the excuse of opposition to his authority.” 
 
 “ How, young sir! Beware how you use such words as 
 these l” 
 
 “Why should I not use them ? Are they not the plain truth, 
 your reverence V 7 
 
 Edmund spoke excitedly; his presentimert was gaining 
 
140 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 strength that his prospect of happiness was jeopardized by the 
 impending storm-cloud. His selfishness was, in fact, antagonistic 
 to the impulse that urged him to take his place in defence of his 
 creed, which he feared was to be in opposition to her he loved. 
 In this irritated humor he continued to speak : 
 
 “ In the presence of those who have just left us, reverend 
 sir, I did not care to utter my full thoughts, seeing that they 
 are not of our persuasion. To you, sir, I hesitate not to say, 
 that the king seems to be infatuated—frantic in his proceedings 
 —utterly unworthy of our support or of our gratitude!” 
 
 “Young man ! young man !—” 
 
 “ Nay, reverend father, I will say my mind. I have heard 
 King James’s arbitrary conduct spoken of by men of zeal for 
 our religion, and men of wisdom ; and, although young, I have 
 given more consideration to the subject than you may, belike, 
 give me credit for. His acts are those of a demented man. 
 He stands almost singly • even his army has declared against 
 him ! With his single arm, he seems to suppose that he can 
 stem the torrent he has set loose. He has levelled the sluices 
 that banked in the passions and the headlong prejudices of a 
 nation. He, and those he, as I believe sincerely, professes to 
 befriend, will be swept away by the torrent he has let loose.” 
 
 “ I have in silence heard you speaking treason ; enouncing 
 doctrines befitting the exterminators of your faith, but not to 
 be tolerated as coming from your lips. But, in charity, I make 
 excuses for your youth ; the more so, because I am not igno¬ 
 rant that you are biased by a carnal devotion, which makes you 
 heedless of the interests of your religion, or the claims of your 
 country.” 
 
 “ I request an explanation,” Edmund said, with a haughty 
 Hush. 
 
 “ Are not your attachments, and with your attachments your 
 duty to your king and country, bestowed on a scoffer against 
 your faith, and an enemy of your rightful monarch ?” 
 
 “ Part of your query, reverend sir, I will answer with a yea. 
 I do love—and, with Heaven’s benison, I will wed—a lady worthy 
 of my love—my good father and my own pastor consenting to 
 the nuptials. Your inference I deny. Nor does it appear to 
 me that you are privileged to busy yourself with my private 
 concerns, in no way germain to the topics we have discoursed 
 on.” 
 
 “ Rude boy ! your words are offensive 1 fit recompense for my 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 141 
 
 anxiety to serve you ! Attend to me, notwithstanding! I in¬ 
 terdict your espousal with one who will influence you to—” 
 
 “ Hold you there, reverend father ! Proclaiming myself a devo¬ 
 ted adherent to my creed”—he looked upward, and marked his 
 forehead with the symbol of the cross—“ there shall be no inter¬ 
 ference by you, or by any other, in the disposal of my affections !” 
 
 “ For the gratification of your carnal wishes, will you enter 
 into an alliance of kindred with your banded enemies—the sworn 
 enemies of the Church to which you profess membership ? Will 
 you take to your bosom the sister of one of those engaged in 
 active preparation to dethrone, and, I believe me, to slay your 
 sovereign—at the same time that they shed the blood of your 
 kith and kin—of all who cling to the faith of their fathers ?” 
 
 “ I reject the belief,” interrupted Edmund M’Donnell, “ that 
 a project to dethrone the king is entertained : idle and vulgar 
 rumor this is, propagated by those whose angle is for troubled 
 waters. As to the possibility of my friend, Edward Evelyn, 
 having knowledge of the one intent or the other—had any but 
 a clergyman so dared to insinuate, he should account to me for 
 it on the spot 1” 
 
 “ If, on the morrow, you should learn that the friend you so 
 uphold is pledged to support a contemplated usurpation—the 
 pledge given to that dire incendiary, George Walker, whose 
 spirit and whose views you have this night seen and heard—” 
 
 “ I can only answer—Impossible !” 
 
 “ But, were this found to be the truth ?” 
 
 “ Then,” answered Edmund, after an agitated pause, “ I would 
 regard him as a traitor to his friend.” 
 
 “ Could he be your friend following the discovery ?” 
 
 Quick as thought, and thought is instantaneous, Edmund un¬ 
 derstood that the suppositious case put to him involved decep¬ 
 tion towards himself, by Evelyn, and at the same time treachery 
 to his sister. It was a bitter conviction. 
 
 “ The devil my friend as soon !” he exclaimed, impetuously. 
 u But this is no more than fancy—an unsubstantial dream!” 
 
 “You may so call it. But suppose, in addition, that this 
 friend had a sister, who was in his confidence ? Nay, you now 
 challenge me with your looks too boldly, youth ! We shall have 
 no further question on this point. When you see your king—” 
 
 “ Should I see him the victim of his own folly, I will not draw 
 sword in his cause ” 
 
 " In whose cause, then, will you unsheath it ?” 
 
142 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Edmund was silent. 
 
 “1 expected this wavering on a point you have not considered 
 closely. Look at the case boldly and manfully, and as a Chris¬ 
 tian of the old faith. Your sword cannot remain in dastardly 
 repose within its scabbard, when every gallant blade is out a?d 
 doing—while the sword of friends and foes are flashing !” 
 
 “ Oh 1” cried the young man, much agitated, “ must it, indeed, 
 come to this ? Must there be no ‘ peace on earth to men of good¬ 
 will V Why will the name of religion be still profaned as the 
 encourager of deadly hatred ?” 
 
 He looked despondingly at Father O’Haggerty, as the appre¬ 
 hension of danger to his affections flashed afresh before his men¬ 
 tal vision. 
 
 “ Create systems to your fancy. But what are you to do ?” 
 
 “This, I see, I must do. In defence of a violated throne— 
 of a sovereign wronged and outraged—if this should be—I—-. 
 In fact, it is evident—it is inevitable—that we, Irish Catholics, 
 must act as we have before acted, and suffer as we have ever 
 suffered, in a contest not of our own making. I see it must be 
 so. I see that our ill-fated land will be once again selected as 
 the arena for a struggle between an English monarch and his 
 English subjects. In the end, whichever is uppermost, or which¬ 
 ever is prostrate, we shall have to bear the hardest blows. And, 
 finally, we shall be the sufferers, unthanked by either.” 
 
 “ I interpret your words to mean that you will be in readi¬ 
 ness for the day of struggle, when, Heaven to protect its own, 
 you will be at the head of your hardy people, in your own native 
 glen, and lead them forth, at the command of your king, and at 
 the call of your religion.” 
 
 “ I see no choice. To fight, even though he has erred, for 
 the king who would give me religious freedom, against those who 
 make war against that rightful king, that they may keep me 
 shackled. What else is left for me to do ? Basely neutral I 
 cannot remain ; I must even whirl with the hurricane. But is 
 the day surely to come?” 
 
 “ Surely to come, as those who best know have told me. It 
 is a question, though, whether we await the time or whether we 
 create it—whether we pause too long, until the hand of extermi 
 nation is striking at us, our king inactive on our behalf, or para 
 lyzed in his effort—whether we arouse ourselves and anticipate 
 the deadly onslaught of our enemies, and, at the same time, give 
 protection to a monarch and security to ourselves.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 143 
 
 Edmund paused at this new version of the question. 
 
 “ You mean a rising here in Ireland, of our own counsel, and 
 without the king’s command ?” 
 
 “ It may be so—nay, it is so—that wishing well to say the 
 word, he dares not utter it openly. Where king and religion 
 are both in imminent peril, it seems no more than the duty o» 
 ioyal subjects, and children of the faith, to act, even of their 
 own accord, for the protection of both.” 
 
 “ A weak thought, sir ; and, in my esteem, not counselled in 
 either country by the men of weight, on whose advice his majes- 
 cy relies.” 
 
 Father O’Haggerty curbed the words he was about to utter. 
 
 “ Read this,” he said, “ and then seek the counsel of your 
 pillow. I wish you a good night’s rest.” 
 
 He withdrew as soon as he had placed a parchment in Ed¬ 
 mund’s hands. 
 
 It was a commission, issued in Tyrconnel’s name, appointing 
 Edmund M’Donnell an officer, under the earl of Antrim, to 
 command a company of men, to be raised in his native district, 
 for the newly ordered levy of Irish soldiers. His first feeling 
 on thus finding himself raised to a situation of trust and import¬ 
 ance was pleasure and gratified vanity ; his next, doubt and ill- 
 omen of the result. For some time he sat almost in darkness, 
 following a train of sad anticipations of his own future pros¬ 
 pects and those of his country. His love for Esther Evelyn, 
 and Father O’Haggerty’s prophecy with regard to her brother, 
 formed an impressive portion of these thoughts. He retired to 
 rest sadder than he had ever before been while he pressed his 
 oightly pillow. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Whether or no O’Haggerty had private intelligence of what 
 Walker intended to effect with Evelyn, or that he only spoke of, 
 as certain, what his insight into human probabilities led him to 
 conjecture, it is undeniable that he shot very near the mark. 
 
 Evelyn lay down to sleep in an indifferent bed, and in a con¬ 
 fined, ill-contrived room, of which the door could not, by any 
 effort or ingenuity on his part, be secured. His mind was vexed 
 
144 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 with the occurrences and discussions of the evening, his spirits 
 consequently depressed and gloomy. After lying restless for 
 some time he fell into a disturbed sleep, which the tone of his 
 waking thoughts haunted with extravagant dreams. He dreamt 
 that he was married to Eva ; that he had entered the bridal 
 chamber, and just pressed the bridal couch, when a skein was 
 plunged into his breast. For a moment he felt the agonies or 
 mortal pain, and lay, choked with suffering, unable to cry out 
 then the sound of a trumpet pierced his ears, and a figure, 
 vaguely like his dead father, stood by his bedside, shaking his 
 arm, and calling on him to rouse up. He awoke in terror, to 
 see a person really standing over him, and holding a feeble lamp 
 in one hand, while the other rested on his shoulder. He looked 
 again, in some alarm, and recognized the pale, grave, and ex¬ 
 pressive features of Walker. In the creaking of the crazy 
 door, yet in motion from that person’s entrance, he at the same 
 time caught the sound which, distorted by his sleeping sense, 
 had conveyed to the cheated mind the idea of a trumpet. 
 
 “ Pardon me this intrusion,” Walker said. “ I leave the 
 house very early to-morrow morning, and as I am deputed to 
 hold with you some discourse of an important nature, I could 
 not sleep till we had entered upon it. I was your father’s 
 friend. You may have heard him speak of George Walker, rec¬ 
 tor of Donoughmore ?” 
 
 “ I have, sir, often,” Evelyn replied. 
 
 “ In early life, before my translation to that parish, so far re¬ 
 moved from his residence, we were much together. Ere you 
 could know my face, I have dauced you on my knee, and joined 
 in your father’s prayer for your worldly and eternal welfare. At 
 my hands, too, you received second life in the waters of baptism. 
 We meet not, then, as utter strangers to each other ; nor yet as 
 men quite indifferent to each other’s interests and happiness, or to 
 the words we may interchange together.” 
 
 Evelyn fitly, if not warmly, assented. 
 
 “I will sit, therefore, by your bedside and tell my mission. 
 You are prayed, by those of your country and religion, who have 
 a true interest for both, to declare whether or no you will join 
 them in the coming endeavor for life and faith.” 
 
 “Pray, speak plainer, Mr. Walker.” 
 
 “You know that the reign of James draws to a close.” 
 
 “I kuow not so, but I have heard such things rumored in 
 my passage through England, and hoped from my heart it was 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 145 
 
 but idle rumor. Why should the reign of James draw to a 
 close ?” 
 
 “That, at least, you know. He has forfeited his crown by 
 attacking the constitution.” 
 
 “ By attacking it in what manner ?” 
 
 “Variously. But especially in his effort to admit Papists 
 into public situations of trust, rank, and influence. A measure 
 to which the very nature of the constitution is opposed.” 
 
 “ That I cannot understand,” the young man said, with gen¬ 
 erous warmth. “ If by the constitution be meant the rights of 
 the people, obtained at different times, from different sovereigns, 
 I must, as you have before heard me say, remember that they 
 were actually so obtained by Papists, and precisely to the extent 
 in which we now enjoy them. Ere Catholic England became 
 Protestant England, they existed. And from the reign of the 
 first sovereign, nominally Protestant, Henry VIII., down to the 
 last, Charles II., nothing—nothing in matter has been added to 
 them. Since, therefore, the constitution has been formed by 
 Papists, how, in reasoning or sense, can its nature be anti-Papist ? 
 Again, if James does not seek to annul any one of the rights 
 that make it what it is—a matter allowed on all hands—but 
 simply seeks to admit to an enjoyment of them, in common with 
 men of every sect, the persons whose ancestors have really set 
 them up, in what manner can he be said to attack ‘the consti¬ 
 tution?’ What, after all, is the meaning of this generally 
 adopted phrase ? Alas! alas ! Mr. Walker,” Evelyn added, with 
 curling lip, “ I fear it has been only invented by a few men, as a 
 watchword, and caught up and continued by the many, without 
 thought or analysis, until, from every-day use, it means what they 
 please, and what both wish.” 
 
 “We may argue as we can. When wiser people than we 
 have decided upon the question, it is only so much misspent 
 breath. We must swim with the current of the times : fools 
 only would cross or breast it, and depend for safety on the catch- 
 ng at straws. When the great deliverer once lands—” 
 
 “How, Mr. Walker ! do you calculate so surely on events? 
 fs it to be, indeed, and so sudden ?” 
 
 “ Have I, at least, your promise of honorable secrecy ?” 
 
 “ The very recollections under which we meet, should give you 
 that assurance, sir.” 
 
 “Then know that I speak on the information of one who, 
 counselled and aided by the Lord, has been the great agent and 
 
 7 
 
146 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 secret light of the glorious change we all hope for. It needs but 
 your declaration in our cause, to supply you with the advices he 
 has vouchsafed from time to time to me.” 
 
 “ So certain, truly 1” Evelyn exclaimed, much agitated. “ So 
 very sudden! The infatuated king already encompassed with 
 destruction ! No pause for him—no time allowed for a heated 
 temper to cool—a warped judgment to become righted! No 
 endeavor to conciliate—to advance half-way—to reason with 
 him—to correct him ! No pity for the errors of the son of 
 many kings!—” 
 
 “ Rather say, no time allowed for the completion of the pro¬ 
 jects which aim at our destruction.” 
 
 “No forbearance towards a king of known and admitted tal¬ 
 ents and spirit! Who, when duke of York, advanced the char¬ 
 acter of the British navy higher than it had ever stood ! Who, 
 at an earlier age, commanded the praises of the two greatest 
 generals of his time, Turenne and Conde ! Who has fought for 
 England in forty sea-fights, and in his very last encounter with 
 the Dutchman, De Ruyter, achieved her a splendid victory ! 
 No allowance—no gratitude—no mercy for him ! Has it ever 
 been questioned that, above all his family, he entertained a high 
 and jealous notion of the interests and glory of his people and 
 his nation ?” The youth spoke with a warmth not altogether 
 without effect on his companion. 
 
 “ Never, I grant you, until this late attempt to bully the one 
 and degrade the other,” he admitted, after a pause. 
 
 “ But how ? Has he not repeatedly assured Protestants that 
 while he did only justice to his own religion, he should never seek 
 to injure or weigh down theirs ? And, during his whole life, 
 have not men of all sects regarded him as an inviolable observer 
 of his word ?” 
 
 “Yes, I grant you again. Until at last he broke it.” 
 
 “ How ? how ?” 
 
 “ By the very act we have so often canvassed. By his assum¬ 
 ing the absolute power of dispensing with the tests, and of sus¬ 
 pending the penal statutes.” 
 
 “Again and again I deny, passing altogether the separate 
 question of assumed power, that this amounts to a breach of his 
 word—to an infringement on his pledge to Protestants that he 
 would uniformly protect them. Unless, indeed, protection of 
 them essentially implies persecution of others. An unreasonable, 
 unchristian, and monstrous hypothesis.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 147 
 
 “The bigotry of James,” Walker said, with a frown, “is 
 known to extend further than equal privileges for his own idol¬ 
 atrous sect.” 
 
 “ How known ? By what he does at present ? The question 
 has been considered. By what he has heretofore done ? Let us 
 see. It was not bigotry to allow, in deference to the prejudices of 
 his English people, his two daughters, then his only children—” 
 
 “ Ay, then” interrupted Walker, with a bitter sneer. 
 
 “ To allow them to be educated in strict Protestantism. It 
 was not bigotry to give the elder of them, the Princess Mary, 
 heiress apparent to the crown, to the Protestant prince, William 
 —or the second, Anne, to another Protestant prince, George of 
 Denmark. It was not bigotry to pass by, after he became sov¬ 
 ereign of England, all those who had been distinguished as the 
 plotters or agents of the Popish Plot, contenting himself with 
 making one sole example of public justice, in the person of its 
 most infamous propagator, Oates—while even to that hideous 
 monster life was spared. It was not bigotry to spare, in life and 
 property, the very men who, by pressing the bill of exclusion, 
 had labored to disinherit him, and whose efforts sent him an 
 exile from his land and his people. This was not bigotry. How, 
 then, shall we prove the vulgar clamor ? He has not been, he 
 is not bigoted in his measures ; but ‘ ’tis known ’ he will be. 
 Who has made it known ? In one word, Mr. Walker, how, 
 from any thing the unfortunate monarch has attempted, from 
 even the wildest assertion of his privilege, how has he injured— 
 yourself, for instance ? During nearly five years that he has sat 
 on the throne of his fathers, have your rights, as a Protestant, 
 been abridged, or your ministry, as a Protestant clergyman, in¬ 
 terrupted ?” 
 
 “ I answer you calmly—yes. Think you it is no interruption 
 of my ministry to encounter, since the beginning of this ungodly 
 reign, such disturbers as the dangerous man we sat with to-night, 
 left free to preach and teach, where before they durst not raise 
 their voices in the land ? Is it no hindrance to my ministry, and 
 to the spreading and welfare of the religion whose minister I am, 
 to see mass-houses open, where, in the former reign, there was 
 waste and goodly silence ? To meet, in every corner of Ire¬ 
 land, a tolerated priest, where before such scum and vermin 
 durst not show their heads ? To see Papist prelates received at 
 court, where before it was treason, by the law, but to sound 
 their names ?” 
 
148 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “No, Mr. Walker ; I cannot think that this is, necessarily, 
 any hindrance to your ministry, or to our common religion 
 Leaving out of the question the Friar O’Haggerty, as a kind of 
 man who can well be spared on both sides, you would not surely 
 mean to say that the truth you preach depends, for its effects, 
 on the absence or silence of the error it opposes ? By contrast 
 with error should the truth shine more brightly. Did the uni¬ 
 versal prevalence of error, when religion was first preached, re¬ 
 tard its way by the side of Him who led it triumphant, not in a 
 battle-chariot, or at the point of the sword, but wreathed in the 
 chaplet of peace, and scattering the perfumes of persuasion ? 
 Are you irritated, then, as a worldly man, to see the degraded 
 arise, the trampled walk upright, the persecuted pitied, fellow- 
 creatures vindicated ? Is it,” Evelyn asked, with a disdainful 
 smile, “ from the weaker impulse of our nature you talk so bit¬ 
 terly of tolerated priests and Popish prelates at court ? Are 
 those who differ from you 1 scum and vermin/ merely because 
 they do so ? Difference does not imply inferiority. Do you 
 hate them because you have tried, and are trying, to crush 
 them beneath your foot ? That may be the true reason, I sus¬ 
 pect. We do not, alas! readily forgive men for having injured 
 them.” 
 
 11 You do not speak as a good Protestant,” Walker said, with 
 a mighty effort to restrain his wrath. 
 
 “ If Protestantism mean monopoly—if good Protestantism mean 
 bad Christianity—I do not ; yet will I prove myself an orthodox 
 member of the reformed Christian faith, and hold these senti¬ 
 ments at the same time. I own, however, they somewhat differ 
 from the superfluity of sectarian zeal taught me in my childhood. 
 But travel, Mr. Walker, and conversing with men of different 
 countries and enlarged minds, does much to mix up reason and 
 charity with the mere formalities of religion. Another accident,” 
 he added, speaking more to himself than to Walker, “ may have 
 lately helped to fix my mind in its present temper.” 
 
 “ May I inquire what that was ?” 
 
 “Nothing of import to influence the opinions of any man but 
 myself.” 
 
 “ Let me judge.” 
 
 “ It would be useless, indeed. Excuse me, sir.” 
 
 “ Youth,” urged Walker, managing the introduction of this 
 delicate point better than O’Haggerty had done with Edmund, 
 though he stood just as little in need of information—“ I abjure 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 149 
 
 you by the memory of your good father, to declare to me what 
 it is that has thus most sinfully turned your eyes from the steady 
 and true light, to more than a half-following of the dangerous 
 meteor of Idolatry. By the friendship of your father and my¬ 
 self, disguise not your heart from me. I tremble—I could weep 
 for you, son of my ancient friend ! Relieve at once the anguish 
 I feel on your account 1 You have been listening to the insid¬ 
 ious discourse of Jesuits—you have entered the mass-house, and 
 hearkened to their poisonous preaching—that is it ?” 
 
 “No, sir,” answered Evelyn, really affected by the seeming 
 interest of his companion ; “fear not forme, there. I will speak 
 openly. Why should I not? Know, then, that I have con¬ 
 tracted myself to—” 
 
 “To a Papist!” interrupted Walker, in surprise and conster¬ 
 nation, well feigned. 
 
 “ To a Roman Catholic lady, sir.” 
 
 “ Contracted !” resumed the clergyman. He paused, long 
 enough to make the youth feel awkward and constrained. Then 
 riveting his angular eyes on Evelyn, and speaking very slowly— 
 
 “You would wed her, then ?” 
 
 “ That question cannot surely mean—would I dishonor myself 
 or her ?” Evelyn cried, with angry vehemence. 
 
 “Lost! lost!” Mr. Walker went on; “lost, irrecoverably! 
 a goodly bough of the tree lopt off, and cast for the burning! 
 Better hadst thou hearkened to the sophistry of all the smooth 
 tongues of St. Orner’s—better hadst thou bent down before the 
 idol in their very mass-house ! And, oh ! what has my old 
 friend escaped by his passage from this life to the glories which 
 his unblemished faith secured him in another ! What has he es¬ 
 caped that he lias not here to-night to weep over the disgrace of 
 his only son !” 
 
 “Sir—Mr. Walker—I cannot understand—” 
 
 “ No, boy, you cannot 1 you know them not! You know 
 not that the very motto of their damnable and idolatrous sect 
 is proselytism! That by every means, and by the seductions and 
 entanglements practised on you, above all other means, they 
 labor, day after day, to decrease the number of the righteous.” 
 
 “ I must at once say, sir, I have never seen such attempts di¬ 
 rected towards mvself.” 
 
 “ Have you not ? And that is so convincing, is it ? Think 
 you the old serpent goes to work so lamely ? Think you they 
 would at first let you detect their aims, that so you might be at 
 
150 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 once digusted and turned from them forever ? No, you have not 
 observed their attempts. Neither does age observe its gradual 
 stooping to decrepitude, nor does the eye detect the encroach of 
 wrinkles on the face. But ask your heart—call to mind the un¬ 
 sound doctrines you have this night uttered, and answer me, now 
 that I become your standard and your mirror—hath not your 
 loul shrunk from its former uprightness of stature, and its face 
 become haggard with wrinkles ? And if so soon this premature 
 decay is visible, what must you not fear for yourself when—oh ! 
 I have no patience to speak it ! For I—I know them well ! 
 Through a long life of zealous ministry, I know them well! I 
 tell you, Robert Evelyn, that you cannot imagine the refined arts 
 with which they ensnare. To make proselytes is their worldly, 
 and according to their superstitious cant, their spiritual object. 
 Ruled as they are by their priests, their wanton women—be 
 patient, boy ! never lose sight of it. Hence is their effort, every 
 day, to secure a Protestant husband, that they may be raised 
 from discontent and obscurity to rank and importance in the 
 land, and that they may add, at once, a respectable name to 
 Papistry in this world, and, by virtue of the act, insure for them¬ 
 selves a seat in the next. These, are the promptings given—the 
 promises held out by their priests. Ask the woman who has 
 undone you, and let her answer whether or no she has not been 
 so tutored, and does not so purpose to practise on you.” 
 
 “I shall certainly never ask a question, Mr. Walker,” the 
 boy cried, indignantly, “ so derogatory to my confidence in the 
 woman I would make my wife, and to her claims on that confi¬ 
 dence.” 
 
 “Would you stoop, too, to wive with one of the degraded of 
 the land? Even with your own bondswoman? Nay,” he con¬ 
 tinued rapidly, stopping Evelyn’s attempt to speak, “ let me ask 
 you, if my worst fears are true ? I have met you here in the 
 company of one of the most noted enemies—though a stripling, 
 like yourself—of the faith in Ireland. He has a sister • can it 
 be that woman ?” 
 
 *' Sir,” replied Evelyn, distantly, “ the lady is Miss M’Donnell, 
 the daughter of an ancient and honorable family, though lately 
 reduced by oppression—” 
 
 “ By the strong and righteous arm of the law, to beggary ! 
 
 I know them well. Rebels they have been. Beggars they are. 
 And now, again, the foremost, under guidance of that old, in¬ 
 veterate plotter, Antrim, to head the very massacre which 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 151 
 
 surely threatens us all. That so, by rebellion and blood, they 
 may regain what they have so justly forfeited!” 
 
 “ Absurdity, sir ! Absurdity and bigotry !” 
 
 “ Misguided young man ! Use not—dare not to use to me these 
 ill-weighed words. I can prove to you what I aver—I can 
 prove, on the testimony of all the Protestant gentlemen of the 
 north—their well-grounded fears and wise preparations forming 
 that testimony—that we are this moment surrounded by a plot 
 to cut our throats as we sleep in our beds 1 That the recent 
 levy of a new and overpowering army of Papists is made in such 
 a view, while every kerne in Ireland goes armed, at the advice 
 of their priests, also waiting the yet unknown day. You have 
 noticed their arming ?” 
 
 “ That, indeed, I have witnessed with surprise, sir,” Evelyn 
 unwillingly admitted. 
 
 “ I cry to you, therefore, beware ! Look how you form a con¬ 
 nection which must be eutered into with you, either for the pur¬ 
 pose of involving you, as a proselyte, in the general conspiracy, 
 or else—how shall I utter it! or else, should you prove obsti¬ 
 nate, of securing you its easy victim. Look to yourself, I say 1 
 Look to the natural results in their great rising ! When to gain 
 you over, they must necessarily impart some of their secrets ; 
 when you, as a Protestant, not entirely fallen, will gainsay them 
 —blind and unthinking youth ! can you doubt the result ? Can 
 yon doubt that their Irish skeins will be at your throat in a 
 moment, to guard their own projects by effectually silencing 
 you ?” 
 
 “ If, indeed, there is such strong assurance of this inhuman 
 conspiracy, sir,” Evelyn began, his youthful credulity at last 
 something wrought upon— 
 
 “If,” interrupted Mr. Walker. “Look at this paper, ad¬ 
 dressed to you, and which forms the business of our present con¬ 
 ference. See it signed by every Protestant name around you, 
 known as respectable. See that, setting out with a statement of 
 their apprehensions of a Popish massacre, they proceed to advise 
 you of their plan of a counter-association, for the guarding of 
 their lives and properties, and then solicit you, as a man of rank 
 and place in the country, to join them in their endeavor. Can 
 you, as a Protestant gentleman—as the worthy son of my old 
 friend, refuse ?” 
 
 “ I shall not refuse, Mr. Walker, to unite in any precaution 
 which, supposing the actual existence of a design against us, 
 
152 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 such as you seem to be so sure of, the first principle of natow 
 makes imperative. For the rest, I am guided by my own judg¬ 
 ment.” 
 
 “ I require no further resolve at present. But, here,” pro¬ 
 ducing pen and ink, “ write your assent to this invitation at the 
 bottom of the paper.” Evelyn, after a moment's hesitation, did 
 so. “ Keep the document now for your own satisfaction, and, 
 perhaps, as a salutary memento. And favor me with a copy of 
 your answer, to be presented, as common courtesy requires, to 
 those who have addressed you.” 
 
 Evelyn also complied with this apparently reasonable request. 
 “ But, Mr. Walker,” he resumed, “ forget not that I reserve to 
 myself the right of judging when I shall be truly called on to ful¬ 
 fil this engagement.” 
 
 “ I said before, we must swim with the current of the times. 
 It may be that, until the deliverer of England lands on her 
 shores, the cruel Papists of this country will not rise up against 
 us. If at that time they do so, however, King James must, of 
 course, be their watchword, and William, Prince of Orange, 
 the professed object of their bloody warfare. While on us they 
 really vent their hereditary hatred and sectarian fury.” 
 
 “ Am I to infer, sir, that, under such circumstances, my engag¬ 
 ing in this association is to amount to open warfare against King 
 James, as well as protection of my own life and property ?” 
 
 “I have not said that the visit of William is for the purpose 
 of dethroning James. Listen to me. You are now worthy of 
 the confidence I before alluded to, and you shall have it. I 
 spoke of a great man, a light of the reformed faith, and a zeal¬ 
 ous laborer for our blessed constitution, who during some time 
 has condescended to regard me as an available fellow-servant in 
 the righteous cause, and so advised me, authentically, of the 
 progress of events.” 
 
 “ You mean Dr. Burnet, sir, who, since the commencement of 
 the present reign, has been on the Continent, mostly at Wil¬ 
 liam's court?” 
 
 “ The same. On his information, joined to my own notice of 
 the times, I proceed to lay this matter fully before you. Wil¬ 
 liam has, since his youth, been well regarded by England, because, 
 since his youth, it has been his unceasing policy to check the 
 power and dim the eclat of her great rival, France, by arraying 
 against that haughty and innovating nation the Emperor, Spain, 
 his own and the neighboring States, and, if possible, Great Britain.' 1 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 153 
 
 “And I suspect, Mr. Walker, that as one of the best means 
 of completing the coalition, in the last-named instance, it has 
 rather been his policy, too, from an early age, to fix his eye on 
 no less an object than the crown of Great Britain. I believe his 
 early marriage, during Charles’s lifetime, with the heiress appa¬ 
 rent, might have happened in this view. It is certain that the 
 only piece of seeming enthusiasm that even in his frigid and sul¬ 
 len youth he exhibited, was when Sir William Temple came, 
 after a long period of uncertainty, to communicate the final 
 assent of Charles, and the then duke, to his marriage with the 
 Lady Mary. So cold a man could never feel on the securing of 
 a wife—a wife, too, that after-events proved him to be, to say 
 the least, indifferent to—the triumph and exultation on that 
 occasion displayed. You, sir, cannot be ignorant of the incident 
 to which I refer. How, starting up, he caught the minister in 
 his arms, and vowed that he had made him the happiest 
 man in the world. No; William’s joy at the tidings was 
 that of an ambitious and profound politician, at the almost 
 unexpected achieving of a deep-laid project.” The young man 
 spoke with a degree of contemptuous indignation natural to 
 his age and character, but chafing in the extreme to the lis¬ 
 tener. 
 
 “Mayhap,” resumed Walker, with cool deliberation, “I, too, 
 suspect that the Lord so disposed his heart, even at that early 
 period, for our good and deliverance. About the time that the 
 exclusion bill was moved in Charles’s parliament against the 
 duke, his views were even less doubtfully indicated to the godly 
 Burnet. Some time after that event, as my memory serves, the 
 great doctor advised me that, under the especial help of Provi¬ 
 dence, he had been enabled to receive the Prince’s hints of a 
 determination to support, even against the bigotry of a father- 
 in-law, and as far as in him lay, the Protestants of England. 
 Certainly, so soon as James proposed to dispense with the tests, 
 and had written to his daughter and son-in-law for their assent, 
 the Lord’s servant (having first approved of the letter that 
 contained their denial) obtained from William the first unequiv¬ 
 ocal admission of his views, by means of a previous conference 
 with the princess, in which conference he convinced her zeal and 
 natural affections, that it was her chief duty to protect her re¬ 
 ligion, and attend, forgetful of any other relation, to the inter 
 ests of her husband—nay, do her best to impress these interests 
 on his mind.” 
 
154 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Good God, Mr. Walker ! You talk of Jesuits and of jesuiti* 
 cal proceedings—you talk of Petre influencing James’s queen, 
 and, through her, James’s councils. But what say you to your 
 own Jesuit, Burnet, at the Hague, thus, by his and your admis¬ 
 sions, instigating the daughter to dethrone, and, it may be, mur¬ 
 der her father ?” 
 
 “ Again I remind you that there is no warrant for assuming 
 that the actual dethroning of James is intended. Indeed, I can 
 almost convince you. Though it is true that the persecuted 
 bishops secretly addressed William from the Tower, at the same 
 time with other eminent persons, it was not till after the fic¬ 
 titious birth of a prince of Wales—” 
 
 “ Ay, sir,” interrupted Evelyn, “ that real, not fictitious 
 birth, was, I believe, the true cause why we first began to con¬ 
 spire against our sovereign. Then, indeed, it happened, when 
 the prince of Orange seemed suddenly, though lawfully, deprived 
 of his apparent inheritance, that pressing solicitations were for¬ 
 warded to the Hague, and ready promises given to them. I am 
 utterly surprised at you, Mr. Walker, to speak of, as an imposi¬ 
 tion, a real event, that, during my late short residence in London, 
 has been fully established. Ay, by the most open and direct 
 testimony, to the satisfaction of all honest men, and the shame 
 of those who, on such a question, could cruelly insult the ten- 
 derest and most sacred feelings of their sovereign !” 
 
 “ Well! it is only my business to quiet what you consider con¬ 
 scientious scruples on another subject. Before the matter spoken 
 of, my Lord Wharton—” 
 
 “ A man in his dotage,” Evelyn cried, impatiently. 
 
 “ The bishop of London—” 
 
 u Because under suspension.” 
 
 “ My lord of Devonshire—” 
 
 “ Because he had been fined for striking Colonel Culpepper.” 
 
 “ The Lady Sunderland, a woman of subtle wit and admirable 
 address—” 
 
 “ And indebted, through her husband, for her very title to 
 King James—” 
 
 “ With the bishops, and some others, first addressed the 
 prince. But to them lie only answered, that, if invited by some 
 of the best interest of the land, he rather believed he could be 
 ready by the eud of September.” 
 
 “ This, sir, was but caution.” 
 
 “ His next answer meets your scruples. Other noblemen and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 155 
 
 gentlemen, such as the earls of Danby and Shrewsbury, Admi¬ 
 rals Russell and Herbert, Mr. Heury Sichey, James’s own am¬ 
 bassador in Holland, afterwards appeared. The prince an¬ 
 swered, after sedate consideration, that he must satisfy both his 
 honor and conscience before he could enter on so great a design 
 and further protested that no private ambition, nor particular 
 resentment, could prevail upon him to make a breach with so near 
 a relation. Therefore, that he expected more formidable invita¬ 
 tions.” 
 
 Evelyn laughed scoffingly. 
 
 “ Admirable prudence 1 Well he knew how to drive a safe 
 bargain with impatient customers. Doubtless, sir, after the 
 unlooked-for birth of a new heir, those more ‘ formidable invi¬ 
 tations’ came and convinced him.” 
 
 “ Doubtless,” answered Mr. Walker, still with difficulty, though 
 effectually, restraining himself for the attainment of the end he 
 had in view, rendered more difficult than he had anticipated, by 
 the unlooked-for knowledge and discrimination of Evelyn ; “ as¬ 
 sisted by the great doctor’s discourses with the princess, and her 
 discourses with the prince. And all directed and prompted by 
 a good and merciful Providence.” 
 
 “ Then I am to give much credit, I suppose, to William’s state 
 assertions, Mr. Walker, when I find him sending over his crafty 
 Zuylesten with congratulations to James on the birth of the 
 prince of Wales, after yielding to the suit of your friends, 
 chiefly on the ground of that birth being an imposition. And 
 when I also know, and you cannot deny, that the real embassy 
 of Zuylesten was to collect information for the Prince’s use—” 
 
 “Yes,” interrupted Walker, rather intemperately, “and that 
 faithful servant most assuredly brought back such accounts as 
 fixed the prince in his purpose. All this is but the working of 
 prudence, and does not impugn the truth of his declarations, 
 repeatedly made, that he has no object but to redress the people 
 —no view of personal aggrandizement. Nay, by my last ad¬ 
 vices, this day come to hand, the prince having already taken 
 leave of the States previous to embarkation—” 
 
 “ Heavens!” cried Evelyn, shocked and excited, “ the tempest 
 so very near!” 
 
 “He,” continued Walker, “in his parting address to them, 
 solemnly takes God to witness that he comes to England with 
 uo other intentions than those set out in his declarations. He 
 does not know, indeed” (referring to a letter), “how the Divine 
 
156 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 wisdom may dispose him. To Providence he commits himself. 
 From all which, you may reasonably conclude, that, by entering 
 into an engagement to protect your life and property against the 
 exterminating Papists, you do not, at the same time, neces¬ 
 sarily form any present league against King James. And now, 
 good-night. Let me take your hand—the hand of the son of my 
 old friend. Farewell 1 and”—the clergyman added, speaking 
 earnestly, but calmly—“ touching the other matter undecided 
 betwixt us, I offer this. I offer to attend your nuptials—to 
 officiate in them. For, Protestant as you are, you will require 
 the ministry of your own clergyman—and to bless them, too, 
 should there appear no good reason why they shall be inter¬ 
 rupted. You permit me to attend ?” 
 
 “ I invite you, sir, willingly and thankfully,” Evelyn said, 
 moved by this unexpected leniency. 
 
 “ And will warn me of the day and place, punctually ?” 
 
 Evelyn promised. 
 
 “ Farewell, then,” and he, at length, left the room. 
 
 “ And so,” thought Evelyn, as he tried to compose himself to 
 sleep, “ by rival priests, and churches militant, these countries 
 are once more to be convulsed to the centre. There is Petre, 
 the Jesuit, at St. James’s, and Burnet, the Jesuit, at the Hague. 
 And after years of patient plotting and prompting, they have at 
 last succeeded in embroiling the whole world, just that some good 
 battles may be fought to decide which shall be archbishop 
 of Canterbury. There is William, too, as good a Jesuit as 
 either, I promise them, though not in orders. And lest we 
 should lack zeal to be made fools and madmen of, in Ireland, 
 here we have an O’Haggerty and a Walker. The same farce, 
 this Christian world over ! The same men to kindle the same 
 social, nay, domestic dissensions. To arm the child against the 
 parent ; the true heart against the true heart! Good God !” 
 he added, with a sigh, “ shall the world ever grow old enough 
 to limit priests to the inculcation of a peacemaking creed, and 
 let honest men, nay, even knaves, mind their own business, and 
 tight their own quarrels ?” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 157 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The young men met, next morning, with mutual conscious¬ 
 ness, and some embarrassment, growing out of the separate con¬ 
 versations between them and the two clergymen on the night 
 before. There was, for the first time, that restraint in their 
 manner towards one another, which ever accompanies the 
 retrenching of confidence between old friends. For Evelyn and 
 McDonnell had resolved not to impart, at least till circumstances 
 demanded it, the political engagements both had bound them¬ 
 selves, conditionally, to perform. Edmund kept his commission 
 quietly in his pocket, and Evelyn as secretly kept the address 
 from his northern friends, with his own assent attached thereto 
 Each thus practising a disingenuous ness for which he could readily 
 find arguments to excuse himself, but of which he would have 
 been much more than jealous in the person of his friend. 
 
 At an early hour they mounted their horses, and, with Oliver, 
 left Carrickfergus. The weather continued stormy ; and they 
 had not ridden far northward, when a heavy shower came on. 
 All immediately called to mind the absurd promise of the Rap- 
 paree, and Edmund remarked : 
 
 “ Here is the shower Rory-na-chopple promised us. But 
 where is the colt V 1 
 
 “ Unless it rained horses, I have not much opinion of that 
 prophecy,” Evelyn returned. “ But in the name of wonder, 
 M’Donnell, what is the matter with the colt you ride V f 
 
 The rain continued to pour down so violently, that men and 
 horses were completely drenched. 
 
 “ Why, what can be the matter with him, Evelyn ? He keeps 
 his temper and his paces.” 
 
 “ But look if he be not changing from black to chestnut, as 
 the water runs down his sides and neck 1 And now a white 
 speck comes out on his breast, and a white star on his forehead 1” 
 
 “ Do they so ?” asked M’Donnell, quickly flinging himself from 
 the saddle. Then, after examining the animal for a still more 
 peculiar mark—“ By the blessed saints,” he cried, “ the Rapparea 
 hath promised fair 1 this is my own colt, Pawdrick.” 
 
 The party looked at each other for a moment, and then burst 
 into a loud laugh. 
 
 His make struck me at the first glance,” continued Edmund ; 
 
158 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ but what honest man could suspect the cheat, in this new suit, 
 and with the tail cut short ? The rascal Tory 1 the hanged and 
 unharmed rascal ! I have purchased my own horse from one of 
 his receivers—I see it all, now. Ay, I have heard of the very 
 trick before ; one of the many which it is well known the villain 
 uses to baffle immediate pursuit and detection. Some bogweed, 
 boiled, supplies him with this temporary dying-stuff; and if I am 
 not even with him yet—if I do not get his own face changed 
 black, and, under Providence, with more lasting effect than his 
 practices on my colt, or than the gallows had on it, the last time, 
 let him whisper you away from Glenarriff again, Pawdrick, and 
 turn you white, for novelty !” 
 
 “ ’Tis an amusing villany,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ Yes, I grant you, to all save the twice-cheated. But 
 come/’ Edmund added, gayly vaulting into his saddle, “ let us 
 for the present think of it only for a jest. Home, Pawdrick, 
 home ! good deeds under your true colors. Glenarriffs shelving 
 sward and knee-deep clover are before you, and love and lady- 
 smiles before your master—move, truant, move !” Dashing 
 spurs into Pawdrick, he led on the party at a gallant pace. 
 
 We very blamefully omitted to mention, that, on receipt of 
 Evelyn’s last letter, Esther had succeeded in prevailing upon 
 Eva to name a day for making her brother happy. And that 
 the chief clause of Eva’s compliance was a counter-concession 
 exacted from Esther, with the help of Edmund, then present, to 
 do the same kindness by her brother. 
 
 The day thus fixed upon for both ceremonies w r as one towards 
 the middle of the next month, November—about three weeks, 
 altogether, from the time of Edmund’s departure to meet his 
 friend in Carrickfergus. Lord Antrim’s lady, the rather cele¬ 
 brated marchioness of Buckingham, becoming necessarily a con¬ 
 fidant on the occasion, kindly insisted that the young ladies, each 
 motherless as she was, should accept of her matronage at their 
 nuptials, and also consent to have the double union take place in 
 Antrim Castle. The old earl heartily and courteously seconded 
 this arrangement; and the maidens, much gratified, assented. 
 Preparations were forthwith commenced, on all sides, to meet, 
 with spkendor, mirth, and honor, the expected day. 
 
 The earl sent invitations to some of his leal friends and neigh¬ 
 bors, such as the Lord Iveagh, of Mourne, in the County Down; 
 O’Hagar, of the county of Londonderry ; and O’Dogherty, of 
 Inishowen ; not careless, perhaps, of thus creating an oppor 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 159 
 
 fcunity for getting them together under his roof. But the first 
 invitations were necessarily sent to his cousin, Randall M’Don- 
 nell, of Glenarrifi*; to Daniel M’Donnell, of Lavd : and to 
 several other M’Donnells, all cousins, and near at hand. His 
 lady did not fail to take like measures for collecting a goodly 
 company of fair dames and gentle damsels ; having first for¬ 
 warded, at Esther’s instance, and inclosed in a dutiful letter of 
 Esther’s own, a very kind and pressing request for the presence 
 of Mrs. Evelyn, 4>f Derry city. 
 
 Two suites orrooms were selected for the young couples ; and 
 workmen—the best that could be had from Dublin—set to work 
 at them as soon as possible. The old chapel of the castle was 
 also taken in hand, with a view to its being newly fitted up and 
 adorned. Then, rich varieties of material for bridal attire came 
 from the metropolis, and accomplished seamstresses, overlooked 
 by the tirewoman of the countess, and assisted, as well as they 
 knew how, by those in attendance on the young ladies them¬ 
 selves, fastened upon it with all dispatch. 
 
 The maidens, too, occasionally sat down among their women 
 and their finery, and helped to forward the adornments for their 
 bridal day ; each, indeed, kindly attending to the other’s dress 
 alone. Or they strolled, arm in arm, about the house, carefully 
 avoiding that wing in which the workmen were engaged ; or, 
 when, half venturous, they found themselves too near it, skip¬ 
 ping., like startled fawns, from the sound of a heavy footstep, or 
 the sudden opening of a door. At night, indeed, when the men 
 had retired, and that “the clink of hammer” no longer kept 
 their little hearts jumping and fluttering to every knock, they 
 sometimes hazarded a peep into those awful rooms, and, still arm 
 in arm, glided about them on tiptoe, with lamp and faces held 
 up, in shy scrutiny of every new improvement that had just 
 been completed, or was in progress. They explored each other’s 
 destined anteroom, sitting-room, nay, bridal-chamber ; never 
 having courage, however, to bestow more than one glance at a 
 time on the progressive furnishing of this last-mentioned terrible 
 apartment. And thus they spent their time, morning, noon, and 
 night, uutil the arrival of M’Donuell and Evelyn ; speaking very 
 little to each other, but looking a great deal, and sighing the 
 quick, faint sighs that will every moment flutter up, like birds, 
 from young hearts full of happiness. 
 
 But, upon the morning of the arrival of their lovers, they had, 
 at length, a long conversation. 
 
160 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “I do not wonder to see you agitated, dearest sister/’ said 
 Eva, “for I am so myself. Nor dejected either, were it only a 
 little ; for I, too, feel now and again a strange inclination to 
 weep, and again I know not why or wherefore. But you are 
 more melancholy than the occasion calls for ; distressed, I fear, 
 with something else.” 
 
 “ With something else, indeed, dear Eva. Yet something that 
 has to do with the occasion.” 
 
 “ Your aunt’s unnatural conduct, heretofore ? Your fears 
 that she will not accept the present invitation ?” 
 
 “ No ; I must own I do not love my aunt enough to afflict 
 myself with her whims. Though, doubtless, I should have felt 
 less an orphan had she stayed by my side, or if she will now act 
 by me as a mother.” 
 
 “ I should, indeed, have recollected, that you have before told 
 me as much. I might have known that your deep thought, and 
 melancholy, and secret tears, which I so often surprise, must, 
 therefore, come from another source. Dear girl, what is that 
 other ?” 
 
 “ Dear Eva, you must not ask me.” 
 
 “ No ? Then I shall not, of course.” 
 
 “ Now I see you are offended with me, but you should not be. 
 I have been bound, under terrible threats, never to disclose the 
 cause of my—my fears, my childish fears, after all. For every 
 thing goes on so as to prove them vain. A very short time must 
 decide all; and will, I am sure, decide for their eternal removal.” 
 
 Eva paused a moment ; then looking at Esther—“ Onagh of 
 the cavern has been frightening you,” she said. 
 
 Her friend burst into tears. 
 
 “Yes ; you have guessed aright !” she cried. “ Oh, if you 
 knew, Eva, how that woman has made me suffer!” 
 
 “ Dear silly Esther, can it be possible that, after all our dis* 
 course about that woman, you still suffer her to dwell a moment 
 in your thought ?” 
 
 “ Oh, Eva, there is cause why I should!” 
 
 “You mean the silly words she spoke to you in the little glen V' 
 
 “No ; worse, much worse than that.” 
 
 “You have seen her since, then?” 
 
 “ Alas 1 alas 1 I have.” 
 
 “ Lately ? And where ?” 
 
 “ Lately. But that was not the occasion of what distresses 
 me. Dear Eva, ask me no more—I dare not epeak openly to 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 161 
 
 you. Long, long, the painful knowledge has been with me. 
 Long, long, have I wished to tell you of it, and ask your coun¬ 
 sel, and listen to your disproving arguments. But I durst not.” 
 
 “ Has the wretched creature pledged you to secrecy ?” 
 
 “ Not exactly so ^ but her denouncements on me if I divulged 
 the secret, particularly to you, are shocking.” 
 
 Eva laughed. “ Come, come, dearest Esther, there is one on 
 the road by this time shall make a false prophet of Mrs. Ouagh. 
 You see I can divine at least the nature of her mummerv. 
 Shame upon you, Esther, to admit, at a sensible age, the exist¬ 
 ence of such weakness in your mind ! Shame again upon you, 
 in my brother’s name, to weigh the words of an impostor or a 
 mad woman against his true love ! So, even without the tie of 
 an extorted promise, you will refuse me the opportunity to laugli 
 at this new conceit, whatever it is, merely because the wise 
 woman of Cushindoll has threatened to bewitch you, perhaps ? 
 Be it so, silly child. But were I in your place, and you in mine, 
 asking this favor, I would cast her charms and her broomstick, 
 her familiar and her fiddlestick, as feathers, to the four winds of 
 heaven, rather than leave you one instant unanswered.” 
 
 “ I will take heart to tell you, then,” said her more timid com¬ 
 panion. “I am sure I ought, Evm, and that all is, as you say, 
 childishness. Indeed, although it happened before our removal 
 from the seashore to Lough Neagh, I was able, of my own ac¬ 
 cord, by prayer, and the calm exercise of reason, almost to for¬ 
 get it. Until yesternight, when the voice of Onagh sounded at 
 my chamber window, just as I lay down in bed, whispering 
 strangely—bend towards me, Eva, I cannot bear to repeat the 
 words aloud—‘ The bridal robe is nearly made. So is the 
 shroud, though not so nearly. Still, forget not All Saints’ Eve, 
 the last but one.’ ” 
 
 “ The insolent woman !” Eva cried, with flashing eyes, as she 
 protectingly encircled her friend with her arm, she now grows 
 too bold, and I will surely desire Edmund to see that she keeps 
 within bounds. But you are certain she was there at the win¬ 
 dow ? It could not have been a dream ?” 
 
 “ I think not ; though Heaven knows, often and often have 
 her face and figure made my sleep horrible, Eva. Oh 1 I have 
 fancied her crouching on my bed, at night, and on my breast, 
 until through dread and shrinking, I shrieked aloud, and so woke 
 myself, trembling and panting. Again and again have I dreamt 
 such things. Oh ! Eva, I cannot tell you half the suffering that 
 strange woman has caused me 1” 
 
162 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ That was your own fault, Esther, more than hers. But— 
 
 1 still remember All Saints’ Eve,’—those were her words. What 
 could she mean by that ? Let me see. All Saints’ Eve, the 
 last but one, you were too ill and feverish to leave your room, 
 and Onagh did not surely approach the house.” 
 
 “Ill and feverish I indeed was, Esther, and—do n}t smile at 
 me, dear girl—partly on account of the story you told me of an¬ 
 other All Saints’ Eve. Onagh did not come to your house, and 
 yet I saw her.” 
 
 “ I cannot understand that.” 
 
 “ Listen, then,” the girl said, laying her face down on her 
 friend’s shoulder, and speaking in tones scarcely above a whisper. 
 “ I retired, as you know, to my own room, because my mind and 
 body were so troubled I could not bear the company even of 
 those I loved so well. I retired to my room, but did not ke- p 
 my room.” 
 
 “ How, Esther !” 
 
 “ Indeed, I think my mind must have failed me altogether to 
 do what I did. It was unnatural courage, I am sure. You may 
 remember, I was obliged to keep my bed next day, and I talked 
 lightly, did I not ?” 
 
 “ I indeed remember that you had then an illness severe and 
 alarming, though of short continuance. But go on. You left 
 your room—why ?” 
 
 “There I sat, Esther, alone in the shivering moonlight, for I 
 grew so strange, even to myself, that I could not bear my lamp. 
 There I sat alone, thinking of Onagh’s prophecy, of all you had 
 told me, of all I had seen her do at the cavern, as we passed her by, 
 and of what she had said to me in the little glen. I was conscious, 
 too, what night it was—an anniversary of the awful one upon 
 which, while I was such a distance away from her, that evil 
 woman spanned my fate—a recurrence of the night on which a 
 knowledge of the future comes, from good or evil, for good or 
 evil, to the earth. These were my thoughts ; I could not check 
 them. I believe I did not even strive to check them. Whether 
 or no, they took such possession of me that, as I listened to the 
 boom of the sea, or to the whistling of the wind through the 
 trees at the back of the house, I thought the sounds became 
 voices, all echoing what Onagh had told me. I looked out into 
 the lights and shadows cast by the moon, upon the broad hills so 
 near me, and your brother’s figure, Eva, seemed, over and over, 
 to flit by my window. Until at last I started up and could have 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 163 
 
 screamed, I know not why, for, strange to say, it u as not fear I 
 felt. 
 
 “ At last came a desperate thought. It broke upon my dis¬ 
 quieted mind to seek Onagh that very night in her cavern, and 
 challenge her to work me a charm. Scarce was this wild fancy 
 formed,-when, gliding through a back-door, I found myself, badly 
 protected from the howling winds, on the road to her cavern. 
 The distance, you have told me, is about a mile. I know not how 
 soon or how long I might have been going ; but I well remem¬ 
 ber rushing into the blank mouth of her cavern-house, and when 
 at some distance in its recesses, I saw a red light. Stopping sud¬ 
 denly— 
 
 “ ‘A hundred thousand welcomes/ I then heard her say, the 
 voice reaching me through utter darkness ; ‘ we were expecting 
 you ; come in.’ Eva, still I was not frightened ; I did advance 
 into the cave. 
 
 “ And, gracious God ! what a sight there met my eyes 1 Onagh’s 
 back was to me as I approached. She sat on her heels, and 
 stooped forward her head and body, as if watching something on 
 the ground. A turn in the cave, as I still advanced, showed me 
 the figure of a very aged and exceedingly small woman, sitting 
 opposite to her, also crouching, and looking intently downwards. 
 At another step, my eye followed theirs, and fell upon the corpse 
 of a second hag, stretched out upon the damp and earthen floor, 
 a large stone laid on her breast, another on her knees, and a 
 piece of flaming wood in her rigid hand. Even yet, Eva, I felt 
 no terror ; I only wondered. 
 
 “ ‘ She’s waking herself/ said Onagh, with a laugh, and not 
 raising her head to look at me. 
 
 “ ‘Who is she V I asked. My voice had a strange ring in it. 
 I started even as I spoke. 
 
 “ ‘ I know no more than you/ Onagh answered, rocking her 
 bent body and head to and fro, while her chin touched her knees, 
 and her hands were clasped across her legs. ‘ No, no more than 
 the child unborn. Only, here I found her, with the other before 
 you, this All Saints’ Eve come seven years. My time was just 
 up with them, and an hour to spare, when we got her, stark and 
 stiff, down in the end of the place. Ay, crippled too, though 
 she lies out so straight, there, with the help of the two stones 
 that keep her like a Christian corpse. Isn’t that it, gran’-aunt V 
 again laughing, and addressing the old woman opposite to her. ‘ I 
 call her gran’-aunt, you see, and her that’s gone I used to call 
 
164 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 granny, and no other names had I for them. You don’t know 
 how I found them out here ; I’ll tell you, then. The(arly blight 
 came on me, as early it will come on yourself, and I was restless, 
 and didn’t kuow what to do. Until one night I found an apron 
 that had been thieved from me long before, lying on the floor as 
 I got into bed ; it was all knotted and twisted, and I guessed by 
 what hands. I opened one knot, and then another and another. 
 For every knot I opened, there came a face round my bed, and 
 at last the faces of the two you see here to-night. Next morn¬ 
 ing I left my mother’s home. I met the first face I saw the 
 night before, and she led me a bit of the road. Then I met the 
 next, and she gave me a second help. And so on, until, day and 
 night, I walked from the south to the north, and the last friend 
 parted me abroad at the open door you came in by. And here 
 I found the one that lies stretched there, and the other squatting 
 before you. And a hearty welcome I had from the both.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Up, Onagh !’ I said, interrupting her, ‘ and work me a 
 charm—a true one—a sure one. One that will make me sure 
 forever of what you have told me.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Go with her, gran’-aunt,’ she said, ‘ further up, into the 
 dark. Take this rape-seed’—giving me some— 4 repeat after me 
 the words you will hear me say, and drop the rape-seed as you 
 repeat them. That will do ; for I can’t leave the corpse till the 
 cock crows.’ ” 
 
 Eva, who had so far been listening in silent wonder to this 
 wild story, here interrupted the narration. 
 
 “ Esther she said, gravely, “ dear girl ! This sounds like a 
 fantastic dream. Do you tell me that such things really hap¬ 
 pened ?” 
 
 “It was no dream, Eva,” Esther as gravely replied. “No ! 
 no ! what I tell you too truly occurred. Listen, and you will 
 understand all. 
 
 “The old pigmy got on her feet—in height she was not more 
 than a child—and hobbled into the dark recesses of the cave, I 
 following her. When we had gone almost entirely beyond the 
 influence of the light, she stopped, and Onagh screamed out, far 
 behind us — 1 Are ye there V 
 
 “ 1 Say the words,’ answered my companion. Onagh repeated, 
 as well as I can recollect, the following lines : 
 
 ** ‘ Rape-seed I sow, rape-seed I sow, 
 
 Come from above, or come from 1 ©low ; 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 165 
 
 Come far, come near ! 
 
 Show me my sweetheart, show me my - 
 Show him as he will be to me, 
 
 A blessing, or a misery.’ 
 
 “ Eva, I know I was disturbed in mind; I know, too, that, 
 hist as I had ended my repetition of the lines, I grew afraid for 
 the hist time—and my senses may here have deceived me. Bo 
 that as it may, never in my life before did the face and figure of 
 Edmund pass plainer before me, than—even in the dark—at that 
 horrible moment. But his face was pale, and his figure wasted. 
 After he passed, there was another motion in the dark, as if he 
 would cross the cavern again. When I again looked, my eyes 
 met—instead of him—death, Eva, death!” 
 
 “ What do you mean V’ asked Eva, distending her eyes. 
 
 “ Death, I say ! the grinning head and the skeleton frame of 
 death ! And it wore, on the bony brow, a bridal chaplet!” 
 
 “Absurdity, dearest girl! You have, yourself, fully accounted 
 for the mockery. Why should I argue with you ? The pre¬ 
 vious state of your mind—your feverish health—your terrors— 
 your prejudices—every thing joined to distract and impose upon 
 you.” 
 
 “ That may be ; nay, 1 am sure it was so ; yet so real and 
 dreadful was the impression of the moment, that I screamed and 
 swooned away. When I revived, I found myself in the open 
 air, within sight of our cottage, Onagh standing over me. I 
 screamed again, when I saw her. 
 
 “‘Now/ she said, ‘you look as if you were satisfied. Be 
 satisfied, then. Never can he wive with you/ 
 
 “ ‘ Why must this be V I cried wildly; ‘ and why should you 
 terrible w'oman, decide his fate and mine ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Hearken to me P she ref lied, looking less insane, and more 
 intelligent and stern than I had before seen her ; ‘ I have doomed 
 him, and others, too, on earth and in heaven—never to taste the 
 sweets of woman’s love. Was there no doom in question he 
 should not taste it. I, alone, a woman, and a weak and friend 
 less one, would hinder him.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Wherefore V I still asked, fiercely, I believe. 
 
 “ ‘ —Nor if he had twenty brothers should one of them e§ 
 cape the same fate/ she continued. ‘ He had one brother who did 
 escape it ; but he is gone/ ” 
 
 “ Ha 1” Eva said, startled, but not enough affected, in ap 
 
166 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 pearance, to attract Esther’s notice, who continued, without 
 raising her head : 
 
 “ ‘ Yonder,’ Onagh added, ‘ is your yet happy house ; speed to 
 it, and have your time of happiness.’ Then all at once relapsing 
 into her usual manner, she added, slowly : 1 If you betray what 
 I have last said, to him or his sister, such faces shall watch your 
 sleeping, such curses shall attend your pilgrimage on earth, as 
 will make you dearly rue the treachery. The blessing of this 
 good All Saints’ night be with you.’ And she left me. I re¬ 
 turned home, and secretly gained my sleeping-chamber.” 
 
 “ Well ?” Eva said, quite recovered from her own late agitation, 
 as she smiled and looked at Esther, as if to hear more—“ well, 
 pretty sister, and is this all ? Tut, tut ; the woman either is 
 knave enough to frighten you for the purpose of extorting 
 money, or fool enough for any piece of nonsense. And this is 
 the terrible secret that has weighed you down so long—the ter¬ 
 rible prophecy that is to turn your true-love sweets into bitter¬ 
 ness ? Come, come ! I know one who will cure these silly fan¬ 
 cies. And, Esther, in some half-score years, after a certain day 
 of the coming month, I shall know a something of a matron 
 lady, who, with half-a-dozen young M’JDonnells around her, will 
 join me in laughing at them.” 
 
 “ Shame, Eva M’Donnell !” said Esther, smiling as if she 
 wholly forgot her terrors, and blushing at the prospect her 
 friend so jestingly held out to her. 
 
 “ By the way, Esther,” Eva continued, wishing to keep as 
 clear as possible of the old topic, “ will you let me ask you a 
 strange, and yet, perchance, not an improper question?” 
 
 “ It cannot be improper from Eva—ask it.” 
 
 Eva took the leave granted, and their conversation continued 
 on a subject much more likely to influence Esther’s future hap¬ 
 piness than could the extravagant one they had just ended. 
 
 “ I scarce know how to begin, Esther,” said Eva, in her turn 
 blushing deeply ; “ but we are to become wives, you know ; and 
 wives generally become mothers. And so, when we shall be such, if 
 in that case, have yen ever thought how you should arrange the 
 questions of religious difference between yourself and Edmund ?” 
 
 “ How do you mean ?” Esther asked. 
 
 “ In what creed should you wish your children to be brought 
 up ? That is the question I wanted to ask.” 
 
 “ In my own, to be sure, Eva,” said Esther, very naturally ex¬ 
 pressing the first idea she had ever formed on the subject. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 167 
 
 “ Well, that is natural. But you must recollect that your 
 husband will have his wish too.” 
 
 “ So he will, indeed ; I had not thought of that.” 
 
 “ Here, then, is a difference at once ; the difference I supposed 
 all along. Have you ever thought of any way of getting over 
 
 “I know of none, unless—” She paused. 
 
 11 Unless Edmund yields to your wish, implicitly ?” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, Eva.” 
 
 “ Suppose he should entertain the same hopes of your good 
 nature and liberality ?” 
 
 “ Then I shall be truly at a loss what to do. But, indeed, 
 Eva, I could never bear to see a child of mine go to the mass- 
 house.” 
 
 “ Esther ! you forget you speak to me,” said Eva, a little 
 coldly and haughtily. 
 
 “ I did, perhaps, forget that, in speaking to you, I addressed 
 a Roman Catholic,” resumed Esther, piqued on the only point 
 in which she was susceptible. “Yet I have honestly expressed 
 what I feel, Eva, though the manner was unguarded and abrupt.” 
 
 “ The mass-house is not the pest-house, Esther, to require being 
 mentioned so abhorringly ; nor need the religion of your be¬ 
 trothed husband call for such contempt at your hands.” 
 
 “ After all, Eva, I wish he was of my own religion.” 
 
 “ Do you make it an objection to your union with him ?” Eva 
 inquired, very pointedly. 
 
 “ Do you mean to offend me by that question, and particularly 
 by that look, Eva ?” 
 
 “ Esther Evelyn, I am above meanness of any kind ; least of 
 all, the meanness of influencing a free will. This only I have to 
 say—that if your brother held to me, on my own account, the 
 language you here speak of my brother, I would—sincerely and 
 dearly as I love him—tear him at once from my heart, and try to 
 forget him forever 1” 
 
 “ And I, Eva M’Donnell, can easily apply what you say to the 
 present case. Perhaps I have my own independent notions on 
 the matter. But you have asked me questions all along ; allow 
 me a few in turn. You, too, are about to be wedded to a man 
 who differs from you in religion. What is your own resolve—I 
 know you have formed one—to meet the case you were pleased 
 to pose for me ?” 
 
 answer, honorably, this is my resolve. I would strive, by 
 
168 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 all means in my power, and, of course, only by all permitted to a 
 lady of gentle blood, to bring my husband’s mind to look so toi- 
 eratingly—I will say, justly—on the tenets and spirit of my holy 
 faith, that he should feel, under the permission of Providence, no 
 such horror as you have expressed in allowing me the religious 
 guidance of my children.” 
 
 “ That is to say, you would strive to—to convert him,” said 
 Esther, suppressing a phrase she knew would be offensive, and 
 using one she also knew Eva preferred. 
 
 “ If I did, it were but my duty,” replied Eva. 
 
 “ Indeed !” cried Esther ; “ this is new information, Eva 
 M’Donnell.” Then, after a pause, “ I take it as granted you 
 now speak the general sentiments of all of your persuasion. If 
 so, what am I to expect in a situation where authority can en¬ 
 force zeal ?” 
 
 “ Again I w T arn you, Esther, that unless you mean by these 
 reflections to object to a union with Edmund M’Donnell, they are 
 uselessly—idly said. The avowals I make are, indeed, rather 
 new between us ; and perhaps for a reason. When we met first, 
 the times were tranquil ; the enemies of my religion seemed wil¬ 
 ling to allow it rest, and, at least, to tolerate it in the inter¬ 
 changes of society. Now the spirit of exclusion, nay, of exter¬ 
 mination, is busy again ; we are once more marked out and pro¬ 
 scribed. It may be that I was disposed, under such a change, 
 to ascertain the prospect of domestic happiness to be hoped for 
 by my brother, in the tone of mind, on religious subjects, enter¬ 
 tained by his affianced lady.” 
 
 “ And I, too, mayhap,” said Esther, “felt inclined to look for 
 some lights on this subject, when I knew, as I know now, that 
 my religion, and not yours, was and is that marked out for de¬ 
 struction, in the coming tumult which threatens us all!” 
 
 “Bigotry!” said Eva M’Donnell, haughtily. 
 
 “ And bigotry,” retorted Esther Evelyn, “ to accuse the creed I 
 profesa and that Robert Evelyn also professes, of any cruel in¬ 
 tent ions, nay, of any unfair disturbing of domestic happiness. 
 Let your own religion, Eva, teach you to forget the submission 
 of a wife ; mine shall never teach me the same doctrine.” 
 
 “ Yet, this moment, you wished Edmund a Protestant?” 
 
 “ And wish it still.” 
 
 “ Then would you not strive to gain your wish ?” 
 
 “ By all fair and Christian means, assuredly.” 
 
T1IE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 169 
 
 What!” cried Eva, alarmed in her turn, “ try to change him ? 
 My brother ought to know this.” 
 
 “ Tell him, then. Only let me have the same freedom to speak 
 to my brother.” 
 
 “ Take it,” said Eva, rising proudly. A hunting-horn sounded 
 cheerily at a distance, calling out the echoes of the surrounding 
 hills. “ Here,” she continued, pointing to a window that com¬ 
 manded, for more than the distance of a mile, the road that 
 swept down the mountain to Glenarm Castle—“ here both should 
 be to give us timely opportunity. That was Edmund’s wonted 
 signal of approach homeward ; and yonder, indeed, four horse¬ 
 men spur down the hill-road, two of them much ahead of the 
 others.” 
 
 “My brother! my dear brother!” exclaimed Esther, gaining 
 the window, also, and clasping her hands ; “ and Edmund, dear, 
 dear Edmund !” The last words escaped her heart, in despite of 
 the pettishness of the previous moment. “ Oh, Eva,” she cried 
 —giving vent to the master feeling thus betrayed—“ he is my 
 only life, after all!” The avowal broke down the barriers that 
 the last few moments had built up between them, and the two 
 girls embraced the more warmly for their passing coolness. 
 
 “And think you, Esther, that I behold, without a welling-up 
 of woman’s utmost tenderness, the return, after such an absence, 
 of Robert Evelyn ? We have been but idly vexing each other. 
 Come, then, an answer to their signal.” 
 
 She opened the window ; both stood at it, and waved their 
 white kerchiefs, over and over, on the breeze. 
 
 “They see us!” resumed Eva; “they doff their hats, and 
 wave them high in return ! Let us, dear Esther, end our dis¬ 
 cussion, while they approach. Neither of us will use unfair 
 means of persuasion to affect the mode of faith of our husbands. 
 Both, meantime, are free to introduce, in season, plain statements 
 of our own creed, and arguments why we prefer it. We will 
 both, also, surely listen, calm and unprejudiced, to reasons that 
 may be given us in reply.” 
 
 “ That were but honorable and rational,” said Esther. But, in 
 honesty, we must avow, that the young ladies thus easily agreed, 
 because they mutually thought that, according to the plans pro¬ 
 posed, they could as easily have every thing their own way. 
 
 “ And as to the question of offspring, Esther—beshrew it for 
 a strange one I—do you know how some sensible persons have 
 done in a like case ?” 
 
 8 
 
170 
 
 THE BO THE WATER. 
 
 “ No, Eva ; but let me hear, and speedily.” Her eyes darted 
 through the wiudow, as she still waved her kerchief. 
 
 “Supposing, under the will of God, girls,” rejoined Eva, with 
 some vagueness of expression, “ the mother had care of them. 
 And supposing boys, the father.” 
 
 “ That is excellent !” said Esther, her looks and occupation 
 still unchanged. “ Yes! Let them have their boys, and we can 
 have our girls.” 
 
 “Now, shame on us both, Esther,” resumed Eva, again joining 
 her friend in signals of welcome, “ and Heaven pardon us such 
 unmaidenly calculations, and such presumption on the will of 
 Providence.” 
 
 “It was bold and wicked, indeed, I believe,” said Esther. 
 “ Though, I am sure, neither of us thought harm.” 
 
 The horsemen had now come so near as to be fully recogniz¬ 
 able ; then were salutations renewed with more energy. As 
 they gained the outskirts of the little hamlet of Glenarm. a 
 dozen bagpipers, heading a newly-raised company of men, 
 screamed out the welcome of Edmund M’Donnell, and of the be¬ 
 trothed husband of Eva. The men joined their shout to the 
 clamor ; the travellers darted by them ; passed through the ham¬ 
 let, and gained the drawbridge of Glenarm Castle, which was 
 over a rapid mountain-stream, instead of an artificial fosse. It 
 was lowered ; the hollow trampling of their horses sounded on 
 it, as the ladies lost sight of them. The clattering of hoofs was 
 heard in the yard ; and, at last, they rushed into the saloon occu¬ 
 pied by their betrothed maidens. It was, in one respect, an odd 
 meeting. Brothers and sisters looked first at each other—lovers 
 looked at their beloved. There was a second’s hesitation as to 
 how they were all to commence greetings, which Edmund ended 
 by catching Esther in his arms. In the next instant he led her 
 to Evelyn, who, notwithstanding his long absence, did not show 
 much chagrin at the arrangement which had obliged him to greet 
 Eva before his sister. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 “ And whither do you go to-day, M’Donnel ?” asked Evelyn 
 of his friend, about a week after his return. 
 
 “ To Glenarriff,” answered Edmund. 
 
 “ You have gone thither very often of late.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 171 
 
 11 Not oftener, surely, than my preparations for an approach¬ 
 ing event require.” 
 
 “ What event do you mean ?” 
 
 “ You should surely think I mean but one—my marriage with 
 your sister.” So the young men parted. 
 
 But Evelyn’s brow fell. He had, as his questions imported, 
 been somewhat suspicious of Edmund’s visits to Glenarriff; an 
 accident had helped to confirm and inflame this jealousy. In his 
 friend’s absence he had joined, a few days before, a party of 
 huntsmen from Antrim Castle. The hunt was a long one ; it 
 led them as far as the spacious valley in which Edmund’s house 
 stood. Evelyn rode unperceived to the brow of the chain of hills 
 that commanded it ; below him, on the level ground at the side 
 of the river, he recognized Edmund at the head of a body of 
 armed men, engaged in putting them through some military ex¬ 
 ercise. This seemed done in secrecy ; but it might not be so : 
 M’Donnell might merely have forgotten to give him his confi¬ 
 dence. Evelyn determined to see ; therefore, the question to 
 which he now felt he had received an insincere reply. 
 
 He was indignant with Edmund : he did not perceive that 
 some portion of the discontent that agitated him ought to have 
 been visited on himself. Or, perhaps, he really felt a self-reproach, 
 but unconsciously added it to the weight of his actual jealousy 
 of his young friend. Nor could he distinguish that much of Ed¬ 
 mund’s alteration of manner—for there was alteration—sprang 
 from a similar jealousy, on his part, of Evelyn, to which jealousy 
 a certain circumstance had also given cause. 
 
 A few evenings before, Evelyn had, in his company, received 
 a letter which seemed to agitate him as he read it. Glancing 
 inadvertently at it, M’Donnell saw his own name more than once 
 written by this unknown correspondent. Evelyn put up the letter 
 gravely, and his spirits and manner were chilled for the rest of 
 the evening. Edmund took an opportunity of asking, in jest, if 
 the epistle contained any slander of him. His friend started, 
 and stared at him ; then deliberately added that it did not even 
 mention his name. 
 
 It was from Walker, in answer to one Evelyn had written, 
 according to engagement, to inform that gentleman of the day 
 and place appointed for his marriage. Renewing promises to 
 attend, it proceeded to acquaint him of the fact of William 
 having embarked for England ; of the veteran army and noble 
 suite that accompanied him ; of the certainty of a Popish plot to 
 
172 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 massacre all the Protestants in Ireland, early in December. 
 With the still more appalling intelligence that Edmund M’Donnell 
 was pledged to take a conspicuous part in it. 
 
 By the same hand came a letter from Mrs. Evelyn to Esther, 
 rather uncourteously declining the invitation to grace and bless 
 her nuptials, and filled with repetitions of the certain intelligence 
 of a general massacre, in which, according to Mrs. Evelyn also, 
 young M’Dounell and his old rebel father were to do horrid 
 things. This epistle terrified and afflicted Esther, more than any 
 former effort of her aunt. Eva, surprising her in tears, got the 
 letter to read. Firing up forthwith, she swept away to place 
 the insulting document before her betrothed lord—not in re¬ 
 proach, indeed, but fully anticipating his equal wrath and detes¬ 
 tation of the writer. She was startled and shocked by his unex¬ 
 pected coldness of observation upon it. Back she swept again 
 to Esther, returned the letter, and retired to her own chamber. 
 
 It was now known to all that the prince of Orange had em¬ 
 barked from Holland, with a fair wind. But about the time 
 when he might be expected to land, the fair wind changed into a 
 foul one ; storms arose ; dispatches from England to Ireland 
 were, by the same changes, obstructed, and every one paused in 
 silence to await the final event. Evelyn found himself obliged 
 to suspend all remark ; and this increased his discontent and 
 suspicion. No one spoke to him on the matter, and he would 
 speak to no one. But he saw, with bitter feelings, the earl of 
 Antrim, Lord Iveagh, and other guests—who, anticipating the 
 marriage, seemed rather to have visited Antrim Castle for differ¬ 
 ent purposes than to witness it—get together with Edmund in 
 knots, and whisper and consult beyond all patience. 
 
 But though this state of feeling, amongst the parties most in¬ 
 terested, might seem a bad omen of their happy union, yet it 
 did not interfere with the determinations of all to get married on 
 the day appointed. Love scenes, continually occurring, in the 
 mean time predominated over every other sentiment. In fact and 
 truth, as mutual distrust had not assumed any certain shape, the 
 young people wished, with their hearts and souls, for the tenth 
 day of November. 
 
 In its own good time, and just as regularly and as slowly as 
 if they had cared nothing about it, the day came at last. It 
 was as black, as stormy, and as comfortless, as if it had made 
 up its mind to treat them and their raptures with surly con¬ 
 tempt. But, notwithstanding its seeming disapproval, all else 
 
THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 173 
 
 rras brilliant in readiness and attendance upon the happy young 
 people. In vain did it send its ruffian blasts to course round the 
 battlements of the old building, to shake its old casements, or 
 even to bluster down its old chimneys. Within every voice 
 spoke, or tried to speak, in softest accents ; groups of ladies, 
 young and beautiful, only stood at the windows to wonder at its 
 violence ; men, brave and noble, warmed themselves at the blaz¬ 
 ing hearth it could not chill. 
 
 At midday, the guests were, indeed, all met in the grand 
 withdrawing-room of Antrim Castle. The bridegrooms, con¬ 
 scious and joyous, yet trying not to seem either, sat from time 
 to time, with the different sets of ladies who had come to witness 
 and envy their happiness ; or ventured among the veteran group 
 of their own sex who surrounded Lord Antrim, to hear and suf¬ 
 fer as they might, all the jests that could apply to their case. 
 The brides were in their chambers, with their husbands, awaiting, 
 in unimaginable palpitations, their summons from the lady of the 
 mansion. The latter, dividing herself among her guests, glided 
 from party to party, with sparkling eyes and dimpled mouth, 
 saying, in half whispers, such pretty and appropriate things, as set 
 many a young lady at her best to look grave, while others only 
 blushed, and some laughed outright. 
 
 The hour was come ; every thing was ready ; and every person 
 in attendance, except one. The Reverend George Walker had not 
 yet arrived. And, as, under the circumstances of the parties, 
 his agency was required to make the ceremonies, even after the 
 ministry of the Catholic priest, satisfactory to all, nothing could 
 be entered upon without him. A disagreeable pause, therefore, 
 occurred, unrelieved by the former willingness to wait. As there 
 could be no doubt of the gentleman’s arrival, although past his 
 time, it was not even made exciting by fears of a disappointment. 
 
 Hour after hour thus wore away. The black and tempestuous 
 November night closed in, even prematurely for the time of the 
 year. Lights were ordered for the apartment; and still Mr. 
 Walker came not. It was past, much past dinner hour, too. A 
 banquet, prepared with munificence on the part of the noble 
 hosts, and with great care and labor on the part of his culinary 
 servants, was spoiling. The lower regions of the castle were all 
 but in open mutiny, and this consideration, joined with others, 
 made even the noble hostess impatient. 
 
 As the lights were brought into the room, a horseman passed 
 •he drawbridge. 
 
174 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ ’Tis he !” cried Edmund ; “ I know his dark cloak.” 
 
 Every one bustled; a loud knocking reverberated through the 
 castle. The doors were flung open ; and—Friar O’Haggerty 
 entered the apartment. 
 
 “ I give you joy, my lord of Antrim,” he exclaimed, the moment 
 he appeared at the door, and speaking rapidly, and with much 
 excitement, as he walked up the room—“ And you, my lord of 
 Iveagh, and you, gentlemen, and you, Edmund M’Donnell—the 
 joy I ask you to give me, for my tidings. The invader’s fleet has 
 been beat back by the winds of Heaven from the shores of Eng 
 land, and obliged to return to Holland, in such a plight, as ends 
 all rebellious hopes for the present.” 
 
 “ Long live King James !” cried Lord Antrim. His friends 
 echoed him ; even the ladies joined in the cheer. “But is the 
 news certain ?” 
 
 “ Here are my letters—received but this morning, though they 
 should have come to hand many days ago. I need uot add from 
 whom they are—but you may depend on them.” 
 
 “ The wind is Papist, at last,” said the gaunt and grim lord 
 of Iveagh. 
 
 “His majesty’s very words,” resumed the friar, “ the moment 
 he heard the news in England.” 
 
 “ And I may now go home and dismiss my shaggy Mourne 
 mountaineers,” added Iveagh. 
 
 “ Have a care of that, my lord,” said the friar, “ the king is 
 still resolved on his former point of privilege, and before my 
 advices left England, had proved his resolution by his acts. In 
 order to make some show of prudence, when the intentions of 
 the invader were first made certain, his majesty caused to be 
 posted, on the gates of Magdalen College, a declaration of his 
 withdrawing of the righteous Farmer, whom he had forced them 
 to accept as fellow, in place of their own elected minion, 
 Hough. But no sooner came to him the happy news of this 
 providential wreck, than, guided by his good advisers, he had 
 it torn down again—” 
 
 “ Accursed be his advisers, sir!” interrupted Edmund M’Don- 
 nell, who, upon O’Haggerty’s first announcement of a hope of 
 peace, had grasped Evelyn’s hand to congratulate him, and 
 receive his congratulations. But the friar’s additional news 
 made them pause to listen, and now elicited Edmund’s vehement 
 malediction. 
 
 “ Amen !” echoed Lord Iveagh. “We do not ask such counsels.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 175 
 
 “ Do not curse them, whoever they are,” said Lord Antrim. 
 “Just call them bad politicians.” 
 
 The friar’s face reddened, and he was about to make an angry 
 rejoinder. But the countess entering the room with an import¬ 
 ant air, pressed her finger on her lip in passing him, and walking 
 up to Evelyn, took him aside. 
 
 “ The brides,” she said, smiling, “ do not want this reverend 
 truant, Mr. Walker. I have just visited them. And though 1 
 bear you no message or greeting, I will be your warrant that, 
 at my summons, they speedily meet you in the chapel, where old 
 Priest McDonnell has been shivering these many hours.” 
 
 “ Then, dear lady, the round world for your summons ! Since 
 the reverend gentleman has not been able to keep his word, we 
 must defer to another time what satisfaction he can bestow.” 
 
 “ To the chapel, dames, maidens, and gallants, all !” cried the 
 lady, instantly turning from him to the company, and much de¬ 
 lighted, for many reasons. Then she once more bustled grace¬ 
 fully out of the apartment ; and bridegrooms and guests, led by 
 Lord Antrim, trooped down to the chapel. 
 
 It was a low building, detached from the castle, but accessible, 
 at both sides, near the altar, by doors which were approached, 
 under covered ways, communicating with the main pile. Through 
 one of these doors, the numerous party from the withdrawing- 
 room entered. Almost at the same time, the brides, led by their 
 hostess, and attended by their bridesmaids and other friends, ap¬ 
 peared at the opposite door. The chapel, brilliantly illuminated 
 by large, hanging branches, and ornamented, near the altar, with 
 draperies of virgin white, and garlands of flowers and evergreens, 
 had a character at once joyous and impressive. On the altar it¬ 
 self, the tall wax tapers diffused their soft pure radiance about 
 the sacred place, where vows were presently to be exchanged, 
 blessings said, and prayers offered up for the earthly and eternal 
 weal of four young and newly-wedded people. Its steps, and the 
 platform they gained, were covered by a crimson footcloth, 
 richly fringed and embroidered with gold. On this platform sat 
 old Father M’Donnell, wearing his priest’s undress, if so it may 
 be called—the surplice, stole, and alb. His book was on his 
 knee. He rose, though trembling with palsy, as the company 
 entered the consecrated house. 
 
 The only thing that interfered with the solemn and quiet 
 native of the place, and of the ceremonies to be solemnized in it, 
 was the continued, and, indeed, increased violence of the weather. 
 
176 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 It blew a very hurricane ; and the rain beat with such force upon 
 the roof, and against the windows of the solitary little chapel, as 
 to fill its interior with uuintermitted and almost alarming sounds. 
 Through the low windows, nearly on a level with the ground, the 
 night abroad seemed raven-black. 
 
 Scarcely had the brides appeared at the door opposite that 
 through which the bridegrooms and their party entered, when 
 Evelyn, attended by Edmund M’Donnell as his bridesman, and by 
 the old earl of Antrim himself, advanced to Eva, took her hand, 
 and led her towards the altar. The earl’s lady held her other 
 hand, and her fair young bridesmaids clustered round her. All 
 entered the railed sanctuary, ascended the steps of the altar, and 
 stood on the platform. A few moments, and Evelyn and Eva 
 M’Donnell—according to the forms of the Roman Catholic 
 Church—were married. 
 
 In their turn, Edmund, his bridesman, and his old father, ad¬ 
 vanced to Esther. The hand he took in his was cold and trem¬ 
 bling ; the veil she wore did not hide her raining tears, nor her 
 blanched cheek and ashy lips. As tenderly, gracefully, and 
 proudly, he led her to the sanctuary, she stumbled, and had 
 nearly fallen, in the effort to gain the single step that elevated it 
 above the floor of the chapel. Passing close by a side-window, 
 just at the altar, she started, shrank, and uttered a low scream. 
 Edmund looked at the window. It was black and blank, and no 
 cause appeared for Esther’s terror, though now she was shivering 
 so violently as almost to swoon away. Assisted by her lover, 
 her noble hostess, and her startled bridesmaids, she gained, at 
 length, the platform of the altar. The white-headed and palsied 
 priest again opened his book, and began the second marriage 
 ceremony. A clattering of horse-hoofs was heard without, and 
 involuntarily he paused. Next moment, a small door at the 
 remote end of the building, through which the peasantry around 
 used to enter to mass, was flung open, giving egress to a gust of 
 storm, so furious that it extinguished nearly all the lights in the 
 chapel. Aud with the stonn-gust came in a man, enveloped in an 
 ample riding-cloak, who walked straight up the aisle to the altar, 
 holding an open letter in his hand. As he gained the altar, all 
 recognized the Rev. George Walker. 
 
 “You are late, Mr. Walker,” said Evelyn, who now stood 
 outside the rails. 
 
 “ Am I too late ?” asked Walker, eagerly. 
 
 “ I present you to my wife, sir.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 177 
 
 “ There has been a clergyman of the Established Church here ?” 
 
 “ No, sir ; you know we expected but you.” 
 
 “ All is right, then,” said Walker exultingly. “ It is no mar¬ 
 riage.” 
 
 “ Insolent!” cried Lord Antrim. “ Proceed with the cere¬ 
 mony, Father M’Donnell.” As he spoke a servant hastily 
 entered the side-door, and approached his lord with a packet. 
 
 “Let him 1” Walker retorted with a sneer. “But, first,” 
 holding out the open letter, “ let all try the effect of this— 
 William, the Deliverer, has landed!” 
 
 The whole company, including those at the altar, and even the 
 old priest before them, started. 
 
 “ It is false!” cried the friar, with passion. 
 
 “ By the holy saints, it is too true!” exclaimed Antrim. The 
 usurper landed at Torbay on the 5th! You were late with your 
 first news, reverend friar. You make mysteries of your dis¬ 
 patches. But read that,” handing him the paper he had himself 
 just perused. “ Here, fellow”—to the servant who was retiring 
 —“let my people know this intelligence instantly. Dispatch 
 horse and man around. Care not for the night—the signals— 
 the beacons ! Fire that on the castle’s top, that on the bay’s 
 edge, and that on the brow of Little Deer-Park. Let them an¬ 
 nounce it to Ballygelly Head and the Point of Garron—they to 
 the Fair Head and Bengore—and round let it flame to Old Dun- 
 luce. So that, by the morning’s dawn, all true men may be stir¬ 
 ring for their true king and master! Meantime, on with the 
 ceremony—though brides and bridegrooms are like to have a 
 flaming nuptial torch.” 
 
 “ Proceed, Father M’Donnell,” said Edmund. 
 
 “ Stop, Edmund M’Donnell,” cried O’Haggerty. “ Dishonor 
 not your name and blood—insult not your holy religion, now in 
 peril—endanger not your life, by taking to your bosom the 
 stranger, the traitoress, and the heretic. Come down from the 
 altar, I say ; think only of the cause, which, by virtue of the 
 royal commission you hold—” 
 
 “ What, Edmund!” interrupted Evelyn, starting forward ; 
 “ the royal commission! What does this mean ?” 
 
 “ It means,” said Eva, calmly, “ that my brother is a commis¬ 
 sioned officer in the service of his king.” 
 
 “It means,” said Walker, “as I told you, Evelyn, that he is 
 one of those traitors to Protestant ascendancy, in Church and 
 State, commissioned and sworn to cut your throat, and mine 1 
 
 8 * 
 
178 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Ay, let him come down, as his old counsellor advises. And call 
 you your sister, at the same time—” 
 
 “Eva!” resumed Evelyn, in much agitation, “knew you of 
 such a secret engagement ?” 
 
 “ I did,” she answered. “ What if I did ?” 
 
 “ This is disingenuousness—treachery !” he exclaimed. “ I am 
 betrayed even at the altar !” 
 
 “Treachery ! betrayed, Evelyn !” Eva repeated, letting go his 
 arm, and stepping back haughtily. 
 
 “ Betrayed you are 1” said Walker, catching his arm—“even 
 as I foretold it would be. Rouse yourself, like a man and a 
 Christian, and at last act as becomes you. “ Robert Evelyn,” 
 he continued, in a loud and impressive voice, “ I command you, 
 in the name of your Church, and of him who is come as your 
 king, to rescue your father’s daughter from the pollution of a 
 traitor’s arms, and to lead her, after me, from this idolatrous 
 roof ! Think of the pledge you have given to me and to your 
 country—the pledge that is registered against you, and that you 
 hold in your keeping—” 
 
 “ What pledge does he mean ?” asked Eva, in her turn. 
 
 “ One, madam, which makes him a soldier of the faith, and 
 arms him with a sword against ail Papists,” replied Walker. 
 
 “ One destined to be reddened in our blood,” added O’Hag¬ 
 gerty. 
 
 “ What, Evelyn !” Eva burst forth. “ And you talk as 
 treacherous of the accepting and holding of a lawful commission 
 from a lawful sovereign, while you enter into an unauthorized 
 contract with the deadly foes of that sovereign, and of us all. A 
 contract, God knows of what nature! Hither, Edmund, hither !” 
 
 Her words, and still more her looks, incensed the young man 
 beyond control. He turned white, then fiery red, then white 
 again. He stamped his foot, his eyes flashed back a look of 
 anger ; scarce sensible of what he said, he addressed his sister. 
 
 “ Esther Evelyn !” he cried, “sister! I call upon you to stand 
 beside me, your brother !” 
 
 “ Sister, obey your brother’s voice !” cried Walker ; “ and—” 
 
 “ Edmund M’Donnell! Loose the girl’s hand and let her 
 go !” echoed the friar. 
 
 “ Scandalous men !” said the old priest from the altar, “inter¬ 
 rupt not the conferring of a sacrament—tear not asunder those 
 whom God is about to make one. Peace, and let the marriage 
 be done.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 179 
 
 “ Nay,” resumed Eva, still addressing Evelyn, after a pause 
 of fearful agitation—“ if thus you proceed, Evelyn—if your own 
 voice be raised to cancel the engagements of my brother with 
 your sister ; if here, at the altar, you call us traitors and be¬ 
 trayers, never shall she or you have cause to repeat the word 
 elsewhere.” 
 
 “ How !” cried Edmund, who had at last descended, leaving 
 Esther supported by her bridesmaids. “ Traitors and betrayers ! 
 who dares speak the words ?” 
 
 “ Dares ! I spoke them !” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ Betrayer and traitor, yourself !” retorted Edmund—“ you, 
 as it at last appears, a secret plotter against your king, and 
 against the very friends who would take you to their bosom !” 
 
 Evelyn sprang to the altar, and seized his sister’s cold hand. 
 “ I forbid this marriage !” he said. 
 
 “ And I,” cried Eva M’Donnell, “ renounce the former one. 
 Your own priest, there, has told you that it is invalid. Think it 
 so—and farewell, Evelyn, forever ! Brother, your hand.” 
 
 “ Be that as it may,” Evelyn shouted, now completely beyond 
 himself ; “ Esther shall never be the wife of a false traitor !” 
 
 “ Never !” repeated a screaming, discordant voice at the side 
 window, accompanied by a loud and frantic clapping of hands. 
 The sounds deprived Esther of the little self-possession she had : 
 she sank senseless into her brother’s arms. A glare of red light 
 broke through all the windows into the chapel; and as the roar¬ 
 ing of the beacon blaze, abroad, mingled with the beating of the 
 heavy rain, and the continued howling of the hurricane, Onagh’s 
 screams, and the wild clapping of her hands, might be heard 
 above every other sound. While her pallid face appeared now at 
 one window, now at another, and her “ Never ! never I” rising 
 above the roof of the chapel, seemed to be a tongue of the 
 tempest. 
 
 A few moments later, Evelyn and Walker, bearing between 
 them, even through the fury of the night, the insensible Esther, 
 left Antrim Castle, to seek shelter in the adjacent hamlet of 
 Glenarm. 
 
180 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The shock Esther received in mind and heart had an install 
 taneous and continuous effect on her health ; and her brother 
 soon perceived it would, for some time, be impossible to remove 
 her from the village of Glenarm, notwithstanding the indifferent 
 accommodation of the place. 
 
 Mr. Walker remained with them three or four days, during which 
 few allusions were made to recent occurrences. The feelings or 
 views of all were too deep to be trusted to immediate utterance. 
 
 But the scenes of bustle in the village around them continued 
 "ofeed, more amply than perhaps words could have done, the 
 roignant, though stupefied reveries of Evelyn. The new levies, 
 hitherto but tardily carried on, were now evidently engaged in, 
 even in so remote a district, with zeal and vigor. Bodies of re¬ 
 cruits, some in half-uniforms, some half naked, and shouting to 
 the screams of the bagpipes, hurried through the streets to be 
 reviewed or drilled on the esplanade before Antrim Ca^tl® 
 Military-looking horsemen, obviously bearers of expresses to the 
 earl, dashed, from time to time, towards the drawbridge. Old 
 men gathered in groups through the village, and spoke to each 
 other mysteriously, and in whispers. Women, old and young, 
 spoke in the shrillest key, when they met by two and threes, out 
 of doors, or ran to and from each other’s houses. All the ur¬ 
 chins and curs, conscious of a time of unusual uproar, piped and 
 and barked, in pure animal sympathy. And every anvil in the 
 village rang from morn to night, with the rapid and rude manu¬ 
 facturing of skeins and half-pikes. 
 
 The sojourners could learn, too, that a considerable body of 
 Scotch Highlanders, whom Lord Antrim held at his disposal, 
 either were expected to land, or had actually landed from the 
 opposite shore, in order to join the army his lordship was raising 
 among his own people. These were to form the most important 
 portion of his force. For though he bore the sounding title oi 
 colonel of the Antrim army, few men in the county, apart from 
 the primitive population of Glenarriff, and those immediately de¬ 
 pendent on the earl, could be found heartily disposed towards the 
 cause of their tottering sovereign. Yet, comparatively insignifi¬ 
 cant as might be the hasty levy thus attempted, the vexy first 
 movement of the army resulting from it, caused, as shall b* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 181 
 
 Been, the first timid act of hostility against King James, on the 
 part of his Irish Protestant subjects. 
 
 “ These precipitate recruitings among so barbarous a people , 1n 
 said Mr. Walker, as, on the third day after their sudden depart¬ 
 ure from Antrim Castle, he and Evelyn stood observing a detach¬ 
 ment of men who marched by, “ cannot harm us, if, indeed, we 
 act promptly and spiritedly for self-preservation. The whole of 
 my Lord TyrconnelPs disposable force, in the hour the deliverer 
 landed, did not amount to more than nine thousand. Half or 
 these he has dispatched, as my letters inform me, to the assist¬ 
 ance of his master in England ; and in Dublin and the north 
 alone, there are, under Providence, sufficient good men, with arms 
 in their hands, too, to oppose the exterminating views of our 
 own sworn enemies ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, should we be called on to offer resistance to attack,” 
 said Evelyn. 
 
 “ Doubtless. But see, another swarm of those wretched, though 
 cruel people ! Know you not the face of the officer at their head ?” 
 
 Evelyn, all his recollections, feelings, and passions coming at 
 once on his heart, hid his face with his hands, and turned from 
 the window as he recognized Edmund M’Donnell. The body he 
 commanded was composed of Highlanders, wearing the kilt, to¬ 
 gether with such of the people of Glenarriff as retained, in most 
 perfection, the Scottish costume. Edmund himself, as well as 
 his elder relative and commanding officer, Daniel M’Donnell, of 
 Layde, had also assumed, as if in compliment to their men, the 
 kilt, plumed bonnet, and plaid. “ Hurrah for the redshanks !” 
 shouted the boys and women, as they passed by ; using a High¬ 
 land appellation, by which the whole of Lord Antrim’s celebrated 
 regiment was afterwards distinguished. 
 
 A man, who seemed to have ridden hard, rapidly entered the 
 room, presenting a letter to Mr. Walker. They exchanged a 
 significant regard as the clergymen broke the seal of his dispatch. 
 
 “ God’s will be done!” he said, when he had read it. “ I must 
 leave you, Robert Evelyn. The affairs of my parish—of my 
 own people—require my immediate presence. But if you are 
 warned by the advices I have offered you, not to remove your 
 sister for some weeks, and then to remove her to Derry, we shall 
 meet here again, and I will escort you, through the perils of the 
 road, to that loyal city, where, if there be rest or peace in Ire¬ 
 land for such as we are, she will surely find both. Do you prom¬ 
 ise to abide my return ?” 
 
182 
 
 THE BOYKE WATER. 
 
 “ For my sister’s sake, yes, Mr. Walker. But what :>crils can 
 we fear on the road ? There is yet no warfare in our country ; 
 no invader, with a foreign army ; no native array on his side. 
 King James yet commands the allegiance of all his Irish sub¬ 
 jects, and apparently enjoys it. There is even no confirmation of 
 the reported design to destroy or harm us, which you have be¬ 
 fore mentioned. What, then, can we apprehend ? What are 
 your perils of the road ?” 
 
 “ A little time will answer you. To-morrow, or the day after, 
 must give us notice of the successes of William in England : 
 here, at home, important, and to us terrible things, are also hast¬ 
 ening to a disclosure. Trust me, my return to Glenarm promises 
 you much information and counsel. For the present, your hand, 
 and farewell.” 
 
 “ One parting word, sir. I ask you, as a man of honor, is it 
 now intended to organize the northern associations of which you 
 have advised me, against our sovereign, King James?” 
 
 “That question I have, by anticipation, resolved. No such 
 design is professed, or intended to be professed. We arm our¬ 
 selves, and get together, only in natural precaution against the 
 conspiracy directed towards our properties and lives, which, from 
 many good sources, there is cause to believe, but too certain, 
 and which a short time will prove or gainsay. Meanwhile, during 
 the increased arming of Papists, of which you are, yourself, a 
 witness, shall we not increase our own strength in proportion ? 
 Shall we not stand upon our guard, in counsel and courage, to 
 the extent in which we are threatened ? Farewell, I say, and 
 fear not to fall by my guidance.” 
 
 Evelyn saw the clergyman depart without personal regret, and 
 yet with disquietude. Mr. Walker was the chief cause of the 
 extraordinary steps he had recently taken. He seemed to pos¬ 
 sess a right to influence him ; the right of years, experience, 
 friendship for his father, conscientious conviction, and religious 
 zeal. At least, Evelyn endeavored to think so. And so long 
 as he stood by his side, the young man half assured himself he 
 had acted properly, whatever might have been the terrible sac¬ 
 rifice of private feeling in his own breast, or in those of others. 
 But he was uneasy at being left alone to the unassisted survey of 
 the past. On the other hand, nature continually claimed from 
 him that survey. He doubted—and what anguish was the 
 doubt I even whilst he argued himself into self-approbation ; 
 although he feared, he yearned to examine his own heart. Auc 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 183 
 
 this, assisted by an indifference, if not a dislike, to the person of 
 his adviser, made him experience an involuntary sense of relief 
 at his departure 
 
 Reflection then came on for the first time since his parting 
 from Eva at the nuptial altar. Evelyn was a man of strong and 
 deep emotion, though not showing much outward or ordinary 
 semblance of it. He loved Eva profoundly, adoringly ; the pos¬ 
 session of her hand had been, for years, his long dream of happi¬ 
 ness. Was that hand, even after it had become his, lost to him 
 forever ? If so, why ? Had any thing appeared in her character, 
 to give him self-applause in the thought of having deserted her ? 
 and as he did desert her ?—her—his bride, wife. These reveries 
 became too strong for him, and, rushing from himself, he started 
 up and rapidly entered his sister’s sick chamber. 
 
 She was asleep, and evidently dreaming a sorrowful dream ; 
 her white lips muttered low cries, and tears gushed from under 
 her eyelids. He checked his step, held in his breath, and heard 
 her half articulate some words that despairingly reproached him 
 with the cruel part he had acted. Her voice grew stronger, and 
 her words more distinct, as she uttered a passionate malediction 
 on the heads of those who, trampling on the affections of human 
 nature, had embittered happy lives, and broken true hearts. Her 
 brother did not refuse silently to echo her prayer, as, more agi¬ 
 tated, he regained his apartment. 
 
 lu fact, the momentary indignation he had felt against Ed¬ 
 mund, and, through him, against Eva, was now more than for¬ 
 gotten. The jealousy of politics subsided : there are no politics 
 in love, for the heart of man gives not place to two master pas¬ 
 sions at the same instant. Evelyn could only surrender himself 
 to a full reflux of the tide of his former feelings, and be miserable. 
 Yet why, he asked himself, this despair? Although much was 
 to be dreaded from the spirit and romance of Eva’s character, 
 still she loved him ; and were he to sue and ask forgiveness, 
 would she not relent ? Or, was she not truly his wife, and could he 
 not command her to his side ? The laws of the country did not, 
 indeed, recoguize their marriage, but it was sacred to Eva. 
 Affection apart, must she not tremble at the sin of abandoning 
 her husbaud ? 
 
 He called a servant, and, for the first time, sent to inquire 
 after Eva’s health, at Antrim Castle, desiring the man to ask for 
 her as Mrs. Evelyn. Lord and Lady Antrim returned for an¬ 
 swer that they had no message to deliver. He wrote a note ; it 
 
184 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 was not received by the servant. He walked up to tne caatlc 
 himself; he was not admitted. Once more offended, Evelyn 
 returned to his humble lodgings. 
 
 The next day produced, after a sleepless night, its natural 
 change. Recollecting that his verbal message had been most 
 successful, he again sent to inquire if Mrs. Evelyn was yet at the 
 castle. The man came back to say, that, after much hesitation, 
 he had been instructed to inform Evelyn that no such person as 
 Mrs. Evelyn was known by the family. Miss McDonnell had 
 been gone some days. He sent to ask whither ; but to this re¬ 
 peated inquiry no answer of any kind was returued. 
 
 Another day came, and, unable to control himself, he mounted 
 his horse, and spurred towards Glenarriff, concluding that Eva 
 could have retired to no roof but that of her father. As he en¬ 
 tered the spacious valley, experiencing that doleful sickness of the 
 heart with which old objects, that have been present to our joy, 
 show themselves to the eye of sorrow, Evelyn was obliged to ride 
 close by a considerable body of men, in full march against him, 
 and, at a particular spot, to draw up to let them pass. Among 
 them he distinguished many faces that had welcomed him to 
 Glenarriff, on the first night of his visit, but that now scowled at 
 him in hostility and detestation. In about the middle of the line 
 marched a second officer ; it was Edmund. Their eyes met ; 
 Evelyn could not recollect the expression of his own, but those of 
 young M’Donnell just glanced, for an instant, coldly upon him, 
 and then turned off to give a word of command to his men. It 
 was not anger that Evelyn now felt; hot tears trickled down his 
 cheeks when the remainder of the file had passed by. Some 
 time after it had passed, he remained motionless ; and, with 
 fainting hope, he at last stood before the Strip of Burue. 
 
 The irregular ground before and behind the house, as far as 
 the base of the overhanging precipice, was filled by peasants, 
 grouped at random, and in the act of receiving from old M’Don¬ 
 nell supplies of different kinds of rude arms. No one perceived 
 the stranger, on his first approach, and he rode forward, close to 
 the nearest group, and repeatedly addressed them, ere he was 
 recognized. Then, however, no friendly welcome seemed intend¬ 
 ed. At the first glance of the man who had so recently insulted 
 him, old M’Donnell. rapidly walked into his house and shut his 
 door ; while some peasants, who at once knew Evelyn’s person, 
 started into angry attitudes, spoke vehemently to their compan¬ 
 ions, in Irish, and finally, with bent brows and great clamor. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 185 
 
 seized his horse’s bridle. He remonstrated, bat in vain, against 
 this show of violence. They grasped their half-pikes, or drew 
 their rusty broadswords, or their skeins, and closed on him, cry¬ 
 ing, “ Sheese, sheese , Sassenagh /”* when, at the moment, from 
 the top of the precipice, at the back of the house, came a scream, 
 mingled with the hoarse waterfall, and, immediately after, a cry 
 of, “ Fhon ! fhon /”f Looking up, Evelyn saw the form oi 
 Eva, clothed in white, standing against a clear blue frosty sky, 
 a. roval banner in her hand. At the sound of her voice, the men 
 readily, though sullenly, left Evelyn free. With a sensation of 
 fear which almost compelled him to cry out, he beheld her de¬ 
 scend, by some pathway unobservable to his eye, zigzag down 
 the precipice, her white dress and her richly embroidered banner 
 often mixed, during her tortuous, though rapid descent, witli the 
 silver spray of the torrent. 
 
 In a few moments she was at his horse’s side. He flung him¬ 
 self from the saddle, on his knees, at her feet. But Eva only 
 averted her head, and, with repelling arms, haughtily exclaimed : 
 
 “ Rise, Mr. Evelyn ! I am here but to save your life, which, 
 had I not come in view, a moment more would have given to the 
 rash hands of these, my poor devoted people. Rise, sir, and 
 quit, forever, a clan and a place, every child of whom is athirst 
 for your blood. To horse, sir, and fly ! Yet, hold ; I should, 
 myself, accompany you. “ Thowr tchoom , ma clioppel-bawn /”| 
 she continued, turning to the men ; “ but, first, a more import¬ 
 ant duty. Children of Glenarriff, here are your colors. On the 
 edge of your highest precipice, where the air of heaven is purest 
 and freest, my maids and I have wrought and mottoed it. Now, 
 with a prayer for him who guards it well, and a curse and a 
 strange grave for him who ever yields it up, take it from a 
 maiden’s hand.” 
 
 Their shouts, as they accepted it, echoed through the wide 
 glen. Almost as soon as she had done speaking, her white 
 horse was, according to her command, led towards her ; she 
 gained her saddle ; and, with a word and a signal to the meu, 
 rode quickly down the valley. Evelyn found himself compelled 
 to regain the saddle of his own steed, and, guarded by some 
 half-dozen armed and mounted peasants, to follow her at a brisk 
 pace. 
 
 Glenarriff was cleared in a short time, and Eva still A ed on, by 
 * Down, down, Englishman ! f Stop. \ Fetch me my white horse. 
 
186 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Red Bay, at equal speed, until, in order to master the sharp de¬ 
 clivity of Garron Point, she was at last obliged to tighten her 
 rein. Then did Evelyn move to gain her side; but owing to 
 the prompt and dangerous interference of the men, without suc¬ 
 cess. He addressed them energetically; he offered them his 
 purse ; in vain. And thus all slowly gained the summit of the 
 Point, where Eva at length paused till he came up. 
 
 “ You are now out of immediate danger from the people of my 
 father’s insulted house, Mr. Evelyn,” she said as he approached. 
 “ Almost the whole of your road homeward is down-hill ; and as 
 these men shall, at my command, accompany me back, keep but 
 the vantage-ground between you and them, and fear nothing for 
 your personal safety. Farewell, sir 1” Turning to her attend¬ 
 ants, she motioned them, in a way that would not be refused, 
 to turn back, standing, meantime, between them and Evelyn. 
 They obeyed her, though with many a scowl and muttering, di¬ 
 rected at “ the Sassenagh and, in an instant, she and all were 
 leaving him alone on the top of the ascent, when, almost inarti¬ 
 culate from emotion, he began— 
 
 “ Gracious God, Eva !—my Eva!—Eva Evelyn !—surely this 
 is not to be our parting!—suffer me—” 
 
 “Not a word, sir I” interrupting him, and speaking half-turned 
 in her saddle, while she scarcely checked her parting speed ; “not 
 a word, sir—not a breath, on any other topic. We were and 
 are strangers to each other. We met but to save your life ; it 
 is saved, and our last meeting over. Farewell—poor traitor to 
 woman and to your king—poor renegade from the altar and the 
 throne—perjured in love and loyalty—to man, to heaven, and to 
 me 1 Fare you well !” 
 
 She gave her steed still freer rein, and Eva and her attendants 
 —the latter adding to her words, which they understood but by 
 her tone and manner, a savage yell of scorn—were soon lost to 
 Evelyn’s vision as they swept by the windings of Red Bay. 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 Arrived at home, and once more left to his reflections, 
 Evelyn’s misery was increased by the result of his unsatisfactory 
 visit to Glenarriff. A portion of bitter feeling, of newly-raised 
 
THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 187 
 
 anger, and outraged pride, mingled with his recollection of the 
 sentiments Eva had expressed towards him at her parting. In 
 the first bursts of passion, he even condemned her nature as 
 coarse, masculine, and vindictive, alike incapable and unworthy 
 of respectful love. Some days passed in this mood ; but, as 
 before, it gradually wore away. Eva returned upon his view in 
 all the perfection that woman could or ought to exhibit; she had 
 acted and spoken to him but as he merited ; it was he that was 
 incapable of estimating her ; it was he that had sinned to an 
 excess beyond her forgiveness, and had lost sight of her charac¬ 
 ter only by sinking so much beneath it. 
 
 He would make renewed efforts to obtain her forgiveness ; not, 
 indeed, by another journey to Glenarriff, because, apart from the 
 personal hazard, her feelings were at present too strongly and 
 too justly roused to allow him to stand before her. But he 
 would write. And he did write a long, ardent, and repentant 
 letter. It was sent back unopened. Another and another shared 
 the same fate. A verbal message, the courier assured him, he 
 had vainly striven to deliver. At last the man confessed that 
 his limbs or life would be risked by venturing any more to Glen¬ 
 arriff. 
 
 Evelyn was, therefore, compelled to bear, as he could, the 
 peculiar distress of his situation. The news and reports of the 
 day might have served to divert his mind, but he took no pains 
 to become acquainted with them, or, when known by the gossip 
 of some around him, he paid them no attention. In truth, he 
 detested politics, and political movements and persons, because 
 he attributed to an unwarrantable intrusion of both upon his 
 private feelings and arrangements, his present wretchedness. 
 One fact only, of all that he from day to day became aware of, 
 made an impression on his mind—namely, the march of Lord An¬ 
 trim’s new regiment to garrison Derry, in lieu of that which, 
 on the landing of William, had been dispatched to England 
 from that city. And Evelyn dwelt a moment on this circum¬ 
 stance, solely because it indirectly appealed to his feelings as 
 connected with the movements and fortunes of the brother of 
 Eva M’Donnell. 
 
 To sit by Esther’s bedside, to receive from her physician good 
 accounts of her returning health, to witness himself a gradual 
 change for the better, and, when her spirits permitted, to talk 
 over with her a certain and speedy reconciliation between them 
 and their beloved ones—this was the only balm for the wounded 
 
188 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 heart of Evelyn ; and, it may be added, for tnat of his sister 
 also. She would, indeed, listen to such assurances with the sole 
 interest of feature that had lately brightened her pale visage. 
 Yet, in the midst of her renovated hopes, Esther felt a gainsay¬ 
 ing of the heart, which was visible to her brother, although he 
 iad never been made acquainted with its latent cause, and could 
 
 ot now venture a satisfactory surmise on the subject. 
 
 In such a disposition of mind, Mr. Walker found Evelyn and 
 Esther, when, according to promise, he returned to Glenarm, in 
 something more than a fortnight after his departure. 
 
 His usually sedate step was hurried, as he presented himself 
 before Evelyn ; and his countenance, always grave, showed 
 symptoms of much earnestness. 
 
 “ I have ridden hard,” he said, “ to reach you on the morning 
 of this day. It is now time, and more than time, we were secure 
 in Derry. Events in England, to mention nothing else, have, as 
 you must know, made this step necessary since our parting.” 
 
 “In truth, Mr. Walker, I do not know. My own affairs and 
 my own sorrows sufficiently occupied me,” the young man coldly 
 replied. 
 
 “ Amazing indifference and lukewarmness !” retorted the cler 
 gyman, in some asperity ; “at such a time as this to remain con 
 tentedly ignorant of the great events that must shape the fate of 
 millions of men, and your own among the number ! You know 
 not, then, that while advanced only as far as Exeter to face James 
 at Salisbury, the prince has been joined by my lords of Colches¬ 
 ter and Corn bury, with the flower of their troops ; by my Lord 
 Churchill—” 
 
 “What?” interrupted Evelyn, “that man! the very growth 
 of his sovereign’s favor—raised from a page to title and mili¬ 
 tary command, and ever enjoying King James’s utmost confi¬ 
 dence !” 
 
 “ It is, indeed, a noble sacrifice of private feelings to public 
 virtue,” said Mr. Walker. 
 
 “ Rather say, of all that is good and honorable in private 
 eeling, to the fear of sharing his master’s reverse of fortune,” 
 replied Evelyn, indignantly. “ A dog that had but fed from that 
 master’s hand would shame such policy !” 
 
 “ And,” continued the clergyman, with a half laugh, “ the 
 chief officers of James’s army, who have not yet deserted him, 
 inform his general, Feversham, that they cannot, in conscience, 
 draw a sword against their deliverer.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 189 
 
 “ I used to think, Mr. Walker, that the tenderest conscience cf 
 a soldier and a gentleman concerned his fidelity to the monarch 
 whose commission he bore, and whom he had sworn to protect.” 
 
 “ Churchill has carried over with him the duke of Grafton, 
 the last living son of James’s brother ; Colonel Berkley and 
 others,” continued Walker, calmly pursuing his object. 
 
 “ A bastard nephew may well show but a bastard love and 
 loyalty to his king and his uncle, sir,” sneered Evelyn, his bit¬ 
 ter comments arising as much from the state of his private 
 feeliugs as from a principle of reasoning or conviction. 
 
 “Nay, Churchill has effected more. King James, alarmed 
 and terrified by this geueral defection—” 
 
 “ Say shocked and disgusted, Mr. Walker.” 
 
 “ Unable to confide in his officers or his army, resolved to 
 march them back to London. At his first halt, Andover, Prince 
 George, the husband of his second daughter, Anne, yielding to 
 the representations of my Lord Churchill, and, with him, the 
 young duke of Ormonde, withdrew to William’s camp.” 
 
 “ Let the foreign blood in Prince George’s veins prompt him 
 to any selfish or unnatural act,” said Evelyn, warmly, “ but for 
 an Ormonde to act with him ! for the grandson of the good and 
 illustrious Ormonde to act so ! Alas! his father, Ossary, would 
 not have done this. Nor—were the old Ormonde alive, and the 
 youug traitor stretched before him on his early bier, as too soon 
 happened to that noble Ossary, fighting and falling for a royal 
 master !—alas ! Mr. Walker, the virtuous graudsire could not 
 say of his child’s child what he said of his child’s self, 4 1 would 
 not change my dead son for any living son in Christendom.’ ” 
 
 “ Meantime,” rejoined the clergyman, calmly ignoring these 
 comments, “ Lady Churchill, who ever possessed an influence 
 over the Princess Anne, was exerting, at the instance of her lord, 
 all her powers of persuasion. To such good effect, that, on the 
 return of James to London, he learned the flight of his daugh¬ 
 ter also, accompanied by his old friend, the bishop of London, 
 and, of necessity, the worthy Lady Churchill.” 
 
 “ Wretched king!” cried Evelyn, “miserable father ! He is 
 known to have loved her with the tenderest affection : how bore 
 he this terrible blow, sir ?” 
 
 “ He wept aloud,” answered Mr. Walker, himself, at length, 
 something affected—“ he wept aloud, in the bitterness of the 
 father’s agony, crying, ‘God help me! my own children have 
 forsaken me !’ ” 
 
190 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ It is monstrous, unparalleled !” continued Evelyn, deeply 
 stirred—“ unparalleled in the history of human nature, or of the 
 human heart. Succeeding generations will acknowledge”— 
 they have on all sides acknowledged it—“ that this prince, 
 whose chief errors were those of temper, judgment, and fanati¬ 
 cism, has met, from his most obliged friends, and the nearest 
 members of his family, worse treatment than even Nero, Domi- 
 tian, or the blackest tyrants of the world ever experienced.” 
 
 “ I deny not,” said Mr. Walker, “that apart from the neces¬ 
 sity of the times, he has been harshly treated. But he must 
 have felt keenest of all the general charge made against him, at 
 the moment he wept over the desertion of his daughter, and 
 whilst her retreat was unknown, of having, with his own hand, 
 put her to death. This, I will say, was a thought too unnatu¬ 
 ral, and too superfluous.” 
 
 “ Not too unnatural for the crowd, maddened by religious an¬ 
 tipathy. When Oates and Bedlow guided the national mind, he 
 was charged with the intention of assassinating his brother : the 
 one view of things is but a revival of the other.” 
 
 “ However that may be,” Mr. Walker continued, “ we should 
 now rather look into the face of our affairs at home. While 
 the prince continues his triumphant march to London—and so 
 much, only, of his progress do we yet know—the Papist popu¬ 
 lation of this wretched country rise in thousands, and arm and 
 discipline themselves for our destruction.” 
 
 “ The old theme, Mr. Walker, without new proof. That por¬ 
 tion of the population of the country, which happens to be Cath¬ 
 olic, arms itself in support of the king, and at his express com¬ 
 mand. How should this bode us harm ? Merely on account of 
 a vague rumor, why should we seek, by counter-association, to 
 cross and divert their strength and energies from a lawful -pur¬ 
 pose ? It is not even hinted that William shall strive to depose 
 his father-in-law ; he and you say that his invasion is but intend¬ 
 ed to obtain an arrangement of differences between the king and 
 his people, and that, then, all shall be peace. What use, there¬ 
 fore, for a secret combination, which, if not directed towards 
 James’s crown, is unauthorized by him, and must, therefore, be 
 unnecessary to him.” 
 
 “ As I have never spoken of our association in a great politi¬ 
 cal view, I shall not do so now. I call on you to regard it 
 simply as a precaution, as a safeguard in the night against the 
 
 steps of the assassin.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 l&l 
 
 “ But never yet have you shown me grounds for even such a 
 fear, or such a precaution.” 
 
 “ Look at this paper, then, and be satisfied. It is a copy of 
 a letter found at Cumber, the present seat of my Lord Mount 
 Alexander, and forwarded by express to me, as well as to many 
 others in Dublin, and through the north, who are known to be 
 zealous soldiers of the reformed faith. It is dated the third, I 
 received it on the fourth, yesterday, and have lost no time in 
 handing it to you this day. Read and judge.” 
 
 Evelyn read the following : 
 
 “ Good my Lord— 
 
 “ I have written to you to let you know that all our Irishmen 
 through Ireland is sworn that, on the ninth day of this month, 
 they are all to fall on and murder man, woman, and child ; and 
 all I desire your lordship to take care of yourself, and all others 
 that are judged by our men to be heads ; for whosoever of ’em 
 can kill you, they are to have a captain’s place : so my desire to 
 your honor is, to look to yourself, and give other noblemen warn¬ 
 ing, and go not out, either night or day, without a good guard 
 with you, and let no Irishman come near you, whatsoever he be. 
 So, this is all from him who was your father’s friend, and is your 
 friend, and will be, though I dare not be known as yet, for fear 
 of my life.” 
 
 Here is quoted, word for word, the document that, such as it 
 is, produced the real or feigned show of terror, which, beginning 
 in professions of loyalty to King James, ended in openly resist¬ 
 ing his dominion in Ireland. 
 
 Evelyn paused a moment after reading the paper, and, at last, 
 Mr. Walker, his eyes fixed upon him, asked: “What is your 
 opiuion ?” 
 
 “ That your scrawl, be it authentic or not, will serve, until 
 events take a decided aspect, one way or another, in England, 
 to supply, to our own party here, sufficient pretence for annoy¬ 
 ing and checking King James’s soldiers.” As he finished, he, too, 
 looked expressively into Mr. Walker’s face. 
 
 “ What do you mean ?” inquired that gentleman. 
 
 “This,” said Evelyn. “So long as James is king, it would 
 be treason overtly to oppose him. Should he continue king, 
 that treason must expect to be punished. Therefore, we now 
 wisely avoid taking an open part, contenting ourselves with such 
 an one as, while it keeps us safe, will effect our present purposes.” 
 
 “ You cannot deny the danger that threatens us—you cannot, 
 
192 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 in fact, insinuate that the original of the document you hold ii 
 your hands has not been written by the person it purports to be 
 written by ?” 
 
 “ It purports to be written by a vulgar Irishman ; but it 
 rather seems to me like the diction of a vulgar Englishman ; or, 
 perhaps, an affectation of the latter by an educated person. It 
 is, and it is not, vulgar ; it is, and it is not, the form in which a 
 vulgar person, of any country, would convey himself, on such a 
 subject. It is overdone ; it is, in fact, a clumsy imitation of its 
 great prototype, the letter that gave notice of the gunpowder 
 treason. I wish I could see the original writing.” 
 
 “ You shall see it; and when you do, God give you the ad¬ 
 vantage of thinking of it as all others do. Meantime, it is fit 
 you should be informed how all others do think of it. Our Ul¬ 
 ster Union, hitherto but timidly carried on, that letter has con¬ 
 firmed and extended.” 
 
 “ That letter, Mr. Walker ?” 
 
 “ So that in the counties of Down and Antrim are now raised 
 twelve troops of horse, with my Lord Mount Alexander for 
 their colonel ; two dragoon regiments, commanded by Sir Ar¬ 
 thur Rawdon and Mr. Clot worthy Skeffington ; with four regi¬ 
 ments of foot, raised by distinguished gentlemen ; and other 
 levies are still going on under our eye, while the remaining north¬ 
 ern counties are equally active. Some motion for a union in 
 Munster has also taken place.” 
 
 “ Well, sir ?” 
 
 “And it is to the command of one of the twelve troops, 
 headed by my Lord Mount Alexander, that your commission 
 finally appoints you.” 
 
 “ For what service, Mr. Walker ? What is to be done V 9 
 
 “ Why should I aver, over and over again, for the preserva¬ 
 tion of your own liberty, property, and life ? And the first 
 thing to be done is to remove your sister to a place of safety. 
 Can she yet bear a rapid journey to the city of l)erry ?” 
 
 “ Her physician permits it. But wherefore to Derry, instead 
 of our own house ?” 
 
 “ Are you her brother—her only natural protector—and, in 
 such a day of approaching peril, can you ask the question ? I 
 say, that of all places in Ireland, Derry is the safest, in case of 
 an attack from the Papists, because it has strong walls and 
 gates, and never a Popish soldier in garrison. For it hath 
 pleased God so to infatuate the councils of my Lord Tyreonnel* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 193 
 
 that when the three thousand men were sent to England to as¬ 
 sist his master against the invasion of the Prince of Orange, he 
 took particular care to send away the whole regiment quartered 
 in and about that city.” 
 
 “ But I am not ignorant, Mr. Walker, that, two days before 
 your arrival, my Lord Antrim marched his new levy to garrison 
 that very place ; and they are Papist, to a man.” 
 
 “ They are. But as the roads must, in this weather, prove 
 bad for foot-soldiers, they cannot yet have reached their quarters ; 
 nor, if we now use speed, can they reach them before us. There¬ 
 fore, let us dispatch.” 
 
 “ Will it not be the same when they enter after us ?” 
 
 “ Yes, if they do enter after us; but that, as well as all the 
 future, is iu the hands of Providence. Dispatch, I say, young 
 man ; the time is precious to all, and to me, humble as may be 
 the instrument, as much so as to any. I should not be here, 
 away from more pressing duties, but that my heart urges me to 
 shield and guide the son and daughter of my old friend ; nor can 
 I rest here to waste the important moments in watching a young 
 man’s humor. Rise up, and to horse, if you have honor for gray 
 hairs, or for your father’s memory, or a brother’s feeling for your 
 only sister.” 
 
 Thus urged, and really wishing at heart to approach the place 
 whither Edmund M’Donnell had been ordered, Evelyn rapidly 
 prepared for the departure of his sister and himself to Derry. In 
 an hour eveiy arrangement had been made, and the journey com¬ 
 menced. Walker, seeming well aware of the route taken by 
 Lord Antrim’s army, chose another ; merely, he said, to avoid 
 tne want of accommodation which must naturally be created in 
 every resting-place visited by so large a body of men. Leaving 
 tnem to pursue the more northerly, and, indeed, more direct way, 
 which, by Newtownlimavady, would lead them to Derry, he 
 6truck into a road which, running due westward, also conducted 
 the party, through Ballymena and other petty villages, to that 
 city. 
 
 It was noon, on the fifth of December, when the travellers left 
 Glenarm. Their guide urged the utmost possible speed ; so that 
 Esther was allowed but few hours for repose, during the night¬ 
 time, ere her brother again summoned her to horse. 
 
 On descending, at about three o’clock in the morning, to the 
 door of the wretched auberge where she could not be said to 
 have slept, she was startled by the appearance of a body of 
 
 9 
 
104 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 armed men, rudely accoutred, but well-mounted, woh seemed 
 waiting upon Mr. Walker. Expressing her apprehensions to 
 Evelyn, she understood that these persons had been summoned 
 by their guide, to insure them safe escort during the night, and, 
 indeed, for the remainder of their journey. 
 
 Their journey recommenced in pitch darkness ; the road often 
 proving almost impassable from inundations and from its marshy 
 nature, and often lying through continued plantations of old trees, 
 now laid bare by the December blast. The dreary morning 
 showed, however, a less difficult and lonely road ; and one ren¬ 
 dered interesting, too, by its mountain features, of which Cairn 
 Togher to the left, Benbradach to the right, and Donald’s Hill 
 and its continued northern chain in the distance, were the most 
 imposing. 
 
 Clearing this mountainous tract, villages and people still in¬ 
 creased ; the latter, indeed, in such a number, as the morning 
 wore away, that the road became thronged with groups of men, 
 women, and children, driving cattle, or leading horses which bore 
 piles of provision or of household furniture. 
 
 “ They are flying, like ourselves,” said Walker, “ to the nearest 
 towns and strong places, from the approach of the bloody ninth 
 of December ; from the next Sabbath, destined to be defiled 
 with their blood.” 
 
 As the travellers hurried along, from group to group, every 
 look that turned anxiously to examine them was one of ter¬ 
 ror ; and the half-martial costume of Mr. Walker and his escort 
 visibly created new alarm. While the quick tramp and clatter 
 of the horses announced their near approach to each party, he 
 strove to show an identity of interest and suffering with the 
 people, by frequent, ejaculations of—“ Protestants, be firm 1” 
 " Gird you for defence against the cruel Papists 1” “ Haste, loyal 
 Protestants, and shelter you from slaughter!” In conformity 
 with the different characters he addressed, cries of fear or of vio¬ 
 lence, or exclamations for expedition, arose among the leaders. 
 Mothers clasped their arms closer round the infants they already 
 saw butchered in imagination ;-sons hurried on the feeble steps 
 of the old age they supported ; or, rougher characters, as, with 
 goad or thong, they urged forward their cattle, harshly chid their 
 wives and children for attributed tardiness, while all uttered 
 threats of hatred and revenge against those who caused them to 
 experience the desolation of flying from their homes. 
 
 Again, some few huts, inhabited by Roman Catholics, lay 
 
THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 195 
 
 Scattered along the road. We have elsewhere said that the Ho¬ 
 man Catholics, on their side, expected nothing less than exter¬ 
 mination at the hands of the Protestants (and certainly with 
 more common sense on their side, inasmuch as in Ulster the 
 privileged order reckoned ten to three against them). Now 
 standing at their cabin-doors, and recognizing, in total ignorance 
 of the reasons for their extraordinary movements, the thronging 
 groups of sworn enemies, the wretched people snatched up their 
 children, and ran, howling and terror-stricken, to seek places of 
 concealment. While, on more than one occasion, the causers of 
 their panic, mistaking the motives of their hasty retreat, and 
 supposing it to portend, in some way or other, an anticipation of 
 the dreaded ninth of December, answered them with cries as 
 loud, and increased their own speed in treble clamor and confusion. 
 
 Nor, after some further progress on the road, was it to the 
 lower orders, on either side, that the mutual delusion seemed 
 limited Esquires and nobles, dames and gentle damsels, well- 
 mounted, and gayly, though, in many instances, hastily and inap¬ 
 propriately attired, frequently passed the travellers, from behind, 
 on their way to Derry, Coleraine, or some other more northern 
 town. Others, as respectable in appearance, came on, in a con¬ 
 trary direction, flying southward, from the dreaded presence of 
 those who, with might and main, with whip and spur, were only 
 running away from them. Individuals of both parties recog¬ 
 nized Mr. Walker. Some among the Protestant gentry pulled 
 up to ask a hasty confirmation of their fears, which, when re¬ 
 ceived, sent them forward in increased speed and terror. While, 
 as the Roman Catholic fugitives consciously fixed their glances 
 on him and his armed attendants, and received in return a scowl, 
 or a muttered threat or curse, they first paced stealthily by, and 
 then, at a clear distance, also recommenced their flight with in¬ 
 creased vigor. Many a gay cavalier plume, many a disordered 
 head-dress, much dishevelled, though beautiful hair, many ill- 
 arranged cloaks and embroidered riding-dresses, Papist and Pro¬ 
 testant, fluttered on the moruing breeze. Many a young and 
 pretty face flitted past its rival one, as young and pretty as itself, 
 in fright, hatred, and aversion ; many an old and ugly one, as its 
 owner’s joints cracked, and her few teeth chattered from the 
 rapid and ceaseless jolting she underwent for her country and re¬ 
 ligion, scowling utter loathing on some heretic or idolatrous sis 
 ter visage, which God wot, was noways tardy in returning the 
 greeting. 
 
196 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 And such scenes thickened on the road, until, late in the after* 
 noon of the seventh of December, our party arrived at the then 
 chief citadel of Protestant power in the north of Ireland, the 
 city of Derry. A little town it was, built all over a little conical 
 hill ; looking as unpicturesque and as unimposing as can well be 
 imagined j and the property, since the charter of James I., of 
 certain worshipful persons of the city of London. Crossing the 
 river Foyle at a ferry (where the traveller, whom unusual busi¬ 
 ness or venturesome curiosity may beguile into a visit to a place 
 so isolated from intercourse with all other parts of the world, 
 will now rind the safer accommodation of a wooden bridge, seem¬ 
 ingly as long as Waterloo bridge over the Thames), our friends 
 entered the miniature city by Ferry-quay gate, and advanced up 
 a steep street named from it, towards the Diamond, a species of 
 square, in which was the residence of Mr. Paul Evelyn and hi3 
 lady. 
 
 It seemed as though all the inhabitants had assembled, in dif¬ 
 ferent groups in the streets, to converse with each other on mat¬ 
 ter of life and death. If one of our readers has happened to 
 observe the aspect of a country town upon an occasion of pub¬ 
 lic interest, he must have noticed that there are certain stands 
 on which the humbler classes congregate, as if by previous con¬ 
 sent, to give and receive information. And, as in every circle in 
 society some centre is found, he will likewise have noticed that, 
 in each of these parties, there is one man who rules the dis¬ 
 course ; that, while the majority are open-mouthed listeners, but 
 three or four speakers can be heard ; and that the admired aud 
 self-confident Daniel approves of the opinion offered with a saga¬ 
 cious nod, or rejects it with a grin of derision. 
 
 If the country town boast a corporation, as Derry did and 
 does, and if the traders and shopkeepers be members of the cor¬ 
 poration, as was the case when our travellers entered the little 
 northern fastness, at the same time that the lower classes have 
 their own places of discussion, there is sure to be also some fa¬ 
 vored spot, some news-shop in the open air, where the well-cloth¬ 
 ed, well-fed, and consequential of the citizens do flock, as if by 
 instinct, to argue, in somewhat better language, the self-same 
 topics that engage the humbler assemblies. In the former it will 
 happen that superior mind, or, what has often passed for the 
 same thing, the assumption of it, takes precedence ; aud, gen¬ 
 erally speaking, that such mind is situated in the most ragged, 
 unshaven, and unwashed person of the company, because a man 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 197 
 
 cannot, in a breath, be a diligent mechanic and a talkiug and 
 ambitious ruler of the opinions of others. But among the lat¬ 
 ter, that the longest purse, seldom unaccompanied by the most 
 considerable paunch, is the criterion (good reason why !) at once 
 of oratory and of wisdom. Recollecting, then, these differ¬ 
 ent pictures, and making some variation in costume, such as long 
 skirts for shorter skirts, cocked hats for round hats, square-toed 
 and buckled shoes for pointed ones, blue or carnation clocked 
 hose for white or gray plain ones, perukes or flowing tyes for 
 scratch-wigs or bob-wigs, or natural hair—the reader, we say, 
 turning his eyes from the several groups of politicians, rich and 
 poor, of his model country town, has only to fix them on the 
 similar groups that, during the progress of our travellers up 
 Ferry-quay street, occupied their allotted stands, at every con¬ 
 venient point, and so get a true idea of the public commotion 
 we wish to place before him. But perhaps it has never been 
 his chance to witness such a downright fuss as now reigned 
 among the Derryanians. For so many orators were abroad, 
 haranguing so many knots ; with so many women and lads, 
 formed into parties amongst themselves, and all talking so much 
 and so loudly, and so fast, that a stranger, like Evelyn, would 
 have found it difficult to understand a word spoken. It was, 
 however, at once perceptible that the terrors of the country 
 were, if possible, exceeded by the terrors of the town. 
 
 A portly gentleman, recognizing Mr. Walker, rapidly advanced 
 from one of the superior groups, to meet him, overheated ahd 
 out of breath, though it was a December day. 
 
 “ Have the red-shanks appeared V’ demanded the clergyman, 
 
 “ Not yet, not yet,” answered his Derry friend. “ But they 
 quartered, last night, only twelve miles distant from us ; and 
 instant tidings of their arrival were sent us, by Mr. George Phil¬ 
 lips, describing their appearance, and, as he says, * their evident 
 intentions,’ and counselling us not to admit them within our 
 walls.” 
 
 “ Another advice, to the like effect, reached us this morning,” 
 raid a second “ stout gentleman.” 
 
 “ And have you, Alderman Tompkins, or yon, Alderman 
 Norman, yet decided on the part you are to take V’ demanded 
 Mr. Walker. 
 
 “No, truly,” they answered ; “for on that subject, Mr. 
 Walker, there are many opinions. Some of the younger folk 
 have their own ; and so has our excellent bishop, Ezekiel Hop- 
 
198 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 kins. And so have we, the elder and graver people of this dis* 
 tressed city” 
 
 A horseman dashed up the steep street to announce that Lord 
 Antrim’s regiment was approaching the town, by the side of 
 Lough Foyle. Crowds of people, who had caught glimpses of 
 them from the walls, descended, at the same time, and confirming 
 the intelligence in loud cries, gathered round the two aldermen, 
 Mr. Walker, and his young friends. Many others joined them. 
 
 “Men of Derry!” Mr. Walker continued, energetically ad¬ 
 dressing the crowd, “ will you remain undecided as to the in¬ 
 stantaneous step to be taken ? You know that the Sabbath 
 draws on—you know to what you are doomed on that sacred 
 day. You know the people who now approach to possess them¬ 
 selves of your strong city, and hold your very lives at their dis¬ 
 posal—I will not say mercy, for mercy they have none—all this 
 you know, and do you hesitate ?” 
 
 The crowd remained silent; except that a faint shout came 
 in answer from a number of boys and lads, some wearing 
 aprons, and all characterized as working or shop apprentices 
 of the city. 
 
 u They know that King James is their king,” said Alderman 
 Norman, answering for the people ; “ that the soldiers who ap¬ 
 proach are his soldiers ; and they naturally fear to incur the 
 guilt and punishment of rebels, by opposing them. But more of 
 this, Mr. Walker, if you favor us with your presence at a coun¬ 
 cil we are about to hold at the house of a worthy alderman, Mr. 
 Paul Evelyn, who, doubtless for good reasons, prefers meeting 
 us in his own dwelling to attending us at the usual place.” 
 
 “ It was the very house I and my friends sought,” answered 
 Walker ; “ therefore, lead on. Only let us dispatch, for God 
 leaves us now but few moments for deliberation. With your 
 leave, my companion, Mr. Robert Evelyn, will also witness your 
 debates.” 
 
 This, after some official demur, was conceded ; and our friends, 
 accompanied by the aldermen, and surrounded and followed by 
 the whole crowd, advanced up the street to the Diamond. 
 
 Having been admitted into Mr. Paul Evelyn’s house, we 
 pass over the greetings that rapidly ensued between niece and 
 nephew, and uncle and aunt. We also leave Esther to the care, 
 of whatever kind it may be, of her still-offended relations ; and 
 hasten to the largest room in Uncle Paul’s house, in which were 
 assembled, along with himself, and those we are already aware 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 199 
 
 of, the lord bishop of Londonderry, several clergymen, and the 
 whole of the corporate body. 
 
 Mr. Walker opened the hurried and limited consultation by 
 taking out his watch, laying it on the table, and calling the at¬ 
 tention of the assembly to the short period of time allowed them 
 for a decision. Then he urged, with more method, and in a 
 calmer manner, the reasonings he had already addressed to the 
 populace. 
 
 The bishop mildly but firmly answered every argument by 
 the one simple one which called their attention to their oaths 
 of allegiance. He advised the soldiers to be peaceably admitted. 
 
 His clergymen naturally agreed with him ; a single dissenting 
 pastor supporting Mr. Walker. The elder members of the cor¬ 
 poration seemed to take the same side ; leaving, however, their 
 silence, instead of their words, to answer for them. The only 
 alderman who spoke was Mr. Paul Evelyn; and he, with tears 
 in his eyes, besought them, for peace sake, and for their own 
 sakes, to hearken to the words of their bishop. 
 
 A few of the younger members of the corporation, alone, 
 warmly seconded Mr. Walker’s advice. But they seemed over¬ 
 ruled as well by the majority as by the experience and rank 
 of the council, which, after a few minutes, was disposed to 
 break up without coming to any hostile resolve. Walker grew 
 pale with emotion ; bit his lip, took Evelyn by the arm, and left 
 the room. 
 
 “ 1 had not cared for the authorities,” he said, as they gained 
 the street-door, “were but the slavish crowd disposed to ex¬ 
 ertion. But see—they have mostly drawn off—not able to 
 command as much zeal, or patience, or consistency, as would 
 serve them to await a decision on which depended their liberty 
 and lives.” 
 
 The populace had, indeed, nearly disappeared from before the 
 door ; and, even for some distance, no considerable body of them 
 could be seen, except the groups of boys and lads, already men¬ 
 tioned, who, attended by a few full-grown men of the lowest 
 description, were now hurrying down the street, in order to 
 ascend the terra plane over Ferry-quay gate, and from that 
 place witness the approach of the soldiers. 
 
 “Let us follow them,” resumed Walker; “the lad Davi& 
 Blew the Goliath ; and a spirit of redemption for us may yet be 
 found in the youthful ardor of these poor boys.” 
 
 As he and Evelyn accordingly joined the boyish group on the 
 
200 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 walls, Lord Antrim’s regiment had just defiled along the oppo¬ 
 site banks of the river, accompanied by an unseemly concourse 
 of wild-looking women, and half-naked children. 
 
 “ Ay, look you over the water, Will Crookshanks,” said 
 one of the lads, overheard by our gentlemen ; “ yon’s the wild 
 Irish, truly.” 
 
 “ And mind you, Jem Spike,” answered Will, drawing his 
 hands from under his linsey-woolsey apron, in order to point 
 towards the objects of his remark ; “ mind if they’ve not the 
 wild Highlandmen with them, too. Fellows, by the rood, with¬ 
 out hose or breeches.” 
 
 “No friends, I reckon, to the tailoring craft, Harry Camp- 
 sie !” resumed James Spike. 
 
 “ They be shameless knaves to look upon,” answered the 
 inicipient tailor ; “ a man—I say it—without covering for his 
 limbs, is no sight in the streets of a Protestant town, that 
 knows better.” 
 
 “Hosing shuttle never wove gear for ’em, Dan Sherrard,” 
 continued Spike, addressing a juvenile manufacturer of scarlet 
 stockings. 
 
 “ Nor never shall, Jem, with my liking. Pity to waste good 
 yarn for the decking out of Papist shanks.” 
 
 “ Look you, Jem,” said Harry Campsie, “ I’d send them home 
 till their breeches are spun, and not let the Derry lasses be 
 shamed at such a sight.” 
 
 “ And I’d have them draw proper hose over their legs, ere 
 they walk them up Ferry-quay street,” echoed Sherrard. 
 
 “You’re but fools, as well as churls, both,” remarked the 
 person addressed : “for see you not they’ll be asking for breech¬ 
 es and hose together, as soon as they learn the difference 
 amongst us, and so shears and shuttle will be the busier.” 
 
 “ I’d see the waters of yon lough run smooth over every 
 loon of ’em, ere I’d cut cloth at their asking,” said the detest¬ 
 ing tailor. 
 
 “ The poor youths but jest with their ruin,” said Mr. Walk¬ 
 er, addressing Evelyn, but sufficiently loud to be overheard. 
 “ Yonder—Scotch or Irish, as they may be—yonder are th 
 Papists, who have sworn to wade knee-deep in our blood.” 
 
 “ Hear you that, goodmen lads ?” asked Will Crookshanks 
 who was a fiery, though rather taciturn youth ; “ this is the 
 reverend gentle who counselled to leave them at the wrong side 
 of the gate.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 201 
 
 “ But our own good couucil is against it,” in solemn accent 
 demurred Robert Morrisson, a steady, sober, heavy-looking 
 writer to the single practitioner of the law then in his native 
 town ; and here we crave the readers to observe, that all the 
 names we have mentioned, are, together with Mr. Walker’s, 
 historical names, and “ immortal” ones, too—in Derry. 
 
 “ What be that to us ?” asked wicked Will. 
 
 “ Nothing at all,” answered Jem Spike, winking knowingly 
 on Dan Sherrard, and bending over to him as he whispered 
 something additional. 
 
 “ I mean, Jem,” resumed Crookshanks, “ what be to us the 
 fancies or the resolutions of the great townfolk, if it like us to 
 take a thing into our own heads ?” 
 
 “Very little, I believe,” replied Jem, still winking, and still 
 wittily. 
 
 “There!” resumed Mr. Walker, with energy; “the first 
 boat puts off from the ferry, bearing to us the first band of our 
 sworn assassius. Gracious God ! and will the blind and sloth¬ 
 ful people of this doomed city leave their gates wide open to 
 their own ruin ?” 
 
 “ Can’t we just shut the gates ourselves ?” queried Crook- 
 shanks. 
 
 Boisterous assent was given by many voices, amongst whom 
 were some apprentices sent over to Derry by order of the Wor¬ 
 shipful London Company, when it was resolved not to admit 
 Roman Catholics to trade or set up business in their little colo¬ 
 nial city. 
 
 “ The raising of an infant’s hand might confound them 1” con¬ 
 tinued Mr. Walker. 
 
 “Shut them out 1” was shouted. 
 
 “ We are not to have our throats cut so quietly 1” said 
 some. 
 
 “ Not by wild Irish Papists!” said others. 
 
 “ They will burn us in our beds, as once before they did, in 
 4 *ood London town,” said one of the hospital boys. 
 
 “ Will you stand by us, Tom Sexton ?” asked Crookshanks, of 
 a tall, lubberly man. 
 
 “ May I never pull rope, if I don’t,” answered the sexton, 
 with a professional flourish of his hand. 
 
 “ Perchance, rope may be pulled for you, to save you the 
 trouble, Tom,” jeered Jem Spike. 
 
 “ And those at your back ?” continued Crookshanks, mean’ 
 
 9 * 
 
202 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ing the town-crier, town-bailiffs, and some such humble hangers- 
 on of the corporation. 
 
 ‘ O-h, y-e-s 1” said the Derry witling, answering for the first- 
 named personage, while he imitated his well-known proclama¬ 
 tion tone, and motioned as if he held a bell in his hand. 
 
 “ Then follow me, hearty lads,” shouted Crookshanks, taking 
 off his working cap, and waving it round his curly red head, as 
 he stood tip-toe, up to the full height of sixteen years. 
 
 A general shout answered him. The soldiers, some of whom 
 had debarked, and were in motion over the stretch of ground be¬ 
 tween the river and the walls, supposing the loud cheer to be 
 meant for their welcome, returned it, waving their bonnets and 
 hats. 
 
 “ You’re but fools of Papists, after all,” laughed Spike ; “for, 
 we mean you not half so kindly as you guess us.” He was 
 joined in his laugh by the whole crowd of lads, who, followed by 
 their more mature seconders, raced down the steps leadiug from 
 the wall to the gate, immediately under them. 
 
 “ The cackling of geese saved the queen-city,” said Walker, 
 “ and a like salvation is in store for Derry—haste I haste, brave 
 lads ! the Papists come on, quickly—run, run, I say !” In fact, 
 two officers entered—one, Edmund M’Donnell, bearing an order 
 to the sheriff for billets ; and by this time almost the whole 
 regiment had landed, and more than half approached within 
 twenty yards of Ferry-quay gate. Walker and Evelyn rapidly 
 descended after the youths. When they reached the point of 
 action, there were some whose boyish hearts naturally failed 
 them, and expostulation and clamor ensued. 
 
 “Oh! they but mocked themselves and us !” cried Walker ; 
 “ they do not their work, and the accursed Papists touch the 
 verge of the drawbridge !” 
 
 But, as he spoke, and while the voices of Crookshanks and 
 Jem Spike predominated in spirited command or exhortation, 
 the raising of the drawbridge, before the gate, was heard ; then 
 a heavy clash, and immediately after a rapid noise of locking, 
 bolting, and barring. In another moment the young crowd 
 scampered by, to shut the other gates, some serious, some fright¬ 
 ened at then’ own daring, but the greater number chuckling and 
 laughing in such a way as told that there was as much fun as 
 patriotism, as much whim as daring, in their important frolic. 
 But, quickly and securely did they close the remaining gates on 
 the astonished soldiers, for whom they never opened. And thu9 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 203 
 
 reputably was commenced the first struggle for the Prince of 
 Orange in Ireland. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Although none of the citizens of Derry, properly speaking, 
 took part, or seemed inclined to take part in the affair just re- 
 ated, few of the less respectable class failed to second the young 
 leaders, when the gates had once been closed, and fewer still dis¬ 
 approved of these proceedings. Still, however, none dared to 
 acknowledge, that in shutting out the king’s soldiers, they had 
 meant to shut out the king. On the contrary, when Evelyn at¬ 
 tended, the same night, in company with Mr. Walker, a meeting 
 of the sheriff, aldermen, and citizens, at the guard-house, he 
 heard them, in some surprise, adopt two addresses ; oue, “ To 
 all Christian People to whom these presents shall come an¬ 
 other, as in duty bound, to their masters, “ The Right Worship¬ 
 ful the Society of London both most sincerely showing, “ that 
 no other motives prompted them to such a resolution but the 
 preservation of their lives_ against the vast swarm of Highland 
 and Irish Papists.” And whilst they had resolved to stand 
 upon their guards, and defend their walls, and not admit of any 
 Papist whatever to quarter amongst them, so they firmly and 
 sincerely determined to persevere in their duty and loyalty to 
 their sovereign lord the king, without the least breach of mutiny, 
 or seditious opposition to his royal commands. 
 
 No one seemed more anxious than Mr. Walker to express and 
 promulgate these sentiments. 
 
 “ Are you not yet content ?” he inquired of Evelyn, as they 
 left the council. 
 
 “ If all I have heard be as true as it professes to be I can 
 have but slight grounds for disapprobation,” he was answered. 
 
 Next day, a considerable body of the humbler citizens joined 
 the apprentice boys, and without pausing for the consent of the 
 still loyal, or timid, or cautious Mr. Deputy Mayor, the maga¬ 
 zine was broken open, and between one and two hundred muskets, 
 a barrel of powder, and a proportionate quantity of balls, taken 
 out of it; the whole stock of powder in store being only seven 
 barrels Then, lisis were made of those in the city able to 
 
204 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 bear arms, who did not amount to three hundred. And, in pur¬ 
 suance of the resolution expressed in the addresses, and especially 
 to take precautions against the dreaded morrow, the ninth, Mr. 
 Walker and the apprentice boys routed out a whole convent of 
 Dominican friars, with O’Haggerty at their head. 
 
 “We have met again, heretic,” said the young friar to the 
 Protestant clergyman, as he and his fear-stricken brethren stood, 
 preparing to cross the ferry at the river-side, “ but not on the 
 appointed ground.” 
 
 “ Yet shall that meeting come,” answered Walker. 
 
 At the same time, all the Roman Catholic residents, who could 
 be discovered, were likewise ordered, without much anxiety about 
 their loss of home, property, or comforts, to quit the city. After 
 them, of his own accord, the Protestant bishop retired to a coun¬ 
 try-seat—one of the many respectable individuals of Derry who 
 sincerely disapproved the steps taken, and still cherished, at 
 heart, an allegiance to King James. 
 
 Some motion was made to detain, in strict custody, the two 
 Irish officers who had been entrapped the preceding day, osten¬ 
 sibly as hostages for the good conduct of the army to which they 
 belonged. But the more wary or timid of the advisers seemed 
 against such a measure ; and at the urgent entreaty of Evelyn, 
 ihey were permitted to rejoin their friends. 
 
 He was, himself, the bearer of this intelligence to Edmund. 
 
 The former friends met, with a warm and anxious show of 
 conciliation on the part of Evelyn, but a haughty and repelling 
 manner on the part of M’Donnell. 
 
 “ Let us not again part in anger, Edmund,” said Evelyn, as 
 he accompanied him and his brother officer to the water-side. 
 “ Hear what I have to say, and you will at least give me your 
 hand.” 
 
 “Neither of us have time for private, and now useless, parley, 
 sir,” replied M’Donnell ; “ every instant spent from my post 
 were error and dishonor. You, too, have your duties to attend 
 to in yon traitor city”—his foot was on the prow of the boat— 
 “but I refuse not my hand. Even foes may at any time ex¬ 
 change a greeting—farewell !” 
 
 He took Evelyn’s hand, and shook it strenuously. The boat 
 put off; M’Donnell standing up in it, with his back to his old 
 friend ; who, in a struggle of offended pride and bitter sorrow 
 remained gazing after it till it had touched the opposite shore, 
 and then mournfully walked baqk to the city. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 205 
 
 As the eve of the dreaded day approached, he found every 
 one in increased bustle and anxiety. The rapid arrival of per¬ 
 sons of every rank from the adjacent country, and the certain 
 accounts they gave of the general carnage that was to take 
 place, served, too, to increase the panic, which, among the lower 
 orders at least, had already been sufficiently felt. Lord Antrim’s 
 entire regiment remained at the opposite side of the water. And 
 though it was known that they had no guns to make a breach 
 in the walls, still the proximity of such a large body of supposed 
 foes caused great apprehension. 
 
 When night came on, no one thought of retiring to bed. 
 Lights were placed in every window ; a few guns, the donation 
 of the Worshipful London Company, were badly mounted on 
 the walls, and pointed, as well as those who knew nothing of 
 the matter could manage it, towards the hostile shore. Parties 
 of the citizen soldiers, headed by the most mature of the appren¬ 
 tices, patrolled the streets, from gate to gate ; other parties held 
 watch on the walls. Thither, too, flocked numbers of the un¬ 
 armed townspeople, including such of the corporation as had 
 courage for the undertaking, all creeping on hands and knees 
 along the terra plane, under the low curtain of outside wall, and 
 ever and anon peeping over to catch glimpses of the numerous 
 host of wild people, who, having bivouacked for the night, might 
 be indistinctly seeu sitting or moving round their fires, to a great 
 distance by the bank of the river. 
 
 It was calculated by the most apprehensive, that a first as¬ 
 sault should naturally be expected after the twelfth hour at 
 night, in the very infancy of the morn which ushered in the 
 bloody day. Mr. Walker and other clergymen encouraging this 
 notion, public prayers were offered up in the church, by a vast 
 crowd, at about eleven o’clock. Thus prepared, all who were 
 not appointed to guard the gates and walls, repaired to their 
 separate houses, fortified them as strongly as they could, and in 
 their most secret apartments awaited the approach of midnight. 
 
 Twelve o’clock struck ; and not only in every house, but 
 through the whole devoted city, death seemed already to be 
 master, so instantaneous and breathless was the silence. The 
 patrols stopped, and stood without word or motion on their way 
 from gate to gate, and in the full discussion of the all-engrossing 
 topic. On the walls, every eye was turned, and every ear di¬ 
 rected to the opposite army. But, after a long pause, instead of 
 the trampling of a thousand men, and the rushing of a host, 
 
206 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 naught was heard abroad save the tumbling of the wintry waters 
 of the broad river, or of the still broader and more distant 
 lough, or the rushing of the northwest blast over the bleak hills 
 of Inishowen. 
 
 Thus, in that strange kind of disappointment which is some¬ 
 times waywardly felt at even our escape from an expected dan¬ 
 ger, the long December night, or morning rather, wore away. 
 Not, indeed, without sufficient suffering on the part of those 
 whose imaginations made up for the absence of reality. 
 
 Soon after daybreak, however, more serious cause for alarm 
 seemed to arise. A great stir took place among the lines of the 
 army at the water-side ; all got into order—that is, as well as they 
 knew how ; and a terrific yell echoed from them to Derry. 
 Again the guns were manned and levelled ; again the thrill of 
 terrible expectation ran through the city ; when from the walls, 
 a very old gentleman, in civil attire, was seen to advance to the 
 water’s-edge, and beckon for a boat to convey him over. At 
 another glance, many averred that this was Colonel Philips, of 
 Newtownlimavady, the same person who had sent them word 
 not to admit the redshanks ; and this circumstance once recol¬ 
 lected, little opposition was offered to his approach. Arrived 
 within the city, he informed the inhabitants that the recent 
 movement on the opposite bank was caused by the coming 
 amongst his regiment, of the earl of Antrim ; that he, Colonel 
 Philips, had been obliged to accompany the earl from New¬ 
 townlimavady, as his envoy to Derry walls ; and that, solely in 
 consequence of a promise which he could not refuse to give, he 
 now demanded entrance, in Lord Antrim’s name, for himself and 
 his army. Some further hints fully served to restore to confi 
 dence with the citizens a gentleman in whom, on account of 
 his having formerly been governor of their citadel, in the 
 time of Charles the Second they had much reliance. He was 
 instructed to forbid, by letter, all admission to the Irish army ; he 
 was appointed, once more, governor of the city he had called on 
 ^o surrender. Finally, having imparted some new and favorable 
 intelligence from England, guns were fired in great triumph and 
 ioy upon the walls ; and the so much dreaded army instantly 
 marched towards Coleraine, without having committed a single 
 act, among the Protestant people scattered around them, to 
 confirm the former terrible opinion in which they had been 
 held. 
 
 After this alarm, the dreaded ninth of December, 1688, passed 
 
THE BOYNE WATEIi. 
 
 207 
 
 over quietly in Derry. The night and following morning, 
 too, were undisturbed by the approach of any foes to its walls ; 
 and now, the most lively general sentiment seemed to be pity 
 and bowed yearning for the thousands who must have fallen in 
 the open country. But, strange to relate, the fully-risen morn¬ 
 ing only brought to the gates a number of Protestauts of the 
 county, who, with eyes and cheeks to which some spirit and color 
 had just flown back, informed their astonished and almost in¬ 
 credulous brethren of Derry, that, as far as they knew, not a 
 drop of Protestant blood had been shed in Ulster the preceding 
 day. Increased intelligence confirmed this statement. So that, 
 by the night of the 11th, the loyal men of Derry seemed no 
 longer warranted, through immediate fear of their lives, in 
 keeping their gates shut against King James’s soldiers. 
 
 Shut, however, the gates continued to be ; and every possible 
 preparation went on to resist the entrance of a Roman Catho¬ 
 lic garrison. On the 10th, some horse and foot, part of the 
 new levy of the Protestant northern association, were marched 
 into the town to assist the citizens, who formed themselves into 
 companies, commanded by captains, lieutenants, and ensigns, of 
 whom many were chosen from among the apprentice boys. At 
 the same time an agent was dispatched to the London Society, 
 requesting assistance, and also intrusted with a letter to the 
 secretary of the Prince of Orange. 
 
 The example given by Derry becoming a kind of starting post 
 for all the northern Protestant spirit, the Antrim Association, 
 headed by Lords Mount, Alexander, and Blaney, and Sir Ar¬ 
 thur Rawdon, soon after published a politic manifesto, profess¬ 
 ing no motive but that of self-preservation against the numer¬ 
 ous levies of Roman Catholics, while, in the same breath, they, 
 too, sent a private address to William. The other northern 
 counties followed them. Sligo, though not an Ulster town, also 
 produced a union and an address ; Enniskillen, imitating Derry, 
 refused admission to some Roman Catholic soldiers ; Coleraine 
 made a defence. In a short time the whole of the north, with 
 the exception of the fort of Charlemont, and a few other strong 
 places, was in the hands of native and self-recruited bodies of 
 Protestant soldiers. 
 
 To go back a little. Before affairs had taken this formidable 
 appearance, Tyrconnel sent the young and gallant Lord Mount- 
 joy, with a considerable force to reduce Derry to submission. 
 On the first notice of his approach, the citizens sent him a hum- 
 
208 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ble and lachrymose letter, praying his intercession, in their be¬ 
 half, with the constituted authorities. On his appearance before 
 the town, a capitulation, after some seeming demur, was affected ; 
 one highly advantageous to the men of Derry ; one that in¬ 
 creased their strength with two companies—but no more—of 
 Protestant soldiers ; and one, indeed, that showed little zeal on 
 the part of Lord Mountjoy for the real service on which he 
 had been dispatched. He remained in the city, together with 
 his lieutenant-colonel, Lundy. 
 
 Soon after his arrival, and a little previous to the manifesto 
 of the Antrim Association, Mr. Walker received a letter, in 
 consequence of which he took his departure from Derry towards 
 his own residence. 
 
 “I am now called away,” he said to Evelyn, “by high ad¬ 
 vice, to do good in my own parish. A brave body of men, who 
 honor me by electing me as their commander, are ready to gar¬ 
 rison and keep, against all intruders, the strong place of Dun¬ 
 gannon, a check upon any hostile approach northwards, towards 
 this good city of Derry. God willing, I shall do my best to 
 honor the confidence of my friends, and discharge the duty to 
 which I am appointed. Farewell, my young brother. Have 
 you thoughts when you, too, shall move towards the honorable 
 post of duty and danger ?” 
 
 “ Before I can adopt any such course, Mr. Walker, I am first 
 bound to visit my paternal estate and mansion, now requiring a 
 master’s eye, in such agitated times, and after so long an absence.” 
 
 “ It is well,” resumed Walker ; “and by the time you shall 
 have wound up your affairs, the valiant soldiers whom you are 
 appointed to command will be, perhaps, near you, in the 
 neighborhood of Lisburn or Hillsborough, where you can join 
 them. There is but one caution I would offer you. Go not 
 alone to your father’s house. The scum and outcasts of the 
 Papist enemy, under the name of Rapparees or Tories, are un¬ 
 loosed over the face of the country, without hindrance from the 
 more regular Papist army—with whom, indeed, their spirit of 
 hatred towards us is identified—and, as yet, unchecked by hon- 
 ester men. So strong are they in numbers, and so audacious in 
 enterprise, that they have already seized the castle of Monaghan 
 and other strong places, together with many seats of private 
 gentlemen. Therefore, expose not your life to their cruelty I 
 say ; ride not home unaccompanied. And so, Providence be 
 your shield on the road, and farewell.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 209 
 
 Evelyn, resolving to follow this advice, did not, however, leave 
 Derry, on his intended journey, till some time after Mr. Walker’s 
 departure ; the delicate and uncertain state of his sister’s 
 health not allowing him immediately to lose sight of her. In 
 the interim he watched the thickening of important events 
 around the walls of Derry. After the promulgation of the 
 Antrim address, Tyrconnel could not avoid becoming seriously 
 alarmed at the growing appearance of affairs in the north ; nor 
 did he find much cause to continue his confidence in the new and 
 noble governor of Derry, who, fully sharing the views of the 
 citizen soldiers, not only allowed them to increase the strength 
 of their position, but zealously superintended or ordered many 
 new arrangements for future defence and resistance. At his in¬ 
 stance, a number of useless arms, found in the stores, were 
 repaired ; dismounted guns supplied with carriages ; a com¬ 
 mittee appointed to raise funds ; some ammunition landed 
 from Scotland ; and some more destined for Lord Antrim, and 
 lying wind-bound on the coast, seized and deposited in the maga¬ 
 zine. 
 
 The always rash and violent lord-lieutenant, seeing the error 
 he had committed, by sending such a man to such a place, now 
 recalled him. Lord Mountjoy was advised by many friends not 
 to obey the summons. Fearing the consequences of Tyrconnel’s 
 vengeance, he went, however, leaving behind him, as governor, 
 and in lieu of Colonel Philips, his lieutenant-colonel, Lundy, a 
 man, by the way, in whom the citizens had less confidence. 
 Arrived in Dublin, Lord Mountjoy was sent to France, on an 
 errand to James ; accounts add, that the moment he arrived in 
 Paris, he was shut up in the Bastile, and, however unauthentic 
 this story may be, it served, when known or reported in Derry, 
 to confirm in the breasts of the sturdy citizens, an indignant 
 determination of resistance. 
 
 At this juncture, Evelyn, attended by two well-armed men, 
 set out, in a southern direction, through the province of Ulster, 
 to visit his house on the banks of Lough Neagh. He had not 
 been uninterested by the progress of events around him. Nor 
 could we refuse to allow, even in a work like this, more histor¬ 
 ical correctness of detail than they have yet found, to the affairs 
 of a place, which, however inconsiderable it may be, or however 
 unimportant or ridiculous might have seemed the beginning of 
 ita resistance, carried on a struggle, that first helped to insure 
 to an adventurous prince the crown of three kingdoms. 
 
210 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Evelyn had left TJncle Jeremiah and Oliver Whittle particu 
 larly in charge of his house. A good number of servants re¬ 
 mained in it; but Oliver, as steward, major-domo, and facto¬ 
 tum, commanded them all ; while Jerry still overtopped him, aa 
 representative of the proprietor. 
 
 It was early in March that Evelyn bent his way homeward. 
 March had, this year, “ come in like a lamb,” so that the 
 weather proved very agreeable for, at least, the rapid and blood¬ 
 stirring kind of travel he adopted. The evening of the second 
 day brought him in sight of his house. At a pretty hamlet, 
 about three miles distant from it, just as a young moon rose to 
 assert her empire over the twilight, Evelyn, so far unmolested on 
 the road, dismissed his armed attendants, and fearing little through 
 a neighborhood where he was so well known, and where friends 
 abounded, pushed on alone towards his country mansion. 
 
 The road, within half a mile, commanded a view of it. Eve¬ 
 lyn paused a moment to contemplate, after so long an absence, 
 the roof that protected his childhood, and the scenery that was 
 so familiar to his eye. Although day had entirely sunk, the 
 clear light of the moon, shining full upon every feature, allowed 
 him sufficient opportunity for his survey. It was a house, built, 
 we may almost say, in England, like many northern Irish houses 
 of that period—that is, its wooden frame, its interior divisions, 
 its flooring, wainscoting, door, and windows, etc., had been con¬ 
 structed and adapted to each other in England. So that, when 
 afterwards conveyed by the English colonist to Ireland, he had 
 but to choose a favorable spot of ground, to put together his 
 skeleton house upon it, to build between the wooden compart¬ 
 ments of the outside frame, with brick and mortar ; to plaster 
 over what he had built, leaving the wooden divisions still dis¬ 
 tinctly visible ; and the result was an ordinary country mansion 
 of that day, not unaptly styled calimanco work, such as he had 
 been used to, for half a century, in the sister country. 
 
 At a house of this kind, then, Evelyn was looking. He could 
 recoguize the woodbine-covered window, in the second story, 
 which lighted his old sleeping-chamber ; the large bow windows 
 of ths drawing-room, and of his father’s study ; the porched 
 door ander the middle one, with seats in the porch j at the gate 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 211 
 
 nearest the house, the horseblock, by means of which his father, 
 in his old age, and himself, in his childhood, had gained their 
 saddles ; the court, planted round with evergreens ; the park, 
 extending at each side of the building, once well stocked, as 
 Evelyn recollected, with hares and rabbits, and a few deer, in¬ 
 closing two fish-ponds, and running at the back of the house, 
 against a gentle acclivity, thickly and tastily planted, which 
 gave shelter from the rude blasts that occasionally swept the 
 bosom of the adjacent Lough Neagh. While, to complete the 
 picture, that vast sheet of water could be seen, over house, ac¬ 
 clivity, trees, and all, spreading to a great distance in the moon¬ 
 light, but now only dimpling and trembling under its ray, as an 
 -evening breeze fluttered across its surface. 
 
 As Evelyn continued to regard this scene, he was struck with 
 an unusual blaze of light in the lower windows of the house, 
 which belonged to the hall and parlor. It seemed as if a great 
 entertainment was going on ; for, as the servants had their own 
 hall, that in question was never so gayly lit up, except .when pe¬ 
 riodical feastings were given to the surrounding tenantry. This 
 was bad housekeeping, he thought, on the part of Uncle Jerry, 
 or of Oliver, or of both, in his absence ; and, feeling some little 
 anger and impatience, he gave spurs to his horse, anxious to view 
 and reprehend such unthrifty, and, indeed, unwarrantable stew¬ 
 ardship. 
 
 Arrived at the gate which led into the straight approach to 
 the house, he found it flung wide open. Here was very culpable 
 negligence, too, in such unsettled times. But as he looked up 
 the little avenue, getting an unobstructed view of the house itself, 
 his wonder increased to observe the hall-door open also, while 
 through it, as well as through the windows of the hall, he now 
 caught the faces and figures of a number of men, seemingly 
 making very merry at his expense, and without his invitation. 
 Continuing to look on in surprise and wrath, a new incident 
 changed his sensations by startling him. All along the avenue 
 the moon’s rays were interrupted by the arching sycamores over¬ 
 head. Half-way on, however, owing to a deficiency in the line 
 of trees, a pure stream of moonlight swept across, showing silver 
 white in contrast with the red glare from the house ; and Eve¬ 
 lyn’s eye was struck with the figure of a man, who, starting into 
 this vivid light, looked sharply around him, and then his steel 
 cap glimmering as he moved, crossed and disappeared among the 
 stems, where the shadow was impenetrable. 
 
212 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Hastily taking a pistol from his holster, Evelyn dashed for 
 ward. At the first plunge he came violently in contact with 
 some heavy obstacle in mid air, which, striking against his 
 breast and face, sent steed and rider a step backward. He re¬ 
 advanced more cautiously, and looked close, to discover what 
 had thus interrupted his career. A moment’s inspection showed 
 him the legs of a man, covered with prodigious jack-boots. They 
 swung to and fro, as if in consequence of their late contact with 
 his person ; and Evelyn, looking up, became aware that they 
 belonged to a dead body, which hung by the neck from the arm 
 of a sycamore. He strove to recognize the face ; and the moon, 
 darting through a favorable aperture between the arching 
 boughs, shone full on the convulsed and disfigured features of 
 poor Oliver Whittle. 
 
 This spectacle changed Evelyn’s ardor ; bringing a suspicion, 
 too, that the guests in this hall had come without invitation from 
 his hitherto faithful steward. Even Uncle Jerry began to find an 
 apology in his nephew’s thoughts, who nowj indeed, could not 
 help surveying the other trees around him, in a misgiving that from 
 one of them might append the goodly bulk of his affectionate, 
 and, with many faults, beloved relative. As he and his horse 
 stood stock-still, the propriety of making the best of his way 
 back to the village occurred to Evelyn ; and he cautiously 
 turned the animal’s head to the avenue gate, and walked him 
 softly a few steps upon the velvet sward, near the trees, in order 
 to avoid the sounding of his hoofs on the middle of the way. 
 But the avenue gate appeared occupied by six or seven men, 
 standing, indeed, quietly, and with their backs turned to him, 
 but by no means inviting approach, under all the circumstances. 
 Evelyn stopped, therefore, a second time, and hoping he had not 
 been perceived, quietly dismounted ; tied his horse to a tree, and 
 stealing, in the deep shadow, by the wall, that at a little distance 
 from the trees bounded the avenue, made way to au opening in 
 it, with which he was well acquainted, resolving to escape there¬ 
 by into the park, and so, if possible, into the country. He 
 gained the opening, got a view of the faintly-marked path, that 
 amid groups of light trees and tufts of bushes, wandered over 
 the park, and was just about to enter, when, within the grounds 
 there appeared another man, slowly walking onward, his back 
 turned, and a carbine resting on his arm. Once more Evelyn 
 gave up his plan ; but darting across the avenue ran to a second 
 opening, in the opposite wall, which served as a short way to the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 213 
 
 kennels, dovecotes, and other petty out-offices. Exactly at the 
 far side of this gap stood another stranger, his regards seemingly 
 fixed on the starry heavens, pistols in his belt, and a half-pike in 
 his hand ; while further on, a new group of persons conversed 
 in whispers, in the moonlight. Really alarmed, Evelyn stepped 
 back, and threw a hasty glance up and down the avenue. Now 
 his eye caught, or he thought it did, more and more forms of 
 men gliding in the shadow among the stems of the trees, or 
 standing stationary between them. Confused, if not terror- 
 stricken, he became embarrassed for an instant ; and this grad¬ 
 ual closing in upon him of so many mysterious individuals, gave 
 something of the sensation of a wild and shadowy dream. 
 
 As he stood leaning against a tree— 
 
 “ Go on,” said a deep voice, very near him. 
 
 He started, but remained where he was, suspecting that his 
 overwrought feelings had deceived his ear. 
 
 “ Go on as you’re bid,” repeated another voice, over his head. 
 
 11 Whither ?” he asked, now certain of the reality of the words. 
 
 “ To the house, to be sure,” he was answered, “ where you’ll 
 get a welcome, an’ cead mille phalteagh” 
 
 Still he hesitated, naturally enough. 
 
 “ Dhai'-a-Ohreesth ! why don’t you go on?” cried another 
 invisible neighbor, angrily. And “ go on 1” was repeated by 
 many voices, at different distances. “ You’re expected,” they 
 added. 
 
 Evelyn at last moved towards the house, not very certain of 
 the welcome he was promised ; nor, indeed, of his way thither. 
 In perfect safety he entered, however, the gate that terminated 
 the avenue before the house, and stood to observe more closely 
 the people in the hall. They drank, or spoke, or laughed unin¬ 
 terruptedly. Among the voices he caught some female tones, 
 loud in hilarity, although he could not see the speakers. In the 
 doorway, and in each side of the porch, appeared a crowd of 
 persons, drinking and conversing too, who either did not or 
 would not notice his coming : but as he stood in the deep shade 
 of the evergreens that ran all around him, perhaps they really 
 did not perceive him. 
 
 A last thought of escape occurred to Evelyn. Near at hand, 
 the thick rows of bushes divided, and allowed a passage behind 
 them, which, sweeping by the sides of the mansion, communi¬ 
 cated with the grove on the hill at its back. In a moment he 
 had cautiously entered this brake, and in another had gained the 
 
214 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 rear of the house, where no ray of moonlight disturbed the pro¬ 
 found darkness. With a beating heart he stepped lightly along 
 the narrow path, scarce finding, among a double row of ever¬ 
 greens, room to make w T ay, when a strong hand grasped his 
 collar, and a rude voice said, though not threateningly— 
 
 “ Stop man ; where ’ud you be going ?” 
 
 11 Unhand me, fellow ?” cried Evelyn ; “ I wished to enter my 
 house.” 
 
 “ Only you missed the way,” resumed the man, relaxing, 
 though not relinquishing his hold, “ an’ more shame for you, 
 that ought to know it betther. But I’ll find it out to oblige 
 you, anyhow ; an’ you’d betther be said and led by a friend, nor 
 vex them that has you well watched, whichever way you turn.” 
 
 Evelyn accordingly retraced his steps to the front of the 
 house, and finally entered. As he passed the porch, the men 
 who occupied it, and whom he could now perceive were, in 
 various ways, rudely armed, rose up, to his great surprise, doffed 
 their steel caps or penthouse hats, and inclining their wild shock- 
 heads, bid him welcome in a southern brogue. Whether they 
 jested or no, Evelyn’s confusion did not allow him to determine. 
 The hall was full of strange people, of the same appearance, 
 some seated round the large oak table, some grouped in corners, 
 and some stretched out upon the ample brick hearth, basking in 
 the light of a mighty fire, made of the roots of trees and logs, 
 or engaged in caressing or playing with the hounds, mastiffs, and 
 terriers which Evelyn had left behind, all then faithful to him, 
 but which now seemed so much fascinated with the new comers, 
 as not to have time to notice his entrance, or else to notice it bv 
 snarling, barking, or baying only. Other followers, too, did not 
 seem a whit more faithful. Mixed with the men, in remote 
 parts of the hall, he observed a number of athletic, broad- 
 shouldered, sunburnt, and wildly-habited women, evidently their 
 associates ; and here and there, the maidens and matrons 
 of his own establishment, laughing and giggling, and as happy 
 as happy could be. 
 
 His conductor having stopped in the hall to communicate 
 with the few who seemed interested about his entrance, Evelyn 
 was afforded time to make and continue his observations. As 
 he took care to keep himself enveloped in his large riding-cloak, 
 he was also enabled to look about him without fear of recog¬ 
 nition from his own former servants. Sad havoc seemed to have 
 taken place on every side. The old broadswords, partisans, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 215 
 
 the 
 
 the 
 
 the 
 
 un 
 
 daggers, the fishing-rods and spears, and, above all, the flitches 
 of bacon, had disappeared from over the huge mantelpiece ; the 
 hawks from their perches, at one end of the extensive apart¬ 
 ment ; the hawking and hunting poles from their rests ; the 
 portrait of Queen Elizabeth had vanished from its recess 
 Book of Martyrs lay, half burnt, at the back of the fire 
 fox and otter-skins had descended from the walls to grace 
 heads, after having been fashioned into rude caps, of the 
 welcomed guests around ; King Charles’s Golden Rules, and a 
 few antlers, were the only ornaments that remained. The 
 flagged floor was strewn with half-picked bones and with wine- 
 cups ; and along the walls had been ranged, to save trouble to 
 the butler, casks of good wine and ale, and kegs of brandy, to 
 which man and woman recurred at pleasure. 
 
 The dogs, of different degrees, now beginning to recognize 
 their old master, Evelyn was glad when his conductor at last 
 ended his conference with his friends, and advanced, by his side, 
 towards the parlor, into which a door opened from one end of 
 the hall. Notwithstanding fears for his own personal safety, 
 Evelyn’s saddest reflection, up to this moment, had been caused 
 by uncertainty as to the fate of his Uncle Jeremiah. Arrived 
 within a step of the half-open door, however, and able to see 
 into the parlor, apprehensions for his life yielded to the wildest 
 wonder to see him living, situated and engaged as Jerry now 
 presented himself. But before we come to him, it is convenient 
 to notice the whole company of the room, and, at the same time, 
 its own present appearance. 
 
 A Turk-wrought chain, which had adorned the parlor, was 
 wantonly destroyed ; and with a swelling and indignant heart, 
 Evelyn beheld, reduced to fragments, the numerous portraits of 
 his ancestors, strewn upon the oaken floor, or flung into the 
 corners—though if true taste for the arts had alone influenced 
 
 his feelings, the destruction of such an everlasting corps of shep¬ 
 herds and shepherdesses, wearing full-bottomed perukes, and 
 court suits, while they performed sentiment with crooks in their 
 hands, could not have caused him much regret. At different 
 tables sat about ten men, more regularly habited than those in 
 the hall, and with an air that approached near to respectability 
 —particularly one short, slight, well-made youth, with a hand¬ 
 some, high-colored face, well-marked nose and mouth, and a 
 keen, glancing blue eye, who seemed to command the groups 
 around him. But like the meanest of their companions, all in 
 
216 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the parlor indulged freely in libations ; their wineeups and 
 liquor glasses mixed up on the tables with hawks’ hoods and 
 bells—some of the articles they had found in the house—and 
 with dice and cards, pipes and skeins—some that they had 
 brought into it. 
 
 Stretched out at full length on the hearth, that here, also, 
 was very ample, and paved with brick, lay a man of unusual, in 
 deed almost gigantic, proportions, his vast chest and shoulder 
 corresponding to an extent of figure that could not be less than 
 six feet and a half, his arms and lower limbs perhaps too bulky 
 and fleshy. His dress was superior to that of any around him ; 
 being formed of a complete breast and back piece, brightly bur¬ 
 nished ; a buff coat, curiously wrought about the sleeves and 
 skirts; horseman’s boots, well spurred ; a sash; with, now 
 lying by his side, a fashionable cocked and flapped military hat, 
 gallantly plumed. Altogether he bore the appearance of a mili¬ 
 tary officer of rank ; and, as Evelyn perceived, slept profoundly. 
 
 Of the other ten or dozen men in the room, half were sitting 
 at the walls, paying gallant attention to some fresh-faced and 
 comely young lasses, who had joined them from the neighbor¬ 
 hood, or who belonged to their own community. While all 
 talked or laughed loudly, two or three, male and female, sang 
 out together. And now, and at length, we come to the first 
 group that struck Evelyn’s eye—namely, his Uncle Jerry, sit¬ 
 ting between the plump housekeeper and our former acquaint¬ 
 ance, Rory-na-chopple, or the Whisperer, one hand round the 
 matron, and the other hand affectionately clasping that of the 
 Rapparee, as, over and over, Jerry praised a song he had lately 
 performed, and gently urged him to repeat it. 
 
 “Songs I have heard,” he said, “by sea and land, from Turk, 
 Jew, and Christian, of every sect and country, but that song, 
 excellent Rory, sorpasseth them all.” 
 
 As Evelyn entered, his conductor announced him, in a few 
 words of Irish. The first person who took notice of his pres¬ 
 ence was the quick-eyed young man already spoken of, who, 
 starting from his seat, advanced, in a French style of courtesy, 
 and with many welcomes offered his hand. Evelyn, his spirit 
 and indignation at last overmastering his personal apprehensions, 
 haughtily stepped back. At which the young man drew up, 
 even more proudly frowned, let fly a dangerous glance at his 
 visitor, and quickly resumed his seat. 
 
 “Musha, welcome, an’ a thousand welcomes,” cried the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 217 
 
 Whisperer, nearly at the same moment; “ sure it's joy is in our 
 hearts to see you here agin, when we thought you left home, for 
 good-an’-all.” 
 
 “ Hollo—a 1” piped Jerry, staggering a little (as he relin¬ 
 quished the housekeeper’s waist), and, by such an usual symp¬ 
 tom, giving omen of how vast and deep had been his libations, 
 “ Nephew of my heart, welcome amongst us.” 
 
 As, with some tacking, he steered forward, Evelyn lost all 
 self-command. 
 
 “ Wretched man !” he cried, “ where and with whom do I 
 find you?” 
 
 “ Where !” repeated Jerry—“ where but in the old ship still, 
 sticking to her through all weathers. And with whom ? with 
 honest fellows, trust me.” 
 
 “ What, sir ! is this your natural feeling—not to say duty 
 —in your brother’s house—carousing and clasping hands with 
 its plunderers ?” 
 
 “ Have a care, young gentleman,” cried the person Evelyn 
 had just offended, starting in his seat, and grasping a pistol that 
 was in his belt. 
 
 “ Asy, avich, asv,” said the Whisperer ; “say as little as you 
 can of your own friends.” 
 
 “ What could I do ?” asked Jerry. “ What would you have 
 me do ? I fought them fairly while we could give a broadside. 
 I met them foot to foot as they boarded us ; and two of ’em 
 could tell you as much, only they can’t speak, for the life of 
 ’em, at present. And so could Magog himself there, if he was 
 awake, seeing he still bears a compliment from my hanger.” 
 
 “ It’s God’s thruth, every word,” interrupted the Whisperer. 
 “ A betther man, for the little of him that’s in it, never broke 
 bread, or throd in shoe-leather.” 
 
 “And,” continued Jerry, “when the devil himself, had he 
 been captain, could have worked ship no longer—when there 
 wasn’t a cartridge left in the powder-room, nor a hand left on 
 deck but Noll and myself—what could brave men do but strike ? 
 And there again, when they boarded us, like gentlemen, and 
 were for remembering our good services, and treating us kindly 
 —brave foes, brave friends, you know, the wide seas over—and 
 —a word in your ear—when I saw Noll dangling from the yard¬ 
 arm, because after striking he was too serious, and thought to 
 break treaty—and especially when they were all hearty lads, 
 hand and palm, and cup to cup with me—what was to be done, 
 
 10 
 
218 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 I say ? Would you have me follow Noll by the cathead ? Or, 
 worse, would you have me be the only sad heart amongst merry 
 men and honest fellows, nephew ? You know I never liked 
 that.” 
 
 “Honest!” resumed Evelyn. “Tell me, Uncle Jeremiah, 
 how long has this happened ? How long has my father’s house 
 been a thieves’ barrack ? How long have I been a ruined man ?” 
 
 “ Speak lower still, nephew, and I will try to tell you. Let 
 me see. The first night we got through the cask of Burgundy 
 —that was of a Wednesday, I think ; the next night the Geneva 
 was out—I believe the next, but I don’t pretend to be sure; the 
 night after the Canary ran dry—I thought there had been more 
 of it; that must have been on the Saturday. And stay, what 
 day is this ? Monday, I opine. But, in fact, nephew, there 
 has been such a running of day into night, and thereby of one 
 day into another, with, as you see, some running from the wine- 
 casks, that you will excuse me in the matter of extreme particu¬ 
 larity.” 
 
 “ Pray, inform me, Mr. Rory-na chopple,” continued Evelyn, 
 turning away in disgust from his uncle, “on what day was I first 
 honored with this visit ? You, I presume, are master here,” he 
 added, recollecting the transcendant fame of Rory. 
 
 “No, then, I am not ; an’ for why or for what should I?” 
 answered the Whisperer, meekly. “ Sure I’m no more nor fit 
 to help my betthers, now an’ then, wid the little janious that 
 God ga’ me ; an’ ouly for it mightn’t I die, like an ould horse, 
 in the ditch ? Poor Rory is only the dochthoor-na-cliopple* 
 you see, wid a little to do in the way of providin’ bastes, an’ a 
 thing of the kind, for the army. Bud the genteel that spoke 
 you so fair a-comiu’ in—an’ a genteel he is, sure, if his own sef 
 tells the story”—winking shrewdly—“ he’s the captain. A 
 good mother’s son ; butther wouldn’t melt in his mouth, he’s so 
 quiet when you don’t put the anger on him ; but you’d rather 
 net staud in his way if he war angry. An’, then, the gineral, 
 entirely, is that weeny goryoon lyin’ asleep forninst the fire. No 
 great things at the tongue, an’ as soft as a child at the breast ; 
 a great big slob, you’d think. Only he’d walk by a stone wall 
 the day long, an’ never take a bite out of it, if he war ever so 
 hungry, I’m thinkin’.” 
 
 “ I have asked you,” said Evelyn, assuming indifference, 
 
 * Horse-doctor. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 219 
 
 though he really was not indifferent to Rory’s indication, in his 
 own way, of the characters of those with whom he found himself 
 called to deal—“ I have asked you to inform me how long it is 
 since your party has visited my house ?” 
 
 “ Five days exactly,” answered the captain, who had over¬ 
 heard the question. 
 
 “ And how long am I to be indulged with your company, 
 gentlemen?” he continued. 
 
 “ That will depend on the state of things abroad, and on the 
 will of our general,” answered the same person. 
 
 “ I am anxious—naturally, you will say—to get a little more 
 information, sir. I am anxious to know to what extent my prop¬ 
 erty has been of use to you ; and how far, after your depart¬ 
 ure, at your own good leisure, my private coffers may still ad¬ 
 minister to my wants.” 
 
 “ Private convenience,” replied the captain, “ must, on all 
 occasions of public need, be little considered. The ready cash 
 you speak of has, of course, been appropriated to the carrying 
 on of a war against the traitors and enemies of King James’s 
 crown and person.” 
 
 “ And I am left a beggar ?” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ I regret it, sir ; but you should have remained at home to 
 protect your property by your presence. When you fled to the 
 rebel city, your whole possessions became forfeited, in conse¬ 
 quence of the new and wholesome law, recently promulgated in 
 the name of our zealous lord-lieutenant, which dooms to con¬ 
 fiscation the house and estates of all fugitives.” 
 
 “ Giving you, and such as you, the right to execute the con¬ 
 fiscation ?” 
 
 “ Me! and such as I 1 What mean you, Master Evelyn, by 
 that particularity ?” 
 
 “ 1 believe you hold no command or commission from King 
 James, or his lieutenant,” answered Evelyn, his ruined prospects 
 making him rash and desperate, “ to authorize you in carrying 
 into effect the edicts of either. And I know that the justice of 
 your country is, even now, preparing to hunt you down for such 
 interference with its mandates. Deceive me not—I am aware 
 of your character.” 
 
 “Not so, by Heaven, when you dare rouse it by speech like 
 this?” cried the captain, jumping up, drawing his sword, and 
 cutting at Evelyn. But Evelyn, snatching another sword from 
 the table, was on his guard, so that nothing resulted from the 
 
220 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 young man’s attack but a loud clash of their weapons. At the 
 same moment, there was another jingle of arms. 
 
 “ What’s this ?” cried the hitherto sleeping giant at the 
 hearth, gathering up his unwieldy length of limbs, and striding 
 forward—“ Pace ! pace ! pace is best 1 Pace, little Captaiu 
 Willy”—twirling him by the neck to the far end of the room. 
 
 “Bravo, bully Magog !” cried Jerry; “bravo, noble G-oli* 
 ath 1 And now, welcome my nephew home, and tell him 
 whether or no the old ship struck at your first summons.” 
 
 “ Hah—eh—ay—who is the newcomer ?” asked the person 
 addressed, staring stupidly at Evelyn, and now and then rubbing 
 his eyes and yawning. “Your nephew, truly, little admiral ? 
 Welcome he is, then, and welcome let him be—welcome as the 
 flowers o’ May l 1 ’ And the Rapparee general seized Evelyn’s 
 hand in his, with a grasp that almost crushed it. 
 
 “You know me, don’t you?” he continued, observing Evelyn’s 
 cool and offended manner. 
 
 “ I have not that honor,” he was answered. 
 
 “Heard you ever, then, of a man of some size, called Gallop¬ 
 ing Hogan, youngster ?” 
 
 Evelyn readily assented ; as, indeed, he had, from many 
 sources, become acquainted with the prowess of that king of 
 southern Rapparees. 
 
 “ He stands before you, and offers you his hand,” continued 
 this dangerous person ; “ do you refuse it ?” Evelyn thought 
 proper to allow his words and actions to answer in the negative. 
 
 “ Galloping Hogan they call me,” continued his new friend, 
 “ because, though a heavy man, put me on the back of a good 
 horse, suited to me in bone and muscle, and, it is no boast to 
 say, I can cover you as much ground, when need is, on advance 
 or retreat, as courier or confidential messenger, as the lightest 
 hop-o’-my-thumb jockey from the Causeway to the Devil’s 
 Punchbowl. Such sarvice coming by nature to me, afther a 
 manner, since my campaigns in the Low Countries, from a boy 
 up. You have seen foreign parts, Master Evelyn ?” 
 
 “Yes ; but not on military service.” 
 
 “ The more the pity. It forms a man’s hand for his work at 
 home, so dacently. Here’s your weeny lump of an uncle, now, 
 could never have done such nate business against us, t’other day, 
 only for a thing o’ the kind. Salvation to my sowl ! but I’ll be 
 witness for him to the end o’ the world, that there isn’t a handier 
 bit . 11 * creature on Ireland’s ground, this blessed morning- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 221 
 
 “ Evening, general,” interrupted Jeremiah. 
 
 “ Don’t mind him,” said the Whisperer ; “ it’s the dead o’ 
 the night that’s in it, gineral, honey.” 
 
 “ Morning, night, or evening, as it may be,” continued Jerry 
 —“ here’s my nephew, brother, would say you boarded us with 
 our free-will.” 
 
 “ How comes this rent in my buff, then ?” asked Hogan, 
 holding out his left arm to Evelyn. “ As I hope to be saved, 
 the little round man cut me down two tall fellows on the thresh¬ 
 old, before my face, and, as I came in, myself, ran me his point 
 through and through the muscle of this arm ; my wonder being 
 how could he reach so high, until I recollected that he had the 
 two steps of the porch-door to help him half-ways up to me. 
 So, no more talking about that. All was fair and dacent; 
 give and take on both sides ; clean work, and who should, for 
 it. And, since I and my boys won the inside o’ your house, 
 nothing but love and liking between us ; and welcome he was to 
 the best of every thing, along with us ; and the same welcome 
 for you, on his account, at present. Only one little bit o’ 
 bother happened. An ould follower o’ yours had the impudence 
 to break faith with us, after all was over ; so the Whisperer 
 was forced to take care of him, outside o’ the house. He’s 
 handy at a matter o’ the kind, along with every thing else”— 
 Rory grinned his thanks for this flattery—“ and maybe you 
 met him on your way up the avenue.” 
 
 “ He did meet him,” said the man who had ushered Evelyn 
 in. “ While we watched for Master Evelyn, as you bid us, gin¬ 
 eral, we saw them meeting together.” 
 
 “ You had notice of my approach, then ?” asked Evelyn, of 
 the general. 
 
 “To be sure we had, avich ; and of every step you took on 
 the road. Do you think you could get inside the first gate, if 
 we didn’t like it ? Sure, all I feared was that you might run 
 back from us, the way you came, and we all so eager to make 
 you welcome. And now let us think of a bit of supper. It’s 
 past the time for it; but a nate supper there’s ordered, to 
 entertain you. I thank my God I kuow good things. Where’s 
 that wizen-faced witch of a cook ?”—a subaltern went out to 
 seek her. “ Aud first, Master Evelyn, the welcome cup. 
 Do you say a rummer of Cognac, or a stroup of claret, or Oa 
 nary ?” 
 
 “ The Canary is out,” said Jerry. 
 
222 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEit. 
 
 “ Then a cup of sack, or Vin-de-Cahors ? all arc at your ser¬ 
 vice, Master Evelyn.” 
 
 Evelyn declining the several liquors mentioned, named a glass 
 of champagne, which, with considerable courtesy, was imme¬ 
 diately placed before him. And when his host had pledged him 
 in a bumper of claret, toasting “ to their better acquaintance,” 
 the cook appeared at the door, superintending the entrance of 
 supper. The moment the poor woman’s eye met that of her old 
 master, she stood stock-still, pale as death, and evidently trem¬ 
 bling—not for her own safety. 
 
 “Walk over here with yourself, mistress cook, honey, and 
 don’t be standing there with a face that ’ud make a dog strike 
 his father,” resumed Galloping Hogan. “ Moreover, take care, 
 I advise you, of the dishes in your hands. Ay, now you find 
 the use of your legs. Put ’em down there, purtily—that will 
 do. Now, the little fellows—one, two, three—very good again. 
 And so, Master Evelyn, take your sate, and your fillin’. Cap¬ 
 tain Willy, come out o’ that corner, and lave over playin’ with 
 the snaphance of your petronel. Little Admiral Jerry, the best 
 sate for you. Rory, a-vich-ma-chree, draw near. Gentlemen 
 all, to supper.” 
 
 The table soon became full ; Evelyn not venturing to decline 
 the seat, or the fare, so generously offered. 
 
 “ Them capons has a pleasant look and smell about ’em,” con¬ 
 tinued the host, going through all this without the slightest af¬ 
 fectation ; indeed, his heavy nature knew nothing of the word. 
 “ Ensign Turlough’s pet flitch, and Thady’s leg of mutton are 
 nice, too ; the pigeons not to be faulted, either; nor the 
 salmon, either ; but, still, the capons for me. Stop a bit ; sit 
 down a minute, mistress cook, and swallow, as fast as you can, 
 a man’s share of every thing you lay before us. It’s an honor 
 we pay you every day, you know, for a little raison we have. 
 Though, since Master Evelyn is our guest to-day, the ceremony 
 might be overlooked, maybe. No matter ; betther sure than 
 sorry. Swallow, misthress ; and fast, fast, or you’ll be starvin’ 
 us.” 
 
 The cook obeyed, and left the room. 
 
 “ And now, master,” resumed Hogan, addressing Evelyn, 
 “ welcome again, and fall to. Deny me not that the supper I 
 have ordered you, with an after relish of neats’ tongues and cav¬ 
 iare, while we sip our wine, does not disgrace my knowledge or 
 my breeding.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 223 
 
 “ It’s manners to taste, bud not make a male / 7 said tbe Whis¬ 
 perer, conveying a pigeon to his trencher. 
 
 “ Lay hoult o 7 the flitch, Turlough , 77 cried a hungry fellow. 
 
 “ Make mooch o 7 yourself, Thady , 77 said a second Rapparee 
 officer to a third at his elbow. 
 
 “ Och, I 7 m aitin 7 for bets / 7 answered Thady. 
 
 “ Who’s at the outpost ? 77 inquired the general, after he had 
 somewhat satisfied his hunger. 
 
 “Johnny Donellan / 7 answered the Whisperer. 
 
 “ A good watch / 7 observed Hogan. 
 
 il Never a betther / 7 replied Rory ; “he’d know a Sassenach’s 
 skhin dryin 7 on a bush . 77 
 
 The supper was over ; the relish, too, passed away ; the cham¬ 
 pagne was unwired ; the claret bumpers were quaffed, when 
 two harp-players took their places at the parlor-door. 
 
 “ A dance ! a dance ! 77 cried Jerry ; “ a hall! a hall !” 
 Many voices joined him ; and those in the other apartment, 
 catching the sounds, the answering cheer became uproarious. 
 
 “ A dance, then , 77 said the general, slowly rising. “Though I 
 will but suit partners, myself, and look on ; seeing that your 
 Irish jig is accounted too vulgar, and, mayhap, too brisk in move¬ 
 ment, for one of my quality and weight. Did your poor musi¬ 
 cians know any thing of the French chausee or boree, I were 
 likely to join you . 77 It will be seen that the speaker uttered, 
 at different times, the true brogue he had imbibed in his child¬ 
 hood, and the tolerable English his after-intercourse with the 
 world had taught him, just as the humors of familiarity or dig¬ 
 nity were for a moment uppermost. 
 
 All moved out to the hall, Evelyn inclusive. The general, as 
 he had promised, made partners. Evelyn wondering at the 
 scene, and inclined, in the midst of his better feelings, to laugh 
 at the figure he cut in it, was introduced to a southern girl, of 
 some beauty, whose glance at him told strangely of coquetry 
 and recognition. Jerry was constant to the housekeeper. About 
 a dozen couple, altogether, stood ready to obey the first sound 
 of the harper’s wire. “ Strike out !” cried Galloping Hogan ; 
 when, anticipating more gentle music, a hideous bellowing was 
 heard abroad, equal to the roar of some dozen mad bulls. An 
 instant after, a man rushed into the hall, yelling forth, “ The 
 Sassenachs !” 
 
 “ I knew it / 7 said Hogan, “ by your signal horns—silence !” 
 as the throng of women in the hall gave meet response to the 
 
224 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 noise abroad—“ silence, and hear my orders ! First, how fai 
 are they off, Johnny Donellan ?” 
 
 “ About three miles, when I saw ’em from the hill.” 
 
 “ How many ?” 
 
 “ The double of us, I think.” 
 
 “ Horsemen or foot-soldiers ?” 
 
 " All horsemen—I seen them blackenin' the road in the moon¬ 
 shine.” 
 
 “ Half our men to horse, then. Half of them, again, to the 
 first gate of the avenue, the other to the second gate. Let the 
 rest of the men stay in the house ; a dozen, only, to watch at 
 the back. But, first of all, let hatchet, saw, and pickaxe, and 
 every man that hears me, work, work, work, for the dear life, to 
 tear up the ground before both gates, and fell trees and bushes 
 to choke them—speed ! speed F The hall was cleared in obe¬ 
 dience to his orders : the Whisperer only stayed with him. 
 
 “ They will give us time for this,” the general continued, “ be 
 cause they will advance cautiously ; or our ambushed pickets 
 and videttes will make them give us time. You, Master Eve¬ 
 lyn, are to remain by my side. Fear nothing—we have faced 
 greater odds before now, and won the battle. If they force in 
 upon us, I will still bother them ; the house over my head shall 
 burn to charcoal ere they possess it—fear nothing.” 
 
 Evelyn wondered by what perversion of reason this speech— 
 if the speaker was really serious—could be meant to allay his 
 fears. But he did not know the character of the man who ad¬ 
 dressed him ; and who—in downright earnest, indeed—spoke of 
 Evelyn’s house as his own, from the moment it had fallen into 
 his hands. 
 
 “ And then as to a retreat,” he continued, “ my name is not 
 Galloping Hogan, if I forget how that used to be managed.” 
 
 All this time his vacant length of visage underwent no 
 change ; his large, staring gray eyes only roved from one face 
 to another around him, as was their wont; his jaw continued 
 dropped, his mouth open ; his neck stooped between his high, 
 shoulders. Altogether he gave the appearance of a man com¬ 
 pletely free from agitation or excitement. 
 
 “ Yon want a straight blade,” he went on ; “ and do you 
 fight with petronel and dagger, also ?” 
 
 “Though I believe I am no coward,” answered Evelyn, “I 
 Bhould prefer, if you please, not to fight at all on this occasion.” 
 
 “ Why so ?” demanded Hogan, staring at him. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 225 
 
 “ If you bring to mind the peculiarity of my situation, you 
 need scarce ask me,” Evelyn replied ; “ some of my former 
 friends, perhaps, are approaching.” 
 
 “ And that’s true, sure enough,” casting his heavy eyes a mo¬ 
 ment on the ground. “ Here, O’Moore ; stand by Master Evelyn, 
 in this window ; and if you see us beaten, shoot him on the spot.” 
 And he strode out, leaving Evelyn in charge with a fellow scarce 
 inferior in stature to himself, and well-armed; while from the 
 moment he had entered the house the prisoner remained defence¬ 
 less. 
 
 The moon had by this time almost set ; yet, in the waning 
 light it still afforded, Evelyn could discern, through the window, 
 a crowd of men toiling at the far gate of the avenue, to throw 
 up the bank and abatis their general had ordered. A deep line 
 of horsemen formed behind them. At the near gate the lights 
 from the house, together with the brands which flamed on the 
 spot, and which were held mostly by the wild-looking women 
 attached to the band of Rapparees, more plainly showed the 
 operations there carried on. In the midst of his people, Gal¬ 
 loping Hogan soon appeared, striding about from point to point, 
 and issuing his orders with his usual coolness, indeed almost in¬ 
 difference. 
 
 Many hands make light work ; and Evelyn beheld, with the 
 utmost surprise, that, by the hundreds of strong men engaged 
 in the task, the preparations for defence were already nearly 
 completed, before his eye and ear could catch any signal of the 
 arrival of the enemy. Yet all was not perfectly arranged, per¬ 
 haps, at the far gate, when a rush of horses came in that direction. 
 A cheer from the assaulters, and a yell of defiance from the Rap¬ 
 parees, burst on the night ; and the flashing and report of pistols 
 and carbines were, almost at the same moment, seen and heard. The 
 men on foot, who had been working at the rude intrenchments, 
 ran up the avenue, got inside the second line of horsemen, who 
 stood, headed by Hogan, behind the second abatis, and joining 
 their other dismounted comrades at that point, rushed in to gar¬ 
 rison the house. 
 
 “ Something is as it shouldn’t just be at the end gate,” said 
 Evelyn’s guard, glaring ominously at him, as he examined the 
 priming of the pistol. 
 
 *' I hope you may be mistaken,” said Evelyn. “ None of your 
 horsemen flinch a step ; and, even suppose they do, no danger of 
 defeat is to be reckoned ou, while your general remains at the 
 
 10 * 
 
22 6 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 head of his second line, and is so well protected by the trees 
 and earthwork.” 
 
 “ I don’t know how that is,” said the fellow, coolly and care¬ 
 lessly, as if, having his own work to do, the action abroad con¬ 
 cerned him only as it regarded the fulfilment of his orders. 
 
 “ And more be the shame on you, Deermid O’Moore,” cried 
 a girl, who had advanced to the window, in the recess of w T hicl; 
 guard and prisoner stood. She was the same whom Hogan had 
 presented to Evelyn as a partner, and who, we should have men¬ 
 tioned, had seemed much flattered by the arrangement. 
 
 “ Set off wid yourself afther the women, Moya Laherty,” said 
 O’Moore ; “they are far wid the road by this time. Be movin’.” 
 
 “ Be movin’ your own sef, Deermid,” retorted Moya, in the 
 flippancy of an assured beauty of humble degree, “ or else don’t 
 be talkin’ of killin’ the poor young genteel afore bis time.” 
 
 This might have been meant for Evelyn’s comfort, but the 
 downright allusion it contained had a very different effect. 
 
 “ Don’t you be makin’ a ballour o’ your mother’s daughter,” 
 resumed Deermid. “ What do you know about killin’ a man, or 
 a genteel either ?” 
 
 “ Nothin’ at all, for pace sake ; any thing to plase you, Deer¬ 
 mid a-roon. “ Will you taste ?” holding out a can of wine. 
 
 “Not that, but somethin’ else, if you’re so civil, Moya.” 
 
 “ Musha, what a beau your granny was,” said Moya, in her 
 own elegant irony. “ An’ that’s all you’d be axin’, is it ?” 
 
 “ Take yourself out o’ my way, then,” resumed Deermid, in a 
 sulk. 
 
 “ My mammy she bet me, an’ well she knew how, 
 
 For stayin’ out, dancin’ the one-horun cow,” 
 
 was Moya’s only reply, as she faced him, playing off saucy airs 
 of flirtation with her head and eyes, and moving her feet to the 
 verse she sang. 
 
 “ You won’t, won’t you ?” he asked, advancing on her. 
 
 “ You don’t know what I’ll be afther doin’ for you. Whisper 
 a, bit, Deermid,” as she wound her arms through his. 
 
 Deermid held his ear, and grinned delight. 
 
 “ Whist ! we ought to be on the look-out, though,” he re¬ 
 sumed, as a second cheer broke from the assailants at the end of 
 the avenue, and two full volleys succeeded to the dropping fire 
 that, for the last few minutes, had been heard. 
 
 “The boys gi’ them never an answer,” Deermid continued 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 227 
 
 “ Nien,” said Moya ; “ they’re too hard at their work to mind 
 'em. Bud, stop now, a-cuishla,” clinging close to him, as if for 
 support. “ My sowl to glory, if they don’t gallop up to the 
 house ! Hould yourself asy, Deermid,” as he struggled to free 
 his arm, his eyes fixed on Evelyn. 
 
 Wrought upon by the sounds of retreat abroad, as well as by 
 the dialogue he heard, the spasm-terror of death came on Eve¬ 
 lyn’s heart. His temples grew moist, his eyes swam, and he was 
 obliged to lean against the walls of the window-recess for support, 
 
 “ An’ they don’t run away, afther all,” Moya rejoined, “ bar- 
 rin’ it’s only for fun, like. See, Deermid, honey, Captain Willy 
 draws ’em up agin acrass the middle o’ the avenue.” 
 
 “ An’ now cum the Sassenachs to try ’em another bout,” said 
 O’Moore. “ They only waited to form themsefs afther breakin’ 
 the fence-work. Curp-an-duoul ! what a power of ’em is in it! 
 An’ look at their ginerals an’ captains 1” 
 
 “ Look, above all the rest, at the dark man that rides on afore 
 his sodgers. See, now, he is the first to lep his horse agin our 
 men. Christ save us ! That’s frightful!” 
 
 “ He’s the red divil, I believe,” cried Deermid. “ While the 
 two throops is at their work, threena-chela ,* look how he lays 
 round him—a man down for every slash. Witherin’ to his arm I 
 It’ll be the ruin of us.” 
 
 “ Never say it!” cried Moya, clapping her hands, while an 
 arm was still passed through one of her companion’s. “ Captain 
 Willy picks him out, now. Power to your elbow, captain, jewel I 
 Och 1 the Willy you war ?” 
 
 Evelyn, excited beyond the momentary influence of his first 
 natural fears, had started to the window. 
 
 “ Do you know that dark man, that now crosses his sword 
 wid the captain ?” O’Moore demanded of him. Evelyn looked 
 attentively ; the flaring light from the house fully illuminated 
 the faces and figures of the combatants. 
 
 “ That man I know,” he answered, fixing, in rallied spirits, a 
 watchful glance on his guard. 
 
 “ Better for you if you never did know him,” observed Deer¬ 
 mid, as he again peered out. “ By the mother o’ saints, Cap¬ 
 tain Willy is down at the first thrust!” 
 
 “ What’s the matter for that ?” exclaimed Moya ; “ the gin- 
 era! has his fresh men, yet. All’s not lost that’s in danger.” 
 
 * Pell-mell. 
 
228 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ All must be lost,” replied O’Moore ; “ the giueral's tbroop 
 isn’t one to ten agin the Sassenach. An’ see ! now he’s left 
 alone wid that throop only at his side—Captain Willy’s men 
 are breakin’ off through the gaps in the avenue wall, or through 
 the thick o’ the Sassenach, down to the far gate, or across the 
 fence—God’s curse on their heads !—to thrample it down, and 
 make it asy for their enemies. Lave my way, Moya !”—sbe had 
 got between him and Evelyn—“ Let us do our gineral’s bid- 
 din’, an’ then take care of oursefs! Stand a one side, I say ! 
 The men in the house are quittin’ it !” His eyes turned on his 
 prisoner. Evelyn, now collected, and resolved on a struggle for 
 life, riveted his on the pistol, watching its motions. 
 
 “ Look, yet 1” still cried Moya, struggling with him, as she 
 still strove to look out—“ they’re not over the fence yet—an’ 
 it’s harder for ’em, now, with the hapes o’ dead men an’ horses. 
 Now they thry it—now 1” 
 
 “ An’ now they crass it!” roared O’Moore, as another tre¬ 
 mendous shout and a full volley echoed abroad. “ See what a 
 gap that volley makes in our last line ! An’ see that born divil, 
 yet—see how he mows ’em down ! Three times the gineral and 
 he met, but the hurry parted them.” 
 
 “ They meet agin, Deermid !” 
 
 “ They do, but he gits off agin ! An’ now the gineral is al¬ 
 most alone—run, run, gineral! Why doesn’t he run ? his life 
 is worth us a thousand men. Look, look ! he gallops off, at 
 last, an’ now let the best o’ them ketch him.” 
 
 A final shout testified the retreat of the Rapparees abroad. 
 Those that remained in the house gave one volley from the win¬ 
 dows, and hastened to follow them through the back entrance. 
 The salute was returned by the assaulters, and many bullets 
 whizzed through the glass, by Evelyn’s ears. At the same mo¬ 
 ment a smell of fire became perceptible, and the hall filled with 
 smoke. 
 
 “ The last bidden is done I” cried O’Moore—“ all but mine is 
 done. Kneel down I”—to Evelyn. 
 
 “ Musha, never heed him, Deermid, for my sake 1” suddenly 
 appealed Moya, at last showing a hitherto disguised purpose, as 
 she yet endeavored to pinion, half in fondling, but with her 
 whole strength, the right arm of the ruffian. Evelyn’s eye re¬ 
 mained fixed, and he braced himself for an effort. 
 
 “ No ; not for the sake o’ the mother that bore me l’ ; 
 O’Moore answered, shakiug her off, as the smoke increased, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 229 
 
 a loud assault seemed to be made on the door of the house. At 
 the same time he raised his arm over her head. 
 
 —“Then, only because I like it,” Moya added, jumping 
 aside, and dashing the cup of wine, which she had placed on the 
 floor, over the pistol. O’Moore pulled the trigger, but the damp 
 powder did not ignite. “ Thry a wrastle wid him, now, if you’re 
 a man !” she went ou, turning to Evelyn, with the spirit and ex¬ 
 pression of a young tigress. Evelyn did not need the hint; he 
 had closed on O’Moore in an instant. They tugged and strained ; 
 but the Rapparee soon flung his antagonist on the floor. Then 
 freeing another pistol from his belt, he was about to discharge 
 it, or to prepare to do so, when Moya, snatching his skein from 
 the same place, struck it into his left shoulder. He fell instant¬ 
 ly ; rolled over once or twice on the floor , and then, turning his 
 eyes upon her, died. At the same instant the porch door was 
 burst open, and a body of armed men rushed in through the 
 smoke. 
 
 “ Here comes the dark man, that is your frieud,” cried Moya, 
 “ an’ you are safe. God speed you ! it’s often I seen you afore 
 this night, an’ wished you well, when you little thought of me. 
 An’ now I’m afther doin’, for your sake, what my own blood 
 used to run cold at seein’ done. Loock an’ speed, I say—an’, 
 now an’ then, think o’ poor Moya Laherty.” She hastily kissed 
 his lips, her tears falling on his face, and had passed out of the 
 hall by the time that Walker, followed by a number of strange 
 men, came up with Evelyn. 
 
 “ He is unhurt!” cried the clergyman, as they exchanged a 
 greeting ; “ but he is weak. Bear him out, soldiers, and quickly, 
 the house fires fast.” 
 
 When Evelyn regained his self-possession, in the open air, 
 Walker presented him to other gentlemen, by whom he was sur¬ 
 rounded. After mentioning some names, “This,” he said, “is 
 Sir Arthur Rawdon ; this, my Lord Mount Alexander, your 
 commander. By him, and partly by the very troop you are 
 commissioned to command, your life—1 regret I cannot add 
 your property—has this night been saved. I heard of the at¬ 
 tack on your house, by these miscreants ; and knowing that you 
 nad returned to it, gave an intimation to friends, who were not 
 remiss in your behalf. Look here!” Mr. Walker continued, a 
 the flames, rapidly devouring the combustible building, burst 
 through it at the moment. Then taking Evelyn aside, “ Are 
 you now ready,” he asked, “ to forswear a king and a government 
 
230 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 in whose name such atrocities are perpetrated ? Is there now 
 any thing to delay you from joining your companions in arms ?” 
 
 “Need I be asked such questions, Mr. Walker? Am I a 
 man, to behold that sight, without a man’s feelings ? When 
 can 1 join my brave men ? How soon can I have the honor of 
 heading them on good service ?” 
 
 “ This moment you can join them ; and very soon, I believe, 
 there may be an answer to your second question. Follow me 1” 
 
 They regained the group of officers, around and before whom 
 more than one troop had, returning from pursuit, got into order. 
 
 “ Men 1” cried Walker, addressing one of them, “ behold your 
 captain, Mr. Robert Evelyn.” 
 
 They waved their caps ; and the shout of recognition with 
 which he was received thrilled through the veins of Evelyn. 
 
 Jerry disappeared with the Rapparees ; his nephew supposed 
 to join them and their liberal courses, with a free will. 
 
 CHAPTER X Y III 
 
 “Tyrconnel,” said Walker to Evelyn, as the next day th«y 
 took their route, along with Lord Mount Alexander and Sir Ar¬ 
 thur Rawdon, and the body of men they commanded, to garrison 
 Dromore and Newry, two considerable towns in the county of 
 Down—the latter so far southward as almost to border on the 
 province of Leinster—“ Tyrconnel, having seen the mistake he 
 made in sending the gallant Mountjoy to Derry, has, after issuing 
 a vain proclamation against our Northern Union, at last ap¬ 
 pointed a proper man to command his rebel army. I mean 
 Lieutenant-General Hamilton.” 
 
 “ He who has served with such character in France ?” asked 
 Evelyn. 
 
 “The same; and more. The very man who, having been 
 taken prisoner in England at the head of the first Irish levy sent 
 over to assist James, caused, by his counsels to the Prince of 
 Orange, the present obstinate continuance of Papist spirit in 
 Ireland.” 
 
 “How so, Mr. Walker?” 
 
 “It is knowu that he prevailed on William to allow him to 
 
THE BOYNE W.ATER. 
 
 231 
 
 pass into Ireland, only on the conditions of doing all in his power 
 to persuade Tyrconnel to give up the cause of the abdicated 
 bigot. Before his arrival here, the lord-lieutenant, dispirited 
 by the flight of James, the arming in the north, and the general 
 bad prospect of affairs, was well disposed to listen to such coun¬ 
 sel. But the moment Hamilton found himself in Ireland, instead 
 of urging the advice he had agreed with the prince to follow, he 
 applied himself, by every argument in his power, to rally Tyr- 
 connel’s hopes, and change his plans from submission to resist¬ 
 ance. He succeeded ; aud the result is the near approach of a 
 civil war. James is every day expected from France in person ; 
 and the campaign opens by the march of Hamilton from Dublin, 
 to put down our Protestant levies, and reduce Derry to submis¬ 
 sion. Let him try both. I do not fear the trial of either.” 
 
 “ Nor I,” said Evelyn, “ with such brave fellows as now sur¬ 
 round us. Has Hamilton yet left Dublin ?” 
 
 “We surmise he has ; but we are prepared for him.” 
 
 “ Where is it proposed to make the first stand ?” 
 
 “ Look around you/’ said Walker, as they approached the 
 suburbs of a small town. “ This is Hillsborough, the principal 
 rendezvous of our newly levied force. See, yonder spreads their 
 camp, and a considerable body quarter in the town. But it is 
 resolved to push on a good army to Newry, and there first try 
 the mettle of this invader of our Protestant north.” 
 
 “How fares the Munster Union, Mr. Walker?” 
 
 “ I grieve to say, already broken up by the perseverance of 
 its enemies. We, however, are better prepared, and must suc¬ 
 ceed better : the Lord is with us, and the Evil One against us. 
 Farewell! here we part, as I take a western road, to return to 
 my own charge—the strong place of Dungannon.” 
 
 By quick marches, Evelyn, his noble commanders, and their 
 strong detachment, joined by the main force of the army at 
 Hillsborough, gained Newry on the evening of the same day. 
 Arrived there, two pieces of intelligence awaited them: first, 
 that William and Mary had been crowned in London in the 
 middle of the last month ; secondly, that Hamilton was certainly 
 on his route from the Irish metropolis. The one event was hailed 
 by public acclamations, and by proclaiming the new monarch ; 
 the other met attention in the bustle of preparation that im¬ 
 mediately became evident. Men and officers spent every avail¬ 
 able hour in acquiring a knowledge of the tactics and discipline 
 that, as newly-raised militia, they naturally wanted ; and Eve- 
 
232 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 lyn, amongst the rest, was on horseback, sword in hand, from 
 morning to night. 
 
 Few days were, however, allowed them for this necessary task, 
 when Lieutenant-General Hamilton appeared before Newry. As 
 had been determined upon, the officers of the Protestant Union 
 proposed to give him battle. But the spirits of the new soldiers 
 were not found to correspond with this arrangement, and the 
 army accordingly retired to Dromore, before an enemy not su¬ 
 perior in numbers, and, after all, chiefly composed of levies as 
 recent as their own, and not better disciplined or appointed. 
 
 This movement was, however, useless. Hamilton rapidly fol¬ 
 lowed them to Dromore, and the battle they might as well have 
 ventured at Newry, there became necessary. It was fought, 
 and ended in the total defeat of the Northern Union, amongst 
 whom the slaughter there proved great, as well on the field as 
 along the road to Hillsborough. At Hillsborough, indeed, they 
 made a second stand, but the result was even more unfortunate. 
 The enemy quickly routed them out of the place, pursued, and 
 almost entirely dispersed them ; and, seizing the castle and 
 depots, became possessed of all the papers of the General Coun¬ 
 cil of Union, which had previously met at Hillsborough, as well 
 as of the provisions and other stores of the Protestant army 
 In fact, only four thousand men, kept together by the exertions 
 of Lord Mount Alexander and Sir Arthur Rawdon, were able 
 to muster after this defeat. They, flying over the whole stretch 
 of the county of Antrim, took their route to Coleraine. 
 
 In the first action, before Dromore, Evelyn had been slightly 
 wounded. While endeavoring, with some of his brother officers, 
 and a handful of men, to cover the retreat from Hillsborough, a 
 worse accident befell him. One of Hamilton’s soldiers slew his 
 horse with a thrust of a handpike, and, ere he could fully extri¬ 
 cate himself from the saddle, aimed a second b&w at himself 
 The weapon turned wide of Evelyn, and, striking against a stone,, 
 snapped across ; but, with the heavy wooden handle, the fellow 
 dealt him a furious knock on the head, and Evelyn lost all con¬ 
 sciousness. 
 
 When he regained his senses, every thing was quiet around 
 him, except the trickle of a little stream near at hand. The 
 moon shone bright, and the stars twinkled merrily through the 
 cloudless blue sky on which his eyes opened. A sensation o» 
 extreme cold and numbness affected him. He strove to move ; 
 but his first effort was, through loss of blood and consequent 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 233 
 
 exhaustion, useless. At last he sat up. A soldier, also sitting, 
 confronted him, and, with looks of great cousteruation, demanded 
 if he was alive. Receiving the proper assurances, he acquainted 
 his companion in suffering that, from a bad wound in the thigh, 
 he, too, had been unable to quit the field ; but, he added, there 
 was some consolation left; and thereupon he put his hand behind 
 his back, and produced a small bottle of brandy, and a good 
 piece of oaten bread. 
 
 “ I hid ’em,” he said, “ when I saw you move ; but you are 
 now welcome to a share—and a waur thing than a mouthful o’ 
 brandy and oatcake ye might have till your supper after such a 
 day. Ah, yon’s a gude wife—the best in the bonuy north !— 
 and it’s now I wonder how I ever took heart to leave her. Ill 
 luck to the Papists I A canny wife singing at the ingle-corner, 
 and a merry loom, and I singing at it, had never brought me to 
 this.” 
 
 Evelyn thankfully partook of bottle and cake, and soon found 
 himself better. Refreshed, he then moved in the direction of 
 the stream, guided by its sound ; washed the black blood from 
 his hair; bathed the wound with another small portion of 
 brandy ; bound it, from the chill air, with a handkerchief; and, 
 finally, looked round him for a horse. Of many which grazed 
 quietly on the field, perhaps between the dead bodies of those 
 who a short time since were their masters, he soou selected one ; 
 and returning with him to his accidental comrade, announced his 
 intention of trying to get to Derry. 
 
 “ And leave me here to perish, after my cake and brandy ?” 
 the poor fellow asked. But Evelyn assured him they should not 
 part till he had lodged him under some friendly roof in the 
 neighborhood. The man urged him against his intended jour¬ 
 ney, for his own sake. The Irish would be abroad, he said, all 
 over the road ; he would meet sworn enemies at every step. 
 And Belfast—that would be filled with Hamilton’s soldiers, and 
 he could never pass it ; and, even if he did, Hamilton would 
 be before him at Derry, and he never could get into the town. 
 
 The prospect of these manifold dangers did not deter Evelyn 
 from his purpose. He raised the wounded man to the saddle ; 
 led the horse, till he had succeeded in finding the residence of 
 a Protestant peasant ; there deposited his charge; and now 
 mounting, himself, took a by-road towards Belfast. Although 
 he agreed with his Job’s comforter that some danger must be in¬ 
 curred in trying to pass by or through Belfast, Evelyn had 
 
234 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 stronger apprehensions of the road further on at Carrickfergus. 
 Still he determined, using the utmost caution, to risk every thing 
 rather than stay away from his sister, during the siege that now 
 threatened the city in which she resided. He thought if he 
 could but succeed in clearing the two towns, already mentioned, 
 he might, with little prospect of interruption, then continue his 
 journey along the coast-road, on which, in the beginning of this 
 tale, we have already seen him a traveller. The better to take 
 his chance, Evelyn, on his first stage, at the early break of day, 
 divested himself of his military costume and accoutrements, re¬ 
 taining only a case of small pistols, and assuming the dress of 
 a peasant, put his trust in Heaven, and pursued his perilous 
 way. 
 
 Belfast was cleared ; Carrickfergus was left behind ; and 
 Evelyn’s spirits rose, as he found himself free, and seemingly un¬ 
 observed, on the rude mountain-road, before described, between 
 the villages of Larne and Grlenarm. He dismounted at the door 
 of a miserable cabin to seek some food. While he partook of 
 it, the woman of the hovel informed him that, early that morn¬ 
 ing, a party of Lord Antrim’s Redshanks had been scouring the 
 country in quest of the Protestant runaways from Hillsborough ; 
 that they had gone the very road he came, arranging to return; 
 and that, as he had not met them, they must have taken another 
 course, across the hills, and could not be far off. 
 
 This intelligence put an end to his towering hopes ; but he 
 was really alarmed when the poor woman, standing at the dooi, 
 interrupted her own narration by declaring that she now got 
 a glimpse of the Redshanks, returning. Evelyn was on horse¬ 
 back in a moment. Ere he dashed spurs into his good stout 
 steed, he looked back in the saddle, and plainly saw a military 
 party just mastering the brow of the last hill he had cleared on 
 the road. But as he then started very near the summit of 
 another, and in a few minutes could put it between him and 
 them, he yet held hopes of escape, by concealment. 
 
 So, on he pressed against the steep road ; his horse, though 
 jaded, not refusing to put forth its whole strength, to gain the 
 relief of the level at the top of the ascent, and the sweep down¬ 
 ward at the other side. But, ere the willing animal could so far 
 serve his temporary master, the effort became too much for him, 
 and he fell. 
 
 Evelyn jumped up uninjured ; but when he regained his 
 seat in the saddle, whip and spur failed in their usual effect. . 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 23S 
 
 Again looking back, he saw the mounted soldiers stop a moment 
 to speak with the old woman he had just quitted, and then gal¬ 
 lop towards him with increased speed. Thus pressed, Evelyn 
 altogether abandoned the horse, and, trusting to his own feet, 
 oounded up the hilly road, soon gained level ground, and lost 
 sight of his pursuers. 
 
 But he knew that, by keeping the straight way, he could con¬ 
 ceal his person and motions from them only during the time they 
 took to achieve his present vantage-ground. This made him 
 determine to trust for safety to some retreat among the rude 
 scenery at either side. He broke, therefore, at his right hand, 
 through a natural fence of wild bush, which, in line with more 
 solid boundaries, had hitherto shut out all prospect, in that direc¬ 
 tion, save the sky. Looking down, there was now a vast and sad¬ 
 den sweep of green land, immediately under him ; a tremendous 
 valley, in fact, running parallel to the road ; with successive falls 
 of rough ground beyond it, and the ocean seen over all. He 
 plunged almost headlong down ; and, his legs failing him at the 
 first bound, he rolled with great rapidity, though without ma¬ 
 terial hurt, to the bottom ; ran across to its opposite side; soon 
 mastered the summit ; and ere he proceeded further, once more 
 glanced behind him. The .height from which he had cast him¬ 
 self seemed immense. Upon it the Redshanks stood, as if won¬ 
 dering at his progress, or uncertain how they should follow him. 
 In another instant they were in motion, and Evelyn was at the 
 far side of the valley, again shut out from their notice. 
 
 On he hurried, over height after height, the ground now 
 rocky and wild, and each descent dipping lower than the former 
 one, until he gained a level, which, extending horizontally right 
 and left, gave promise of an easy approach to the sea, whose 
 waters did not, to his inexperienced eye, seem far removed from 
 nor far under it. So, mustering his last strength and speed, he 
 raced to the edge of the level, gained it, and was preparing to 
 jump over, when he started back in horror from a precipice that 
 fell, straight under him, into a dizzy depth and space of the wild¬ 
 est and most broken ground, which sweep after sweep, curve 
 after curve, still lay between him and the ocean. 
 
 Evelyn looked round almost in despair ; a cruel and, from 
 private causes, a particularly enraged foe at his back, and noth¬ 
 ing before him but the impassable or merciless precipice. His 
 nerves got into some disorder ; his self-possession wavered ; he 
 half felt the not unusual and terrible impulse to cast himself for 
 
236 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ward ; but, at the moment, a large eagle screemed over his head 
 —his eye became diverted—his attention fixed—he looked up at 
 the royal bird, and saw it with outstretched wings, descending, 
 slowly and stately, from its realm of mid-air, uninfluenced by 
 the angry gust that came from the ocean. Almost at the same 
 time, a fox started close by Evelyn, his bush trailing the ground, 
 and his neck cowering. The eagle, not regarding him, suddenly 
 shot, at Evelyn’s left, into the wild depth beneath, and became 
 invisible. The eye of our fugitive followed, by an impulse of 
 hope, the track of the less noble animal, traced him along the 
 continued edge of the precipice to his left, and saw him, as the 
 range became depressed, disappear along it. With the hardi¬ 
 hood of despair, he followed the rugged way thus pointed out. 
 In a moment the fox again met his eye, still pursuing the 
 sinking line of the precipice, and, at last, deviating from it into 
 the rocky valley. Evelyn reassumed his full speed ; in a short 
 time arrived at a place where the wall of rock had ended, and 
 where a descent from the high ground was rendered practicable, 
 though very difficult, along the steep side of a pathless, rock- 
 strewn, and crumbling hill. Without a moment’s pause, how¬ 
 ever, and, now, without venturing to look behind him, he re¬ 
 commenced his flight into the abyss, calling upon it, in his heart, 
 to give him, against the hatred of his fellow-men, the same sav¬ 
 age shelter it did not refuse to the wild animal whose flight had 
 opened it to him. 
 
 With speed necessarily checked, and with a precaution that 
 even the assurance of close pursuit could not affect, he continued 
 for a time his scrambling way obliquely downward, and at last 
 sank, completely exhausted, amid an inclosure of shivered rock, 
 and little mounds of earth and stone, one of many similar re¬ 
 treats around him. Here Evelyn lay panting for some time, he 
 could not tell how long, when his attention was re-excited by 
 the falling of loose earth and stones, over his head. Starting to 
 his feet, and looking up, he saw four men in rude military cos¬ 
 tume, half visible over the highest part of the in closure, and 
 with their carbines, covering him, rested upon it. 
 
 “ Stand ! stand 1” they cried out; and, as they spoke, an 
 officer hastily parted from them, evidently with intent to ap¬ 
 proach Evelyn by a more circuitous way. He had thus a 
 moment’s reflection. Determining not to be dragged from his 
 mountain lair, without a bloody struggle, he disengaged, with 
 as little motion as possible, a pistol from his inside belt, cocked 
 it, and put his finger on the trigger. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 237 
 
 The officer soon appeared, entering the little amphitheatre by 
 the same opening through which Evelyn had passed into it 
 Evelyn stood with his side to him, fully and desperately pre¬ 
 pared. Advancing nearer, his sword drawn— 
 
 “ I arrest you, in the name of King James!” he exclaimed ; 
 "surrender or die.” 
 
 “ No surrender !—death 1—but not alone !” replied Evelyn, 
 discharging his pistol. The moment he had pulled the trigger, 
 he recognized his old friend, Edmund M’Dounell. With a loud 
 cry, he let his pistol fall, clasped his hands together, started 
 back, and cried—“ Merciful God! what have I done !” 
 
 “ Nothiug, Mr. Evelyn,” answered M’Donuell, quite unhurt. 
 “ Soldiers !”—speaking up to them, as, at the report of the shot, 
 they again brought to bear on Evelyn the arms that their offi¬ 
 cer’s approach to the fugitive drew for a moment from their 
 mark—“ soldiers !—recover arms 1—I am not hit—it was acci¬ 
 dent. You have done nothiug, sir ; for I see you no more 
 knew me, than, in such a garb, I knew you.” 
 
 “ There you do me justice. I did not know you, by my life, 
 M’Donuell ; and you cannot, yourself, rejoice more heartily 
 than I do, that my shot has proved harmless.” 
 
 They stood a moment silently regarding each other. 
 
 “ Now,” Evelyn continued, as, with the rapidity of a spring- 
 tide, old recollections swelled up in his heart—“ now let us 
 again exchange—and with more consistency than ever—the 
 hostile greeting you gave me on the banks of the Foyle, Ed¬ 
 mund.” 
 
 M’Donnell offered his hand ; but not so sternly as before. 
 
 “ And now,” added Evelyn, presenting his second pistol— 
 “ now I am your prisoner.” 
 
 “ Not so,” answered M’Donnell, his own eyes glistening, as 
 he refused the pistol—“not so, for two reasons. You would 
 have followed up your shot, by a second, had I been a stranger. 
 Perhaps your first had told better, but for your confusion at 
 seeing me. And, had I known your person, we should not 
 have met thus, at all. I need not say that personal feelings act, 
 in the breast of an honorable man, so as to turn him aside, on 
 his public course, from injuring a private—enemy—foe—or one 
 he is not friends with—rather than impel him to use official 
 power for their gratification. We are both above the meanness 
 of seeking or even availing ourselves of a personal advantage, 
 thus obtained. Therefore, you are no prisoner of mine,” he add- 
 
238 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ed, sheathing his sword—“you cannot—could not be. There 
 has been no struggle, and therefore no victory. There is now no 
 summons, and therefore no surrender.” 
 
 “ You have argued it fairly, I believe. I thank you, M’Don¬ 
 nell,” said Evelyn, much moved. 
 
 “ If I have argued it only fairly, thank me not at all,” re¬ 
 turned M’Donnell. 
 
 “ Captain M’Donnell, wull your honor please to bring oop 
 the prisoner V ’ here demanded the sergeant of the party, a braw 
 Scot, who, rather late on the field, had just arrived with the re¬ 
 mainder of the men, excepting those left behind to take charge 
 of the horses. 
 
 “ This gentleman cannot be made our prisoner/’ answered 
 Edmund ; “ on the contrary, particular circumstances give him 
 a claim on our protection. Draw off the men, sergeant, to 
 Glenarm, and I will stay to conduct him out of this difficult 
 place.” A mutter, if not a murmur of voices, was heard 
 amongst the men above. The sergeant again spoke, request¬ 
 ing to know, with all duty, “ What for did the gentleman flee 
 awa’, then ?” adding, that many of the men thought his honor 
 might be mistaken, inasmuch as the gentleman was well known 
 to them, as Master Robert Evelyn, a traitor in arms against 
 King James ; one whom Lord Antrim particularly wished to 
 secure ; and, along with that, one who had done muckle wrong 
 and insult to the clan M’Donnell, and to his honor’s am sel, as 
 the head of that clan. 
 
 M’Donnell, in an angry tone, again desired the sergeant and 
 men to retire, on pain of disobedience of orders. He was an¬ 
 swered sturdily enough, that an older soldier than his honor, 
 might take the liberty of judging how it was that orders were 
 really disobeyed : mat the men were unwilling to return to 
 Glenarm without their prisoner, whom, Heaven knew, they had 
 risked limb and neck to secure. Finally, that it was for his 
 honor to calculate the consequences of sending him back, empty- 
 handed, to make such a report, as he should be obliged to make, 
 to their commander-in-chief, the earl of Antrim,—the conse¬ 
 quences to his honor’s self, as well as to the speaker. 
 
 A louder murmur followed this speech. 
 
 “ Do you mutiny, scoundrels ?” asked M’Donnell, in much 
 anger. 
 
 A fellow, with a red bushy head, abruptly replied that they 
 were nothing but true and loyal clansmen. Rut that they would 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 239 
 
 best prove they were such by “ having her tamned Sassenach up 
 awa’ to ta laird’s big hoose.” And a clatter of arms ensued. 
 
 “ Ground arms, this moment !” cried their young officer ; but, 
 to his surprise and alarm, the old sergeant roared out a contrary 
 order ; and while many voices applauded him, plumply told 
 M’Donnell that it was he himself who acted a disloyal part; 
 that he should be made to feel it ; and that, for the present, the 
 men should have their prisoner. 
 
 “ I am ready to go with you,” here interposed Evelyn. “ I 
 own myself your prisoner ; and wish neither to accept your 
 officer’s generosity, nor expose him to your hostility for exercis¬ 
 ing it. M’Donnell,” he continued, lowering his voice, “ this 
 must not be ; your honor, perhaps your life, is at stake ; I in¬ 
 sist on your doing your duty as King James’s officer.” 
 
 “ Absurd !” cried Edmund ; “ my duty I will do, in spite of the 
 mutinous and insulting conduct of these fellows, or even in spite 
 —though, pardon me, Evelyn, your course is well meant, is hon¬ 
 orable, and I value it accordingly. Black Coll 1” he went on, 
 addressing one of the soldiers, his foster-brother, who imme¬ 
 diately bounded down to his side. They spoke a word together, 
 in Irish. Black Coll, after a moment’s pause, clutched his 
 broadsword firmer, spit ou it, and twirled it in his hand, looking 
 at once determined to do or die for his commander. Both then 
 harangued the men, in the same lauguage, and a division of 
 forces took place, the sergeant remaining at the head of but a 
 third of the party. “ Ground arms, now, ye dogs !” again cried 
 Edmund, “ or take a dog’s death !” 
 
 The mutineers did so ; their countenances showing, however, 
 something in final reserve. 
 
 “ Off with them to Glenarm !” he continued ; and those who 
 were faithful to him, gathering up the arms of the others, all be¬ 
 gan to move up the ascent. But not before one of the victors 
 ran down to whisper Black Coll, very earnestly, who in his turn 
 whispered M’Donnell, with increased vehemence ; and when his 
 foster-brother, after a moment’s thought, only gave a “ pshaw 1” 
 in answer, he moved to rejoin his party, half in dudgeon, half in 
 evident anxiety. 
 
 The two friends stood, for some time, watching the disappear¬ 
 ance of the soldiers among the surrounding heights. At last 
 M’Donnell turned round abruptly, and— 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Evelyn,” he said, “ the sooner we get down to 
 the shore, and along it, by Glenarm, to some safe place, the 
 
240 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 better. I lead, sir, as I know this wild ground well. But yon 
 are ill, Evelyn, or weak ; you cannot stand,” he continued, as, 
 at the first effort to follow him, his old friend grew pale, and 
 tottered. “ Sit down a moment—hold—allow me to support 
 you,” and he passed his arms around Evelyn, gently placed him 
 in a sitting posture, and still held him up ;—the two young men 
 feeling, in common, strange sensations ; the one at again em 
 bracing, and the other at being again embraced by the forme, 
 friend from whom it had but just now seemed he was forevei 
 parted. 
 
 “ I see how it is,” resumed M’Donnell, as Evelyn recovered ; 
 “you have lost much blood lately. Here has been a Papist 
 pike-staff at your head. You were at the Hillsborough affair, 
 last Thursday ?” 
 
 “You guess it, indeed,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “Well, you see how it went. That was a bad beginning for 
 you ; but let us pass it. It might have been our own fortune, 
 or the fortune of brave men at any time. Do you feel better?” 
 
 “ Much better ; quite able to follow you now. It was not 
 the loss of blood alone, but some fatigue and fasting, day and 
 night, since ; with, as you know,” he added, smiling, “ a good 
 runaway and scramble among these wild hills and rocks all 
 day.” 
 
 “ And I the huntsman—I say nothing of my pack—without 
 intending it. It is a wild place, indeed ; yet it has its beauty 
 too. Come, if you can walk and climb a little still, follow me, 
 and admit as much. I am sorry I have no refreshments to offer 
 you,” as they proceeded, “ but I know a lone house, lying be¬ 
 tween us and the shore, the only one in this entire district, where 
 we may help you to something. And now, look around.” 
 
 They had emerged from the little retreat, and Evelyn found 
 himself in the midst of successive inequalities of mound and rock, 
 running at every side, while no one form resembled another, into 
 the most picturesque, fantastic, and peculiar lines and shapes. 
 Sometimes he caught a perspective of thin and shattered rock, 
 shooting up into configurations such as art might give them, rent 
 here and there, and admitting, through and through, the slanting 
 beams of the declining day, as if through so many archways, win¬ 
 dows, and loopholes of a line of ruinous palaces and fortresses. 
 Yet, in some of the spaces left between these pilings-up of rock 
 and earth, spots of the tenderest verdure, clusters of the earliest 
 spring-flowers, were to be found, looking as fresh and as dainty 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 241 
 
 as if some hand more careful than the rude one of the wilder¬ 
 ness had been about them. Upon one very level spread of 
 ground, almost entirely inclosed by bulwarks, such as have been 
 described, there was a covering of primroses, blue-bells, and 
 daisies, made out by alternate patches, rather than intermix¬ 
 tures, of each kind of wild-flower, so closely wrought, so smooth 
 and even, so brilliant, and showing so many curious figures, that 
 here again it seemed as if the solitary sport of nature had been 
 in rivalry with art, to produce a carpet after which even luxu¬ 
 rious Turkey might vainly toil in imitation. But all these things 
 were only the minor, though more fascinating features of the 
 scene in which he stood. Before him, in continued sweep and 
 curve, the land fell—nay, was hurled to the ocean, which, its 
 shore yet hidden, now expanded beyond the last shattered line 
 in the evening sun. Nearly opposite was the remote Point of 
 Garron. Behind him towered the abrupt and majestic precipice, 
 with—that nothing might be wanting in unique beauty—the 
 crescent moon just faintly peering over the white mass of rock. 
 
 “ And this,” said M’Donnell, after they had made some prog¬ 
 ress, still over hill and hollow, towards the beach, “ this is the 
 little Deer-Park of Glenarm. It is so called, I know not why, 
 since it shows few features of a park, great or small; unless the 
 name be applied in compliment to the few wild deer, that, time 
 out of mind, have been allowed to range through it, rather, in¬ 
 deed, on account of the impossibility of chasing them through it, 
 or out of it, than with any feeling of indulgence to them. It is, 
 however, a tremendous, and to me a most delightful solitude. 
 Here might a man rove or sit, and—. But we lose the evening. 
 One scramble more, and we reach your house of rest. Adieu, 
 then, to little Deer-Park, with all its delights, as fast as possible.” 
 
 The first shadows of evening fell around them as they con¬ 
 tinued their often-interrupted descent towards the shore. Both 
 relapsed into silence inspired by the scene. Often, too, forget¬ 
 ful of the lateness of the hour, they paused to survey its ever- 
 changing features, now rendered even more impressive by the 
 gloom which began to wrap their depths and recesses. Peculiar 
 and indescribable loneliness was the character of the place. The 
 wild deer started by them, to seek his healthy lair, or the king 
 of birds floated majestically towards his eyrie, or the lonely and 
 melancholy crane was seen perched, at a distance, on the pin¬ 
 nacle of some seashore rock, only to give, by contrast, a stronger 
 sense of solitude. Nor did the sounds they listened to—the 
 
 11 
 
242 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 heavy booming of the sea, the wild screams of its gulls, the bark 
 of the fox among the more remote hills, the hoot of the owl, or 
 the croak of the raven, from the precipice behind, unfitly echo 
 through such scenery. Like the light which but made darkness 
 visible, these noises only served to confirm a sense of the reign¬ 
 ing silence. 
 
 In this mood of excited feeling, a similar effect was produced 
 by the appearance of the solitary house M’Donnell had spoken of 
 Its individuality of character had no influence over the vast des¬ 
 ert of hill and water around it; nor could the assurance, that it 
 gave shelter to one or two human beings, induce any cheery ex¬ 
 pectations of human fellowship. The two young men held their 
 way to it in continued silence. The evening had crept deeper 
 over the sky ; all sharp effects of light and shade had disap¬ 
 peared from the bulwark precipice behind, and from the heaps 
 of natural ruin it overhung. Every thing looked monotonously 
 browm and undefined ; amongst the rest, the hut they were ap¬ 
 proaching, of which the thatch, alternately bleached, blackened, 
 or patched with dark green, could scarce be distinguished from 
 the similarly-tinted crags with which it grouped. Our friends 
 gained the rock-strewn platform before it: all was silent within ; 
 no lights appeared through the windows. They stood stationary 
 an instant, both experiencing feelings as agitating as they were 
 novel and unaccountable. At last M’Donnell entered the black, 
 wide-open doorway, and Evelyn followed him closely. The house 
 contained but two large apartments, divided by the passage run¬ 
 ning straight from the door, along which they stepped. Other 
 doors on either hand opened into these rooms. M’Donnell 
 stood at one, Evelyn at the other : after a moment’s survey, 
 they changed places. Nothing was to be seen in either of the 
 apartments, except large dark masses, that, in the deep shade of 
 the corners, could not be at once analyzed, and no living creature 
 appeared. They tried to exchange a glance across the passage, 
 and hastily left the house. 
 
 Abroad, they again stopped. 
 
 “ I do not understand why my sensations should be as they 
 are,” M’Donnell said ; “ but, to me, there has been something 
 heart-chilling—something I never before experienced, in finding 
 that house so unexpectedly deserted.” 
 
 “ Our sensations are common, then,” said Evelyn ; “ I did not 
 like to remain in it.” 
 
 “ But a few weeks ago it was inhabited by a man to whom 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 243 
 
 Lord Antrim had given nominal care of the wild deer of the 
 place, and by his numerous family : what can have become of 
 them all ? Let us conquer this childish nervousness, and enter 
 the house again ; perhaps some one yet is to be found in It; 
 either it? old or some new inhabitants. You noticed the dark 
 shapes in the corners ?” 
 
 “ I did—let us in,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 They recrossed the threshold, and stepped lightly along the 
 short passage. They separately entered the two rooms, and, a 
 moment after, again confronted each other in the passage, more 
 agitated than before. 
 
 “Hush!” said M’Donnell, in a whisper, “all around this 
 room,” pointing into the doorway he had issued from, “ armed 
 men are sleeping.” 
 
 “ And in this also!” said Evelyn. “ Do you know who they 
 are ?” 
 
 “ No ; how could I know !” 
 
 “ But I do—speak lower—tread softly—let us get out, and I 
 will explain.” 
 
 They accordingly left the hut a second time, and walked rap¬ 
 idly away* from it. 
 
 “ These men,” he resumed, “ are part of a Rapparee army 
 from the south, who, joined to their whole body, have lately been 
 routed from my house, after they had possessed it for some days, 
 plundered, and finally set fire to it. They now, I suppose, await 
 here a reunion with their scattered party. Extreme fatigue, as¬ 
 sisted perhaps by the desolate security of the place, has sunk 
 them in the deepest sleep. But a ray of twilight, such as it is, 
 streaming down from the broken roof, showed me the gigantic 
 limbs of a man, which, though his dark cloak envelops his face 
 and the rest of his person, can belong to no other than the great 
 Rapparee general, Galloping Hogan. While, by his side, I dis¬ 
 tinguished the features, simpering even in sleep, of our old ac¬ 
 quaintance, the Whisperer. Startled as I was at this discovery, 
 I ventured another glance around in quest of a person, who, al¬ 
 beit my near relative, I expected to find in their company ; I 
 mean my Uncle Jeremiah. But I could see no form that corre¬ 
 sponds to his. Did you happen to light on such a one in the 
 other room ?” 
 
 “ No,” replied M’Donnell ; “ but your whole account sur¬ 
 prises me. These fellows have plundered and burnt your house, 
 you say ?” 
 
244 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ They have left me, for the present, penniless. 
 
 “ Where were you when it happened—with your corps T 9 
 
 "No; nor did I take a sword in my hand, until returning to 
 the house of my birth, I found it held by these men in the name 
 of King James, and at last saw it consumed to ashes by their 
 hands.” 
 
 “ Ha! small wonder that you then acted like an outraged 
 man. But, Evelyn, one discrimination you must make. King 
 James no more authorizes the violence of these scoundrels, than 
 king—the Prince of Orange does. On the contrary, his Irish 
 justices are just now about to take a special circuit to try and 
 put them down. And no wonder ; for these roving Rapparees 
 prey on friends as well as foes, whenever it suits their conven¬ 
 ience ; attacking and plundering the suttlers and other people 
 belonging to our camps ; and even besieging and storming the 
 houses and castles of Roman Catholic gentlemen.” 
 
 "I am glad, at all events, that such men are not recognized 
 by the more legitimate spirit of your party,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ My party, sir,” replied young M’Donnell, resentful of the 
 tone in which these words had been spoken, “ are, doubtless, 
 thankful to you for your good opinion. But, now we at last 
 gain the shore, it behooves us to make as much speed as we can 
 out of this place ; there are reasons why we should be speedy, 
 and prudent, too. Do you feel strong enough for a last scram¬ 
 ble, over rock and stone, by the seaside ?” 
 
 Evelyn answering in the affirmative, they moved on, in resumed 
 silence. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Nearly on a level with the sea, our friends continued their 
 course along a natural causeway of soft white stones, made with 
 much uniformity by the tide, which, from time to time, cast up 
 the material in its flow, and confirmed it in a certain shape at 
 its ebb. After a quarter of an hour’s walk, this footing failed, 
 and they found the remainder of the beach, as far as they pro¬ 
 ceeded, heaped with round, black rocks, great and small, from 
 one to another of which they were obliged to step, or else clam¬ 
 ber over or round the bases of some, that, from their bulk, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 245 
 
 proved otherwise impassable. Here and there, among an un¬ 
 usual confusion of these mountain fragments, they encountered a 
 rock of gigantic magnitude, leaning angle-ways against a sec¬ 
 ond, that similarly inclined to it, both thus forming a rude arch¬ 
 way, through which it seemed foolhardy to pass, but which 
 afforded, nevertheless, the only outlet for pursuing their way. 
 
 All this time, the evening grew darker and darker, yet not 
 unusually so. Though threatening towards the decline of day, 
 the sunset had been almost cloudless ; and the stars now began 
 to peep out through a clear, cold sky. But the breeze came from 
 the ocean fresher than was pleasant; assisting with its impetus, 
 as M’Donnell soon perceived, a rapid and furious tide. 
 
 “We must hasten,” he said, after glancing sharply along the 
 savage beach, “ or this tide may prove more troublesome to us 
 than Rapparee or Red-shank.’’ 
 
 They accordingly quickened their steps, over stone and rock, 
 till they arrived at the edge of a little inlet, in which the tide 
 was breaking, tumbling, and roaring with a heavy surf. 
 
 “ Fairly baffled, by St. Senanus!” cried M’Donnell, in tones 
 of dismay. 
 
 “ And what are we to do ?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “ Nothing for it but to climb up as fast as we can. You see 
 it is impossible to pass yon pile of rocks that meets the hill-side 
 more inland ; and in ten minutes the stones we stand on will be 
 many feet under water. Follow me ; though, in truth, I know 
 not how or where to lead, having never entered or left this un¬ 
 lucky place except by the beach at low tide, or by the hill-path, 
 in the direction we have come from, and by which, as I judge, 
 you gained the spot where I first found you. Yet, courage 1 I 
 have heard of an old track from the brow of the precipice, at 
 the village side, winding all through the successive sweeps be¬ 
 tween us and it. If we can find that, it will serve. At all 
 events, we must now change our place.” 
 
 So saying, he led the way, and Evelyn followed, up the side 
 of a steep hill, that took its rise about thirty yards from the 
 beach ; both hastening away from a great swell of tide, which, 
 before they moved, had broken over their feet. Evelyn, quite 
 unused to such exercise, found the ascent he was engaged in 
 very severe, to say nothing of its peril. The hill produced but 
 a meagre vegetation, and was composed, on the surface at 
 least, of coarse, loose earth and unbedded stones, which gave 
 little assurance either to hand or foot. The wavy kind of fur- 
 
246 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 rows into which it had—Heaven knows how—become broken, 
 afforded, as he crept upward in an oblique direction, the best 
 help. But even this surface sometimes disappeared, and was 
 succeeded by a vein of bare, mouldering ground—at the least safe 
 places too—across which Evelyn felt both difficulty and alarm 
 in endeavoring to pick his steps. M’Donnell pressed on, how¬ 
 ever, with little seeming toil or apprehension, some distance be¬ 
 fore his companion. One way or another, the effort was perse¬ 
 vered in by Evelyn ; until, after more than a quarter of an 
 hour’s uninterrupted climbing, he was at last obliged to cry out 
 for a rest; and, clinging to the soil with one hand, sank, com¬ 
 pletely exhausted, in a sitting posture. Thus situated, his face 
 was, for the first time since their ascent, turned downward to the 
 beach. When he measured, with one hasty glance, the great 
 height he now found himself elevated from it, and, with another, 
 spanned the continued towering of steeper hills above him—the 
 barrier precipice frowning over all; when he felt his position so 
 insecure, that the slipping of almost a handful of clay might 
 have been enough to whelm him among the rocks, or into the 
 boiling ocean below ; and while his strength seemed altogether 
 unable to dare the incalculable strain yet necessary to free him, 
 if he could be freed, from present danger—the blood chilled at 
 his heart, and he felt such a shuddering for life as, perhaps, none 
 can imagine, save those who, like him, have, for the first time, 
 stood in a similar situation. 
 
 But after a good rest, and many assurances from M’Donnell 
 that he thought they should soon come to the right path, Eve¬ 
 lyn found his novel misgivings gradually give way, and his 
 strength return. Again he followed his guide over ground some¬ 
 what less difficult, wondering at the weakness of his recent ap¬ 
 prehensions. Evening now began to yield to positive night. The 
 hill-side grew indistinct, and increased caution in placing their 
 steps became necessary. As they advanced (Evelyn knew not 
 whither, for he ventured no further looks up or down), this ne¬ 
 cessity increased. Once again the soil proved smooth and 
 loose, and the hill, the second in elevation they had climbed, al¬ 
 most perpendicular. But up they still pulled ; Evelyn ashamed 
 to request another pause, and, indeed, from the nature of the 
 ground, afraid also. Still up, without any promise of an end to 
 their toil; and, after all his resolves and efforts to the contrary, 
 Evelyn again sank upon a ledge of rock, almost reckless 
 whether or no it remained firm under him. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 247 
 
 “ I fear I shall not be able to proceed further, to-night, 
 M’Donnell,” he said, as his friend, retracing the way he had 
 been in advance, came to join him. 
 
 “Good heart! good heart!” answered M’Donnell, cheerily; 
 “ only try once more, and all will be over. I have found the 
 path. At about twenty yards on, it winds zigzag over the bosom 
 of yon other dip of hill, which we have nearly gained. And 
 see, a little on still, and a little upwards, where the precipice, 
 gradually encroached on by that hill, at length meets its top— 
 there is our firm and level ground.” 
 
 This little further-on-and-upward proved, to Evelyn’s view, 
 immeasurably high and distant. He did not, however, refuse, 
 after a short breathiug-time, the last effort he was called on to 
 make ; and once more young M’Donnell led the way. 
 
 “ Here it is I” he resumed, after another long and strong pull; 
 “ we are now on the path. And see—yon’s an inclosure of some 
 kind—a park wall, I think—so, we must be nearer to release 
 and relief than we had reckoned. It is a wall—come on !” 
 
 But the young mountaineer, experienced as he generally 
 was in such kind of scenery, now proved altogether at fault. 
 He ascended no regular, or even irregular path, formed by man’s 
 foot, but a wild sheep-track, worn by flocks of those animals, 
 just as wild as it, and, in their wanderings amongst the hills, 
 nearly as adventurous and nimble as goats. Neither did he see 
 a park wall, nor any other wall raised by man’s hands ; but a 
 natural wall of rock, which often shoots from the summits to the 
 bases of a range of basalt hills, completely intersecting them ; 
 and in many cases having a ditch or a dyke at one or both sides, 
 accompanying it through its whole course, and therefore partly 
 conferring its present name of whyndyke. He is not charged, 
 indeed, with being ignorant of that present name, as applied to 
 the object he then looked upon, inasmuch as its invention and 
 use are of a very recent date. But had not his eye been cheated 
 of its usual power of determining proportions, as well by the 
 tremendous scale of the only common objects around, as by the 
 darkness, and, perhaps, his own impatience, it should have in¬ 
 formed him that what he took for a low park wall, of about 
 five feet high, was, in fact, fifteen feet high, at the point in which 
 he saw it. 
 
 Full of his own idea, however, young M’Donnell scrambled 
 on ; the increasing steepness and looseness of the hill over which 
 he stepped scarce baffling his foot or checking his ardor. 
 
248 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 1 Here it is, indeed!” lie again said, now within a few yards 
 of tne dyke. “ A good step across, and a catch at the top of 
 the wall, is all we want—over, then !” 
 
 He half-bounded, half-stepped across, and, as he had purposed, 
 vainly strove to catch at the top of the natural barrier. His 
 hand, not reaching half-way, grasped a slight projection of stone, 
 just as his legs, overstrained, and in an untenable position, rest¬ 
 ed, one on the far and slippery edge of the dyke, the other on 
 the more solid, though still dangerous ground he had just aban¬ 
 doned. Thus situated Evelyn found him, as, in much alarm, he 
 gained his side. He was more alarmed when, even in the im¬ 
 perfect light, he saw M’Donnell’s jaw drop, and his face grow 
 ashy pale. Nor did the words he uttered, when Evelyn offered 
 his hand, serve to alleviate apprehension. 
 
 “ Touch me not!” he cried, or rather screamed—“ touch me 
 not, if you would not share my fate ! I am lost forever! 
 The earth crumbles from under my feet—the stone slips from 
 my hand—and beneath me is au uninterrupted yawn of hun¬ 
 dreds of feet, to the beach! Stand back, Evelyn—look not 
 even down—it will overpower you. But, farewell !—and Eva, 
 my sister !” 
 
 “ Your hand ! your hand !” interrupted Evelyn! “ this ob¬ 
 stinacy is madness—come, I have it now. Keep yourself col¬ 
 lected. Do not pull me, nor spring round. This near foot is 
 firm enough—rest on it, and plant the other here, too, while I 
 bear against your weight. I am pretty safe ; a furze-root gives 
 me a grasp on the hill. Now—slowly !” 
 
 “ I shall but drag you with me 1” cried Edmund, as he strove 
 to follow these orders, given by a man who rose in constancy of 
 spirit with real occasion. “We shall but perish together 1” 
 
 “ Fear not ; or if so, let it be so !” cried Evelyn. “ Turn— 
 turn—now—your foot on yonder little rise. Bravo, M’Donnell, 
 you are safe !” 
 
 They embraced each other, both sinking on the most secure 
 spot the hill-side afforded. 
 
 “ And now, Evelyn,” said M’Donnell, after he had somewhat 
 regained his breath and self-possession, “ you, I fear, must take 
 the lead in this adventure.” 
 
 “ If you allow me to prescribe our movements,” answered 
 his companion, “ I would advise, then, after retracing our 
 steps along this last wild track, to gain some secure, level 
 ground, where we may rest for the night, and await the cheer- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 249 
 
 fill aid of day in freeing ourselves from this fastness of hill and 
 crag.” 
 
 “ Lead on, at all events, to such a resting-place ; here is no 
 sure footing. We shall then talk more on the subject. But first, 
 Evelyn—dear Evelyn 1” he added, with all the old cordiality of 
 manner, “ accept my thanks for the part you have just acted. 
 I know your nature now for the first time—thanks ! thanks!” 
 
 “ I will not have thanks from you, dear M’Donnell,” said 
 Evelyn. 
 
 “ A renewal of friendship, then, soldier-foes as we are. Will 
 that serve ?”—taking his hand. 
 
 “ That will serve,” answered his reinstated friend, his voice 
 broken, as they exchanged a warm pressure. 
 
 Downward they immediately moved, Evelyn leading the way, 
 along the sheep-track they had last followed, and which had so 
 nearly led them to their ruin. Arrived at the point where they 
 first struck into it, Evelyn looked attentively around him ; and 
 pointing to a wide gully, or watercourse, between two hills, very 
 precipitous, and running up so high as to be almost lost in the 
 darkness, challenged M’Donnell to scale it. 
 
 “ Wherever may be its origin above,” he said, “there, ai all 
 events, must we find the level ground which concentrates the 
 waters that, during heavy rains, have formed it. The struggle 
 upward will prove less toilsome, and, though the gully is abrupt, 
 less daugerous than any we have yet made, on account of the sharp 
 projecting rocks and stones that line its sides. Shall we venture ?” 
 
 “ Yes ! yes ! But, as I know more of these places than you 
 do, with this precaution. Let neither of us look downward, dur¬ 
 ing our progress, nor, if possible, speak a word to each other. 
 There will be little breath to spare ; neither let us pause a 
 moment. Lead on ; attend to yourself, and never mind me To 
 prepare, I doff my military coat.” 
 
 Evelyn began to ascend. As he anticipated, the jutting rocks 
 and stones at first greatly assisted his efforts. But when much 
 time had elapsed, and much way been made, and still, as he 
 looked up, no termination appeared to the gully, this momentary 
 sense of relief was lost in a return of misgiving, impatience, and 
 the greatest weakness he had yet felt. Upward he pulled, how¬ 
 ever—up ! up!—perspiration teeming from every pore ; and his 
 head getting dizzy, as, at every step, the broken lines of the sav¬ 
 age hills, around and above him, blurred and ran into each 
 other. The bed of the watercourse soon proved less firm, too, 
 
 11 * 
 
250 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 than at the outset he had found it; large stones slipped from 
 under his feet, and rattled and thundered downward. This neces¬ 
 sarily increased his agitation, both on his own account and that 
 of M’Donnell. At every fragment which leaped away, his own 
 or his friend’s death seemed an inevitable result. Often he 
 wished to stop, turn, ana look behind, to assure himself of that 
 friend’s situation. But he dared not. Towards the edge of the 
 heights over him, his trained eye alone turned, but there found 
 no relief. The ever-varying forms of the dark hills, backed by 
 the sky, perplexed and almost confounded him. 
 
 More than once he thought some living shapes started to the 
 outline of a height to his left, and then seemed to mingle with 
 the darkness : at last he felt really assured that a human being 
 stood against the dim blue sky, in the same direction. He 
 looked again, scarce pausing in his ascent. Instead of such a 
 figure, there appeared a four-footed form, as if engaged in watch¬ 
 ing his motions. It stirred here and there, still inclining its 
 head ; and Evelyn, taken by surprise, allowed himself to yield to 
 horrid associations, which froze his blood, and made his hair to 
 bristle, while the thing seemed to swell to a huge size, and as¬ 
 sume monstrous particularities of appearance. At this instant, 
 another piece of rock plunged downward ; and presently he 
 heard a scream ; while, at the same instant, the wild sheep that 
 had so much worried his spirits ran off, and were succeeded by a 
 flock of others, who all peeped down 10 reconnoitre the strange 
 visitant of their solitude, and then scampered after their leader,— 
 their identity at last evident to the clamberer, whose presence of 
 mind somewhat rallied, in consequence, although the cry he had 
 heard curdled the blood at his heart. It was, he concluded, the 
 last breath of Edmund M’Donnell. 
 
 But self-preservation did not allow him to dwell on the sicken¬ 
 ing thought. The termination of the gully at last appearing, 
 the same powerful stimulus lent him a final effort, and he soon 
 stood, quite free of it, on a little space of level land. Hopelessly 
 did his eye then dart down the abyss he had cleared—no living 
 thing appeared in motion after him. He cast himself on the 
 damp soil in agony and despair. He rushed again to the edge 
 of the watercourse, and now something white stirred, a good dis¬ 
 tance beneath. He riveted his glance, and became assured he 
 saw a moving object, coming towards him. It grew larger and 
 more distinct; and presently, M’Donnell’s voice was heard, 
 shouting, “ Evelyn I Evelyn 1” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 251 
 
 “ Here ! here I safe, and awaiting you !” he shouted, ia 
 reply. 
 
 “ Thank God 1” returned M’Donnell. 
 
 In about five minutes, Edmund gained the edge of the level 
 space, in his white undress, and dreadfully exhausted. Evelyn 
 grasped his arm, and pulled him to his side. 
 
 “Why did you cry out ?” gasped Edmund. 
 
 “ It was not I,” replied his friend, “ but, Edmund, I fea'^ed 
 it was you.” 
 
 “ I did not utter a sound till I approached you. What voice 
 could it be ?” 
 
 “ I know not ; its tone was very horrible.” 
 
 “ It was terrific. From all evil things of this wild, good 
 Heaven deliver us 1” said Edmund, piously crossing himself. 
 
 “ Amen!” answered his companion, his heart not free from 
 superstitious weakness. 
 
 There was a mocking laugh at some distance. 
 
 “ Amen !” echoed a voice. 
 
 The young men stared at each other, in dismay and silence, 
 which was at length broken by Evelyn. 
 
 “ Come,” he whispered, “ let us lie down on this platform, 
 and, trusting ourselves to God, attend the rising of a more 
 friendly morrow.” 
 
 “ It is impossible, Evelyn,” answered M’Donnell, in the same 
 tone ; “we dare spend no more time here than will serve to 
 recruit our strength ; and, though I did not intend it, I must 
 now tell you why. Draw nearer,” he continued, lowering his 
 voice still more. “ You saw Black Coll hold some secret com¬ 
 munication with me, as he retired with my party to-day ? It 
 was to warn me that he overheard the sergeant and his friends 
 pledge each other to obtain a sufficient number of men at Glenarm 
 to intercept us both on our way, or pursue us, as the case might be. 
 I make little doubt, but the moment he reached Antrim Castle be 
 was freed from the custody of my few faithful fellows. Nor—so 
 deadly is the present spirit of political hatred on both sides— 
 can I hesitate to believe, that he further obtained the help he 
 spoke of, and has since been looking out for us. This moment, 
 perhaps, we are watched by his spies. At least, I am inclined, 
 on reflection, to attribute to one of them the cry and sounds we 
 have just heard. Now, the case is this. Should we wait until 
 morning to pass by Glenarm, there is no chance for us ; in the 
 darkness of this night, our retreat to Glenarriff is possible, and 
 
252 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 barely possible. Yet, perhaps, our wandering adventure hew 
 has been all for the better ; perhaps our non-appearance, further 
 on our route, at the time we might naturally have been expected, 
 has, until morning, thrown them off their guard. At all events, 
 should we, before daybreak, succeed in getting among my own 
 immediate people, I shall not then value even the hostility of my 
 titled cousin himself. And there is more to urge you. Black 
 Coll will not fail to report, at the Strip of Bnrne, our situation 
 and peril, when he parted from us ; help and friends will be on 
 the road between Glenarm and the caves of Cushindoll ; further, 
 towards proud Antrim’s castle they cannot advance. Perhaps, 
 indeed, one or two friends have already been dispatched in 
 search of us, and now wander, like ourselves, among these very 
 mountains—friends that might advise us of the best course to be 
 taken, but friends that we cannot see.” 
 
 “Friends that you cannot see !” echoed the invisible listener. 
 
 “ I think I know the voice,” said M’Donnell, starting. “ Come 
 forward, Onagh.” 
 
 “ Onagh it is,” the poor girl answered, appearing from a high 
 embankment ; “ and reason you have to know her voice.” 
 
 “ Was it you that screamed out, just now, Onagh ?” Edmund 
 continued. 
 
 “ And why shouldn’t I,” she answered, “ when I saw the both 
 o’ you so far below in the darkness, creeping about like the ship 
 at a distance, when the evening is black and stormy, and I stand 
 at my dour to sign the cross on the waves and wind for it ?” 
 
 “ But, Onagh, why are you so far away from your own house, 
 to-night ?” 
 
 “ For your sake, Edmund M’Donnell,” she answered ; “ an’ 
 at the biddin’ o’ your own people. I am sent to clear your road 
 o’ some that are waitin’ to give you no welcome on it ; an’ I’m 
 to walk before you, as others once walked before me, to the 
 threshold o’ my house, by the bay-side.” 
 
 “ Who sent you ?” asked M’Donnell, apprehending something 
 either from the sincerity or consistency of Onagh. 
 
 “ One that wore that ring when she spoke to me,” Onagh re¬ 
 plied, giving one ; “ and that wore another, too,” glancing at 
 Evelyn, “ that is newly come on her finger. Have no fears o’ 
 me, Edmund M’Donnell. The turn I am here to do you, I never 
 would refuse to do. Though there is a different cause that I 
 would cross you in, if it were by opening an early grave at your 
 feet. But now, fear nothing.” M’Donnell, inattentive to the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 253 
 
 latter part of her speech, only looked on the ring, which he knew 
 to be his sister’s. As he held silence a moment, Evelyn asked 
 in a low tone of Onagh : 
 
 “ She yet wears my ring 1” 
 
 “ She does ; and will never part it, Sassenach.” 
 
 “ And does she yet love him who put it on her finger?” 
 
 As well as he loves her.” 
 
 “Has she told you as much ?” 
 
 “ She told me nothing ; no one ever speaks their heart to 
 Onagh. Still, she loves you.” 
 
 “I am determined to be guided by this poor woman,” here in¬ 
 terposed M’Donnell ; “ she gives me a true token, Evelyn. It must 
 also be evident to you that we can soon wholly escape from this 
 place, by following her over the path she has so far descended.” 
 
 Evelyn agreed to give up his project of spending the remainder 
 of the night among the hills. The young men and their guide 
 moved onward ; and after half an hour’s further toiling, the 
 friends were led by Onagh to the superior height, from which 
 the precipice took its range, and, over it, into an open level 
 country, by the very path Edmund had spoken of, and which he 
 had so long sought for in vain. 
 
 During a last rest, here, Onagh produced some refreshments, 
 which, though coarse, were well relished by the adventurers, and 
 lent them a little fresh strength to pursue their still dangerous 
 way. Turning to the right, every step now led downward, by 
 easy descents, to the village of Glenarm ; and they were on the 
 alert to see if their path remained clear. They gained, however, 
 the brow of the last descent to the bay without any inteurup- 
 tion, and were about to venture forward, when Onagh inter¬ 
 rupted them. 
 
 “ Let me first go down,” she said, “ and make ye sure, and 
 not sorry. I will run close by the bay, not passing near the 
 houses, the same road you must follow me. If I come back a 
 step, all is safe ; if I stay away, remain ye where ye are.” 
 
 She hurried from them ; and they soon recognized her figure, 
 rapidly moving by the edge of the sea, far below. She pro¬ 
 ceeded a good way along the strand, till she met the road 
 that, winding with the bay, turned off towards Glenarriff, 
 there they could indistinctly observe her pause, and, standing 
 on a high point, look around her. At last she waved her arms 
 in the direction they were, and got into motion, returning to¬ 
 wards them. The friends instantly ran to meet her ; and eo 
 
254 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 countering Onagh on the wet strand, about the middle of the 
 little bay, all were soon safe on the Glenarriff road. 
 
 But as the friends began to congratulate each other, a Red¬ 
 shank, armed with a carbine, started from behind a beetling 
 rock, stood before them on the road, and gave his challenge. 
 
 “ Friends to King James l” answered M’Donnell. “ Good¬ 
 night, and speed you l” 
 
 “ Stand !” continued the soldier, presenting his piece. M’Don- 
 nell rushed on him ; they closed ; the man’s piece went off harm¬ 
 lessly ; Edmund wrested it from him, clubbed it, and dealt him 
 a blow that stretched him at his feet. Other shots were pres¬ 
 ently heard towards the village, and a gun was fired from the 
 castle. 
 
 “ Now,” said Onagh, “ nothing but the speed o’ the red deer 
 can save ye and she instantly set a good example of flight. 
 
 “ The poor woman speaks true,” exclaimed Edmund ; “ man 
 and horse will be on our track in an instant. Hark I do you 
 not already hear a rush by the rough road near the strand ? But 
 I am not hopeless yet; there lies the last sentinel between me 
 and home ; the next man we meet will be a friend—at least I 
 thiuk and pray so. Let us decide it.” 
 
 Both followed Onagh, at the utmost stretch of their limbs and 
 muscles. They were near the summit of the first inequality on 
 their road ; they soon gained it ; and with redoubled velocity, 
 shot down its opposite descent. 
 
 “ I think you were mistaken,” said Evelyn, when they faced 
 another disheartening hill ; “ no sounds of pursuit come through 
 the night.” 
 
 “ It may be so ; but on 1” answered Edmund. 
 
 As, spent and staggering, they approached the second high 
 point of the way, the figure of a man was seen standing motion¬ 
 less upon it. 
 
 “ Look !” cried Evelyn. 
 
 “ Friend or foe, let us front him!” said Edmund. “ Hush I 
 hark 1 I am not mistaken now : here come the horsemen !” 
 
 Beyond what nature could afford they had already exerted 
 themselves. Now, in a final and desperate effort, the young 
 men often fell on the rocky road, as they approached the stran¬ 
 ger. Onagh continued to lead the way, frightening rather 
 than cheering them, by her wild cries of alternate encourage¬ 
 ment and despair. At last, as a party of horse clattered down 
 the first hill, they had gained the second. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 255 
 
 “ Who goes there ?” cried the man they had seen at a dis¬ 
 tance. 
 
 “Carolan’s voice I” answered M’Donnell. “Is it you, dear 
 Carolan ?” 
 
 “ Speak no words,” he resumed, his ear turned towards the 
 coming sounds of alarm ; “ your pursuers are too near. I am 
 left here to watch for you, by one who, when the shots were fired, 
 galloped back to bring on your own men, in time, or else get the 
 cot ready in the first turn of Red Bay. Upon your horses !” 
 he continued, pointing to a shadowed part of the road, where, to 
 their great joy, three strong saddle-horses stood—“up, and do 
 your best!” 
 
 “ Up, you, with us, Carolan !” cried Edmund, as he and his 
 companion, scarce commanding strength enough for the exertion, 
 made many efforts to gain their saddles—“ here is a third horse/’ 
 
 “ Heed me not,” returned the blind man ; “ it is better for me 
 to stay here, and speak the Redshanks fair. Soon may we meet 
 again—spur, spur ! I hear the horses under me.” 
 
 “ God bless you, then!” cried the friends, dashing off. 
 
 “ One left for me I” exclaimed Onagh, springing sideways on 
 the saddle of the third horse, and galloping after them. 
 
 Soon after they had got into a third hollow, shots were heard 
 behind. 
 
 “ He is killed,” cried Edmund ; “ let us ride back and revenge 
 him.” 
 
 “ Agreed,” said Evelyn, “ or share his fate.” 
 
 “ This way! this way ! are you mad !” cried a shrill voice be¬ 
 fore them. They looked up the again climbing road, and dis¬ 
 cerned, at a short distance, a female figure, on horseback, in rapid 
 motion towards them. 
 
 “ Mind her voice!” exclaimed Onagh ; “ they will not dare to 
 hurt a hair of the harper’s head.” 
 
 “ It must be Eva!” said M’Donnell; “ and Onagh is, per¬ 
 haps, right. We must at least protect my sister.” 
 
 “ My wife 1” echoed Evelyn ; and they strained against the 
 hill. 
 
 “ Spur ! spur !” continued Eva, as they approached ; “ the 
 madmen are almost on you ! Hear that 1” she continued, as 
 some shots came from the top of the second height, and the bul¬ 
 lets whizzed passed them, or struck against the rocks that 
 crowded the mountain-road. 
 
 “Thank God !” she went on, as they joined her. “ One rush 
 
256 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 now down the point, and the cot waits us at the first level of 
 the bay ; and you will see a crowd of friends on the opposite 
 shore—ride!” 
 
 All dashed, like its own winter-torrent, down the last fright¬ 
 ful descent, which has, twice before, been the ground of our 
 story. With iron-clenched knuckles and joints, the reins were 
 held tight, and the brave horses scarce stumbled till they had 
 won the side of the water. Eva flung herself off her jennet; 
 the young men and Onagh followed her example ; then all ran 
 to the bay’s edge, and jumped into a long, narrow boat, manned 
 with four oars, which there awaited them. The moment they 
 were within it, the men pulled from the shore. 
 
 “Row! row!” cried Eva—“ row till your veins burst, rather 
 than that the blood of the M’Donnells shall be shed by a brother 
 clan 1” 
 
 The little boat shot like a seabird across Red Bay, scaring the 
 faint starlight that slept upon its bosom. Scarce had it cleared 
 the shore two ropes’ length, when a clatter of horses was heard 
 down the Point of Garron ; and, in an instant, the pursuing 
 party stood on the spot where the fugitives had embarked. But 
 a short time only they stood, to observe the progress of our 
 friends, and to give them another volley, when they again dashed 
 spurs into their steeds, in an effort to gain, by a sweep round 
 the square of Red Bay, the point to which the others rowed in 
 a straight line. 
 
 “They may get round before us yet!” said Edmund. “ I see 
 not the friends you promised, Eva.” 
 
 “ They cannot—must not! Look along the coast to the 
 right—see you not a close body of men darkening over the 
 strand ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; but they are too far, and move but slowly to meet us. 
 Pull, men! pull !” 
 
 “ Pull! pull!” echoed Onagh, “ for see how the horsemen 
 turn, like a blast, round the bay, and hear how they gallop, 
 gallop ! Pull! or may the next wave swallow ye !” 
 
 Pull they did, as if, indeed, to shun her malediction. And on 
 came the horsemen, as if they coursed on the “ sightless couriers 
 of the air.” Already had they nearly gained the second angle 
 of Red Bay ; but the boat was near to shore, and the men, to 
 whom Edmund continued shouting, near the point of safety. An 
 other minute, and the pursuers turned the side on which the boat 
 was to land, but which, at the same instant, shot into a little 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 257 
 
 placid creek, fully covered by the timely succor of a host of 
 friends. The pursuers, becoming aware of this, reined up their 
 horses at but a short distance, and then, baffled and enraged, 
 rode back slowly by the bay 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “No pause, still I” cried Eva, soon after they had gained the 
 land ; “ you are too important a prey to escape so easily ; your 
 route will be at once ascertained. I reckon that you, Evelyn, 
 are bound to protect your sister, in the besieged northern city. 
 A stronger party will be sent to intercept you on some point of 
 the coast-road, more northward.” 
 
 “ This I believe,” said Edmund. “ And we cannot even take 
 from your side, sister, in these convulsed times, any portion of 
 these faithful friends—some,” he continued, addressing Evelyn, 
 “ who, after the repulse at Derry, left Lord Antrim’s regiment, 
 and, joined to others who had never quitted Glenarriff, formed a 
 body for the immediate protection of our house.” 
 
 “You cannot, you mean, take them from our father’s side, 
 Edmund,” she resumed ; “ for, think you, I shall see you ride 
 on, in danger, and remain inactive—and oh, how miserable!—at 
 home ? No ; your companion I will be till you are out of im¬ 
 mediate peril. Heaven knows how you can yet be safely dis¬ 
 posed of, till the savage anger of the old earl and his people is 
 appeased and reasoned down. But I think that you should push 
 on sufficiently near to the English lines to remain out of reach 
 of your own friends—your foes, alas ! for the time.” 
 
 “ What a wretch I am,” said Evelyn, “ to have caused this 
 trouble and danger to you, Edmund!” 
 
 “No,” cried Eva, “you caused it not. Or—be that as it 
 may, my brother only did what, if he had left undone, must have 
 made him forever unworthy of the blood and name he bears. 
 But let us think solely of our present situation.” 
 
 “ A few of our people,” said Edmund, “ should be quickly 
 dispatched along the road we have to travel, and take post 
 about the passes of Knocklaide, outside Ballycastle, as that is 
 the point where, in all probability, Lord Antrim’s soldiers, 
 
25S 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 rapidly approaching by another route, will try to intercept 
 us. 
 
 This proceeding was, after some discussion, decided upon. 
 Two men accordingly moved in the direction spoken of. 
 
 “ And now to the Strip of Burne,” resumed Eva ; ** yet only 
 for an hour’s rest and refreshment. It is long past midnight, 
 and the early dawn should see us sweeping by the Fair-Head, 
 towards Knocklaide.” 
 
 All turned to the right, to gain the Strip of Burne. As 
 they proceeded, Edmund and Evelyn pronounced in a breath, 
 and with great alarm, the name of Carolan. 
 
 “ Fear not for him,” said Eva ; “ he has since been in the 
 south, and is now intrusted with such credentials to Lord 
 Antrim as must insure him not only a safe guidance, but a cor¬ 
 dial welcome. None, amongst our enemies, suspect the wander¬ 
 ings of the poor harper ; yet was not his late visit to the black 
 north entirely on account of his private griefs, nor has he now 
 returned to it without a purpose. So much I learned from him, 
 this morning, when he crossed our threshold to make a passing 
 visit. And—to speak of other matters—never, Edmund, shall 
 I forget the zeal and promptness of his feelings and exertions on 
 your and Evelyn’s account, when, as we sat conversing together, 
 Black Coll came running from the little Deer Park, to tell us of 
 your danger. He comforted me, he counselled me, and he acted 
 for me. He would not quit my side. And when, at last, the 
 shots sent me back to make one desperate contrivance for your 
 safety, poor Carolan assumed the post of service and of danger, 
 on the road, where you found him.” 
 
 Accompanied, or rather kept in view by the body of men, 
 they soon gained the Strip of Burne. Once more Evelyn was 
 kindly received by Eva’s father ; once more he sat in friendship 
 at her father’s hearth ; once more he sat in friendship by her 
 own side. But he could not avoid noticing in the manner of all, 
 a something that had no share in their former intercourse. Only 
 a few hours ago, Edmund and he had warmly agreed to admit 
 their old understanding ; yet Edmund, though kind indeed, was 
 not the Edmund he formerly knew. His permitted kiss was yet 
 warm on the lips of Eva, and she seemed to have forgot¬ 
 ten her late hostility ; yet she was not the Eva who had once 
 confessed that her soul, life, and happiness were in his keeping. 
 He fancied that the whole show of warmth he met, and all the 
 zeal and devotedness evinced in his behalf, sprang from a spirit 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 259 
 
 of pride, not of returning confidence and affection—from a 
 haughty sense of honorable duty, rather than from a sincere 
 wish to renew the vows that had so often been mutually inter¬ 
 changed. 
 
 This view of his situation kept Evelyn restless and dispirited 
 during his short halt in old M’Donnell’s house. And such feel¬ 
 ings were increased in consequence of the part acted by the 
 dumb man, Con M’Donnell, who, at Evelyn’s entrance, had 
 shown him but a cool welcome, and who afterwards refused to 
 sit down to eat or drink with the party ; taking his stand on the 
 threshold of the door, and looking wistfully abroad ; or else 
 flinging himself on a remote seat, either very seriously or sullen¬ 
 ly, and again starting from it to the open doorway. 
 
 At last, the man’s proceedings became still more strange, if 
 not still more alarming. Getting some sudden whim into his 
 head, he ran suddenly from the door towards Evelyn, took his 
 hat from the table, abruptly presented it to him, and motioned 
 that he should depart. Old M’Donnell checked him by signs, 
 as Evelyn calmly placed his hat on the table. But Con seemed 
 little put out of countenance ; again he stood at the door ; 
 again he rushed in, and again urged Evelyn’s speedy departure. 
 
 “ He fears—I should almost say, foretells—some coming dan¬ 
 ger,” said Edmund. “ For, afflicted as our poor uncle is—cut 
 off from all the ordinary communication with probable occur¬ 
 rences, one can scarce attribute to any thing but a spirit of 
 prophecy, the frequent consciousness he has evinced of approach¬ 
 ing events. I will give you a remarkable instance of what I 
 mean. 
 
 44 One dark, stormy night, in November, when all had retired 
 to rest, he was observed to get hastily out of bed, run to the 
 cow-shed, drive out the cattle into an adjacent field, and then 
 return to his sleeping-chamber. The servants, who watched his 
 motions, not wishing to leave the poor animals exposed to the 
 rigor of an inclement night, drove them back again to their 
 shelter, as soon as they thought he was asleep. But to their 
 increased surprise, they had scarcely retired, after doing so, when 
 my uncle again visited the place, again compelled the cattle to 
 leave it, and again went to bed. A second time the servants 
 counteracted his measures ; a third time he renewed them. 
 The people, at last getting weary, allowed him to indulge his 
 humor. Towards morning, all were aroused by a great noise ; 
 and, on examination, it appeared that the cow-house had fallen 
 
260 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 in, oppressed by the weight of a large hayrick that was piled oa 
 its roof, and which, had it fallen on the cattle, must certainly 
 have crushed them to death.” 
 
 The anecdote was not well finished, when the subject of it 
 repeated his urgency to Evelyn. 
 
 “ Whatever may be his meaning,” said Eva, “ it is time we 
 were on the road and she rose to prepare for her journey. 
 Edmund and Evelyn also rose. When their uncle saw them ob¬ 
 viously getting ready, the pleasure he had shown at a prospect 
 of Evelyn’s parting yielded to the wildest surprise, terror, and 
 finally indignation, as soon as he understood who were to be 
 his companions. He uttered one of his unnatural cries ; plucked 
 out of the hands of his nephew and niece the whips, hats, gloves, 
 and other articles they had taken up ; shut the door, put his 
 back to it, and with frantic signs commanded them to remain 
 where they were. It took some precious time, and much earnest 
 interference, on the part of his brother, to oblige the dumb 
 prophet of evil to yield a free way to the young party. When 
 he was at length compelled to leave the doorway, he burst off, 
 in a mighty passion, to his own apartment, without any leave- 
 taking ; and they could hear him lock himself in, as if implaca¬ 
 bly enraged and offended. Just before they got on horseback, 
 he as furiously rushed back again, renewed his admonitions in a 
 more entreating style than before, and, when every endeavor 
 failed, burst into tears, uttered cries of the wildest pathos, 
 clasped his niece and nephew to his heart, and ran, as if despair¬ 
 ing, from them. 
 
 The young travellers, once more reunited in the dangers of the 
 road, and attended but by two men, who were to return with 
 Eva, set off, on fresh horses, for the village of Ballycastle. The 
 road did not continue to run so near the coast as, between Glen- 
 arm and Glenarriff, it had done ; but, sweeping through valley 
 after valley, and over hill after hill, shut out, for the greater 
 part of the way, all view of the ocean, taking an almost straight 
 direction towards Fair-Head, and dispensing with the curvatures 
 formed, on the way, by Tor-Head and other nearer headlands. 
 
 Before leaving Glenarriff, Evelyn had silently resolved to lead 
 Eva, if possible, into some acknowledgment of her forgiveness of 
 the past ; or, at all events, into some conversation relating to it 
 For this purpose he took, the moment they started, the most 
 favorable place at her side. Gratified that M’Donnell seemed in¬ 
 tentionally to lag behind, in conversation with the men, he now 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 261 
 
 only waited to arrange his thoughts into the best mode of ex¬ 
 pression, when Eva suddenly turned in her saddle, and called out 
 her brother’s name, who, immediately attending her, remained 
 during the whole night at her other side. The sister and 
 brother conversed fluently together. Evelyn, disappointed, 
 grieved, and somewhat vexed, was silent. 
 
 Often he asked himself why he should be so ; why he should 
 consider M’Donnell’s presence as an obstacle to any conversation 
 he might wish to hold with Eva. Why, in fact, he did not 
 speak out, before him, as freely as he wished to do with his sis¬ 
 ter, inasmuch as the explanation he was disposed to give certainly 
 concerned the one as much as the other. Often, too, having per¬ 
 suaded himself of the propriety, indeed necessity, of such a course, 
 he was about to break silence, and begin. But, as often, his 
 heart or his temper failed him ; he felt disinclined, he knew not 
 why, to humble his spirit to young M’Donnell; or, at least, to 
 address to him, in common with the woman of his choice, any 
 words that would acknowledge the rash and unfeeling part he 
 well knew he had acted. 
 
 Wondering, perhaps, at his taciturnity, M’Donnell directed to 
 him, from time to time, a question or remark upon some common 
 subject ; or Eva appealed to him for an opinion, in support of 
 her own, and connected with subjects discussed by herself and 
 her brother. But the brief or embarrassed replies of Evelyn, 
 giving, unknown to him, an appearance of reserve and coolness— 
 they were, in fact, only the natural result of his agitated state of 
 feeling—his friends soon became as taciturn as himself. Their 
 journey thus continued a very cheerless one ; the bad road, and 
 the monotonous succession of hill and valley, valley and hill, lit¬ 
 tle cultivated, scarce inhabited, and lying blank and undefined 
 in darkness, contributing not a little to the dreariness of their 
 sensations. 
 
 But when the morning broke, and that the travellers, sweep¬ 
 ing over a commanding eminence, saw it calling into shape the 
 distant ocean to their right and straight before them ; the 
 islands that lay upon it, the bold headlands that ran into it, and 
 the intervening hills, clad in green or brown, or crested with 
 rocky pinnacles—the spirits of each rose with the rising day, 
 and, all individual vexations for a moment unthought of, they felt 
 cheered, if not happy. 
 
 “ Yon,” said Eva, pointing to the headland right before them, 
 and which lay at about three miles’ distance, yon’s the Fair-Head. 
 
262 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Why called fair, I know not,” said her brother, “ for ’tis as 
 foul a point as ever was doubled in a rough sea.” 
 
 “ And to the left,” she resumed, pointing to a very high in¬ 
 land mountain, with a curious round, flat top—“ behold old 
 Knocklaide, which has, on its summit, a cairn called, by some, 
 “ The Cairn of the Three”—meaning the three sons of Ushna, 
 whose chivalrous adventures and tragical death form the subject 
 of one of our most beautiful Ossianic poems. That, however, is 
 not our present concern with it.” 
 
 “ No,” said M’Donnell, “ but the rather to see whether 
 or not there glimmer on its sides, or at its base, some score 
 hand-pikes or broadswords more than at present we have need 
 for.” 
 
 The two men who had been dispatched to reconnoitre now 
 jumped on the road. 
 
 “ What news ?” asked Edmund. 
 
 “ You must not pass Knocklaide, to-day,” they answered ; 
 “ your enemies are there before you.” 
 
 “ Then, where shall we shelter us ?” he asked, turning to Eva, 
 “ back we cannot go. And there is no house—not even a safe 
 cavern—in this wild nook, nearer than the Fair-Head.” 
 
 “ And thither a M’Donnell should not face for safety,” added 
 Eva, half smiling. 
 
 “No, sister ; the place was never friendly to our family,” her 
 brother replied, more seriously. 
 
 “ What do you mean ?” asked Evelyn, “ is not the whole dis¬ 
 trict uninhabited ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Edmund, “ but not the less objectionable.” 
 
 “ It has only one inhabitant,” said the elder of the couriers, 
 “ an’ that’s the Gray Man.” 
 
 “ He was seen on this path last night,” subjoined the other, 
 mysteriously—“ where he hasn’t been since the night when your 
 honor’s father lost his own.” 
 
 Edmund’s countenance assumed a still graver expression, and 
 he appeared occupied with disagreeable thoughts. Evelyn knew 
 not what to make of the conversation he had heard, and much 
 wished to ask for information ; but in the presence of the men, 
 delicacy checked him. One of them continued by stating that, 
 previous to the event last mentioned, the Gray Man of Fair- 
 Head had not appeared on his “ path” since a celebrated chief¬ 
 tain of the M’Donnells, returning from a visit to Scotland, was 
 wrecked on the coast. 
 
THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 263 
 
 11 Come, come, Edmund,” resumed Eva, “ you know I have 
 always tried to laugh you out of this conceit, and I must do so 
 now. First, let me correct the bad and lame tradition of these 
 men ; they are wrong in saying that from the time of Cromwell’s 
 confiscation this bugbear of our family was not, until last night, 
 seen on this path. Do you not recollect when our Uncle Ron¬ 
 ald broke his neck hunting the deer over the flat land between 
 our present resting-place and the Head ? Did not the whole 
 country aver that the Gray Man appeared the evening before? 
 Was not our grandfather’s second bride also lost on the coast, 
 when only crossing home, after her marriage, from Rathlin to 
 our continent ?—and all in consequence of another appearance. 
 Nay, there was yet another, for which none of us could account, 
 except, indeed, that, in two days after it, my mother’s black cat 
 died. You see I am skilled in all this lore. Need I remind you 
 also—apart from the absurdity of the whole thing—that scarce 
 an old family in the north, but appropriates, in common with 
 ourselves, the Gray Man, his path, and his talent for making 
 them miserable, allowing to no others a claim over their assumed 
 and unenviable privilege ? Come, I say, yon awful ground we 
 will tread, notwithstanding the warning of ages. Nay, should 
 we be necessitated to wear out the precious night there, upon yon 
 still more awful path shall we keep midnight watch, and dare 
 this portentous man, black, brown, or gray, as he may be, hob¬ 
 goblin, ghost, or living seer—to a friendly interview. It is time 
 we were moving from our present exposed stand ; the morning 
 begins to shine fully out, and if there be keen eyes on Knock- 
 laide, we must soon be—if we have not already been—observed. 
 Follow me, sirs.” 
 
 Deviating from the road, she put her horse in motion, and 
 was followed over trackless and uneven ground, which gradually 
 descending, soon deprived them of a continued view of the sea. 
 After some further progress, the land became, for a short dis¬ 
 tance, level, though still very rough. Then it once more rose, 
 but not precipitously. Eva continued to lead against this as- 
 ceut, leaping across many natural drains, which, at first, inter¬ 
 sected the ground, and then through clumps of furze, and over 
 patches of bedded rock. Until, finally, the party gained a 
 nearly flat stretch of barren land, terminating straight before 
 them, in a horizontal line, beyond which was the parallel line of 
 the ocean. Here they dismounted, aud, leaving their horses to 
 the men, continued their way forward. 
 
264 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 As they approached the bounding line, all became conscious 
 that they verged towards a great precipice. Indeed, they soon 
 stood on a safe point, from which they could hazard a look 
 downward. 
 
 “ Sit down by this broom-tuft,” said Eva, “ and let us look 
 around. I have sat here before, and can act the guide. Yon¬ 
 der,” pointing a little to the left, “ at only a few miles’ distance 
 is Rathlin Island ; or, as the natives call it, Raherry—dear R 
 Scotchmen for once having afforded shelter to Robert the 
 Bruce ; you can catch a glimpse of his castle. The more dis¬ 
 tant land over it, or at either side of it, are Isla and the Paps 
 of Jura. Still, to the right, you plainly see the hills of Arran. 
 How beautifully, as the eye follows the horizon line, appears that 
 long, craggy, isolated island, and that other round one, the most 
 remote of all, rising out of the blue waves like the dome of a 
 great building, the continuation of which fancy may suppose 
 sunk below them—an ocean-god’s palace, based on the bottom 
 of the seal ” 
 
 But,” asked Evelyn, " before we travel so far, what is that 
 large sweep of land, nearer to us than any we can see, except¬ 
 ing the Bruce’s island ?” 
 
 “ The Mull of Canty re—only about twice the distance, in¬ 
 deed, of Raherry ; and, although an island too, yet considered 
 part of the Scottish mainland. To your extreme right, and at 
 a greater distance, you look on bonny Scotland still. Over part 
 of the water between Cantyre and that more remote land, your 
 eye traverses the mouth of the Frith of Clyde. Is it not inex¬ 
 pressibly, indeed unaccountably exciting, to sit thus, on the 
 verge of one country, and look across the dividing waters into 
 another ? I, at least, have always felt it so, though I know not 
 clearly why. But, as one gazes on hills and mountains, trodden 
 by a strange people, such common features of nature assume an 
 aspect as strange as our thoughts of them. You imagine you 
 have seen none like them at home ; and the young heart beats 
 with curiosity to wander among them, half with awe at the ven¬ 
 ture. Such have been, I believe, the nature of my sensations, 
 particularly when I first saw, walking on a shore then hostile to 
 her, the land of beautiful France ; and again when, after a long 
 absence, and having before known nothing of our sister country, 
 I gazed across the sea, on the white coast of powerful England.” 
 
 “I have felt the like emotions,” said Evelyn : “I have felt 
 how strange a thing it is to see the family of earth so divided. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 265 
 
 How strange to stand on the edge of one nation, and look, bnt 
 a few leagues, into the bosom of another, yet know that it con¬ 
 tains a branch of that common family, so different in language, 
 dress, complexion, manners, and policy, as might serve for a con¬ 
 trast in another world 1 But where is your Gray Man’s Path ? 
 Have we already traversed it ? Does it lie concealed in the 
 wild at our back ? Or, perhaps, with some violent contradic¬ 
 tion of words, you may point it out in the pathless ocean. ” 
 
 “ Follow me,” said Eva. The young men rising, followed her 
 to the right some short distance by the line of the cliff ; then, 
 turning a little inward, they gained the opening of the Gray 
 Man’s Path. 
 
 If—to compare great things with small—the reader supposes 
 himself looking down a straight, tremendous staircase (such as 
 Piranesi might dream for one of his cloud-piercing palaces) con¬ 
 fined between two walls of rock, and of which the bottom, on 
 account of the irregular projection of its craggy steps, cannot be 
 seen, he will at once have a general idea of this natural wonder. 
 At some remote period, during an explosion of earthquake, or 
 perhaps of frost, the outside precipice had been cleanly cleft 
 through its face, some paces inland, and half the displaced frag¬ 
 ments hurled to the beach or to the sea ; while the other half 
 arresting each other in their descent, formed an abrupt and 
 rugged inclined plane, of nearly one thousand feet from the 
 flat ground that gave descent into it, to the very level of the 
 ocean. 
 
 “ This,” resumed Eva, “ is the path of the shadowy being 
 whose imagined existence so much frightens us all. On the eve 
 of some coming calamity he may be seen, to appearance a tall, 
 gaunt, aged man, clothed in some vaguely-conceived gray dress, 
 toiling up and down among the rocks that give him his only foot¬ 
 ing. Look at this huge natural pillar that has fallen over the 
 chasm, at top, from side to side. Sometimes he has been discerned 
 from the sea, sitting upon this pillar, no ways fearful of adding 
 bis weight to its already insecure position—for you may see it 
 nas hardly any rest, at either side, and looks as if the hopping 
 of a bird upon it could hurl it down the path. But whether he 
 be seen sitting or moving, the fisher who, in the twilight, or 
 while the midnight moon shines clearly, discerns, afar off, the 
 Gray Man’s figure on the Fair-Head, will tack his little vessel, 
 and, for that night, tempt no further the iron-bound coast. 
 While, at any hour of the day or the night, at which his bark 
 
 12 
 
266 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ploughs by, he prays to be delivered from the bad omen of his 
 appearance.” 
 
 “ But come,” she continued, “ as he does not frequently reveal 
 himself, and especially as it is now broad daylight, who will de¬ 
 scend, with me, this rude staircase, for the matter-of-fact pur¬ 
 pose of trying to hail a boat which may convey us round the 
 coast, to our place of destination ?” 
 
 “ You do not surely mean to venture down that chasm,” re¬ 
 monstrated Evelyn ; “ it cannot be safe or practicable.” 
 
 “I do, indeed, propose to go down, because I know it is 
 both. I have gone down, and come up, often before.” 
 
 “ Then I will accompany you,” cried Evelyn, eagerly, his one 
 thought of a private conversation with Eva still uppermost, while 
 he sincerely hoped Edmund would refuse. 
 
 “Do so,” said Edmund, meeting his wish ; “I shall remain 
 here to look out towards Knocklaide.” 
 
 Eva paused a moment, in quick thought; then, as if she had 
 taken her resolution, moved towards the opening of the path. 
 Evelyn offered his hand. “No,” she said, “no such ceremony 
 here ; it is useless, because unavailable. I only require you to 
 follow, and give yourself—your eyes especially—no trouble about 
 me.” 
 
 Both accordingly began to descend, very slowly, stepping and 
 clinging from rock to rock, and sometimes inconvenienced with a 
 spot of abrupt loose earth. In such a progress it was impossi¬ 
 ble for Evelyn to address Eva, who, as he moved, still kept some 
 distance below him. Or, if a favorable moment for speaking 
 did occur, she seemed designedly to anticipate him by speaking 
 herself, and directing his notice to the features of the scene 
 around them. 
 
 The fissure, at top, was but a few feet broad. As they de¬ 
 scended, however, it gradually widened ; showing, at either side, 
 basalt pillars, of a nearly perfect kind, beautifully varied in 
 T-nge and elevation: until, at the bottom, they rose to a height 
 of between two and three hundred feet. 
 
 Evelyn gained the base of the precipice, and looking up and 
 around him, his private feelings gave way, for a moment, to the 
 • tremendous influence of the scene. Straight upward ran the 
 basaltic pillars of the Fair-Head ; before him was the vast 
 ocean. Around were the mighty fragments that, at its making 
 or marring, had tumbled from the precipice—enough to yield 
 material for all the cities that earth ever saw ; and looking, on 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 267 
 
 account of their columnar shape, like the ruins of some elder 
 city of giants, who, ere man’s present dwarfish race sprang from 
 the slime of the flood, might have possessed the world, and 
 built themselves fitting palaces upon its surface. 
 
 “ What a sight and sound must have been here, Evelyn,” said 
 Eva, “ during the creation or the ruin that caused this scene ! 
 Was the sea here before it happened ? Did the strong hand of 
 God rend into pieces a previously solid globe, pushing one part 
 here, and another there, to form so many countries. And then, 
 did the foamy waves come roaring and tumbling to fill up the 
 abyss ? Oh ! mighty is the God of nature, however it has been 
 —mighty, thrice mighty, is He in a place like this—even though 
 He seems to have wrought here but for destruction—thrice 
 mighty 1” Overcome by enthusiasm, she clasped her hands, 
 knelt down, and prayed, fervently, although silently. This, 
 Evelyn felt, was no purposed direction of discourse, to keep him 
 from a dreaded topic, whatever might have been the speaker’s 
 first object. He saw that from Eva’s soul tears started to her 
 eyes, and that her spirit had for a moment flown to do homage 
 to its Creator. His own eyes filled, as he looked upon her with 
 admiration, sympathy, and profoundest love. Perhaps his tears 
 were bitterer than Eva’s, at the thought that a creature so beau¬ 
 tiful, so gifted, and so good, was—even after she had sworn to 
 be his—grown indifferent to him. He turned away his head, as 
 she arose, to hide the emotion that a continuance of this mis¬ 
 giving rendered too evident. 
 
 “ I offer no excuse,” she said softly, “ for having acted as if 
 you were not present.” 
 
 “ How, Eva ! am I as a stranger to you, then ?” he asked, 
 in a sad voice. Eva, not noticing him, spoke wide of the point. 
 
 “ Now, however, as one acquainted with this scenery, I owe 
 you some information. Look up, and see, in Fair-Head, the 
 Robogdium Promontorium of Ptolemy. See, also—we just 
 get a glimpse of it—an unbroken, an unjointed pillar of rock, 
 two hundred feet high, the largest in the world. But what is 
 the matter ? you are very ill—or agitated.” 
 
 “ Oh, Eva,” he said, overpowered by his feelings, “ forgive 
 me 1 I have acted, I know not how—done, I know not what ! 
 but every thing that was at once unworthy of you, and of the 
 love I bore you. I was mad—I have suffered! I am miserable, 
 penitent, and humbled, too, in my very soul. I entreat your 
 forgiveness—I kneel for it.” 
 
268 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “No, Evelyn,” she said, arresting him, “you shall never bend 
 a knee—you never ought to bend it—to the woman who has 
 vowed to you the honor and obedience of a wife to a husband.” 
 
 “ Then say I am forgiven—say—” 
 
 “This Isay, Evelyn. Although in the first burst of that most 
 extraordinary outrage, and while its first effects continued, my 
 mind and spirit utterly cast you off, still was my heart reclaim- 
 able to you. And when I lately reflected on the whole occur¬ 
 rence—the political deception practised on both sides, the bad 
 advisers on both, the hastiness of Edmund, and the hot words 
 he used ; when, also, I recollected my promise at the altar, and 
 was further reminded of it by the good old man who joined our 
 hands—and when, too, I saw that my brother was wretched in 
 consequence of our common separation—but, most of all, when 
 I heard that you were in misfortune and danger, then, Evelyn— 
 dear Evelyn—even before our last meeting, I had nothing— 
 nothing to forgive !” 
 
 Speechless with delight, Evelyn clasped her in his arms. 
 After a little, Eva continued : 
 
 “ An oath I had sworn—a bitter, angry oath, never to for¬ 
 give or know you, Evelyn. But it was an unlawful and silly 
 oath, along with being an angry one. It could not affect my pre¬ 
 vious vow to stay by your side, even unto death. God has no 
 registry of it, except to my confusion. That, too, ceased to be 
 an obstacle between us. I now own I but waited your introduc¬ 
 tion of the present subject, to say all I have said ; while—while 
 —I thought, once or twice, you made me wait too long—and 
 that your manner showed the reverse of the anxiety you now 
 express.” 
 
 “ Could there have been such a seeming ? Alas ! if so, it 
 was the effect of very different feelings, my Eva. I, too, had 
 formed—thank Heaven ! erroneous opinions of your thoughts 
 towards me. But now doubt has flown from both our hearts, 
 and there is nothing but happiness in the future.” 
 
 “Of that future, dear Evelyn, I wished to speak—do not in¬ 
 terrupt me. You and I are still politically opposed at the very 
 moment—in the very fervor of a political contest. Either of 
 us must retire from the field, or—until the storm has passed 
 over—we must remain separate.” 
 
 “ Eva,” he said, tenderly, but gravely, “ I will not understand 
 that you wish me to turn traitor to a cause in which I have 
 taken an oath to remain faithful ” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 269 
 
 “ You do right,” she answered, her eye flashing, “not to sup¬ 
 pose it. Having once chosen your side, I should, on the con¬ 
 trary, despise you for betraying it. No ; I meant not that. But 
 there is another course. It is no treachery to withdraw, alto¬ 
 gether, from the contest.” 
 
 “ Except, Eva, the treachery of cowardice.” 
 
 Both paused. Evelyn continued softly— 
 
 “ But if such a course be indeed necessary—if one or the 
 other must stand neutral—why, dearest Eva, should not you be 
 that one ? You, a woman—my wife—whom no hutnau being 
 can expect to take an active part against me—would it not be 
 more natural than that I, a man, and an accountable one, should 
 forsake the friends who have called me to an honorable place by 
 their side ?” 
 
 “ Ask me not that,” she answered, vehemently ; “ name it not, 
 Evelyn I I, who in this cause have at stake the lives of a broth¬ 
 er and a father, the freedom of my country, and the worship 
 of my God ; who, from my cradle, have dreamt of such a cause, 
 and felt my whole soul expand to meet it—can I be expected, 
 can I be asked to stand coldly neutral while it abides the trial ? 
 No ; though the consequences should be ruin to my earthly 
 peace—destructive to my love of you—though I lose you in the 
 struggle—worse, though we should clash in it—though what 
 does now seem so unlikely, we should meet in the very field of 
 strife, armed and sworn foes to each other, yet must I not show 
 coldness or indifference in acting the part I am called on to act J 
 Every consideration requires the contrary at my hands. The 
 past ; the present; the future ; our former wrongs ; our present 
 sufferings, joined to the call of a king betrayed and insulted, an 
 altar overthrown and darkened, and a country outraged and de¬ 
 fied ; the hopes of honorable redress, too, if I may not add, 
 honorable revenge—judge for me if here be not sufficient and irre¬ 
 sistible obligations !” 
 
 “But, beloved Eva, nothing to show a necessity for our lives 
 and fortunes continuing separate.” 
 
 “ What! do you hope for peace and warfare in the same 
 family ? confidence in divided interests ? union in struggle ? love 
 in political jealousy ? No, Evelyn ; if we really love each other, 
 let us not tempt its blasting in the rude storm that already has 
 begun to howl. Let us shelter it from the unnatural contest 
 that must soon rage between our parties ; since foes we must be, 
 let us be such, as far as is unavoidable only. This I must iu 
 
270 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 candor say,” she added sadly, “ had I been aware of your interv 
 tion, Evelyn, to take up arms against me and mine—against the 
 religion that gives me hopes of God, and the king that gave me 
 hopes of liberty—never—truly and dearly as I loved you—never 
 should my hand have been yours. Since, in my ignorance, I have 
 become your wife, force me not into the wretched, half-trusting, 
 half-devoted intercourse which, if we at present meet, must ensue 
 between us. The battle shall soon be fought, and, one way or 
 other, decided. Then, whatever is the result, let us cling to each 
 other forever, and love and serve each other undividedly. That is 
 all I want—opportunity from circumstances, and permission from 
 Heaven and my own heart, to love my husband as a wife ought 
 to love.” 
 
 “ These reasons, Eva,” he said, considering them, as well as 
 the heated language in which they were expressed, nothing more 
 than the hasty feelings, uttered upon impulse, of an enthusiastic 
 girl—“ these reasons, dearest Eva, might have weight, provided 
 it was to follow, as an inevitable result of our union, that we 
 were to live unhappily together. That because obliged to think 
 differently on general matters, we were also of necessity obliged 
 to think differently of each other.” 
 
 “ I, at least, Evelyn, could not sufficiently draw the distinc¬ 
 tion—plainly and candidly I tell you I could not. And there 
 are other reasons. In such a time of civil discord and jeal¬ 
 ousy, each party will be watchful; each will exact from its 
 friends a scrupulous line of conduct, the overstepping of which 
 must be followed by dishonor or death—ruin, at all events, in 
 one shape or other. Both of us will necessarily be subjected to 
 this nice scrutiny. Supposing us socially, domestically connected, 
 how could we hope to satisfy it ? Would not your friends sus¬ 
 pect the husband of a Papist ? And mine—my father’s and my 
 brother’s friends—suspect the wife of a Protestant, and through 
 her, the dear relations, whose heart’s blood might be spilt in con¬ 
 sequence ? Evelyn, you may—for you can—command me. But 
 oh ! in the name of our mutual love ; in the name of honor, na¬ 
 ture, and delicacy—command me not in this—where submission 
 would be a mockery and a misery ; where affection, first out¬ 
 raged, might at last be disgusted—where man forbids, and God 
 would seem to disapprove.” 
 
 “Well, Eva,” he answered, at last touched, if not convinced 
 by her strange earnestness, “ be it so. I have no wish, per¬ 
 haps, after all, no right, to force your free inclinations. For the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 271 
 
 gake of my own happiness, dear one, I will not, at all events, 
 make the triai. Let us live as strangers to each other—except 
 in the heart—until, as you say, we can meet in undivided love. 
 I have no fears of you, in one respect; no doubts of—” 
 
 “ Of my truth ?—of my constancy ?” she interrupted. “ Do 
 you mean that V 7 
 
 “ I only meant to say I did not fear either.” 
 
 “ Oh, Evelyn, why glance at such a matter ? Why start it, 
 even in thought ? I hoped—I believed I was far elevated 
 above suspicion—far above even the little doubt that would 
 prompt you to tell me you did not fear me. Oh, you know 
 not the heart of woman, such as it beats in the bosom of Eva 
 M’Donnell!—you know not its deep, tranquil faith and loyalty 
 where duty sanctifies love!—when the word of God, and the 
 hands of God’s minister, have approved and blessed the en¬ 
 thusiasm of affection! Evelyn, dear Evelyn, I wish you had 
 never breathed that word.” 
 
 “ Then, dearest Eva—Eva Evelyn—not Eva M’Donnell—I 
 wish it too; and never shall you hear it repeated But there 
 is still another point on which I would fain receive your as¬ 
 surances. Just now, you made an allusion that pained and 
 startled me. You said as much as that it was not improbable 
 you should take some personally active part in the civil com¬ 
 motion which surrounds us. Gracious Heaven! Eva, do not 
 suffer me to entertain any such shocking apprehensions as that 
 hasty expression must, if unexplained, give rise to. Do not, 
 dear one, permit me to fear, during the sad period of our sepa¬ 
 ration, that you are disposed to place yourself in personal danger 
 or responsibility—to do aught, in fact, forgetful of my anxiety 
 for your safety and honor—hear me, Eva—for your character 
 as a woman, a lady, and a wife.” 
 
 “Fear me not,” she replied; “should we both outlive this 
 struggle—” 
 
 “ Dear Eva,” he interrupted, in dismay, “ again your indirect 
 meaning afflict* aud affrights me ! What, supposing you to 
 bear yourself as a delicate though zealous woman ought, what 
 can be the possible peril to you ? I, indeed, a man and a sol¬ 
 dier, destined for the field—I may not outlive it—I may fall, Eva 
 —but you! what can you purpose or think of?” 
 
 “ Still, my answer is the same I was just about to give, and 
 will be found sufficient for all your fears and questions. Should 
 we both meet, I say, after this coming strife—meet, never again 
 
272 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 to sunder—I will not ask you to take me to your side, if there 
 shall appear, in my conduct, a flaw to dishonor or displease 
 you. More, Evelyn—I will not cross your threshold, to sit at 
 your board or hearth, until I have invited—demanded your 
 scrutiny. Is not this enough ? But, Evelyn, I repeat, over 
 and over—fear me not. Fear not—your party prejudices of 
 course forgotten in the investigation—fear not the woman who, 
 while she is called on to befriend her unfortunate country, is 
 also called on to support the character of your wife.” 
 
 Evelyn, still believing that Eva, fired and agitated by reli¬ 
 gious and patriotic zeal, either conjured up, as probable, 
 circumstances that could never occur, or else imagined herself of 
 more importance than, in any circumstances, she could ever be, 
 professed himself contented with this explanation. 
 
 “ And now,” she continued “ let us attend to our business 
 here. We descended, I reckon, to look out for a boat, by 
 which we might get round the coast to some landing-place beyond 
 Baliycastle. But,” looking over the sea, “ no such help ap¬ 
 pears. Can any boat have passed while we discoursed together?” 
 
 “ I cannot answer yes or no. In truth, my Eva, I did not 
 sufficientlv take notice.” 
 
 “Nor I, indeed,” she said,meeting his smile with one as fond 
 “ Well, then, since our attendance here seems useless, we should 
 return to Edmund.” She moved towards the chasm by which 
 they had descended, paused, came back to him, and said : 
 
 “ Farewell, dear Evelyn. I propose to make our adieus here, 
 because, although we do not immediately part, yet we soon 
 must; and then, doubtless, with witnesses. Farewell, my dear 
 Evelyn—my husband!” the girl added, as she yielded to his 
 farewell embrace. “ I ask you not to wish me success till our 
 next meeting; but, Evelyn, should I return to you with it, who 
 then shall share with Eva the honorable reward of success ? 
 It may be that defeat and confirmed degradation, shame, and 
 utter poverty shall attend my coming back; if so, Evelyn—” 
 her voice faltered. 
 
 “ If so, Eva,” the husband said, his voice sinking to a whisper, 
 as he continued to hold her to his breast, “ then will it be my 
 time to act, as it is now my time to speak. But, no; why need 
 I utter it ? Farewell, Eva. I am now ready to echo your fare¬ 
 well. God bless you, my wife. Yes, I have full trust in you! 
 Let us return to your brother.” 
 
 With more toil, though less difficulty than they had descend- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 273 
 
 ed, Eva and Evelyn gained the top of the chasm, upon the 
 edge of which Edmund was still seated. 
 
 “ No boat ?” he asked, as they approached. 
 
 “No,” replied Eva; “and no Gray Man, either.” 
 
 Edmund fixed his eyes, inquiringly, on the conscious features 
 of his sister and his friend. When they had quite gained his 
 side, Eva saved him further questioning. 
 
 “ Edmund,” she said, her hand slipping into that of Evelyn, 
 “ the past is, as it ought to be, forgotten.” 
 
 He arose, with a smile, took their disengaged hands, and re¬ 
 peated— 
 
 “ As it ought to be, indeed. But for the immediate future, 
 sister ?” 
 
 “Protect Eva, Edmund, till we meet again: for she will 
 have it so,” said Evelyn. “When we do meet, another will en¬ 
 large our circle.” 
 
 The men who had met them on the road produced some 
 coarse, but very welcome refreshments, and nature thus recruited, 
 they awaited, with what patience they might, the coming of 
 night. The day wore away, and, at last, evening fell, somewhat 
 before its time, on account of the dense watery clouds that 
 blinded the setting sun. In the first twilight the men were dis¬ 
 patched to reconnoitre, once more, the road to Ballycastle. In 
 their absence, Eva, M’Donnell, and Evelyn sat on the edge of 
 the Gray Man’s Path as the best place to afford them, through 
 its downward chasm, a sight of the ocean, and, with it, a view 
 of any boat that might be passing. 
 
 But the mists that gradually swathed the waters, soon ren¬ 
 dered unnecessary their continued watchfulness. Their situa¬ 
 tion only served to afford them a view of that most comfortless 
 and desolate of all the appearances of nature—the mingling of 
 the vapors from the ocean with those of the heavens, until the 
 very horizon-line is lost, and all becomes “ one face” of shape¬ 
 less and tintless monotony. 
 
 “ Who would think,” asked Edmund, “ but for his eternal 
 voice, grown hoarse in calling out, that the furrowed and angry 
 ocean tossed beneath that shroud of mist, and that all the fair 
 islands and land we this morning gazed upon, sleep under its 
 shadow ?” 
 
 “And who,” demanded Eva, “as the white vapor comes, curl¬ 
 ing up this chasm, would suppose that the Gray Man had so 
 steep a path for his walk, as we know it to be ? Look, the 
 
 12 * 
 
274 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 view down is already more than half interrupted : and up, ujv 
 still rolls the mist.” 
 
 “A proper evening for his appearance,” observed Evelyn. 
 
 “ Most proper. How fitly would he appear, emerging from 
 that abyss of vapor, and toiling among the rocky fragments, 
 towards us! But see ! has not yon gray stone moved ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Edmund ; yet look closer.” 
 
 All did, indeed, glance more attentively down the chasm, and 
 beheld the head and shoulders of a man protruded through the 
 body of mist. It was, however, only vaguely recognizable, on 
 account of the evening shadows, and of the thinner portions of 
 exhalation that skirted the principal mass, and which, floating 
 between them and him, gave but a dreamy indication of form 
 and feature. So far as the spectators could discern, however, the 
 face was aged and the hair gray. The apparition stood still but 
 for an instant, as if regarding them, and then sank back into 
 obscurity. Edmund started to his feet, and began to descend 
 the chasm. 
 
 “Do not throw away your life,” cried Eva, detaining him; 
 “ you shall not venture down.” 
 
 “I will, sister, and instantly. Who now allows supernatural 
 fears to terrify them ?” 
 
 “ Not I, Edmund—I fear no spectre here so much as living 
 men disposed to do you harm.” 
 
 “Tush, Eva, am I a child, to be swallowed in a mouthful? 
 Pray release me.” 
 
 “ Then you go not alone,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ No,” cried Eva, “ we shall both accompany him.” 
 
 “ Sister—Evelyn—stay where you are—this is my adventure, 
 and mine only. Be seated, I entreat. If I require help, I 
 shall give you notice by firing one of these pistols—farewell.” 
 
 He rapidly clambered down the path, soon entered the mist, 
 and was lost in it. 
 
 “ Though, as I have said, I feared no ghost or demon, on his 
 account,” continued Eva, “yet do I now feel a superstitious hor¬ 
 ror at seeing him swallowed up from our sight in the silence and 
 mystery of that cloud of vapor, to confront, singly, whatever 
 peril may await him within its void.” 
 
 “ We—I have done wrong in remaining inactive, notwith¬ 
 standing his entreaties,” said Evelyn. “ Do you fear to rest here 
 while I follow him ?” 
 
 “ I should not fear ; but *tis better not to follow him. I 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 275 
 
 must, for the first time, acquaint you, dear Evelyn, that the 
 spirit of Edmund has of late years changed, from that of a youth 
 of, mayhap, too great gentleness and bashfulness, into a sharp 
 and wayward manhood. From me, who, when we were boy and 
 girl together, could call him to me like my pet doe, he will now 
 scarce brook even slight contradiction. Although, indeed, his 
 manner is not directly hurtful or unkind, and though I know he 
 still loves me well. Therefore, I join my entreaties to his, that 
 you stay where you are, and not give cause for any unseemly 
 contest between us, by thwarting what appears to be his fixed 
 purpose. Let us sit here, patieutly if we can, and pray for his 
 speedy and safe return.” 
 
 “ As you please, then. But, Eva, I have myself observed the 
 change of character you speak of, and wondered whether it was 
 a mature show of nature, or caused by the sudden and stern 
 change of the times. I have heard you speak of two other broth¬ 
 ers ; one, who died in youth, much your elder ; another, who 
 went for his education to Spain, almost your own age, and, 
 withal, very like you. Does Edmund resemble in spirit either of 
 these ?” 
 
 “ The first, not at all,” she replied ; “ my elder brother, 
 Donald, was, as I recollect, only remarkable for good-nature, 
 good-humor, and love of ladies. My younger, James”—tears 
 filled her eyes—“ had much, I believe, even since his childood, of 
 the fiery temper only lately shown by Edmund. Mayhap, as 
 Edmund has changed from gentle to bold, James, during the 
 long period he had been absent, might have changed from bold 
 to gentle. But ’tis no matter now.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? Does that younger brother soon visit 
 Ireland ?” 
 
 “ Alas, alas—spoke I not of him as of a brother that has 
 been ? Our last accounts of him told us he had died of a malig¬ 
 nant fever.” 
 
 Evelyn, who had proposed his questions chiefly for the purpose 
 of diverting Eva’s attention from Edmund’s absence, now found 
 it impossible to continue the discourse. Both became silent, 
 gazing down the rocky chasm upon the wreaths of mist which 
 choked it, and conjuring, out of every motion of the vapor, the 
 figure of Edmund, or of some more unwelcome visitant. 
 
 A considerable time thus elapsed. The shades of night fell 
 thicker ; the throat of the chasm filled, more and more, with 
 vapor and darkness. And still he came not. Eva’s fears grew 
 
276 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ungovernable. She and Evelyn prepared to plunge down the 
 path, when, at last, a human form appeared struggling through 
 the dense medium, in motion towards them. The first glance 
 determined no shape, and Eva’s worst terrors nearly overpowered 
 her—she thought they were approached by her brother’s mur¬ 
 derer. But a little pause reassured her ; it was her brother’s self. 
 
 Slowly and silently, and with a manner very different from 
 that he had worn at his departure, did Edmund now gain the 
 verge of the chasm, and sit down by their side. He was pale 
 and agitated, but that might have been from toil; his hair and 
 clothes were damp, too, with the mist. They paused till he 
 should speak ; but he continued silent and thoughtful. 
 
 “ What is this, Edmund ?” at last asked Eva ; “ has any real 
 injury happened to you ? Was that person an enemy ?—a spy, 
 perhaps ?” 
 
 “ Dear Eva,” he answered, “ ask me no questions about this 
 matter. I have met neither foe nor spy ; let so much content 
 you, for the present, at least. But I have other intelligence. A 
 small galiot has just moored below. I have spoken to her peo¬ 
 ple, and they consent, thank God ! to take us, on the turn of 
 the tide, which is near at hand, round the coast, as far as Bal- 
 lintoy. We shall thus, in all likelihood, escape our present foes ; 
 and Evelyn will be free to continue his northwest journey. Let 
 us descend at once ; the galiot expects us. 
 
 At the same moment the two scouts reappeared, with assu¬ 
 rances that all the passes at their present side of Knocklaide 
 were still beset. No delay was then made in once more braving, 
 even amid the extreme perils that the night flung over it, the 
 descent of the Gray Man’s Path. The men attended them,— 
 abandoning, in their urgency, the horses that had conveyed them 
 to Fair-Head. After many pauses, and many dangers and es¬ 
 capes, about half an hour brought the whole party to the base of 
 the precipice. 
 
 Here Edmund gave a hail, and was answered by near voices 
 from a little sandy cove—the only safe one on that point of the 
 coast. As all advanced, four men were dimly seen through the 
 mist, standing up in a boat. Our friends and their attendants 
 got in, and were instantly rowed, they knew not where, outward 
 through the vapor of the ocean. A hazy light at last shone 
 ahead, and they gained and were hoisted into a small, dingy 
 vessel, whose sole recommendation, to the experienced eye, was 
 that she seemed built and rigged for quick sailing. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 277 
 
 The crew were a set of rude, boisterous fellows, having* for 
 captain, or commander, a man scarce more respectable, in ap¬ 
 pearance or demeanor, than themselves. On the fore part of the 
 deck, other men, rolled up in cloaks, coverlids, and sacks, slept, 
 or appeared to sleep, evidently no part of the crew. Evelyn, see¬ 
 ing one of their faces by the gleam of a lantern, thought he should 
 know it, but wisely said nothing. From the cabin, which was 
 interdicted to the chance passengers, he heard a voice, which was 
 also familiar to him ; still he said nothing. Glancing into the 
 hold, and along a goodly range of casks which were lashed on 
 deck, he finally thought he could guess at the nature of the car¬ 
 go on board ; but, still, he was prudently silent. 
 
 The tide turned. The breeze was fair; the anchor was 
 heaved ; and the galiot, standing out to sea, soon doubled the 
 Fair-Head. Passing close by the island of Rathlin, where she 
 had to contend with a heavy surf, she emerged into what may 
 be regarded as the confluence of the great western and northern 
 oceans ;—no broad land, after an hour’s tacking between her 
 and the unknown pole. 
 
 Ere break of day she stood off the little seashore hamlet of 
 Ballintoy, and, anchoring in its safe and good bay, lowered a 
 boat for our friends to gain the shore. As Evelyu prepared to 
 get into the boat, he offered the captain money, which, to his sur¬ 
 prise, was refused. The boat put off; and, after half an hour’s 
 rowing, the fugitives landed in the darkness of the night, on the 
 edge of a village, where there did not seem to be a single soul 
 awake to receive or direct them. But, tempted by a fee, the 
 men who had rowed them from the vessel, engaged to knock up 
 the inmates of a house they well knew, and from whom refresh¬ 
 ments, horses, and guidance might be obtained. Accordingly, 
 our party accompanied them up the straggling street of the vil¬ 
 lage. After a noise, sufficient to awake the dead, the doors of a 
 mud-cabin were thrown open, and men, women, and children ap¬ 
 peared half-dressed within, ready to afford any accommodation 
 in their power. 
 
 This, indeed, was not much, nor of a superior kind. But, aa 
 three horses and a guide could be obtained, the travellers were 
 satisfied. In less than an hour, Eva, Evelyn, and Edmund, fol 
 lowed on foot by the men, rode, at an easy pace, towards Cole 
 
 rain e. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 *7S 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Within a few miles of Coleraine, the friends were about to 
 part;—M’Donnell to proceed towards the house of a Protestant 
 relative, where he purposed to remain till his late seeming errors 
 might be explained to Lord Autrim ; Eva, with him, in order to 
 obtain some rest previous to her return to her father and Evelyn, 
 through Coleraine, to Derry. But here a new interruption 
 changed, in some degree, their plans and destinations. 
 
 A party of horse, headed by Lord Mount Alexander, came up 
 with them from Coleraine. The nobleman and Evelyn recog¬ 
 nized each other, and exchanged greetings. Edmund was then 
 noticed, and desired to account for himself. Interrupting his 
 friend, he told, bluntly, his name, and his political and military 
 situation : he was instantly placed under arrest. Evelyn warm¬ 
 ly pleaded for him ; but Lord Alexander would not hear of his 
 being set at large ; conceding, however, to the entreaties of Eve¬ 
 lyn, that M’Donnell might remain as his prisoner, only giving his 
 parole not to attempt an escape. Eva, who, boiling with indig¬ 
 nation, had silently witnessed these arrangements, was permitted 
 to dispose of herself as she pleased. The gallant commander 
 even offered two of his men to protect her. But the attendance 
 of the scouts, now mounted on the horses Edmund and Evelyn had 
 ridden from Ballintoy, enabled her safely to decline the favor. 
 
 “ My own people will prove sufficient, my lord,” she said. 
 “ Edmund, farewell. I rest a few hours at our friend’s house ; 
 then home, to comfort our father, and to use my influence with 
 our angry cousin. Farewell, Evelyn. This,” she whispered, 
 “ this, in any case, shall be our last parting.” 
 
 She turned off with the two men ; and her brother and hus¬ 
 band faced towards Coleraine, along with Lord Mount Alexander 
 and his troop. 
 
 “ As yet,” said this nobleman to Evelyn, as they rode side by 
 side, “we have fared badly. Those two affairs at Dromore and 
 Hillsborough were very unfortunate ; Sir Arthur Rawdon and I 
 have saved or kept together but four thousand of our whole 
 army. A few weeks ago the nine counties of Ulster, and one in 
 Connaught, were held for William and Mary. Since then, we 
 have been beaten out of Down, Antrim, Armagh, Monaghan, 
 Donegal, Cavan, and nearly Tyrone ; the counties of Londonderry 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 279 
 
 and Fermanagh, and a few places on the banks of the Finn, in 
 Tyrone, being our whole present possessions in Ulster. And 
 these, too, I fear, we shall soon lose—the counties at least. 
 Derry county must quickly be overrun, from Donegal at the one 
 side, Antrim at the other, and Tyrone at the south. The undis¬ 
 ciplined Irish have done more than we expected : it is quick work 
 during one month.” 
 
 Alarmed, by these accounts, for Esther’s safety in Derry, Eve¬ 
 lyn expressed his wishes to be allowed immediately to repair 
 thither. But his commander overruled him ; stating, in the 
 first place, that Derry could experience no distress till they had 
 reached it; in the second, that Evelyn’s services would be ne¬ 
 cessary in Coleraine. Coleraine gained, Lord Mount Alexander 
 at once engaged him in business of a nature so urgent, that it 
 scarce allowed him any conversation with his nominal prisoner, 
 Edmund, although the young men shared the same quarters and 
 the same board. 
 
 Some time thus elapsed. At a late hour, on a particular night, 
 as Evelyn and other officers sat in conference with Lord Mount 
 Alexander, an uproar was heard in the town. Soon after, three 
 or four military gentlemen, pale with fatigue and emotion, broke 
 into the room. “ Sir Arthur Rawdon !” cried his lordship, start¬ 
 ing up, “ Colonel Edmonston—Major Michelburne—The Bann 
 is forced ?” 
 
 They answered that it was ; that they had been attacked in 
 their intrenchments by Gordon O’Neile, and routed at every 
 point • that the pass of Portglenore had proved particularly 
 fatal; and that the enemy was in rapid advance. 
 
 “Ulster, then, has but one stronghold left—Derry! We 
 
 must quickly throw ourselves into it.” 
 
 “ That, indeed, is our only course,” said Sir Arthur Rawdon. 
 u Yet, do not call Derry our last dependence. The Finn and 
 Foyle are still guarded by Walker, Colonel Mervin, and others, 
 and a good stand there may yet serve us. I have already or¬ 
 dered my dragoons, by the most direct road, to Derry ; Skiving- 
 ton and Caning, their foot. Whitney’s and Edmonston’s men 
 are iu Coleraine, to assist yourself in a defence ; but this is not 
 now possible.” 
 
 By the 9th of April, all the retreating forces had appeared 
 before Derry, and had been severally ordered to repair to the 
 passes on the Finn and the Foyle, by Lundy, the governor of the 
 city, now confirmed in his appointment, iu consequence of advices 
 
280 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 received from King William. At the instance of his considerate 
 colonel, Evelyn was permitted to join his sister within the walls, 
 his prisoner, Edmund, still attending him. 
 
 After providing quarters for M’Donnell, and paying a visit to 
 his sister, Evelyn could not remain inattentive to the uproar 
 around him. Numbers of people of every rank were hastening 
 to quit the beleaguered city, and seek refuge in Scotland or Eng¬ 
 land. Those who remained had no trust in their governor, no 
 hopes of opposing a hitherto triumphant enemy. The suburbs 
 were fired, however, the neighborhood swept clear of provisions, 
 and every step taken that haste could take, to provide for a siege. 
 
 In the midst of the panic, the enemy appeared at the water¬ 
 side ; but after making a show of crossing, marched off along 
 the opposite banks of the Foyle, towards the passes of Lifford 
 and Clady Ford, where the Finn and the Foyle were fordable, 
 and where they had been expected. Increased consternation at¬ 
 tended this movement, which was plainly observable from the 
 walls of the city ; but some Derry energy was also shown. At 
 a hasty and scant council it was resolved, that, by the day the 
 enemy were expected to attempt these passes, “ all officers and 
 soldiers, horse and foot, and all other armed men whatsoever, 
 that could or would fight for their country against Popery,” should, 
 in addition to the considerable force already on the ground, 
 “ appear near Clady Ford, Lifford, and Long Causeway,” the 
 latter place within a short distance of Derry, “ and then and 
 there be ready to oppose the enemy, and preserve life, and all 
 that is dear, from them.” At this council, Lundy, though so much 
 suspected, was chosen commander-in-chief, the doubts of him 
 originating in his refusal to send assistance to Coleraine, but mainly 
 caused by the bitterness of failure on every side, not weighing, 
 after all, against the high opinion of his military zeal and talents, 
 which were supposed to render him a match for Hamilton himself. 
 
 A little confidence now seemed to spring up. It was known 
 that the advancing foe did not exceed seven thousand men, while 
 the Ulster Protestants could still oppose them, one way or an¬ 
 other, with double that number. And when, at the head of a 
 re-enforcement of ten thousand, Lundy marched to join the forces 
 already on the appointed ground, good results were fully antici¬ 
 pated by the remaining population of Derry. 
 
 Soon after his departure, another circumstance increased their 
 hopes. Two well-disciplined English regiments arrived in Lough 
 Foyle, together with some arms and provisions for the relief of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 281 
 
 Derry ; and one of the commanding officers addressed a letter to 
 Lundy requesting his advice, but, at the same time, offering some 
 of his own, which, from the posture of affairs, it was impossible 
 could, at so late a period, be adopted. At all events, as the 
 governor was not at hand, the letter remained unanswered till 
 his return. 
 
 And for that return, all who remained behind him in the city 
 waited, in the greatest anxiety and trepidation. Upon the tid¬ 
 ings he should bring home, seemed to depend their properties, 
 liberties, and lives. The day passed in painful and almost word¬ 
 less suspense. Evening came, and still no courier from the field 
 of battle ; still no triumphant governor to announce success and 
 safety. At last, late in the night, Lundy, accompanied by his 
 scarce diminished force, hastily re-entered the gates. Every post, 
 every pass had been lost, and all who defended them had fled 
 from the face of a still irresistible though very inferior enemy. 
 In fact, it appeared that the governor’s re-enforcement did not 
 strike a blow ; but, after Hamilton’s men had carried the most 
 important point, retreated at once before them. Louder than 
 ever was he now charged with determined treachery, and by the 
 very men who suspected him before they marched to the field 
 under his command, and who, at his first word, had really fled 
 home with him. However that question may be decided, the 
 day was lost, and Derry left without a protection, save her walls 
 and her garrison. 
 
 The first order issued by the governor on his arrival was to 
 shut the gates, and on no account, and to no person, to open 
 them. This was obeyed, much to the annoyance of such portions 
 of the force stationed on the Finn and Foyle, as had not entered 
 along with Lundy, and who, from time to time, during the night, 
 arrived in confusion under the walls, vainly craving admission. 
 With them came crowds of the country people, of both sexes, 
 screaming for shelter and protection. They were answered by 
 the cries of the fear-stricken citizens within, and the scene be¬ 
 came so terribly exciting, that Evelyn could not remain a moment 
 off the walls, which gave an uninterrupted view of it. 
 
 At an advanced hour of the night, a new body of fugitives, 
 horse-soldiers, galloped furiously up, headed by a man whose 
 person and bearing Evelyn thought he recognized. Arrived at 
 the nearest gate, their leader dismounted, and, in a commanding 
 voice, asked for admission. In obedience to the general order, a 
 sentinel inside refused his demand, and the challenger exclaimed : 
 
282 
 
 THE BOYNE TTATER. 
 
 “ What! abandoned in the field, and now shut out of the city ! 
 Is it thus your governor orders it ? Hear this, brave and un¬ 
 happy men—gallant and betrayed friends ! Vainly have we 
 sought safety even in the confusion of flight—for here are we 
 still left to the mercy of the merciless.” 
 
 “ Mr. Walker’s voice ?” inquired Evelyn, stooping across the 
 low range of outside wall, over the terra-plane. 
 
 “ I am George Walker—who asks ?” at once replied and que¬ 
 ried the reverend captain, turning up his face, which the light of 
 some torches, used in preparing the cannon on the walls, showed 
 to be unusually haggard and agitated. 
 
 “A friend—Robert Evelyn,” he was answered. “Have you 
 been engaged in this affair, Mr. Walker?” 
 
 “ In bitterness do I say, yes, Master Evelyn. Having vainly 
 urged your governor to re-enforce us yesterday, I returned to Lif¬ 
 ford, and joined Colonel Crofton ; the enemy came to Clady 
 Ford ; all night long the enemy and we fired at one another ; 
 and this morning I took my post at the Long Causeway, from 
 whence my men and I were the last to retreat. Now, after 
 having often been sorely beset on the way, we crave a night’s 
 shelter in the city, on whose account we have fought and bled, 
 and it refuses us a roof, a crust, or a cup of water.” 
 
 “I will repair to the governor, and demand admittance for 
 you, sir,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ Do so—and, to urge his compliance, tell him I have news 
 for the city—terrible news,” cried Walker. 
 
 Evelyn accordingly repaired to Lundy’s house ; was permitted 
 to see the governor ; but returned to the walls with this sole 
 answer—That, as there was not provision enough in the town 
 for those who already occupied it, he could not, consistently with 
 his duty, admit any more useless mouths. 
 
 “ Well,” said Mr. Walker, “patience. Let the governor play 
 out his own part. We may do better by looking on.” 
 
 The night lapsed while the fugitives still remained outside the 
 walls. At early daybreak, the two English officers who had 
 arrived with their regiments the day before, approached the city, 
 by orders of the governor, to attend a council. As the draw¬ 
 bridge, outside the gate, and lastly the gate itself, were lowered 
 and opened for their admission, Walker hastily whispered his 
 men; and when the officers were proceeding in— 
 
 “Charge, soldiers 1” he exclaimed ; and, followed by horse and 
 foot, gained the gate. The sentinel on duty presented his piece. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 283 
 
 bat Walker struck it out of his bauds, and he and all his frienda 
 entered Derry. 
 
 “ Citizens 1” he then cried, in a solemn voice, as, at the head 
 of his defeated regiment, he rode slowly up the street—“ Protest¬ 
 ant citizens of Derry 1—To-morrow morning the tyrant will be 
 at Johnstown, only five miles from your walls. His Papist rab¬ 
 ble there await him. Proclaim this news. Run from street to 
 street, from house to house, and tell it. Prepare each other for 
 the fate that must follow submission to enemies, who, after what 
 you have already done, can never forgive you. Prepare your 
 wives and daughters for the shame and misery to which the deaths 
 of their natural protectors must expose them. The destroyers 
 are at hand—even the ruthless and perfidious Galmoy is with 
 them. They come, they come !” he continued, in accents of alarm 
 and lamentation, waving his sword round his head. 
 
 The groans of men, the screams of women and children arose 
 as he passed along, from the street, the doors, and the windows, 
 to which his address had attracted them. Many voices, inspired 
 by the courage that desperation gives, were uplifted in exclama¬ 
 tions of resistance. 
 
 “This is good,” resumed Walker, to Evelyn, who had joined 
 him ; “ the thought of having no alternative but resistance, may 
 supply the want of cool determination. Death on their walls 
 must appear preferable to death at the hands of the tyrant. 
 Could we but support such a feeling, we, the heads and movers 
 of this struggle, may yet be saved from the terrible vengeance of 
 the bigot James and his blood-thirsty advisers. The councils of 
 our governor, too, may be counteracted. Let us watch their 
 present result.” 
 
 “ But is King James indeed so implacable and cruel ?” asked 
 Evelyn. “ Is it indeed so sure that we must expect no safe and 
 honorable capitulation ? Why not await, at all events, his—” 
 
 “ Hush 1” interrupted Walker, sternly; “name not that— 
 whisper it not—or else stand accountable to God for the com¬ 
 pounding of his cause, and for the blood of his zealous soldiers 
 •Silence, young man, and let us watch the council, I say.” 
 
 The two English officers here passed down the street towards 
 the gates. 
 
 “ I read it on their foreheads,” continued Mr. Walker ; “ they 
 have withdrawn from us in our sore need.” 
 
 The town clerk, who was knowu to him, approached from the 
 governor's house. 
 
284 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ The council have broken up ?” asked the clergyman of tills 
 person. 
 
 “ They have, sir,” answered the town clerk ; “ and I was the 
 only member of it who opposed that resolution,” handing a paper 
 
 Walker snatched the document, and, as his eye glanced over 
 it, anger and impatience violently agitated his features. At 
 length, however, Evelyn could observe a change. He paused ; 
 turned his eyes sideways to the ground : in the gradual compres¬ 
 sion of his lips, and the slight elevation of his eyebrows, the 
 hope of an ultimate triumph was indicated. 
 
 “ Be prudent, sir, on my account,” continued the town clerk. 
 “ The council holds its vote secret for the present; and I should 
 not be safe, were it known I disregarded its order.” 
 
 “ Fear not,” answered Mr. Walker ; “I shall keep your con¬ 
 fidence. Rejoiced I am,” he continued, turning to Evelyn, as 
 the discreet town officer retired, “ that there is a necessity so to 
 do. The governor has served us by this vote ; but tenfold is the 
 service to be drawn from his close councils. Read the paper.” 
 
 Evelyn read aloud, as follows : 
 
 “ Upon inquiry, it appears that there is not provision in the 
 garrison of Londonderry for the present garrison and the two 
 regiments on board, for above a week or ten days, at most. And 
 it appearing that the place is not tenable against a well-appointed 
 army—” 
 
 “Well-appointed!” interrupted Walker, “except the handful 
 of French, they are more than half rabble, with pikes, scythes, 
 and bludgeons. James, himself, was sickened at the first sight 
 of them.” 
 
 “Therefore, it is concluded upon and resolved,” continued 
 Evelyn, reading, “ that it is not convenient for his majesty’s ser¬ 
 vice, but the contrary, to land the two regiments, under Colonel 
 Cunningham and Colonel Richards, their commanders, now on 
 board, in the river of Lough Foyle. That, considering the present 
 circumstances of affairs, and the likelihood the enemy will soon 
 oossess themselves of this place, it is thought most convenient 
 that the principal officers shall privately withdraw themselves, as 
 well for their own preservation, as in hopes that the inhabitants, 
 by a timely capitulation, may make terms the better with the 
 enemy.” 
 
 “Read you not treason and treachery there ?” asked Walker. 
 
 “ Whatever may be Lundy’s secret sentiments,” answered Eve¬ 
 lyn, “ I cannot suppose that my Lord Blaney, and the two Eng 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 285 
 
 lish colonels, who, along with him, and a dozen other gentlemen, 
 have signed this resolution, are traitors.” 
 
 “ But must it not appear so, to-morrow or after, when, with 
 proper address, their vote shall become known to the people ? 
 Or may not the governor have imposed, by false accounts, on 
 them all ? Let us watch him, I say. Give me the paper—haste, 
 haste I”—as many of those who had signed the order of council, 
 together with Sir Arthur Rawdon, and other officers of import¬ 
 ance, approached, on them way to the gates. 
 
 “ Let them go,” resumed Mr. Walker, when they had passed, 
 “ mayhap all this is better still. Hold, here comes another crowd 
 —shall we avoid them ?” He turned towards the walls, and was 
 accompanied by Evelyn, as, in addition to those who had, some 
 days before, abandoned the city, a number of inhabitants, with 
 some clergymen, passed to the water-side. 
 
 “Ay, let them go,” continued Mr. Walker, “let none stay 
 here who do not resolve to die amid the ruins and rubbish of 
 this last Protestant fortress, rather than yield to the false prom¬ 
 ise of a Popish tyrant. And let our governor continue his policy, 
 too : let him step deeper and deeper, into the quagmire that, at 
 last, and soon, shall swallow him I tell you, Robert Evelyn, we 
 have no hope of life itself, but in the holding out of this place. 
 If it can be held until proper succors come from England, William 
 may still wear his triple crown.” 
 
 “But pardon me, Mr. Walker, if, even for William’s sake, I 
 see no reason at your side, in this desperate and hopeless resist¬ 
 ance. Shall we madly sacrifice our lives to his interests who will 
 not protect ours ? You talk of English succor, at his hands : 
 why has it not already come ? Why not long ago ? So early 
 as December and January he had advice of the voluntary peril 
 incurred here, by taking up arms against his father-in-law, with 
 urgent requests for assistance. It is now the middle of April; 
 yet to this hour have we been left to struggle alone and unno¬ 
 ticed ; until at last we are defeated and shattered on every side, 
 and reduced to utter extremity.” 
 
 “Be not rash in condemning,” said Mr. Walker; “had you 
 closely watched events, you would have found that William was 
 so employed with more important business, as not to be able to 
 assist us. About the time we applied, Louis, by the perfidious 
 invasion of Austria, had broken the peace of Nimeguen ; in 
 March, the Diet of Ratisbon declared war against him, as the 
 common disturber of Christendom ; the Dutch soon followed 
 
28 6 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 them : but a few days since, the Elector of Brandenburgh has 
 echoed both. And to all who know that it has been the constant 
 policy of William to accomplish a general league against his in¬ 
 solent rival, it must not seem strange that, in awaiting the proper 
 time to issue an English declaration, also, as well as in watching 
 the manifestations of Spain, he has scarce found opportunity to 
 attend to Ireland.” 
 
 “ These reasons, sir, could not have influenced his conduct with 
 respect to us, from December to the middle of the last month, 
 inasmuch as the causes for them did not, until that time, exist.” 
 
 “You criticise closely ; and I will not refuse you a sequel of 
 the confidence I have, ere now, imparted. Recollect, first, that 
 William was by no means sure of his English crown when our 
 addresses reached him. That he was then awaiting the decisions 
 of the English Convention, which, at times, seemed to bode him 
 little comfort or honor. That, in fact, he was not acknowledged 
 king until late in February. Recollecting this, we must next 
 note the opposition he experienced from the blinded prelates, and 
 others who style themselves non-jurors ; the vexation caused to 
 him by the intrigues of the disappointed Tories, and even by the 
 restrictions, in the matter of supplies, laid on him by his own 
 Whig Parliament. All of which so inflamed his difficult temper, 
 as to induce him, in disgust, to make a motion for returning to 
 Holland, and wholly abandoning his English crown—” 
 
 “ Indeed, Mr. Walker !” interrupted Evelyn ; “I thought the 
 new monarch and his people agreed well together.” 
 
 “I am scandalized to admit the contrary. Either too much 
 of the loose whims and manners of the court of the last Charles 
 continues among the nobles and councillors who encircle Dutch 
 William, and offend his notions of propriety ; or else he is, him¬ 
 self, framed by nature or habit, so opposite to the English taste 
 and character, that he and his subjects do not seem likely ever 
 to love one another. Since, in so important a question as the 
 justly ascertaining the nature of the man called to rule over us 
 all, truth is, even for policy-sake, to be prized, I must confiden¬ 
 tially advise you that I incline to the latter opinion ; particular¬ 
 ly on account of a passage in the letter of a great man, who has 
 had good opportunity to observe the king, and of whom I have 
 before spoken to you. For the purpose of enlightening your 
 mind on this point, attend while I read the following.” 
 
 Mr. Walker produced a letter, from which he read, aloud, a 
 character of William, penned by his best eulogist, Burnet, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 287 
 
 which appears retained, word for word, in that author's history 
 of his own times. It ran thus : 
 
 “The prince has been much neglected in his education, for all 
 his life-long he hated constraint. He speaks little, he puts on 
 some appearance of application, but he hates business of all sorts ; 
 yet he hates talking, and all house-games, more. This puts him 
 on a perpetual course of hunting, to which he seems to give him¬ 
 self up beyond any man I ever knew ; but I look on that always 
 as a flying from company and business. He has no vice but of 
 one sort, in which he is very cautious and secret. He has a way 
 that was affable to the Dutch, but he cannot bring himself to 
 comply with the temper of the English, his coldness and slowness 
 being very contrary to the genius of that nation." 
 
 “ This,” resumed Mr. Walker, hesitating, with some reason, 
 to read any more, “ would not seem to augur a good understand¬ 
 ing between William and his English subjects.” 
 
 “ Or between him and his English wife, sir,” said Evelyn. 
 “Pray, Mr. Walker, do you surmise what that one peccadillo 
 is, about which your friend gives him the implied praise of being 
 so cautious and secret ?” 
 
 “ No ; I am left ignorant of the matter ; nor do I wish to 
 probe the imperfections of princes. The sole information we get 
 from what 1 have read, consists in the establishment of a certain 
 point, which was necessary to our discourse—namely, that, along 
 with other causes mentioned, William's personal dislike of those 
 around him, and their consequent dislike of him, may have tended 
 so to keep matters embroiled and disarranged, on the other side, 
 as, up to the present time, to deprive us of his assistance.” 
 
 “ I think I have heard, too, that the English army is discon¬ 
 tented and mutinous,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ I grieve to admit the fact. Indeed, my letters apprise mo 
 that so much does William doubt their steadiness, that he fea™ 
 to send them over here. His own faithful Dutch are absolutely 
 indispensable about him to secure, in every way, the new estab¬ 
 lishment. Fresh troops would require fresh expenditure, which 
 his parliament does not allow him to enter into ; and much time, 
 in the raising and disciplining. Scotland, too, is to be settled. 
 In fact, there are abundant reasons why we have been left to 
 light our own battle.” 
 
 “ And,” continued Evelyn, “ none of them, mayhap, more co¬ 
 gent than the policy of allowing our failure, and James's success 
 over us, to frighten the English people and parliament a little 
 
288 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 That so men’s eyes may be more turned upon William, and, at 
 the same time, more liberal concessions made to him.” 
 
 “I believe in my heart, youth,” replied Mr. Walker, riveting 
 his eyes in some surprise, and perhaps admiration, upon Evelyn, 
 “ thou hast truly fathomed the under-current of this political tide, 
 and guessed the very master-motive of King William’s back¬ 
 wardness towards us, confirmed by the deep counsels of my Lord 
 Halifax. Is it thy own thought ?” 
 
 Evelyn modestly admitted that it was, and Mr. Walker went 
 on. 
 
 “ However that may be, we have still only one part to act 
 Derry must be held against James, until its walls crumble, and 
 its defenders lie buried in the heap. Succors will at last come : 
 when they do, let Ireland boast one strong place, at least, one 
 little nook, where they can be received, and taken advantage of. 
 I care not for this governor. He steps to his own downfall, as 
 you shall see. There is one bold gentleman whom—though now 
 at a distance, and beset with dangers—I expect at the gates : were 
 he arrived, we should make a stern defence. Meantime, I must 
 attend to my duties. Silent and secret they shall be—more pru¬ 
 dent and cautious than the shallow policy they oppose—and, let 
 us hope, more successful. To-morrow, at the furthest, come and 
 see me.” 
 
 Evelyn could not remain ignorant that Mr. Walker’s secret 
 efforts consisted in hinting here and there, and amongst those 
 he knew were most likely to be inflamed, the nature of the order 
 of council that morning issued. It required little argument to 
 convince the majority of the people and garrison that Lundy 
 was a traitor to King William, prepared, according to a per¬ 
 fidious contract, to deliver up the city of Derry to the vengeance 
 of the Papists. The effects of this conviction soon became ap¬ 
 parent in the clamors of all against his measures, and in form 
 of a desperate resistance. Parties of dragoons sallied out, in 
 quest of provisions ; obnoxious individuals experienced their 
 hospitality ; and one suspected officer was shot. 
 
 The next morning, a clergyman from Johnstown came into 
 Derry, dispatched by James from that place to know “if the 
 garrison of Derry would surrender on honorable terms, which 
 they should have to prevent the effusion of Christian blood j” and 
 also bearing a proclamation that gave solemn promise of safe 
 conduct, in and out, to such of the citizens as might be appoint¬ 
 ed to negotiate. Another council was immediately called, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 289 
 
 diplomatists appointed, with liberty to any gentleman to join 
 them on their peaceful mission. 
 
 Mr. Walker did not appear at the council, nor take a part in 
 the proceedings, contenting himself with a counteraction of both, 
 which, for his views, was more effective than personal opposition, 
 or, under the immediate circumstances, overt hostility of any 
 kind. Seconded by a gentleman, who afterwards shared with 
 him the honors and dangers of his success, he went from house 
 to house, from group to group, through the streets of the city ; 
 zealously, though secretly and prudently, creating a general ha¬ 
 tred of the governor, and a general distrust of the good faith 
 of James and his adherents. He met Evelyn coming out from 
 the council that had sat to consider the message of the deposed 
 monarch. 
 
 “ Have you been appointed ?” he asked. Evelyn answered, 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Go, notwithstanding. Your eye and ear are sharp, and your 
 judgment ripe beyond your years. Go—and as one I can con¬ 
 fide in. Bring me back a true account of this traitorous nego¬ 
 tiation. 
 
 Evelyn, learning that he might accompany those who were 
 regularly named, did not hesitate, from feelings of general inter¬ 
 est, as well as curiosity, to take advantage of this hint. Ed¬ 
 mund, hitherto a silent, and seemingly indifferent spectator of 
 what was going forward, encountered him on his way to join 
 the commissioners. Learning his purpose and destination, he 
 startled Evelyn by expressing a wish to ride out by his side. 
 
 “ I am extremely anxious,” he said, “ to satisfy myself, by per¬ 
 sonal observation, of the appearance and condition of the army, 
 to a portion of which I belong.” 
 
 “ That is natural,” said Evelyn, “and you may meet some old 
 friends, too.” 
 
 “ Perhaps hear something of my father and sister,” added Ed¬ 
 mund. 
 
 “ Come, then ; but need I observe, my dear M’Donnell, on the 
 situation in which we at present stand towards each other ?” 
 
 “ It is indeed unnecessary to remind me that I am your pris¬ 
 oner. Still less so to remind me that my word of honor is 
 pledged to consider myself as such. I shall not press my suit.” 
 
 “ You shall—or no—take it, willingly, without a word more. 
 I was wrong, come, we may be late ; the commissioners depart 
 immediately.” 
 
 13 
 
290 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Upon a rising ground, a little at the Derry side of Johnstown, 
 they came in view of James’s camp. It was gay and imposing, 
 and produced an evident effect on the commissioners. The de¬ 
 posed king had marched from Dublin at the head of about twelve 
 thousand men ; five thousand French, well appointed, in every 
 respect ; the remainder, however, native levies, deficient in arms, 
 uniform, and, worst of all, discipline. In fact, on a par with the 
 few thousands commanded by Hamilton and Rosen, and who 
 were now joined to James’s grand army ; the whole making a 
 present force of twenty thousand. 
 
 The French auxiliaries exclusively occupied the camp ; the natives 
 being posted in the village, or, out of sight, at the back of the 
 eminence, as if their friends were ashamed of the appearance they 
 made. This arrangement was, at all events, in conformity with 
 the spirit of rather insolent self-sufficiency and dictation which 
 had characterized, since their landing at Kinsale, the soldiers of 
 his Most Christian majesty, and which caused many disagreeable, 
 and some fatal squabbles, between them and the proud people 
 they sought to depreciate and humble in their native land. But 
 whatever might have been the motive of the present arrange¬ 
 ment, its effect was happy and politic. The sight of a regular, 
 though small army, of warlike foreigners, shining in rich uniforms 
 and polished arms, or prancing on caparisoned war-horses, being 
 calculated to impress the Derry deputation with more respect, at 
 least, than could a host of Irish peasants, huddled together in 
 confusion, and clothed and armed as chance might provide. 
 
 The camp spread over two successive little eminences, on the 
 higher of which was seen the royal tent, richly draped and 
 adorned, in French taste, and surmounted by the royal standard. 
 The city cavalcade passed some outside lines, and ’approached, 
 following a guide, the first height, where they expected to find 
 the officer who should marshal them to the king. Arrived at 
 the point, they saw, sitting on the grass, before his tent, and 
 surrounded by inferior officers, a person whose uniform proclaimed 
 him of some importance, but whose features, air, and general 
 expression, caused a sentiment of dislike and fear rather than of 
 deference. He was about forty years of age ; his body and 
 limbs coarse and muscular ; his nose hooked ; his eye gray, small, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 291 
 
 indolent, and cruel. The pallid, overshadowing brows ; the lank, 
 colorless hair that hung at either side of his face ; and the long, 
 thick moustache of the same which fell over his upper lip—gave 
 to his whole visage an inexpressible character of cool ferocity. 
 This was Lord Galmoy—the disgrace of the cause he abetted, 
 the terror and aversion of those he oppressed—one of the bad 
 spirits that, in every time of convulsion, are let loose to affright 
 and disgust—who went forth to the destroying of his fellow- 
 creatures as if summoned to a banquet—and who, from all that 
 can be gathered, warranted Oldmixon in defining him as a man 
 “ whom no titles could honor.” 
 
 When the officer in attendance upon the commissioners had 
 announced them to Lord Galmoy, he neither rose nor inclined 
 his head. He only vouchsafed them a cool stare, which, although 
 one of indifference, was more disagreeable than if he had frowned. 
 Presently he rose, however, and motioning them to follow, was 
 about to lead towards the second eminence, when a Redshank 
 quickly gaining his side, presented a packet, with the words, 
 4 ‘ From his Lordship of Antrim to his Lordship of Galmoy— 
 these.” 
 
 Edmund instantly recognized, in this courier, the Scottish ser¬ 
 geant who had opposed his authority in the little Deer Park. 
 The man’s observance of him was equally quick. When Galmoy 
 had done reading the dispatch, the sergeant touched his bonnet, 
 and approaching closely to the nobleman’s side, whispered him, 
 and pointed to Edmund. The gray eye of Lord Galmoy turned 
 round, and fell, ominously, on the person to whom his notice had 
 been directed. Again the sergeant said something in a low voice, 
 and extended his arm towards the group of commissioners. 
 Again Lord Galmoy’s glance seemed to fix a victim in the per¬ 
 son of Evelyn. 
 
 “ This requires present attention,” he then said, advancing a 
 few steps towards the group. “ Is there here a native Irish sub¬ 
 ject of King James, called Edmund M’Donnell?” 
 
 'I answer to that challenge,” said Edmund. 
 
 “ Forward,” resumed Lord Galmoy. 
 
 M’Donnell stepped from Evelyn’s side. 
 
 “ What are you ?” questioned the nobleman. 
 
 “ An officer in Lord Antrim’s regiment.” 
 
 “ Why are you absent from your colors, and now found by 
 the side of traitors ?” 
 
 il I am a prisoner, on parole, accompanying hither the person 
 
rHE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 •J92 
 
 who is accountable for my safe-keeping,’’ replied Edmund, 
 haughtily. 
 
 “ Where were you made prisoner, and by whom ?” 
 
 “ Outside Coleraine, by my Lord Mount Alexander.” 
 
 “ What duty drew you towards Coleraine ?” 
 
 “ The duty of honor and humanity, which prompted me to es¬ 
 cort thither one who was a dear private friend, although a pub¬ 
 lic enemy, in order to save him from the bloodthirsty hands of 
 my own people.” 
 
 “ What was that dear friend’s name ?” 
 
 “ Robert Evelyn,” answered the person spoken of. 
 
 “ Are you the man ?” still demanded the catechist. 
 
 Being answered yes—“ Forward,” he said again. “ Whose 
 commission do you bear ? for I see you, also, are an officer.” 
 
 “ One granted in the name of King William and Queen Mary,” 
 answered Evelyn. A French officer, by Galmoy’s side, slightly 
 started, and stared first at Evelyn, and then at his colleague. 
 
 “Yery well,” continued Lord Galmoy. “And did you wear 
 that sword, and bear that commission, when Captain M’Donnell 
 rescued you from the sergeant and soldiers near Glenarm ?” 
 
 “ He did,” said M’Donnell. 
 
 “ Yery well, again. It seems, then, Master Robert Evelyn, 
 that you are a traitor, found some time since in arms against 
 King James, taken prisoner, rescued after you had surrendered, 
 and now a second time found armed against your sovereign. 
 And it also seems, Captain Edmund M’Donnell, that you, hold¬ 
 ing a commission from King James, have played the double traitor, 
 in rescuing, harboring, and protecting a traitor.” 
 
 “ I know not who or what you are,” said Edmund ; “ but I call 
 you the falsest knave that ever spoke, for daring to name me so.” 
 
 “ Yery well,” said Lord Galmoy, quietly, while a smile played 
 over his features. “ Order round a dozen muskets, here”—to an 
 officer, who immediately disappeared—“Irish ones. Just kneel 
 down, Master Evelyn, and you, Captain Edmund M’Donnell. 
 Stand aside, gentlemen.” 
 
 “ Murderer !” cried Edmund, as both started at this sudden 
 and unceremonious arrangement, while the blood first rushing to 
 their cheeks, then retreated to their hearts ; “ you cannot mean 
 this violence ! You cannot assume the power of taking two 
 lives, without inquiry or cause, authority or the permission of 
 others I” 
 
 “ My friend,” exclaimed Evelyn, “ if at all accountable, is ac 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 293 
 
 countable to his own commanding officer. As a prisoner, in my 
 charge, he is further protected ; and I am protected by the 
 pledge of safe conduct which King James has given to the depu- 
 tation at my side.” 
 
 “ I cannot find your name in the list,” replied Galmoy. 
 “ People of Derry, has Robert Evelyn been appointed one of 
 your number ?” 
 
 The commissioners answered in the negative, but reminded him 
 of the understanding which gave equal protection to any who ac¬ 
 companied them. 
 
 “ That is a difference for the counsellor-at-law, not for a sol¬ 
 dier,” resumed Lord Galmoy. “ Here come the muskets. Kneel 
 down, you dear friends, with your faces to that rise—close to it. 
 You will not ? Men ! tie them back to back, and place them on 
 the ground.” 
 
 “ I appeal to King James, or to his officers, against this mur¬ 
 der 1” exclaimed Evelyn, as the men approached. 
 
 “ If there be here a gentleman, a man, or a true soldier,” 
 echoed Edmund, “ we appeal to him!” 
 
 “ What say you, General De Rosen ?” asked Galmoy of the 
 French officer by his side, and who, though not so terribly dis¬ 
 tinguished as his lordship, yet has left behind him some character 
 for cruelty and tyranny. 
 
 “ Qu’ils meurent,” answered De Rosen, laconically. 
 
 u Do your duty,” continued Galmoy to the soldiers. 
 
 The young men flew to each other’s arms, and then advanced, 
 hand in hand, to the place pointed out. They knelt ; bandages 
 were tied hard over their eyes ; and, still grasping each other's 
 hands, they awaited, in silence and darkness, a sudden and miser¬ 
 able death. 
 
 “ Fall in !” they heard Galmoy say ; and the soldiers got into 
 motion. 
 
 “ Ready ?” The muskets, as the men brought them into the 
 position required, flashed. The friends heard the sharp click of 
 the locks, from half to full cock, and, slight as the sound in real¬ 
 ity was, it filled their brains with horrid noise. 
 
 “ Present!” continued Galmoy, in a deliberate, distinct, and 
 withal a mocking tone. 
 
 “ Recover arms !” was the next command. 
 
 The hands of the two friends, which had been clasped togeth¬ 
 er, fell by their sides. They were more unnerved by the abrupt 
 relief than they had been by the prospect of immediate death. 
 
294 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ On second thoughts, young sirs,” Galmoy went on, “ this 
 shall be done better. You, Captain M’Donnell, take the band¬ 
 age off your eyes, get up, and advance hither. Master Evelyn 
 need not be at the trouble of moving.” 
 
 Edmund, faint, and almost bewildered, obeyed these orders. 
 
 “ In consideration of your late courtesy to me,” he sneered, as 
 they stood face to face, “ I ask you, are you willing to do a 
 slight piece of service for your life ?” 
 
 “ Life is dear to every man : let me hear your terms,” an¬ 
 swered M’Donnell. 
 
 “ Give him a musket.” A soldier placed one in Edmund’s 
 passive hands. “ Now, to save so dear a friend from common 
 executioners, shoot him, yourself,” added Galmoy. 
 
 “Do not urge me to this,” said Edmund, glaring on Galmoy, 
 though he spoke in a subdued voice. 
 
 “1 only command you,” replied the torturer 
 
 “Do not, I entreat you,” continued M’Donnell, a terrible 
 energy renerving his frame, although he still spoke slowly and 
 deliberately ; “ for the sake of manhood and decency, as you 
 love or fear God, do not.” 
 
 Galmoy repeated his command. 
 
 “ Well, then,” said Edmund, bringing the musket to his shoul¬ 
 der. “ Yet, once more, do not.” 
 
 “ Eire!” 
 
 “ Yes, monster,” screamed poor M’Donnell, turning madly 
 upon him, and pulling the trigger. A soldier just had time to 
 strike aside the muzzle of the piece, so that Galmoy’s hair was 
 only singed, although he staggered, and fell. 
 
 “ Leap up, Evelyn!” roared Edmund, who thought Galmoy 
 was killed. His friend was instantly at his side. But both were 
 as instantly seized by De Rosen, by some of the near soldiers, 
 and by Galmoy himself, who soon started to his feet. The young 
 men, urged by thoughtless desperation, firmly grasped, in turn, 
 the two generals. The soldiers tugged hard to tear away their 
 Hands, fearful of injuring Rosen or Galmoy, should they fire on 
 the youths, until both parties stood on separate ground. And 
 thus some short time had elapsed since the report of the musket, 
 when a stir took place through all the camp, particularly near the 
 royal tent. Officers and soldiers stood to their arms ; trumpets 
 sounded a salute ; kettle-drums rolled ; cheers arose ; horses in 
 full gallop were heard approaching. There was a rush round the 
 sweep of the eminence on which the struggle went on ; a gallant 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 295 
 
 party, splendidly mounted and attired, appeared in view. “ The 
 King ! the King !” cried many officers who rode before. “ Make 
 way ! make way I” 
 
 At these words, Edmund and Evelyn readily freed their per¬ 
 secutors, who, in turn, allowed them to stand free ; Galmoy 
 making a hasty signal to the soldiers to wheel round, and come 
 to a salute. M’Donnell darted forward, and, flinging himself 
 almost under the feet of a proud steed, cried out : 
 
 “ My king and master !—where is he ? To him I appeal 
 from an assassin!” 
 
 The rider skilfully checked his prancing horse, and backed 
 kirn amongst the group by whom he was surrounded. As he sat 
 erect in his saddle, he seemed a man about fifty years of age, 
 above the middle size, well and rather squarely made ; his 
 features large and rigid ; but wearing, instead of the mild mel¬ 
 ancholy of his father’s, or the gra ve voluptuousness of his broth¬ 
 er’s, a somewhat bolder and haughtier expression ; with perhaps 
 more enterprise than was apparent in the countenance of either. 
 His flowing periwig descended over his shoulders and back ; his 
 round gray hat, looped up at front, displayed a red and white 
 plume, that was secured by a brilliant cross; many orders, 
 foreign and national, surrounded the royal star that blazed 
 on his breast; the holsters at his saddle-bow were richly em¬ 
 broidered ; his horse nobly caparisoned ; his boots furnished 
 with golden spurs. It was evident that Louis’s attention to 
 tfie outfit of his royal brother, left naked but for him, had been 
 vorthy of the respect he always professed for the exiled monarch. 
 
 “ Blessed saints !” cried James, after he had reined back his 
 horse, “ what bold fool is here ?” 
 
 “ Royal sir,” continued Edmund, dropping on one knee, “ I 
 am your majesty’s faithful subject—an officer bearing your maj 
 esty’s commission ; and I appeal for protection against yon mur¬ 
 derous man, who, because I once saved the life of a friend—a 
 near friend—the husband of my sister, and the brother of my 
 own betrothed lady—calls me—and falsely calls me—disloyal to 
 your majesty, and here seeks—” 
 
 “ My Lord Galmoy, what means this tumult ? Who fired 
 the shot, just now ?” interrupted James. 
 
 “ I did 1” answered Edmund ; “ ’twas I, sire, and at him, too. 
 But it was when he placed a musket in my hand, and command¬ 
 ed me to murder my affianced brother!” 
 
 “ All this is something very scandalous,” replied Jamef 
 
296 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “Sarsfield, we request you to inquire into it, and report tc ns 
 Rise, man, and stand before that gentleman : he will protect you, 
 if so you merit. Hold ! be these the commissioners from Derry ? 
 Turn off along with us, Hamilton, and you, Messieurs Maumont 
 and De Rosen, with his grace of Berwick. Let the citizens 
 attend us.” 
 
 He was followed to a little distance by the officers he had 
 named, the commissioners accompanying them ; and the capitu¬ 
 lation of Derry became the subject of discussion between all, while 
 Sarsfield proceeded in the inquiry his sovereign had commanded. 
 The attention of this celebrated general had, before James’s 
 speech, been riveted on Edmund, either in astonishment or strong 
 interest. M’Donnell now found himself equally attracted by the 
 mien and person of Sarsfield. He was in the prime of life—that 
 is, about forty—tall, straight, robust, and, both by nature and 
 the dress he wore, stamped with the character of a plain-looking 
 man. His features, strong and well-defined, bespoke a simple 
 intenseness of mind and purpose, that atoned for their want of 
 vivacity. In strong contrast to the French pageantry around 
 him, he had on an unembroidered, unwrought buff coat, that 
 must have seen service ; over it, a rusty cuirass, together with 
 the pauldrons, or shoulder-pieces, inseparable from the solid 
 body-piece, of recent use, but in which he was now rather singu¬ 
 lar. A straight sword hung from a broad plain baldric loose 
 at his side ; a close steel cap partly confined his own long black 
 hair, in lieu of periwig ; and great jackboots completed his un¬ 
 pretending costume. 
 
 “ What is your name, young master ?” was the first question 
 asked by Sarsfield, in commencing his investigation. Edmund 
 having answered— 
 
 “ The son of old Randal M’Donnell, of Antrim ?” 
 
 “ The same, sir,” replied Edmund. 
 
 “ I know him, or rather I knew him well. It will grieve me 
 if, in this business, the son has forgotten the father. Let us see 
 about it.” 
 
 Galmoy, seconded by the sergeant, told, in a sulky tone, his 
 charge against Edmund. Sarsfield then turned to him for an 
 explanation. 
 
 “ First,” said M’Donnell, “ I could not consider as my prison¬ 
 er, the man who, having an advantage over me, declined to 
 avail himself of it. Next, sir, he was, as I have informed his 
 majesty, my brother twice told. That i? my answer ” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 297 
 
 “My Lord Galmoy,” resumed the judge, after a little pause, 
 “ there is some allowance to be made for both those arguments. 
 Let us not set at naught, though some have taught us the 
 lesson, the natural yearnings of the heart to kith and kin, 
 especially when young blood sets them agoing. A man will be 
 never the worse soldier or subject for remembering that he is a 
 man.” 
 
 “ General Sarsfield,” replied Galmoy, bitterly, “ if this be 
 meant as grace to the prisoner, I take the freedom of protesting 
 against your single decree. The king will not surely deny me 
 the indulgence of another judge, that may know nothing of the 
 pedigree of the traitor.” 
 
 “ False lord,” interrupted M’Donnell, “ I tell thee once again 
 thou art nearer to traitor-blood than I am.” 
 
 “ Silence, youth,” said Sarsfield, gravely, though not sternly. 
 “ I take you at your word, my Lord Galmoy ; nay, you can 
 even appoint the umpire without trouble to his majesty. Here 
 spurs General Hamilton from the council : will he serve your 
 turn ? 
 
 “ I accept him,” replied Galmoy. 
 
 The officer who now approached was, although a gallant com¬ 
 mander, too, of an appearance and mien very different from Sars¬ 
 field. The reader has before got a sketch of his history, in a 
 conversation between Mr. Walker and Evelyn, from which it may 
 be recollected that he had served with success and credit in France. 
 Fame adds, that his career was there interrupted by a sentence 
 of banishment, in consequence of his having presumed, not, how¬ 
 ever, against the lady’s liking, to fall in love with Louis’s daugh¬ 
 ter, the Princess Conti. Distinctions of rank apart, that royal 
 maiden, in this matter, certainly gave no proof of bad taste. 
 Hamilton was young, a fine, Apollo-looking fellow, with large 
 luminous black eyes, straight nose, high color, outfolding lips, 
 and a grand air, as much, perhaps, the result of personal pride, 
 as of the will of nature. His dress fully proclaimed how well 
 the wearer stood in his own opinion. Without being gaudy, it 
 was rich, almost to grandeur, and studiously adapted to set ofi 
 liis figure to as much advantage as the costume of the day per¬ 
 mitted. Gold fringe hung from the edges of his scarlet vest, 
 from the edges of his flapping pockets, from the pockets of his 
 broad-skirted coat, of the same color, and even from the edges 
 of the ample gloves, that reached almost to his elbows : he wore 
 a neckcloth of the finest Point d’Espagne ; his breast-piece shone 
 
 13 * 
 
298 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 like a mirror ; even his heavy boots were made, so as to gi?« 
 some indication of the symmetry of the limbs they covered. 
 
 Dashing up to the group with whom we are immediately con* 
 'erned— 
 
 “ The king,” said Hamilton, “ wishes me to inquire the cause 
 of some loud speech here, and if possible to assist in soothing it.” 
 
 “ And we wished your presence for just such a purpose,” said 
 Sarsfield. “ Pray, lend us your ears, General Hamilton.” 
 
 The matter in dispute was again stated on all sides : Hamil¬ 
 ton unhesitatingly confirmed the judgment of Sarsfield on the 
 first point of issue. 
 
 “ Had the young officer done otherwise,” he added, “ I should 
 vote him the volley my Lord Galmoy thinks he merits.” 
 
 “ But now that we hold in custody the rebel and traitor whom 
 Captain M’Donnell—” Galmoy began— 
 
 “ He cannot have rescued one who was never taken prisoner,” 
 interrupted Hamilton. “ Tush ! that is the plain truth.” 
 
 “ And, of course,” said Sarsfield, “ Master Robert Evelyn 
 comes before us simply as one of this Derry deputation ; and, 
 rebel and traitor though he be, is protected by the king’s pledge 
 of safe conduct and safe-keeping to all who form it.” 
 
 “ I thank you, gentlemen,” resumed Galmoy, smiling hideously. 
 “ And, I pray you, what is to be my satisfaction for the at¬ 
 tempt on my life ?” 
 
 “ The satisfaction of reflecting that your lordship has not shed 
 innocent blood,” answered Sarsfield. Hamilton only smiled. 
 
 “Or of seeing myself the butt of a youngster ?” continued Gal¬ 
 moy, fixing a look on Hamilton. 
 
 “Or of thanking God and your saint that the ball erred so 
 widely ?” retorted the young commander, carelessly meeting his 
 glare ; “ for, unauthorized in your hasty course, as it now ap¬ 
 pears you have been, your death, on the spot, had been but a 
 justifiable homicide at the hands of the young officer. Bah ! let 
 it end. His majesty moves this way.” 
 
 “ My lords and gentlemen,” said James, as, with his other com¬ 
 manding officers, he joined them, “ we congratulate you on a 
 promise of the peaceful and bloodless ending of this affair. Our 
 good citizens of Derry thankfully accept, by these their deputies, 
 the terms of surrender we have graciously allowed them. To¬ 
 morrow we ride, in person, to the gates of yon foolish city, when, 
 by contract, they shall open to receive us. Meantime, we con* 
 cede to rest, with our force, on the ground we now occupy ; and, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 29 ) 
 
 to-morrow, only a detachment of the army is to accompany us. 
 Farewell, gentlemen commissioners. To our tent !” he continued, 
 waving his hand to those around him. All who had accompanied 
 him down the hill, Sarsfield excepted, galloped back with him, 
 amid renewed cheers, presenting of arms, trumpets, and other 
 bustle. 
 
 “M’Donnell,” said Sarsfield, advancing to Edmund, as the com¬ 
 missioners prepared to return homeward, “ for your father’s sake 
 and your own I am interested in you. Stay in my tent until I 
 can effect your reconciliation with my Lord Antrim. Or should 
 you incline to wear a uniform more Irish, you shall have the rank 
 you at present hold under that nobleman, confirmed in my regi¬ 
 ment of Lucan horse.” 
 
 “ I thank you from my heart, sir,” replied Edmund ; “but you 
 forget that I am a prisoner on parole.” 
 
 “ True ; I had forgotten that/’ said his patron, with regret. 
 
 “ Aud then, should my cousin of Antrim make no difficulty of 
 the present question between us, you know that my immediate 
 service is due to the head of my own clan.” 
 
 “ Well, well, I did not bring to mind, either, your half-Scot¬ 
 tish formalities. Adieu, then ; you return to Derry with your 
 foe-friend ?” 
 
 “ That must be my course in honor, sir.” 
 
 “ Be it so. I only add, if you ever want me, come to me and 
 say so.” He shook Edmund’s hand, and spurred from him. 
 
 The commissioners, accompanied by M’Donnell and Evelyn, 
 returned to the city. The moment they entered Bishop’s gate, 
 Mr. Walker tapped Evelyn on the shoulder, took his arm, and, 
 drawing him aside, demanded an account of the negotiation. 
 When Evelyn had rendered it, he was silent for a moment; then 
 he asked : 
 
 “ To-morrow, you say ?” 
 
 “To-morrow, King James will personally require a fulfilment 
 of the treaty formally entered into with him.” 
 
 “ Most traitorously entered into with him ! Well ; he haa 
 not yet got admission.” 
 
 He called a man, one of his own corps, and giving some direc¬ 
 tions, in a low but earnest tone, the soldier instantly mounted 
 his horse, and left the city. 
 
 “Ride, ride, day and night 1” cried Walker, as he departed, 
 
 “ for life and death, ride !” 
 
 Then he abruptly joined a group of young men and soldiers, 
 
300 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 whom Evelyn recognized as some of the warrior apprentices of 
 Dcrrv, and the most resolute of the garrison. With them, the 
 clergyman conversed energetically. Their faces and action, as 
 the spoke in reply, argued a warm seconding of his words. 
 Finally, he disappeared into the house of a gentleman before 
 alluded to, with whom he kept up a full understanding, and 
 Evelyn saw him no more for that night. 
 
 Next morning, the town was in great commotion at the intel¬ 
 ligence of the advance of James’s army. Evelyn and M’Donnel 
 ran with a crowd of the citizens to the wall, at the southeast 
 end over Bishop’s gate, which commanded a view of the road 
 from Johnstown. Thence, indeed, they beheld a long line of 
 horse and foot, with flags and colors, winding at some distance 
 down gentle slopes of land, and by glimpses of water, a bright 
 April sun flashing on their pikes and muskets, steel caps, and 
 breast-pieces, and giving brilliancy and life to their appearance. 
 
 “ As God liveth,” loudly exclaimed Mr. Walker, who stood 
 by, throwing into his manner more vivacity than was natural 
 to him, “ we are betrayed, even in the treaty made with us. It 
 was promised not to march a Papist army within four miles of 
 our town—but the false Papists come !” 
 
 Here the town bells rang out, and it was understood that the 
 governor had called another council. 
 
 “This utter perfidy,” continued Walker to Evelyn, in the 
 same loud tone, “ I could not reckon on. I fear we are lost.” 
 
 “James could not come unattended,” said Evelyn, “ and he 
 does not come with his whole army.” 
 
 “ Tell me not! Hide not our ruin from us. My friend, my 
 zealous and brave friend, where art thou ?—Ha !’’ interrupting 
 himself, as the man he had dispatched from the city the day 
 before, here galloped up the street. “ Well, sir, well?” 
 
 “ He is at Butcher’s gate, by this time, or close to it,” 
 answered the jaded messenger. 
 
 “ Thank God !” exclaimed Mr. Walker ; “ there is hope yet. 7 
 
 A thundering at Butcher’s gate, so loud as to echo through 
 the little city, was now heard. Walker hastened thither. 
 
 He found the whole guard resolute in refusing admission to 
 the persons that clamored at the outside. 
 
 “ I tell you it is Captain Adam Murray, a brave gentleman, 
 and your best Mend. Undo the gate!” cried Mr. Walker. Still 
 they refused. The governor’s orders had been peremptory. He 
 ran up to the terra-plane, and called for ropes ; he descended, 
 
THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 SOI 
 
 and asked for the officer of the guard. He was absent, ne 
 inquired his name. Captain James Morrison, he was answered— 
 one of the apprentice boys. 
 
 “Where is he ?” Morrison appeared coming down the street. 
 In a few moments, contrary to the orders received, Butcher’s 
 ga te was opened, and Murray, with a large body of well-appointed 
 horse, rushed in. Walker and he clasped hands. 
 
 “ I have left fifteen hundred infantry a mile off,” said Murray. 
 “ Come I too late ?” 
 
 “ Do you know who approaches Bishop’s gate V' demanded 
 Walker. 
 
 “ The tyrant ?—with his army ?” 
 
 “ Even so. But, patience ; come now to the council. To the 
 council 1” he continued, addressing those around him, including 
 Murray’s dragoons—“ to the council, loyal citizens! Haste, or 
 we are betrayed !—treason, treason I” 
 
 Evelyn followed him and his new friend to the market-house, 
 where Lundy and his council were deliberating, and could scarce 
 push in among the anxious crowd that closed round'Walker. 
 
 The deliberators had just come to a resolution of immediate 
 surrender, when Walker and Murray confronted them at the 
 table. Some agitation was instantly evinced among the adherents 
 of Lundy, for Walker was pale, and the sturdy militia-captain 
 red with anger. 
 
 “ No surrender!” cried Murray, the moment he had heard the 
 nature of the resolution—“no treason will we join you in, Mr. 
 Governor and gentlemen. No such treason as left our passes 
 unguarded—as sent back to Derry the ten thousand willing men 
 you took out of it to the banks of the Finn, and would at last 
 deliver us to our perfidious enemies. No surrender, men of 
 Derry !” 
 
 A loud cheer answered him. Lundy seemed appalled. But he 
 tried to repel the dangerous charge thus brought against him 
 and his colleagues. 
 
 “ Patience, Captain Murray,” said Walker, giving him a pri¬ 
 vate signal ; “ mayhap you are too hasty in accusing. All that 
 you have spoken of was done openly, and therefore let us say 
 fairly. I propose only one question—only one.” He grew 
 paler, with the conscious importance of the climax he was thus 
 approaching ; his eye flashed ; his figure became more erect ; 
 and in his purple coat, and his large bands, forming a strong 
 professional contrast to the military sash round his waist, and 
 
302 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the sword he held under his arm, together with the whole ex* 
 pression of his features and manner, Evelyn saw in him a striking 
 specimen of a soldier of the church militant. “ And,” he re¬ 
 sumed, after a pause, “ this is my question. What has become 
 of the order, in consequence of which King William’s officers, 
 and their two disciplined regiments, sent by his gracious Majesty 
 for our especial comfort and relief, were compelled to abandon 
 this wretched city in its sorest need ? Why was not that made 
 public ?” Lundy looked confounded. 
 
 “ The suppression of such an order was not fair. What Cap¬ 
 tain Murray has charged may have been so. I judge no man, 
 because it was openly done. But that was secretly done—done 
 in the dark. As the Lord liveth, that , I believe, was treason 1” 
 
 “ It was !” cried his seconder ; “and let it be punished as such.” 
 
 “ It was ! it was !” shouted the soldiers and citizens. “ String 
 them up ; they have betrayed us !” 
 
 “They have!” echoed Mr. Walker, at last flinging off his 
 mask of moderation ; “ but, if ye hold the hearts of men, not 
 yet unto the* death. To your walls—to your posts—to your 
 gates! the exterminators beset them this moment. To your 
 guns! Follow us !” he continued, bursting through the crowd 
 with his friend. “ Let every man who loves life, religion, liberty, 
 and his fireside, mount such a badge as Captain Murray now ties 
 on his arm.” It was a white handkerchief. Hundreds instantly 
 obeyed this command ; and with cries of “ Come on!” from the 
 two leaders, and of acclamations from themselves, soldiers and 
 people, ran up to the church bastion, and to the whole line of 
 wall over Bishop’s gate. 
 
 James appeared, with his detachment, but one or two hundred 
 yards from them. Double rows of muskets were instantly 
 formed, the guns loaded with small shot, and resolutely manned. 
 
 Messengers arrived from the council, exhorting the soldiers 
 and citizens not to fire, until a deputation should be sent out. 
 Numbers of the elder and more respectable citizens seconded 
 this request; Evelyn raised his voice on the same side. Even 
 Walker seemed outwardly willing to recommend forbearance; 
 but Evelyn, being closer to him than he suspected, overheard him 
 add, in a low voice, to Murray: 
 
 “ Let us lull their fears ; it may save a struggle within the very 
 walls.” 
 
 Still the army approached ; and now their music burst gayly 
 on the air. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 303 
 
 “Yonder,” resumed Mr. Walker, still in a low voice, and 
 addressing himself to one of the enterprising apprentices, who 
 had before done him a service—“ yonder is the cruel tyrant, in 
 person.” 
 
 “ Where ?” asked James Spike, standing to the side of his 
 gun, a ready match in his hand. 
 
 “ See you not the crowd of gay officers who push on before 
 the army ? See you not two of them that ride alone, surrounded 
 by the others ? The man on the gray horse, to the right, is the 
 tyrant.” 
 
 James Spike rested his match across the saker. He and 
 Walker looked earnestly at each other. 
 
 “ Touch her,” at last whispered the clergyman—“ but no—not 
 yet; bear her muzzle down, a little. Softly ; none need note 
 you—there, that allows for your elevation. Touch her now.” 
 
 “Well, my mother, honest woman, little thought I’d have 
 lived to do this,” said Spike, laughing. Flash and roar went the 
 saker, with a mouthful of shot for King James, from his good 
 city of Derry, to which, with colors flying and music playing, he 
 ambled so tranquilly. Ere the smoke came between, Evelyn saw 
 an aid-de-camp drop, while others fell in the ranks of the ap¬ 
 proaching line. Well might the musicians stop both their melody 
 and their march ; and, unsupported by cannon as James at 
 present was, well might he, too, turn his horse’s head towards 
 Johnstown ; and, like the king of France, who, 
 
 -“ with forty thousand men. 
 
 Marched up the hill, and then marched down again,” 
 
 fall back with his army to safer quarters. One single horseman 
 stood a moment behind, his face turned towards the false city. 
 Evelyn, looking sharply, recognized him to be Sarsfield. He 
 stood as if astonishment and indignation kept him motionless, 
 or as if to dare another shot in his own person. More than a 
 minute he so stood ; then suddenly wheeled round and galloped 
 after his friends. 
 
 The determinations of the council became useless ; nay, the 
 council itself, not conceiving their presence of much further im¬ 
 port, stole, one by one, out of the city. Lundy, however, being 
 so well known, feared to expose himself to the infuriated garri¬ 
 son and people, and remained secreted in his own house. Mx. 
 Walker hearing this, visited him. 
 
304 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “1 grieve for you, Colonel Lundy,” he said ; “ believe me, I 
 never meant to involve you in the danger that now so nearly threat¬ 
 ens you.” 
 
 “It increases then, Mr. Walker?” demanded the governor. 
 
 “ So much so, that my poor influence has proved almost inef¬ 
 fectual in saving your house from an attack.” 
 
 “ What would you advise, sir ?” 
 
 “ Why, your friends have all contrived to escape ; but, doubt¬ 
 less, the peril to you, at this late period, is more grievous than 
 it was to them. I am anxious, however, to do you any service 
 in my power.” 
 
 Lundy paused, and looked keenly into the speaker’s face. 
 After a minute’s scrutiny he rose. 
 
 “ To you, sir, I commit myself,” he said. 
 
 “ Procure a disguise, then. Follow me ; and Providence may 
 yet befriend us.” 
 
 Lundy obeying his suggestions in every respect, was conveyed 
 by Walker and some friends past the gates. There they parted. 
 
 “ Take heed of yourself now, and Heaven guide you,” added 
 the plotter, who had led Colonel Lundy almost to death, and who 
 now delivered him from this danger. 
 
 As he returned up the street, a crowd were collected round 
 Captain Murray, shouting loudly. 
 
 “No, citizens,” this gentleman was saying, “ I am not fit to 
 be your governor. Your champion I hope to be. But here is 
 the man of our choice. Long live our governor, the Rev. Colonel 
 George Walker 1” 
 
 This nomination was immediately confirmed ; and also a dep¬ 
 uty chosen in the person of the Derry friend before mentioned 
 as much in Mr. Walker’s confidence. Evelyn curiously watched 
 the eye of the new governor, but could detect, under the mod¬ 
 esty of its lid, no sparkling of the gratified ambition and triumph 
 he had expected. 
 
 The energy of Mr. Walker became more than ever conspicu¬ 
 ous. He promptly examined the stores, the magazine, the guns, 
 the gates ; he arranged the garrison under eight colonels, of 
 whom himself made one ; and found it to amount to seven 
 thousand five hundred active soldiers, and between three and 
 four hundred officers. With this force, Derrv commenced a 
 regular resistance to King James. But it should not be forgot¬ 
 ten, that the men, women, and children, natives and strangers, 
 who, exclusive of the garrison, finally remained, amounted to 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 305 
 
 twenty thousand. A population frightfully disproportioned to 
 the supplies of the besieged city ; and, indeed, even to its ex¬ 
 tent. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Some weeks after the events we have just detailed, Mr. Walker 
 called on Evelyn late at night, and took him by the arm to the 
 walls. 
 
 “ Stand here with me,” he said, “ and, first, consider our situ¬ 
 ation. Although James, about a week following our salute, 
 was obliged to return to Dublin to attend his plundering parlia¬ 
 ment, yet has he left behind the whole of his power. On every 
 side, from every point of the compass, does it beset us. Look 
 north. About five miles down the river stands Culmore fort, 
 formerly our only hope of communication with the broad Lough 
 and the open sea ; now is it in the hands of the foe. Between 
 us and it, Kilkenny Butler, and his Kilkenny men, guard the 
 river. Southward you see Ballowgry hill. There prance Lord 
 Galmoy’s horse. Over him, Lord Gormanstown holds his mag¬ 
 azine ; and, were it daylight, you could see Lord Clare’s yellow 
 flag streaming in the same direction. Turn again. Yonder, in 
 the sheriff’s ground, lie Lords Louth and Slane. Near them, 
 Bellew from Duleek, Fingal, and Fagan of Filtrim. Looking 
 back, towards the Lough, Clancarty keeps Brook Hall, and 
 O’Neill’s dragoons the opposite shore—Gordon O’Neill, the son 
 of the accursed Sir Phelim 1 
 
 “ At the other sides of the city, and far and near around 
 them, are commanders and forces of as high names and as fear¬ 
 ful recollections. Down from Tara’s hill, Plunket has led his 
 horse. From Tredagh rushes Lord Dungan’s army. Tyrconnel’s 
 from the land of the Fitzgeralds. Luttrell’s from King’s county. 
 Lord Dillon’s heir comes to us from Roscommon ; young Talbot 
 from Kildare ; Galmoy from the Barrow ; and Wauhup and 
 Buchan from the wilds of Iuverary. Cork sends us the old 
 M icCartymore ; Glenwood, the Hagans ; Donegal, the tall Gal- 
 loghers; and yon bleak Inishowen, old Caheir’s demesne, an 
 O’Dogherty still. I have named but half ; yet, even this sounds 
 an overwhelming array.” 
 
306 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “It does, indeed,” said Evelyn ; “but is it not now too late 
 to say so ?” 
 
 “ Well may we exclaim,” continued Mr. Walker, not noticing 
 Evelyn’s remark, and as if really impressed, for the first time, 
 with the magnitude of the responsibility he had incurred—“ well 
 may we exclaim, in the phrase of our liturgy, 1 There is none 
 other that fighteth for us, but only thou, O God!’ Youth, it 
 does beget some confusion in me, and some disorder among the 
 people, when we look about us, and see what we are doing. Our 
 enemies all about us ; and such friends as have not yet gone, 
 still running away from us. A garrison composed of poor people, 
 frightened from their own homes, and more fit to hide themselves 
 than to face an enemy. No persons of any experience in war 
 amongst us ; and those who were sent to assist us, flying from 
 the first sight of the place. But few horse to sally out with, 
 and no forage. No engineers to instruct us in our works. No 
 fireworks. Not so much as a hand-grenade to annoy the enemy. 
 Not a gun well mounted in the whole town. Thirty thousand 
 mouths to feed, and not above ten days’ provision for them, in 
 the opinion of our former governors. Several leaving us every 
 day, and exposing our situation and our councils to the foe ; that 
 foe so active in endeavoring to divide us, and so athirst and 
 hungry for my own betraying. So numerous, so powerful, and 
 so inveterate withal ! God be our shield, I say ! The poor 
 Israelites, at the Red Sea, stood not in sorer trouble.” 
 
 “ If so, Mr. Walker, and if you really think § 0 -, of what use 
 can be the conviction and avowal of this danger, unless you de¬ 
 termine to avert it?” demanded Evelyn. 
 
 “ How ?” asked the governor, gravely. 
 
 “ How but by accepting the favorable terms of surrender that 
 even yet are open to you. That come into the city almost every 
 day, inclosed in a blind shell, sent by an emissary, or in some 
 shape or other. And do not these terms promise you, on the 
 word of a prince, perfect toleration—nay, protection of religious 
 opinion, of property, and life—forgiveness of the past—freedom 
 for the future ?” 
 
 “ Ay, young man, thus they promise. But, oh, that promise 1 
 He that would depend his life on a rush may trust it. Not I; 
 I, who am especially marked down for vengeance! I, their 
 single foe—their confusion and shame! I, a heretic priest, in 
 their blaspheming mouths—with whom no faith is to be held. 
 The word of a prince ! Yes, I remember that cant—that sick 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 307 
 
 ening echo ; I remember it as the charm that too long lulled us 
 asleep, until thieves stole to our bedsides, and awoke us with 
 their hands on our throttles, boasting permission from the very 
 lips that had spoken those words to our credulous senses. Toler¬ 
 ation ! such as the tiger gives the herd. No ; think not 1 spoke 
 out plainly before you, because I was dsquieted with what I 
 have done, or afraid of what I have to do. Good-night !—re¬ 
 tire to your bed, and court slumber ; for, if I mistake not, your 
 watch comes to-morrow night—adieu !” He turned hastily along 
 the wall, and Evelyn soon heard his “ All’s well!” echoed from 
 post to post round the city. Evelyn also turned from the walls, 
 deeply revolving the new light in which he had just caught a 
 glimpse of the governor. He did not, however, bend his steps 
 homeward, as Mr. Walker had advised, but to a house next his 
 uncle’s, in which, unknown to Mrs. Evelyn, Edmund occupied 
 quarters as his nominal prisoner. 
 
 Although the pressure of more public and important events 
 has, for some time, kept us silent regarding the private affairs of 
 certain of our friends, it must not be supposed that these affairs 
 remained altogether stationary, or that we were altogether indif¬ 
 ferent to their progress. In fact, it was because we continued 
 well aware how they went on, that we have allowed ourselves 
 to omit recent allusion to them ; particularly as we were mean¬ 
 time employed in reporting other matters, upon which depended, 
 and upon which still depend, the final turn of good or bad for¬ 
 tune to the individuals in whom we are interested. It was 
 because we knew, that, from the second day of Edmund’s coming 
 into Derry, Evelyn had constantly brought his prisoner comfort, 
 in the person of a young lady he was well pleased to see. All 
 the past forgotten, or the happy part of it only remembered, 
 Esther and Edmund had thus enjoyed, in the society of their 
 brother, uninterrupted dreams of a delightful future ; while Eve¬ 
 lyn laid before them his own hopes of happiness, and, now and 
 then, successfully prevailed on them—no easy task—to discuss 
 them with him. Previous to the actual besieging of Derry, ad¬ 
 vice had come from Eva that she was well, at home, and her 
 father in good health. In fact, circumstances considered, the 
 lovers were as well off as any words of ours could describe 
 them ; at the same time that a continued report of their senti¬ 
 ments, or of the scenes between them, might prove, as it before 
 happened, too difficult for us to manage ; or, had we attempted 
 it, too monotonous to the reader. 
 
308 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 But on this night, some conversation took place between Eve¬ 
 lyn and M’Donnell, which should be noticed. 
 
 “ Your air is melancholy,” said Evelyn, as he entered. 
 
 “And my heart, too, Evelyn.” 
 
 “ Why now more than ever ?” 
 
 “ I must have your permission to answer fully. Since politics 
 divided our public opinions, and particularly since we became 
 placed, with respect to each other, in the strange political rela¬ 
 tions we at present hold, it has been my care not to make a 
 single allusion to passing events. Now, however, they so closely 
 press our private interests and feelings, that I cannot explain to 
 you why I am thus sorrowful, unless you are willing to hear me 
 allude to them.” 
 
 “ Perfectly willing I am. Proceed, with all license.” 
 
 “I begin then by expressing my confirmed belief that this city 
 cannot long hold out against its besiegers.” 
 
 " Such is my own opinion, to whatever it may lead. We 
 speak, of course, confidentially.” 
 
 “ Of course. My only wonder is, that it has held out so 
 long.” 
 
 ** I agree with you. It is by no means a fortress. It stands 
 on a sloping ground, exposed on every side to the fire of the 
 enemy ; for the walls are, at no point, more than twenty-five 
 feet high, in some points but fourteen. As the summit of the 
 town rises two hundred feet above the water, the walls cannot, 
 thus, screen an eighth part of its elevation. Even if it were a 
 fortified place, the French, who direct this siege, are good engi¬ 
 neers and formidable besiegers; witness what they have done 
 in the Low Countries. I repeat, I can altogether but express 
 my surprise as to what they are doing here at present.” 
 
 “ Into their hands, and those of the Irish army, it must, how¬ 
 ever, soon fall. But, Evelyn, never, I fear, by capitulation. At 
 all events, not by one timely enough to insure, according to the 
 usages of war, good and safe terms to the garrison and inhabit¬ 
 ants.” 
 
 “ Of that I have thought, too, M’Donnell.” 
 
 “ Let me take the freedom to observe, that the holding out 
 of Derry—indeed, its holding out, in the teeth of terms negoti¬ 
 ated by its most respectable citizens, and those who ought to 
 have been the most influential of its garrison—against pledges 
 of good faith, given and taken, has been the work of men whose 
 uncompromising prejudices, and whose fear of retribution, left 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 309 
 
 them no other resource. It was, in fact, the forlorn hope of a 
 shattered and baffled party, reduced to one last and desperate 
 chance of escape or death, of revenge or self-destruction.” 
 
 “ Your comments are severe, M’Donnell. But go on ; apply 
 your reasoning more closely.” 
 
 “ Too severe, Evelyn ? Come, come ; I only meant to say, 
 that we, the native, undisciplined, unarmed, and despised force of 
 the country, have, alone and unassisted, beat you, inch by inch, 
 from the borders of your northern province, into the gates of 
 Derry. Alone and unassisted, for the French re-enforcement 
 and supplies, trifling as both are, did not reach us till we had 
 done that good service. So, pardon me ; no more did I wish to 
 say ; and if it is disagreeable, I regret I have said so much 
 Now to my argument. 
 
 “ The hatred, bigotry, and, I may add, despair, which, in the 
 face of treaties and honorable confidence, have shut your gates 
 against King James, will, I fear, keep them shut, while safe and 
 advantageous proposals are still made to you, and until the time 
 has lapsed for continuing to make them. Derry must then fall 
 by blockade or storm ; or else surrender at discretion. In either 
 case, au enraged and ungovernable soldiery will pour into its 
 streets and houses, and act almost at pleasure. Do you now 
 guess what I would drive at ?” 
 
 “ I fear I do.” 
 
 “ Do you think of no dear being whose safety should, in such 
 a crisis, be cared for ? Gracious God, Evelyn 1” he continued, 
 rising in much emotion, “ in such a terrible day, have you no 
 fears for Esther ?” 
 
 “ I have, M’Dounell: nor are they newly come in*o my heart. 
 What is to be done for her ?” 
 
 “ You will not, surely, await the arrival of the danger to pro¬ 
 vide against it; you are anxious to place her out of peril as soon 
 as possible ?” 
 
 “ To-night, if I could. But have you thought how ?” 
 
 “ I fear, Evelyn, that my answer may seem—I know not what 
 —selfish, perhaps. Or that, from its nature, you may think I 
 proposed this case as much in calculation as in true affection. 
 But no ; we understand each other ; and without any such fear, 
 I will speak openly to you.” 
 
 “ Do so. I can never wrong you.” 
 
 “ Mark me, then. As the niece of an alderman of Derry, 
 and as the sister of one of its garrison, poor Esther would meet 
 
310 
 
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 little respect As the wife of a man in arms for King James, 
 she would be protected. Let her assume that character ; let me, 
 by virtue of a former arrangement—right, I may almost say— 
 once call her my wedded wife, and—apart from the good-will of 
 my friends—then show me the man, friend or foe, who dares, 
 but with a glance, aggrieve her ?” 
 
 “ Your hand, M’Donnell ; and accept my approval of a still 
 freer and safer course. When you make Esther yours, fly with 
 her from Derry. I give you back your parole ; you are no 
 longer a prisoner. Take her far from even the prebence of 
 danger. Make us both doubly sure. Take her to Eva, at Glen- 
 arriff; and there yon can all rest in peace. For myself, my heart 
 and mind will be at peace, too, though distant from you ; though 
 obliged, by the stern duties of my situation, to face the storm, 
 and, perhaps, fall in it.” 
 
 “ Dear Evelyn, I cannot, will not speak a word to turn you 
 from the path—dangerous as it may be, and hostile as it is to 
 me—of an honorable gentleman—of a soldier. But do not fore¬ 
 bode ill. Do not imagine a misery that, during our lives, should 
 shadow the joy of Esther, Eva, and Edmund, Oui happiness 
 must be mutually participated, or not worth the name. As to 
 the rest, I thank you, Evelyn,” wringing his hand ; “brother in 
 the heart and at the fireside, though in the field my foe, I thank 
 you.” 
 
 “ The great difficulty,” resumed Evelyn, as his strong emotion 
 abated, “ will be to procure an officiating minister. The Pro¬ 
 testant clergymen, of different sects, residing in this city, we can¬ 
 not ask.” 
 
 “ Some Roman Catholic priests must be attached to the be¬ 
 sieging army,” said Edmund ; “ but how get one of them even 
 near the walls ? And Esther and I can leave Derry only as 
 husband and wife. Suppose Eva were summoned hither, with 
 our old clerical relative ? They might remain safe abroad until 
 we could communicate with them ; and they would then venture 
 more for us than strangers.” 
 
 “ As great a difficulty will arise in conveying an intimation 
 to Eva,” resumed Evelyn ; “ but let us consider it. And now, 
 let us pursue this conference in a walk along the wAls. ’Tis a 
 fine night ; the moon shines clear ; and my spirits require the 
 open air.” 
 
 They left Edmund’s quarters, and ascended the steps of 
 Bishop’s gate ; the never-to-be-forgotten spot, from which Derry 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 311 
 
 sent her first conclusive answer to the summons of James. It 
 has since been rebuilt, by the way, into a triumphal arch, with 
 a sculptured head of that sovereign on the outside, and with one 
 of his successor on the inside ; the former hanging, most dolo¬ 
 rously, his family lip ; the latter frowning over a tremendous 
 hooked nose ; and both features seeming to be the only ones 
 that the artist was able or willing to insist on as likenesses. 
 
 Evelyn paused a short time over the gate. 
 
 “ Before we renew our topic, M’Donnell,” he said, “ I must 
 betray a little trust to you. Under us, and at the works out¬ 
 side Bishop’s gate, strong pickets are this night stationed, in 
 apprehension of an attack, directed against the ravelin you see 
 below, and the embankment at the other post—to be headed, 
 as rumor goes, by a strong party of our old friends, the Rappa- 
 rees, who, under some arrangement or other, have lately become 
 attached to the besieging army.” 
 
 “ I thought, when we last met them, they seemed, in your 
 opinion, collecting their scattered forces, after the affair at your 
 house, for a retreat to the south.” 
 
 “ So, indeed, I then thought. But you remember the smug¬ 
 gler that took us to Ballintoy ? On board that vessel I saw 
 the face of Rory-na-chopple, and distinctly heard the voice of 
 his captain sounding from the cabin. Doubtless, the rogues 
 were then getting round the coast, to try their chance in the 
 fighting and scrambling about Coleraine, and afterwards on the 
 Finn-Water.” 
 
 While Evelyn spoke, the voices of the picket, under them, 
 which, since their ascent to the walls, had not been very quiet, 
 grew boisterous in mirth, and, amid all, the tinkling of a harp 
 was heard. Edmund started. 
 
 “ Hush !” he said, “ that is Carolan’s finger, if Carolan be a 
 living man.” 
 
 They listened, and were confirmed in the opinion by hearing 
 the musician strike up Carolan’s celebrated “ Receipt,” and ac¬ 
 company it with his voice. 
 
 “ Heaven befriends us, Evelyn,” continued M’Donnell, “ Caro¬ 
 lan can have come to the walls of Derry only on a mission to 
 us ; and he shall be our envoy to Eva. Speak to him ; you can 
 safely do so. But first let me write a line—await my return, 
 here.” 
 
 When he came back with the note, Evelyn hailed Carolan ; 
 M’Donnell not appearing from the walls. The harper instantly 
 
312 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 saluted his old acquaintance by name, inquiring if all his friends 
 in Derry were well. 
 
 “ All ; but how came you here, Carolan V’ 
 
 “ Myself knows never a know, sir ; these good-fellows 
 brought me.” 
 
 “ Please your honor, captain/’ said the sergeant of the party, 
 “ we found him sleeping within our lines, at the other side of the 
 town, and thought he might be a spy.” 
 
 “ That would be hard for me, Captain Evelyn, as you know,” 
 resumed Carolan ; “ a man without an eye in his head makes a 
 bad look-out.” 
 
 “Yes, sir. He says he is blind, and only a travelling harp- 
 player, benighted and tired. So, if all’s as he says, in the day¬ 
 light he may go his way, again. Meantime, he consents to play 
 us a tune or so, till morning,” said the sergeant. 
 
 “ I can assure you that the poor young man gives a true ac¬ 
 count of himself,” continued Evelyn ; “ and it would be cruelty 
 to detain him outside the walls so long. Let him in, if you do 
 not let him depart.” 
 
 “ Please your honor, that’s against orders. But he may go 
 away, if he likes, on your word, sir,” replied the sergeant. 
 
 “ Very well ; I will just descend to shake hands with him.” 
 
 With much caution the gate was opened to Evelyn ; he clasp¬ 
 ed Carolan’s hand, and left in it the crumpled paper Edmund had 
 written. 
 
 “ God bless you, sir, for taking the poor harper’s hand, on 
 his wild road, and bidding him luck and speed. And now you 
 won’t refuse this little clarseech I offer you, as a parting token. 
 It wil' be of no use to me till I get home again, to the fair 
 south, and there 1 have another before me. Take it, Captain 
 Evelyn ; and when you touch its wires, remember the giver.” 
 
 Carolan went his way ; Evelyn, not finding Edmund on the 
 wall, followed him to his lodgings ; and gave him the little harp, 
 as the person for whom it was really intended. Both, however, 
 believing that Carolan must have left the clarseech for some¬ 
 thing more than a token, closely examined it, and secret hinges 
 and a spring were, indeed, found in the sounding-board, which, 
 at last, yielding to their pressure, showed two letters, one for 
 Edmund, and another for his friend, both written by Eva. Both 
 told of good health ; of the perfect tranquillity of her part of 
 the country ; but what was scarce less important to Edmund, 
 of the implacable anger of Lord Antrim for his late attributed 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 813 
 
 misconduct. The young' men parted for the night, just as a 
 dropping fire of musketry, mingled with cheers from the skir¬ 
 mishers, and cries from the walls, were heard through the town. 
 
 Hastily mounting the wall over Butcher’s gate, Evelyn looked 
 down upon a gentle slope of land that ran towards a line of 
 eminence called the Bishop’s Demesne. But, by this time, the 
 firing had ceased, and he could only see a party of horse, be¬ 
 longing to the town, sweeping furiously round the heights, as if 
 in pursuit of an enemy ; at the same time that three or four 
 infantry approached with a prisoner towards the gate. He 
 descended ; a loud knocking was heard. 
 
 “ Who knocks ? and the word ?” demanded the sentinel. 
 
 “ Friends,” and “ Orange is the word,” he was answered. 
 '‘We are part of Captain Michelburn’s picket, and here we have 
 taken a little Rapparee.” 
 
 The gate w r as opened ; the soldiers entered with their prison¬ 
 er ; and Evelyn recognized, though scarcely recognizable, his 
 Uncle Jerry, “all tattered and torn”—we cannot add, “all 
 shaven and shorn.” His hair and beard were of a Rapparee 
 growth ; while the blue kilt-like kind of sailor’s dress he always 
 wore, was rent into ribands ; his blue breeches and stockings 
 full of holes ; and one shoe gone. 
 
 “ Are you all merry fellows here ?” he asked, the moment he 
 had passed the gate. 
 
 “ March on to the guardhouse, you Rapparee thief,” cried the 
 soldiers. 
 
 “I’m no Rapparee, I say again,” cried Jerry. “ They but 
 took me on a visit with them. Not that I mean a word to their 
 dispraise, for hearty lads they are, and like a commodore they 
 treated me.” 
 
 “ Move on as you are told,” urged his guard. 
 
 “ Why, I can’t,” he replied ; don’t you see I’ve got a rudder 
 shot away ? Give me one cup of canary.” 
 
 “ March J” roared a corporal, “ or ”—presenting. 
 
 “ Stop, man! hear reason. I’m no Rapparee, but a loyal sub¬ 
 ject of the king’s gracious majesty.” 
 
 “ What king ?” 
 
 “ What king ?” repeated Jerry, in a tone of astonishment at 
 the simplicity of the question. What king but our own king— 
 the king of England 1 Here be a serious set of fellows to ask 
 such a matter. “ Where’s your officer ?” limping up to Evelyn. 
 “ Ahoy ! dear nephew 1 afloat yet ? Not burnt or sunk, as I 
 
 14 
 
314 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 thought you were ? Well ; this makes up for all 1 Yon won't 
 refuse a grapple ; no, that you won't,” smacking his hand. 11 So 
 let this galley-foist crew sheer olf: you and I, lad, in any storm. 
 And, I say, nephew, let's go below, and have a twist at your 
 locker, for I haven’t been so run out of grog, and so near serious¬ 
 ness, since I left shore.” 
 
 “ At least, sir, I will try and protect you from the rude treat¬ 
 ment to which you have exposed yourself. Corporal, this is, 
 indeed, my uncle, the brother of Mr. Paul Evelyn, forced from 
 my house by the Rapparees. I will be his surety for loyal in¬ 
 tentions and peaceable demeanor, if you give him into my 
 charge ; and I earnestly request that favor at your hands ” 
 
 The soldiers assented : and Jerry, supported by Evelyn, 
 limped to Edmund's quarters ; eagerly inquiring, on the way, 
 when he knew his destination, if the hearty fellow, the dumb 
 lad, was on board. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The friends remained very anxious about their message to 
 Eva ; weeks elapsed, and no answer came. This suspense was 
 most painful, for two reasons. They feared either that Carolan 
 had been intercepted, searched, and perhaps murdered, on his 
 way to Glenarriff; or that Derry would be taken sword in hand, 
 before Eva replied to their summons, and Esther consequently 
 exposed to the dangers they anticipated. 
 
 On the latter point, however, they need not have been so ap¬ 
 prehensive. To their surprise as well as gratification, the city 
 continued to keep its besiegers in check. And the reader will 
 join in their astonishment, after recollecting the true statement 
 jf its preparations and resources, given by Mr. Walker, and of 
 is situation and the strength of its walls, alluded to by Evelyn. 
 That it should have been able to make more than the faintest show 
 of defence is, indeed, all circumstances considered, unaccountable. 
 Had it stood in these later days, in the place of Burgos or of 
 Badajos, we know that Derry must have capitulated in a few 
 hours, or else have been battered and burnt into a heap of smok¬ 
 ing rubbish. Nor are we, by implication, to attribute to an im- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 31 * 
 
 aginary backwardness in the military science and prowess of its 
 own day, the want of skill or energy evinced by its besieger. 
 Louis XIV , or William III., would have made of it as light a 
 morning’s work as Wellington, or any hostile contemporary at 
 present could ; witness, out of a list of instances, what both 
 these sovereigns did, in two successive campaigns, at the fortress 
 and castle of Namur. We can only surmise, then, that the few 
 thousand French before Derry were totally inexperienced in the 
 military knowledge necessary to their service, and for which 
 their countrymen, in general, had, even at that time, so great a 
 name. As to their Irish allies, a body of undisciplined peasants, 
 just come into the field, we must consider them, apart from the 
 plain work of charging in onslaught, completely out of the ques¬ 
 tion, or, at all events, as much so in regularly carrying on a 
 siege, as their equally inexperienced enemies would have proved 
 in resisting any such operation, vigorously and systematically 
 directed. 
 
 But it was, perhaps, the object of the besiegers to starve 
 Derry into submission. The increasing scarcity of food now 
 began, indeed, to threaten sufficient misfortune. Completely 
 hemmed in, as, on every side, they were, scarcely any thing had 
 been added to the first supplies found in the stores at the begin¬ 
 ning of the siege ; and day by day these fearfully decreased. 
 The bad omen of slaughtering the horses of the garrison soon 
 made its appearance ; and peremptory orders were issued that 
 every house should send in its stock of private provisions, to be 
 joined to what remained of the public one, and both to be 
 served out in small daily portions, to each individual within the 
 walls, rank, sex, and age undistinguished in the arrangement. 
 Edmund found himself limited to one coarse meal in the day. 
 But it was not his own situation that smote his soul with horror. 
 He knew that the woman he loved was exposed, in bad health 
 and wretched spirits, to the same privation ; and as, during this 
 sad economy, he looked on her pallid cheek and sunken eye, the 
 lover’s blood curdled to think that hunger—the most wretched 
 and humiliating of mortal evils—was now her spoiler. 
 
 Whilst he and Evelyn met from time to time, and gazed i 
 silence on each other’s gradually wasting features, this sentiment 
 commonly felt, though never expressed, caused them to specu¬ 
 late with increased anxiety on Eva’s remissness in sending an 
 answer. They became assured that poor Carolan had already 
 fallen a victim to his disinterested zeal, and that they had noth- 
 
316 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ing to expect for Esther. But one night, as they Walked mourn 
 fully along the walls, the blessed tones of his harp were again 
 heard near the gate below ; and, stooping over, they recognized 
 him surrounded, as before, by some of the men who, in his for¬ 
 mer visit, had attended to him, but who now, rendered less sen¬ 
 sitive to sweet sounds by the grumbling of their stomachs, did 
 not seem disposed to treat him kindly. 
 
 “ Begone,” said the sergeant; “ I say you can have no busi¬ 
 ness here, unless you come as a spy; “ and that I said before. 
 You, Corporal Sharpe—you acted but as a bad vidette to bring 
 the bliud beggar to our walls.” 
 
 “ I ask but to see Captain Evelyn in your presence,” replied 
 Carolan ; “ and when we speak together, you’ll find I come on 
 no unfriendly business.” 
 
 “ I am here, Carolan,” cried Evelyn, running down to the 
 gate. After much persuasion with the officer in command, he 
 passed out to the harper. 
 
 “ This, then,' is all I have to say,” resumed Carolan, in a 
 broken voice, taking a small wallet from under his garment. 
 “ I bring you—and I have brought it through the Irish lines, 
 with some hazard—a meal of Christian food, and a flask of 
 cheering wine for your sister, Mistress Esther Evelyn.” 
 
 “ Share ! share !” exclaimed the soldiers, as Evelyn accepted 
 it ; “ all provisions are common to the garrison.” 
 
 “No, sirs—shame, shame, to ask it!” cried Carolan. “It is 
 for a sickly, a young and beautiful lady—it is to cherish the 
 failing blood in her heart, and give her life a day longer. I 
 have brought it to your gate, in hunger and in thirst, myself. 
 The road was long, and my own tongue cleaved to my palate 
 for want of food and drink. I am this moment a fatigued and 
 hungry man, yet I touched it not ; and I do not ask to touch 
 it. If you are men, able to bear a little want, let it go to the 
 poor, sick young lady. You will never miss it, and she will die 
 without it: let her gentle blood get nourishment. Yes, they 
 will, Captain Evelyn, they will: hide it, sir, and take it to your 
 sister” 
 
 Carolan wept as he spoke ; no further opposition was offered. 
 Evelyn shook his hand, and joined Edmund. The little wallet 
 contained, indeed, some delicate and nutritive food ; and secreted 
 amongst it, the note that they had expected from Eva. After 
 satisfactorily explaining her long silence, she informed them that, 
 attended by the old clergyman, she now rested in the Irish carafe 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 317 
 
 and would try to meet them and Esther, ou'side Butcher’s gate, 
 near Columbkill’s well, four nights from the date of her writing. 
 When the friends had interchanged hearty congratulations on 
 this welcome intelligence, Evelyn took up his wallet, and hast¬ 
 ened to Esther. He did not ask Edmund to taste the generous 
 food ; he would no more have done so than he would have 
 trenched on it himself. He did not think of asking him ; nor 
 did Edmund think of tasting; yet both were hungry—in the 
 hearts of both, nature yearned for a wonted relief. It may be 
 said that this is a vulgar illustration of disinterested feeling. 
 Yes ; it may be said by some, who, after a dainty evening ban¬ 
 quet, peruse our pages amid luxury that has never known want, 
 and to whose privileged ear the word “ hunger” brings only 
 coarse or mean associations. But if so, we only wish such a critic 
 plunged, with all speed, into a besieged city, and gradually made 
 acquainted with that common-place and unceremonious monster 
 —starvation. 
 
 Eva’s note being left in M’Donnell’s hands, he was about to 
 destroy it, after Evelyn’s departure, when, at a side hitherto 
 supposed to be blank, he discovered the following postscript: 
 “ Be watchful ; for there is one, opposed most inveterately, 
 though unaccountably, to your success, who seeks admission into 
 the city to confound you.” 
 
 To whom did this allusion apply ? Edmund could not tell ; 
 nor, after hours of surmise, even imagine. The next morning 
 however, gave him some inkling on the point. 
 
 Jerry, now his fellow-lodger and messmate, had been looking 
 out of the window, when—but let us interrupt ourselves, to say 
 a few digressive words about Jerry. Hitherto he had pretty 
 well obeyed the injunction laid upon him by his nephew, to ab¬ 
 sent himself from his brother’s house, and even from the streets 
 of the town, in which he might be likely to meet Mr. Paul 
 Evelyn or his lady. Content with singing his favorite s°a-songs, 
 together with some scraps of rude verse he had lately picked up 
 among the Rapparees, sipping whatever liquor—water excepted 
 —might be placed in his way, he was, perhaps, the only man in 
 Derry who ate his one scanty meal a day with Christian resigna¬ 
 tion and indifference. Indeed, he seemed just as careless of the 
 state of affairs around him, as of their effects on himself, no mat¬ 
 ter in what shape those effects might visit him. His little paunch 
 decreased ; the fresh color left his cheek ; worse than all, the 
 wound in his foot grew bad and obstinate—he cared not. He 
 
318 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 was told that, in a few days, there would be no food at all in 
 the city, and that the people either must starve to death, or fall 
 into the hands of the wild Papists. “ Be not serious/ he said ; 
 “ what know I of it ? Starved ? merry men never starved. Pa¬ 
 pists ? I have known of some hearty fellows among them. City 
 besieged ? tilly-vally ; be thou hearty.” 
 
 But, amid this good-humor with his lot, and submission under 
 the commands laid upon him, he was heard, now and then, to 
 mumble a threat of visitation to his brother and his sister-in-law. 
 They both looked as well, he averred, as ever they had looked, 
 notwithstanding the general changes that took place in all others. 
 And therein lay a mystery he was determined to solve. The 
 appearances that gave rise to his remarks were, indeed, rather 
 evident, and commented upon, too, by more people than Jerry. 
 Public prayers were held in the church every morning and even¬ 
 ing ; at the proper hours Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn regularly passed 
 by to join in them. And at the request of their discarded 
 brother, Evelyn and Edmund often stood at the window to note, 
 as they went along, the undiminished globularity of Paul’s per¬ 
 son, the enduring vastness of that of his good lady, and the 
 sleek, contented character of the faces of both. On tottered 
 little Paul, patting the stones with the gold-headed cane he held 
 in one hand, and grasping in the other two huge prayer-books, 
 which Mrs. Evelyn obliged him to carry. Some paces behind, 
 the lady followed, in full sail, watching him with a severe eye, 
 as a nurse might watch the straggling sallies of a child just 
 beginning to walk ; when they arrived at church, still making 
 him kneel before her, in order that she might see, and promptly 
 check, with a tap on his head, or a pinch at his arm, Paul’s 
 frequent lapses into slumber, for which (Jerry said) he often got 
 whipped when he came home. But Jerry must not teach us 
 digression upon digression. 
 
 He had been watching, as usual, their expected progress to 
 church, when, instead of summoning Edmund to see them pass 
 by, he called him to witness a loud commotion that was going 
 on at Mr. Paul Evelyn’s door ; the next, it will be remembered, 
 to Edmund’s quarters. A crowd of people, some soldiers, and 
 some townsfolk, had collected round a wild-looking, meanly hab¬ 
 ited young woman, who seemed eager to be admitted, and noisy 
 and vehement at Mrs. Evelyn’s repeated refusal given from the 
 window. 
 
 “Let me in 1” screamed the applicant; “I have that to say 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 319 
 
 to your husband, which concerns him and you, and all your 
 family.” 
 
 “ Away with thee woman!” answered Mrs. Evelyn ; “ or I 
 will have thee sent to the black-hole. Take her away, soldiers 
 —how dared you bring her hither ?” 
 
 The soldiers answered, that the woman had come to the gates 
 with a pass from Lord Kingston, commanding her admission to 
 the presence of Mr. Paul Evelyn. 
 
 “ It is a forgery,” resumed the lady, “ or a plot to murder us. 
 Take her away, I say ; I know her well.” 
 
 “And I know you,” continued the woman ; “we know one 
 another. Do you remember the word I spoke to you the first 
 evening we met ? Let me in—or listen to it again.” 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn shrieked, as if her recollections were sorely 
 touched, and shut down the window. 
 
 “ Then starve !” cried Onagh, now, as she turned round, well 
 known to Edmund ; “ that was the word. And here it is again 
 —starve 1” 
 
 Edmund, recollecting Onagh’s previous and unaccountable 
 hostility to his union with Esther, and now comparing it with 
 her anxiety to get access to Paul, was struck with the thought 
 that she might be the person of whom Eva, in her note, warned 
 him to stand on his guard. Acting under this sudden impression, 
 he ran down to the street, accosted her civilly, induced her to 
 enter the house along with him, and when she had come in, 
 seized her, and, assisted by Jerry, conveyed her to a secure cel¬ 
 lar, where, leaving her a small portion of food, they locked her 
 up in darkness and solitude. M’Donnell gave his fellow-lodger 
 some apt reason for the proceeding, and engaged him, should he 
 himself be out of the way, in a few days to restore her to liberty. 
 
 Soon after, Evelyn visited them. Acquainting his friend that 
 he was summoned to attend an extraordinary council, to be im¬ 
 mediately held, in consequence of suspicions entertained by some 
 of the garrison that certain gentlemen of the corporation, and 
 even their worthy governor, Mr. Walker, had not complied with 
 the order to send in all their private stock, but kept secreted in 
 their houses an unpermitted abundance, for their individual conk- 
 fort and fattening. Jerry, hearing this, offered himself as a 
 presumptive evidence, at the investigation. But he was over¬ 
 ruled, and Evelyn went alone. 
 
 It had not been usual to permit an indiscriminate assemblage 
 of persons at the former peaceable town-councils of Derry. Now 
 
320 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 hunger, which breaks through stone walls, was every man’s pass¬ 
 port to witness debates in which every man’s stomach was com¬ 
 monly interested. Along with the governor, superior officers, 
 and the corporation, a crowd of haggard countenances thronged 
 therefore, the hall of the market-house. 
 
 Uncle Paul, who, from his reluctance to attend, had been 
 late, was seated on an extremity of the magisterial bench, his 
 short, stout legs dangling most uncomfortably, and his little gray 
 eyes staring round in childish fear (the result of a certain con¬ 
 sciousness), as he leaned, the better to support himself, on his 
 gold-headed cane. 
 
 Governor Walker certainly appeared in good case, as also did 
 other patriotic gentlemen of the corporation. But none belied, 
 so much as Paul, a strict adherence to the order for indiscrimi¬ 
 nate starvation. 
 
 The rude, because hungry, soldiers made their statements ; 
 bluntly named some they suspected, and hinted at others. Paul 
 found himself involved among the former, and Governor Walker 
 among the latter. Both were, however, ready to rebut the ac¬ 
 cusation. 
 
 It was at the private request of Mr. Walker, made, in order 
 to get rid of the clamors against him, to an apprentice ensign 
 in his confidence, that the meeting had been called. Paul 
 flattered himself his house exhibited no proof of guilt. The per¬ 
 sons who brought the charges were ordered to search the 
 dwellings of the accused. They returned, unable to say that 
 they had not been in error, but still grumbling, and scowling with 
 their socket eyes towards the magisterial bench, as they mut- 
 tered : 
 
 “ Why should the great ones be fat, and poor folk lean ? If 
 they fare as we do, let them show it as we do.” 
 
 Among the indiscriminate throng was a group of the appren¬ 
 tice boys, who, in consequence of the leading part they had 
 acted, thought themselves entitled to much privilege, and there¬ 
 fore stood near to the aldermen. James Spike was at their 
 head, sadly altered from the look of boyish health and waggery 
 he had shown upon the day when, with his compeers, he scam¬ 
 pered down the steps of Ferry-quay gate, to commence the Pro¬ 
 testant war in Ireland against King James. His plump cheek 
 had yielded to a hollow one ; his ruddy color to a monotonous 
 greenish hue ; and his springing beard stood forward from his 
 chin and lip, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 321 
 
 u Each particular hair on end. 
 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine 
 
 or (to show <)ur own independent skill in simile) somewhat of the 
 fashion in which a starved horse will indicate his bad feeding by 
 the roughness of his coat. 
 
 But Jem’s spirit was not gone. Or like some great wits who 
 have miserably striven to die with a jest upon their lips, he still 
 remembered his reputation for humor ; and now there arose op¬ 
 portunity for still supporting it. He had observed Paul's alarm 
 during the proceedings ; he saw that his horny lips were white 
 with fear. Pallid, he did not, indeed, grow : his, was one of 
 those faces, of which, from a constant habit of purplish ruddi¬ 
 ness, the skin at last becomes stained into color, and ever after 
 remains little influenced by the rushing of blood to the heart. 
 But James Spike observed enough to cause him to address his 
 companions aloud. 
 
 “ Well, lads, what say you to this matter ?” 
 
 “I don’t know, I’m sure,” croaked Will Crookshanks. 
 
 “ To my thought, there may be something to find out in it, 
 yet,” said Harry Campsie, in a squall; the character of each 
 young man’s voice being changed to its extreme. 
 
 “We hoped not a knowledge of it from you, poor Will,” re¬ 
 sumed Jem ; “ but, as Harry says, there may be something to find 
 out yet. Look along this bench. Think you there sits on it 
 none who eat more than a sparrow’s mess for a meal ?” 
 
 “ By the goose,” answered Harry Campsie, “ I see some who 
 have not been looking at empty trenchers of late. That’s still 
 my cry.” 
 
 “ And mine, too,” growled Crookshanks. “ And mine, and 
 mine,” echoed others. 
 
 “ Note you the little alderman at our elbow ?” questioned 
 Spike, and the glaring eyes of all were fixed on Paul. “There, 
 at the least, be a sample of your great folk, nothing the worse 
 for the standing order. ’Tis plain as the nose on one ; and 
 never were noses plainer than at present, being the better part 
 of our faces. Will Crookshanks himself says so.” 
 
 “ I do,” said Will ; “’tis a matter to be noted.” 
 
 “ A good may come of it, however,” continued Jem. “ In a 
 day or two, horses, cats, and rats will be eaten up ; a cap of 
 broad pieces will scarce buy a lean mouse. Then must we 
 needs fall foul of each other ; and your goodmen fat fellows— 
 
 14 * 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 3^2 
 
 especially your aldermen—shall first draw lot, by the rood ! 
 Skin and bone would be but niggard diet: we, fighting men, 
 must be kept on our limbs. So, harkye—” 
 
 He whispered his companions, keeping a glance fixed on 
 Paul. The eyes of his fellow-apprentices, and now almost oi 
 the whole throng, more seriously imitated the kind of look Jem 
 out assumed ; something between a bitter grin and a natural 
 creeping of disgust marking their features. Paul, ready to faint 
 with terror, thought that the leathern lips of Crookshanks quiv 
 ered in greedy anticipation. 
 
 “ Ay,” added Jem, “ your aldermen be no every-day folk. 
 IPs an honor they merit to fall to the share of fellow-creatures, 
 while the feasters of yon churchyard can have your leaner and 
 commoner sort to revel on.” 
 
 Paul did not hear the conclusion of this reasoning. He con¬ 
 tinued, since about the middle of the dialogue, gradually to slip 
 down from his high seat, and at last made his exit by a door 
 that led into the boardroom, followed by a gurgling growl from 
 Jem and his companions, such as the nursery “buggaboo” sends 
 after a frightened child. 
 
 He tottered home. After a prudent peep to see who tapped, 
 Mrs. Evelyn admitted him. He sank into a low chair, especially 
 constructed for his comfort. “ Woe’s me, Janet! woe’s me I” 
 he cried. 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn asked many questions before he could bring him¬ 
 self to begin an explanation. 
 
 “ Oh, Janet, Janet, they talked—” his teeth chattered, and 
 he stopped. 
 
 “ Courage, and speak it boldly, man,” herself terrified a little, 
 though she knew not exactly why—“ they talked of what ? Of 
 coming again to devour our household stock ?” 
 
 “ Of coming to devour me, Janet, love !—Janet, coney !” 
 
 She stepped back, repeating his words, in consternation. 
 
 “ Forsooth, yes ; they said I should be good diet! Oh, 
 they are main hungry, Janet ; and I saw them look as though” 
 —his flesh crept—“ oh, Janet, as though their stomachs yearned 
 to me 1” 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn reflected for a moment. Her thoughts seemed 
 to give her a sudden relief. 
 
 “ I have heard of such doings, Paul. Hungry folks have, ere 
 now, truly eater one another. You must bide in the secret vault 
 till Christian food comes among them.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 323 
 
 “ Oil, woe’s me ! woes me !” 
 
 After another pause, during which she contemplated her hus¬ 
 band—“ Truth to say, Paul, you do look uuseemly plump,” Mrs. 
 Evelyn added. 
 
 “ Do I, Janet, chuck, do I ? Woe’s me ! woe’s me !” 
 
 “And it were well,” she continued, her countenance again 
 brightening up, whether from pure pleasure at the hope of 
 preserving her lord, or, in a degree, at a recollection how much 
 better her gradually decreasing stock would comfort a single 
 regular claimant, we cannot readily determine—“ it were well 
 that you stinted your own stomach, coney, when you are safe 
 hidden, and, day by day, eat a little less and less. Until, in the 
 end, you may safely walk into the streets again, as proper a man 
 as any amongst ’em.” 
 
 A knocking was heard at the door. 
 
 “ Oh, Janet, they come !—haste, haste !” 
 
 She caught him up in her arms ; conveyed him to his hiding- 
 place ; returned to open the street-door, and admitted Evelyn. 
 He wished to speak with his uncle on business. She had not 
 seen him ; and she rapidly questioned Evelyn as to what could 
 have happened to her Paul. He set out in quest of the lost al¬ 
 derman ; and, as evening closed, returned really distressed at his 
 uncle’s absence. It is said, by those who give themselves a very 
 undue license of slandering the fair sex, that, on fit occasions, 
 ladies can assume a character with much greater success than 
 the less gifted members of the other part of the creation. We 
 reject the invidious praise; although we are, at the same time, 
 obliged to admit, that Evelyn and his sister, while sitting, this 
 night, by Mrs. Evelyn’s side, were struck, in their hearts, at the 
 sincerity of the grief with which she bewailed her husband. He 
 must have grown over-valiant, she said, and joining in a sally 
 made that day, was doubtless cut off, nay, cut up, by the Pa¬ 
 pists. The nephew, though he did not think with her, yet knew 
 not what to think. The night was wearing away, when the 
 lady’s mock grief became changed into real terror, and some real 
 suffering. 
 
 A tremendous cannonading was heard from the besiegers. 
 Mrs. Evelyn listened in profound silence to the bellowing of the 
 guns at a distance, and to the nearer din of crashing houses and 
 the screams of their inmates, as the balls and shells thrown into 
 the city spread unusual devastation around. She did not hope 
 that her own house or herself rt ould escape ; and she was correct 
 
324 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 in her foreboding. A large shell, falling on the tiled roof over 
 her, broke through it, and lay on the attic floor till it burst 
 Mrs. Evelyn, her nephew and niece, just had time to start up, 
 at the noise, when it did burst—tearing peacemeal an old woman, 
 who slept by its side ; shattering its way into the chamber un¬ 
 derneath ; splitting the gable of the house ; and, as if the enemy 
 had a particular eye to one point, another descended, almost in 
 the same direction, till, by the repeated explosion, the wall was 
 rent from the top to the foundation, and the mistress of the 
 mansion received, from a displaced stone, such a contusion in the 
 temple, as, for some time, deprived her of all sense, and, after¬ 
 wards, of all her senses. 
 
 For three days Mrs. Evelyn did not sufficiently recover to un¬ 
 derstand what had happened, where she was, or who were about 
 her. But at length she found herself in a strange house, whither, 
 with his sister, Evelyn had caused the lady to be conveyed. 
 Very soon after her restoration to reason, she arose from her 
 bed, much to the surprise of all ; watched silently and earnestly, 
 till the night fell ; then quitted her friends ; procured a dark 
 lantern ; issued forth ; entered her own ruined dwelling ; locked 
 the street-door after her ; descended to the kitchen ; locked the 
 communicating door, also ; traversed the range of cellarage ; 
 through a well-concealed door, gained the vault in which she 
 had left her husband ; held up her lamp, and not seeing him, 
 cried out, “ Paul ! why, Paul !” 
 
 A strangely cadenced laugh was the only answer she received. 
 Advancing to a recess, she found him seated on the ground, his 
 knees crippled up ; and, as he continued his chattering laugh, 
 an expression of childish fatuity stamped on his relaxed and 
 wasted features. 
 
 “ Paul 1 Paul 1” she repeated, keeping at some distance, and 
 looking much terrified. “ What's to do here, man? Want of 
 meat it cannot be ; I left enough for two or three days, did I 
 not ?” 
 
 “ Enough, enough !” he echoed, still jabbering at her, and 
 gazing vacantly. 
 
 “ Oh, Paul !” cried Mrs. Evelyn, overcome by conjugal affec¬ 
 tion, “ know you not Janet, your own wife ? Bless us, how wild 
 he looks ! Your hand—quietly, Paul”—in some misgiving ol 
 him—“ and come, now, and rest you in Janet’s arms sitting 
 down by him, when she thought he was not mischievous. 
 44 There, lay your head, so. Woe’s me! what has come ovei 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 325 
 
 him 1” and the woman’s tears, which, be their cast of character 
 what it may, women only can shed, bedewed the poor little man’s 
 forehead. 
 
 The voice to which he had often been too well accustomed, 
 but which now sounded like sweetest music on his ear, gradually 
 restored him. He grew conscious of his wife’s identity ; and 
 bursting into tears, hid his face on her shoulder, while he point¬ 
 ed to the far wall of the dungeon. Mrs. Evelyn saw a breach 
 large enough to admit one person. The floor of the vault, near 
 it, was strewed with stones. She repeated her questions for a 
 full explanation, and, sentence by sentence, Paul strove to satisfy 
 her ; but as his method was bad and disjointed, we hope to trans¬ 
 late it into more intelligible order. 
 
 Upon the evening of his concealment, Mrs. Evelyn, contrary to 
 the assertion she has just made, had left Paul but a scanty meal. 
 She promised, however, to visit him at night. In many fears 
 and horrors, which his temporary abode was well calculated to 
 increase, the marked victim crept into a corner, where his little 
 easy-ehair had been fixed for him, and strove patiently to await 
 the return of his kind keeper. About the hour she might have 
 been expected, he had just fallen into a slumber, the irresistible 
 result of more fatigue of spirit than his nature was capable of 
 supporting, when a tremendous noise called back his fleeting 
 senses, and crash, crash went the wall of his dungeon, and clat¬ 
 ter, clatter came the tumbling stones. Consternation, and the 
 terrors of an instant death, seized upon his heart, and, as was his 
 wont on all occasions of peril, he cried aloud, “Janet ! Janet !” 
 
 “ Whisht 1” answered a female voice, but not that of Mrs. 
 PAelyn. He stared towards the far wall, and by the dim light 
 of a lamp his lady had left burning, saw, standing in the breach 
 iust made, a woman, of whose face and figure he retained a 
 confused, but most disagreeable recollection. This sight did 
 not serve to quiet his fears, and he cried out louder and 
 ouder. 
 
 “ Whisht, whisht, I bid you 1” repeated Onagh, darting 
 .hrough the aperture, from the vault in Edmund’s house. 
 
 “ Be silent, and listen. Do you remember who I am ?” 
 
 Paul redoubled his cries for “ Janet, Janet !” 
 
 “Answer,” resumed Onagh, “or, at your next word, every 
 wall around you shall tumble, and here will you find your grave 
 Answer, have we not met before ?” 
 
 “ No ! yes ! yes, mistress !—no!—Janet l” 
 
326 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Omadhaun !* you forget : let me be sure of you.” She 
 took the lamp and held it to his face. “Ay, you are the man. 
 f come far to see you, and to speak these words—you heed me ?” 
 
 “Janet ! help, Janet!” 
 
 “ Do you heed me, I say ?” shaking him. 
 
 “No, no ! Janet !” 
 
 “No?” another shake, and an angry grin, close to his face. 
 
 “ Yes—hold ! truly do I, mistress his features relaxing into 
 
 silly smile, as terror at length quite bewildered him. 
 
 “ Hearken, then. You have a brother’s daughter in the house ; 
 ai d it is your part before man, and it is your part before God, 
 to save her from a near danger, from—Omadhaun !” fiercely 
 interrupting herself, “as well may I speak my words to the 
 wads. You do not heed me.” 
 
 “ I do—of a truth, I do,” said Paul, giggling ; “ and I give 
 thauks for your visit ; am glad of the heart to see you, for- 
 sooih. Sit, mistress ; rest you.” 
 
 “ Conrp-on-duoul! I am no mistress ; I am Onagh, that 
 lives in the black house by the roaring sea ; Onagh, that the 
 worlvl first trampled down, and n-ow is afraid of; Onagh, the 
 friendless,” she continued, in a changed tone, “ left without kith 
 or kin by them that were her own kith and kin—by them and 
 by him who was more to her than them ; Onagh, the unknown ; 
 Onagh, the broken-hearted ! Faugh ! there is no use in talking 
 to this nothing of a creature. But give me to eat !” she con¬ 
 tinued, again turning on him. They have left me without a 
 mouthful. Your meat—your meat!” She snatched it up from 
 a stool, and retreating through the aperture, added, “ Starve! 
 That was my first curse upon you both—you and your ban - 
 shuck, f and now let it stick to you.” 
 
 She disappeared into her own cellar ; but of this poor Paul 
 remained unconscious. His senses had quite failed him ; he 
 neither stretched out his hand in search of food, nor wondered 
 at the absence of Mrs. Evelyn, although, as we have before seen, 
 her own personal sufferings kept that lady from visiting him at 
 the appointed hoar. And thus, in hunger, imbecility, and soon 
 in darkness, passed the following three days and nights, during 
 which he was still left alone, without a second interview even 
 with his near neighbor, Onagh. At all events, without his being 
 conscious of it. 
 
 * A silly fellow. 
 
 f A brawling woman. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 327 
 
 When Mrs. Evelyn had, by repeated questions, gathered this 
 story from Paul, her indignation against Onagh was loudly ex¬ 
 pressed. “ The gipsy vagabond ! the Papist witch !” she cried. 
 “ 0, had I been here! had I met her! had I but—ah!” a 
 scream of interruption, as her eye, glancing towards the aper¬ 
 ture, fixed on the pale face of the person she rated so roundly, 
 ii nd on her dim black eyes, dully glaring in the red beam of the 
 lamp. 
 
 “ You are here, now—and you are with her here,” said 
 Onagh, striding into the vault ; “ what is your will of me ?” 
 A rusty skein was in her hand. 
 
 “ Mercy, good mistress Onagh!” cried the lady, dropping on 
 her knees ; “ only mercy.” 
 
 “ Give me food, then !” continued Onagh, grasping her shoul¬ 
 der. “ I laugh at your words—but give me food ! They have 
 left me to starve like a wild cat, in that black den, till I am 
 made as wild and as wicked. Something—a morsel they flung 
 me every day, but the rats tore it from me. Food, woman, 
 food ! Get up, and bring me to your cupboard ; or, look at 
 this !” raising the skein. 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn quickly obeyed. Without, indeed, leaving the 
 vault, she handed to Onagh a supply out of her pockets. The 
 woman devoured it like a wolf. 
 
 “ And now let me out !” she resumed after her speedy meal ; 
 “ let me out through your own door into the street. 1 came 
 here to speak to your husband of what concerns him, but 
 another ear shall listen to it all—another man, more like a man, 
 and better able to right me. Let me out.” 
 
 The lady willingly conducted her to the street-door. 
 
 “ Starve ! still starve !” cried Onagh, by way of thanks, at 
 parting. 
 
 Securing the hall-door, Mrs. Evelyn hastened to replace, from 
 her private store, the pockets full of good things of which she 
 had just been plundered, benevolently intending to hasten to 
 Paul with her new supply. Arriving at the secret cupboard, 
 she knelt down to unlock it, and, in the same position, to swal¬ 
 low a few mouthfuls of cold meat, and a few glasses of home¬ 
 made cordial, ere she attended her husband. 
 
 “ Halves,” said Jerry, at her back, whilst she was thus em* 
 ployed. He had entered the house from his own, through the 
 breach, which, in this part of the wall, was considerable. 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn at first screamed ; but ascertaining who it was 
 
328 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 that watched her, quickly sprang up, and laying hands on Jerry, 
 as quickly brought him to the ground, crippled and enfeebled as 
 he was with hunger and his bad wound. Holding him down, 
 she snatched a knife. 
 
 “ Plundering old pirate !” she cried. “ Tory, Rapparee, Pa¬ 
 pist ! come you on my back, too ? Oh, ill-omened castaway l 
 I'll teach you !” 
 
 “ Tilly-vally, sister Janet,” answered Jerry; “you must not 
 hurt me, or up you go, you know, over the yardarm. Better 
 for you let me rise, and give me some prog, or I’ll report to 
 the governor, and have you sent to the hulks. Let me up ; I 
 strike. For, shiver my timbers, you’re too heavy a decker for 
 me.” 
 
 These words brought Mrs. Evelyn to reason. After a bitter 
 internal struggle, and a long pause— 
 
 “ Here, then,” she cried, giving him some eatables, “ take 
 that, blotch of your family, and let me never see your face again, 
 nor hear the wag of your tongue. Remember, on no other con¬ 
 dition do I give it.” 
 
 “ Agreed, Janet. But I will have halves of every thing. 
 Half of that pasty, that ham, that flitch, that hung beef. Three 
 of those loaves, those tongues. Six of those little black bottles. 
 I will, as I’m a Christian, or all shall go among the crew, and 
 yourself into the bottom of the hold, Janet.” 
 
 After much indignant remonstrance, Mrs. Evelyn was, in 
 prudence and policy, obliged to submit. Jerry retired through 
 the breach, well laden ; singing a verse of one of his Rapparee 
 songs— 
 
 “ Tliady Murphy lost his cow, 
 
 And didn’t know where to find her ; 
 
 And ’twas all the token he could give, 
 
 She carried her tail behind her.” 
 
 Mrs. Evelyn, in diminished spirits and circumstances, returned 
 with a scanty supply to Paul’s cell. As she entered, the lady 
 wondered he did not speak nor move. She called him : no an 
 swer came. She advanced to his corner ; he lay on the floor, 
 in a heap. She stooped and raised him ; poor Paul’s sufferings 
 were over. The last shock of Onagh’s appearance had been to 
 much for him. 
 
TI1E BOYNE WATER. 
 
 329 
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 “ Starve I” cried Jerry, entering the room ii: which Edmund 
 and Evelyn, all their arrangements made, awaited the hour of 
 midnight to join, along with Esther, Eva, and her reverend com¬ 
 panion, at Columbkill’s well. “Starve, quoth-a! tilly-vally ! 
 Good men never fare ill ! That’s my word, in any storm. Se¬ 
 rious men have I seen go down, in scores, but merrily swam the 
 merry. Come, goodmen lads, be hearty.” 
 
 He laid down his freight of good cheer, his friends staring at 
 him. 
 
 “ Where, and how came you by this, uncle ?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “ It came to my hand,” answered Jerry ; “it ever does so ; it 
 ever did. As boy, man, and lad, in every quarter of the globe, 
 sea and land, have ever cried to me—eat and drink, Jerry, and 
 keep a heart, still. ’Tis an excellent world.” 
 
 His companions did not refuse to partake of his supply, with¬ 
 out asking any more questions. When Jerry had pretty well 
 satisfied himself, he thought of imparting some of his good luck 
 to their prisoner, Onagh, and for this purpose left the room. In 
 a few moments lie returned, informing them that she had hoisted 
 all her sail, and sheered off. 
 
 “ Gone !” exclaimed Edmund ; “ we have no time to stay here 
 then, Evelyn ; not even to inquire into her means of escape. 
 Come, the hour has struck.” 
 
 “ It has,” said Evelyn. 14 But why should you seem affected 
 by the movements of that poor woman, M’Donnell ? Indeed, 
 why should you have held her in any restraint ? But that I 
 did not think it important, I could have informed you of her 
 being at large, an hour ago ; for, on my way hither, I saw her 
 standing at the door of the governor.” 
 
 “ Ay ?” said Edmund, changing color ; “ then must we not 
 stay here, indeed.” 
 
 They hurried out of the house, and met Esther, disguised in 
 male attire, awaiting them, at an appointed place. Edmund w T as 
 also disguised as a soldier of the garrison. They all joined a 
 body of men who were about to issue, on a foraging sally, 
 through Butcher’s gate; got out with them, and contrived to 
 
330 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 let them pass on. In a few seconds the young party stood by 
 Columbkill’s well. 
 
 Over a bubbling spring was raised a little arched building, 
 open at one end, and surmounted by a shattered cross. Here, if 
 local history errs not, the patron saint of the north, and partic¬ 
 ularly of Derry, the famous Columbkill, used to seek water for 
 his cell in the adjacent monastery, and spend many hours of 
 meditation and prayer. On his departure for Scotland, he made 
 his adieus to the spot, along with others to which he was at¬ 
 tached, in four lines, which are thus translated : 
 
 “ My fragrant banks and fruitful trees, farewell; 
 
 Where holy mortals, mixed with angels, dwell. 
 
 Here angels shall enjoy my little cell, 
 
 My sloe, my nut, my apple, and my well.” 
 
 By the side of this consecrated little pile stood Edmund, Esther, 
 and Evelyn, shrinking at the voices around them, and looking 
 wistfully at every side for the friends they came to meet. None 
 met them. Edmund supposed they might have hidden them¬ 
 selves under the arched roof of the well, and was approaching 
 its black mouth, when, from the other side, two figures appeared. 
 Both seemed of the male sex ; but, coming nearer, Eva was 
 recognized, clad, like Esther, in man’s attire, but that the cos¬ 
 tume seemed foreign, and of a more martial cast, and supporting 
 on her arm the bent and palsied old priest. In silence were 
 mutual embraces exchanged, and in whispers were conveyed their 
 mutual greetings and tidings. Sheltered from observation, at 
 the remote side of the well-house, stood two horses, upon which 
 Eva and her guardian had, after many previous precautions to 
 ascertain the means of possible approach, stealthily gained the 
 point of rendezvous. She told them that in Hamilton’s camp 
 they also would find horses. 
 
 Weeping and trembling, Esther clung to Eva’s breast. In 
 silent wonder and love did Evelyn gaze on the metamorphosis of 
 his adored lady, who, in her present attire, looked the very per¬ 
 sonification of a boy-hero, completely baffling his recollections of 
 her former air, figure—self, in fact; every motion, even her fea¬ 
 tures, seemed different. But this was not the hour nor place for 
 much indulgence of emotions, such as all experienced ; time 
 lapsed—opportunity, perhaps, with it; hither they came for one 
 certain purpose, which was to be at once engaged in ; and, at 
 the earnest urging of Edmund, Esther gave him her hand. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 331 
 
 Without book, the old priest began his ceremony, when— 
 
 “ Hush !” interrupted Evelyn ; “ let us step back a little. The 
 gate opens.” 
 
 Before they could gain the shelter of the well-house, a body 
 of horse, galloping straight across the open ground, at their 
 faces, came suddenly upon them. At the same time, a single 
 man walked from the open gate, and, when he drew near, they 
 knew Governor Walker. 
 
 “Stand, all !” he said, as he joined them. None moved ; in 
 fact, the horsemen had surrounded them. 
 
 “You, Captain Evelyn, I arrest in the name of King Wil¬ 
 liam/’ he continued, gravely, “ for remissness of duty, in aban¬ 
 doning your detachment that has just sallied out. You, Edmund 
 M’Donnell, as our former prisoner, now found outside the city, 
 in breach of your parole. Miss Evelyn returns with her brother. 
 The strangers—the old priest and the masquerading girl—are 
 free.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said Evelyn, “ I am astonished at this interference.” 
 
 “Doubtless; but you need not be,” answered Mr. Walker, 
 dryly. “ I was fully advised of your rash and unseemly adven¬ 
 ture, and had taken measures to counteract it.” 
 
 “Seize her !” here screamed Esther, whose eyes, since the ap¬ 
 pearance of Mr. Walker, had been fixed on the dark mouth of 
 the well. “I knew it. She is there. She stirs in the dark.” 
 
 “ Who ?” demanded her brother. 
 
 “ Come,” resumed the governor ; “ time is not to be spent 
 here.. Soldiers, follow me with the prisoners and Miss Evelyn ; 
 let the others go.” 
 
 He walked slowly towards the gate. 
 
 “ Farewell, friends,” said Eva, embracing them separately ; 
 “still shall we meet again.” 
 
 “Never,” said Esther, as she sank, weak and weeping, on the 
 arm of her brother ; “ and—hear that ! she has echoed me.” 
 
 “ What mean you, dear Esther ?” asked Evelyn ; “ there was 
 no voice but yours. Nor is there any one where you point, and 
 fix your eyes so wildly. Up, Eva, and away 1 these men will, 
 at least, let us stand here till you and the clergyman are beyond 
 our lines—farewell!” 
 
 “ Farewell,” replied Eva, as she and her gray-headed com¬ 
 panion spurred onward. At this moment Esther’s hints re¬ 
 ceived a confirmation. Onagh ran out of the shadow of the 
 well-house, following the track of the departing friends ; and, as 
 
332 
 
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 was always her habit, when much agitated, clapping her hands, 
 as she exclaimed bitterly : 
 
 “ Speed you ! speed you ! luck and leisure over the road you 
 came so fast. This night we are travellers together.” 
 
 As Edmund, who had not opened his lips during the whole of 
 this scene, watched his sister and the old priest pass safely 
 through the hostile lines, Onagh also ran on in the same direc¬ 
 tion. The two friends, supporting between them the fainting 
 Esther, then turned their faces towards the gate, and, guarded 
 by the horsemen, re-entered the town. 
 
 Mr. Walker, with the lady from whose house Esther had just 
 escaped, met them in the street. Esther was committed to her 
 charge, parting almost in an insensible state from Edmund and 
 Evelyn. They were marched to the guard-house, and, at express 
 orders from Walker, confined in different rooms. As they sepa¬ 
 rated, they sadly exchanged an embrace, but spoke no word. 
 
 Esther’s fate, in the increasing distress, occupied the friends 
 more than their own. A few days after their confinement a ray 
 of hope and relief reached their minds, in consequence of intelli¬ 
 gence, communicated by those about them, that ships had ap¬ 
 peared in the Lough, and, firing at the Castle of Culraore, en¬ 
 deavored to pass it, and reach the city. No doubt was enter¬ 
 tained of these vessels being sent from England with the long- 
 promised supplies and assistance, and great joy reigned through 
 the town. But it was of short continuance. 
 
 The friends soon after heard that, galled by a heavy fire from 
 the fort, as one of them ran, and for some time lay aground, 
 the ships were obliged to drop down the river, and now re¬ 
 mained inactive. While the besiegers, taking advantage of their 
 inactivity, increased their forces, at each side of the Foyle, with¬ 
 in a mile of Derry ; raised heavy batteries ; brought thither 
 many guns ; and—all these movements fully visible to the sol¬ 
 diers and people from the northeast range of their walls—con¬ 
 structed across the river a ponderous wooden boom, well se¬ 
 cured at either bank, and regarded, by the despairing garrison 
 and citizens, as impassable. Thus, then, from the only quarter 
 to which hope might look for relief, none could now be expected. 
 Day by day, the little stock of provisions still decreased, while 
 fever, dysentery, and other hideous diseases, began to accompa¬ 
 ny the nearer approaches of utter famine. In their separate 
 prison-rooms, the friends found their coarse meal, before scanty 
 enough, still abridged ; in the pallid faces and meagre forms of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 333 
 
 their guards and attendants, they read the general sufferings ; 
 and the situation of Esther came, in increasing horror, upon 
 their hearts. Shrieks of famishing women arose in the streets, 
 and they fancied tney heard her voice calling for food. 
 
 In about a fortnight after their imprisonment, word was 
 brought them of the return of the French general, De Rosen, 
 to the Irish camp, principally with instructions to oppose the 
 English, but also to assist Hamilton in pressing the siege. 
 From Rosen’s character every thing vigorous, persevering, and 
 cruel was reckoned on, and in a short time he realized the ex¬ 
 pectation. Many threatening changes were made in the posi¬ 
 tions of the besieging army ; their works were pushed closer 
 towards the town ; several strong batteries were raised on 
 heights to the west and southeast of it, one within ten perches of 
 Butcher’s gate. Lines were drawn round all the land sides of the 
 walls ; the trenches well manned. Supplies of water—the last 
 supplies open to the besieged, outside their gates—were thus cut 
 off; and at length it seemed that Derry was in reality a besieged 
 city. 
 
 The cannon now roared louder and more frequently than ever, 
 and shells of great weight fell in the streets. Numbers of the 
 garrisons and citizens were killed on the walls, or in the houses, 
 or crowding to sleep under the walls, as their safest screen. 
 Thus spending the nights in the open air, the effects of their 
 unwholesome place of repose added to the ravages of their 
 previous distempers, until mortality, in every frightful shape, 
 abounded. 
 
 Consternation and despair began at last to contemplate a 
 surrender ; and the friends remained in momentary dread of 
 the entrance of an enraged enemy, when a second glimpse of 
 relief was opened to the besieged, and, once more, obstinate 
 resistance became the fixed resolve of the governor. A person, 
 escaping from the ships, arrived at the water-side, where Lord 
 Antrim’s Redshanks had first made their appearance, and bold¬ 
 ly swimming across a stretch of water of more than one thou¬ 
 sand feet, informed the city that the vessels, still faintly seen in 
 the Lough, contained provisions, and a disciplined force, under 
 the command of General Kirke, expressly sent for the relief of 
 Derry ; that the general was most anxious to reach the town ; 
 that he would try every means of doing so ; and that he ear¬ 
 nestly recommended the holding out of the garrison. 
 
 Mr. Walker instantly prepared a message to Kirke, conveying 
 
334 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the best hints that, under the circumstances, could be given, acd 
 the adventurous courier proceeded some distance back with it. 
 But, being watched, fired at, and wounded, he was obliged to re¬ 
 turn to the city. Another person attempted the service, and he 
 was taken prisoner. 
 
 Still Rosen continued his violent cannonading. He had ar- 
 rived about the 20th of June ; by the 27th, General Hamilton 
 desired a conference with the garrison, and once more proposed 
 terms of capitulation in the name of James, that still proffered 
 forgiveness and safety ; and, by the way, that showed a jealousy 
 of his French colleague, and seemed to speak of some previous 
 quarrelling between them. But the governor and his garrison, 
 buoyed up by the message from Kirke, totally rejected those 
 terms. The negotiation at once ended, and besiegers and be¬ 
 sieged again flew to their guns, both more enraged than ever 
 
 De Rosen’s rigorous measures have been glanced at ; other 
 measures of his, alluded to as cruel, remain to be noticed. 
 
 Upon the first or second day of July, as Edmund, after a 
 sleepless and feverish night, sat, almost distracted, thinking of 
 the probable fate of Esther, he was surprised with a visit from 
 Evelyn. They started at the first sight of each other ; want 
 of food, watching, and sorrowing had, during a separation of 
 three weeks, prepared a shocking change for the eyes of both. 
 Their greeting, too, was strange and solemn, almost as if they 
 had not been the affectionate friends they indeed were. For 
 some time, no words were spoken between them. Edmund first 
 broke silence. 
 
 “ The governor has set you free ?” he asked. 
 
 “ But now,” answered Evelyn, “ he visited me ; and, in con¬ 
 sequence of something that has recently occurred, gave me my 
 freedom, and sent me to you to release you also. But, I musi 
 deal very plainly, M’Donnell—to lead you, as my private prisoner, 
 to a court-martial, where you, along with the other Irish prison¬ 
 ers in the garrison, are to be tried for your life.” 
 
 And all this in consequence of some recent matter, you say 
 What is it ?” 
 
 “ Have you heard no news within these few days ?” 
 
 “Not a word ; my guard seemed unusually disinclined to 
 speak with me.” 
 
 “ Listen, then. A few days ago, De Rosen sent into the city 
 a declaration, threatening, in case of continued resistance, to 
 demolish it to its foundations ; to put all to the sword, sparing 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 qqs 
 
 OO'J 
 
 neither sex nor age ; to burn up the whole adjacent country, 
 that so any re-enforcement from England may be left destitute ; 
 and to collect, from the barony of Inishowen, round the coast as 
 far as Charlernont, all those of the Protestant party, whether 
 protected or not, of every rank and sex, who can be found, and 
 drive them, in a body, to starve under our walls.” 
 
 “ Impossible,” said Edmund, warmly ; “ this must be a false 
 rumor. No man of human feelings could even threaten such a 
 barbarity.” 
 
 “ I agree,” resumed Evelyn ; “ but what will you say if—a 
 specified time having elapsed since the threat was made—part, 
 and the worse part of it, is already put into force ?” 
 
 ' 1 What part ? what do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Come with me.” He took Edmund's arm, led him to the 
 walls, and there showed him thousands of meu, women, and chil¬ 
 dren, of all conditions, crowded under them, and crying to their 
 brethren within for the shelter and food it was impossible to 
 afford. 
 
 “These,” added Evelyn, “are all the Protestants of the 
 north, found out of Derry and Enniskillen, and driven hither, 
 according to Rosen’s promise, at the point of the sword.” 
 
 “ Blessed God !” exclaimed Edmund, as, in the utmost con¬ 
 sternation, he surveyed the unhappy crowd ; “ do I witness it ? 
 Is this done by my friends, and those who call themselves the 
 friends of my country ? By the honest man’s hope of heaven, 
 it is enough to bring down a curse on our cause, and to turn 
 from it, in anger and disgust, the eyes of its best well-wishers !” 
 
 “ I can give you one relieving thought, foe as I am,” said 
 Evelyn ; “it is not the work of Hamilton or his soldiers ; it has 
 not been conceived nor perpetrated by your countrymen. Of 
 late, the Irish and French generals have had some bickering be¬ 
 tween them, both striving to show an authority independent of 
 the other. And this deed has been planned and carried into 
 effect by foreigners only, unconnected in country or fellow-feeling 
 with the victims of their cruel impatience.” 
 
 “Hamilton must be applied to—that is my proposal,” resumed 
 Edmund, eagerly. 
 
 “ Then you will soon have opportunity, and need, too, to fol¬ 
 low it up, Edmund. These are hideous times ; let us walk to 
 the market-house.” 
 
 They did so. Edmund found a court-martial sitting upon 
 the Irish prisoners, some of whose names have before been 
 
336 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 mentioned. lie was ordered to join them, and abide his trial 
 by their side. In a few moments, the court pronounced a sen¬ 
 tence of death on the gallows, which the governor declared 
 should be carried into effect upon all, by ten o’clock next morn¬ 
 ing, provided the miserable crowd were not allowed to depart 
 from the walls. 
 
 Edmund demanded permission to write to Hamilton, with a 
 pledge of conveyance for the letter. His fellow-prisoners ear¬ 
 nestly seconded him. Their united prayer was granted ; and 
 they immediately prepared and dispatched a statement of the 
 sentence, requesting their general, “ as one who did not delight 
 in shedding innocent blood,” to represent their condition to the 
 marshal-general; and adding that, in consideration of the in¬ 
 human proceeding which caused their danger, they could not lay 
 their blood to the garrison of Derry, from whom they had hith¬ 
 erto experienced “ all civility imaginable.” 
 
 The prisoners were then strongly guarded to the jail, instead 
 of the lodging they had before occupied. Evelyn accompanied 
 his friend. On their way they passed a gallows already con¬ 
 structed on the walls, in sight of the enemy, for their execution 
 the ensuing morning. At the jail door, Evelyn was refused ad¬ 
 mission with M’Donnell. 
 
 “We part here, then,” said Edmund, taking his hand for the 
 first time since they had met. “ I have not yet asked you a 
 word about your sister, Evelyn ; I feared the question. But 
 how is she ?” 
 
 “ I found her very ill, and very wretched,” answered Evelyn ; 
 11 but principally afflicted on your account.” 
 
 “ Well, I expected it, if not worse. Farewell 1 Should this 
 letter fail, and the rest follow, do not mention it to her till she 
 is better. But should Esther ever be well enough to hear 
 about it, tell her”—his voice failed him, and, wringing Evelyn’s 
 hand, he was only able to add—“ farewell!”—when, with his 
 sad companion's, he retired into the jail. 
 
 Evelyn turned, through the streets, to the walls, afraid ol 
 meeting Esther till an answer should arrive from Hamilton. 
 Houses had been battered down, at every step, as he walked 
 along, and the pavement torn up with shells. Faint and sick 
 people crawled out of their homes, for safety, or lay powerless 
 on their own thresholds. Still roared the insatiable cannon, 
 within and without the city. 
 
 Alone he stood for hours on the walls, careless of being ex- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 337 
 
 posed to the enemy’s shot, with his face turned in the direction 
 from which an answer might be expected. At last came the 
 messenger, with his flag and escort. Evelyn ran down to the 
 gate to ask for tidings ; it was asserted that Hamilton returned 
 an answer confirming the fate of the sufferers without the walls 
 —and of the prisoners within. 
 
 He bent his steps to his drooping and half-famished sister, 
 and strove to impart to her the hope, a spark of which he did 
 not feel, and, did she know all, the hope which was not for her. 
 That night he enjoyed no sleep, and the early morning found him 
 at the prison-door of his friend. As he prepared to go in for a 
 last farewell, an unusual stir was heard on the walls ; he as¬ 
 cended them, and beheld the crowd below preparing, under es¬ 
 cort of the Irish army, to depart homeward. Weak though he 
 was, Evelyn flew back to the jail, and brought to the prisoners 
 the first announcement of their safety. 
 
 “ Edmund, dear Edmund,” he said, as M’Donnell looked 
 vaguely at him, “I am sure Hamilton wrote that note only in 
 hopes of terrifying us—the cruelty having once been committed 
 —into submission to his master. I doubt even that he ever 
 wrote it. At all events, the wretches have been allowed to re¬ 
 tire from our walls, and you are at liberty.” In fact, James had 
 sent a peremptory countermand to De Rosen. 
 
 He took Edmund’s arm ; and, after the necessary forms had 
 been gone through, they gained the street together. 
 
 “Bring me to see Esther,” said M’Donnell, “I am in agony 
 till I see her.” 
 
 They turned towards the house in which she lived, Edmund 
 walking faster than his strength and a newly come agitation 
 warranted. About half-way, his limbs sank under him ; his eyes 
 closed ; his cheeks grew fiery red ; his lips dry and ashy ; and 
 Evelyn perceived that his friend was struck down with fever. 
 He called some people to his assistance, and had him conveyed 
 to his old quarters, where M’Donnell immediately sank on a bed 
 of sickness, that Evelyn feared would be his last. 
 
 Evelyn was his nurse ; dividing his days and nights between 
 his bedside and that of Esther, when garrison duty did not com¬ 
 mand his absence. Then, poor Jerry filled his post, faithfully 
 aud kindly attending the sick man, and still exhorting him—- 
 though some tears at last stole down his now meagre cheek—to 
 keep a heart, and be merry. 
 
 About ten davs after Edmund became ill, Evelvn received a 
 
 15 
 
338 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 summons to attend the governor. It was evening. lie fou>*J 
 Mr. Walker pacing up and down a large apartment, his step stu] 
 firm, his eye still powerful, though, in common with all around 
 him, want and anxiety had much reduced his face and person. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 “ Sit down, Captain Evelyn,” said Mr. Walker, taking a chair 
 himself, resting his forehead on his hand, and casting his eyes on 
 the floor. 
 
 “ I require counsel; at the least, a calm and friendly hearing, 
 from some one, as to what I shall say. Mr. Baker, my colleague, 
 is, along with the thousands we have lost, dead. Captain Mur¬ 
 ray is honest, but perhaps too warm, and too devoted to one 
 view of the present subject, shift as it may. Though you are 
 but a youth, nay, though we have sometimes differed, I know no 
 third man in Derry to whom I would so soon speak freely 
 Therefore attend. 
 
 “ You have heard that, notwithstanding our reliance on Kirke’s 
 message—in consequence of which we flatly refused the other 
 day to treat with Hamilton—all the ships yesterday disappeared 
 from the river.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; I am aware of that distressing fact.” 
 
 “ Gone they are. And so ends Kirke’s promise, upon which 
 we staked all—dared all. ’Tis like the conduct of the heartless 
 bravo, first boasting and engaging, and then deterred, by the ap¬ 
 pearance of a little difficulty and danger, from attempting what 
 a man of any bowels, or a truly brave soldier, would almost 
 have dared a sea of flame to do. ’Tis like him who has learned 
 humanity from the Turk—whose school of war was on the ground 
 of the turbaned infidel. Ay, and Tis like the accomplice assas¬ 
 sin of Jeffries, who helped to depopulate a fair district of- Eng¬ 
 land, and whose name is, by other particular acts of abomination, 
 accursed unto posterity. Better success could not have been 
 permitted by Heaven to the cause which brooked alliauce 
 with him. With him, too, who was James’s hangman, and now 
 is William’s.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 33S* 
 
 After thus giving vent to his embittered feelings, Mr. Walker 
 paused, but soon continued : 
 
 “ All hope thus shut out ; death and famine still increasing 
 their demands upon us ; nearly our last wretched meal served : 
 I cannot blame the city for at last inclining to the terms of hon¬ 
 orable capitulation again proposed by Hamilton. You know, 
 that even since the ships disappeared, he once more sjjeaks us 
 fair ?” 
 
 Evelyn assented. 
 
 “ If he be sincere, it is considerately done. No longer oppos¬ 
 ing the city, I have myself drawn up articles which have been 
 presented to the enemy’s council, debated upon, and, with some 
 exceptions, allowed. To-morrow morning we are to send a final 
 answer ; and, doubtless, it will meet Hamilton’s wishes.” 
 
 “ In other words, the city of Derry will surrender to-morrow 
 morning to King James,” observed Evelyn, as Mr. Walker again 
 paused. 
 
 “Thou hast said it,” answered Mr. Walker, groaning deeply. 
 Just then a pallid and meagre soldier entered, leading a sturdy, 
 fresh-faced lad of sixteen years, in whose bold and mischievous 
 eye, Evelyn recognized, now ripened to a more active maturity, 
 the glances of his old guide over the Point of Garron, upon the 
 first memorable day of his journey to Cushindoll. At sight of 
 the intruders, Mr. Walker rose, and, with a self-command that 
 to Evelyn was surprising, calmly inqaired their business. 
 
 “ This boy,” answered the soldier, “ says he has come through 
 all the enemy’s lines, with a letter to you, sir, from General 
 Kirke.” 
 
 “From Kirke !” cried Mr. Walker, his eyes flashing. “ Im¬ 
 possible ; the brat deceives us.” 
 
 “ Na, then,” said the boy, stoutly and pertly, “ he does na.” 
 
 “ Who are you ?” asked the governor. 
 
 “ A ridin’ Rapparee,” he was answered. 
 
 “ What! and you come here, young spawn of Satan, to tell 
 is as much.” 
 
 “ Troth jest,” replied the lad, coolly ; “ and wi’ a civil letter 
 til your honor.” 
 
 “ Where is it, imp ?” 
 
 The young thief drew his skein out of a broad belt of undressed 
 horse-skin, and with it cut off a large cloth button from his jacket 
 of purple velvet, which, united to its skirts, now invisible, had 
 once been w'orn by a different character. 
 
MO 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ But,” he continued, after having held out and drawn back 
 his hand, “ bide a wee, and I’se tell your worship a’ about it. 
 It’s no lang since I joined wi’ the southern Rapparees. And 
 hearing them say ane til another, that your worship would gi’ a 
 muckle penny for a bit writing frae General Kirke, and some 
 talking o’ the venture—for your honor kens the Rapparees are 
 no at ony particular side, but a wheen poor bodies striving to 
 live on their ain account—throth jest, why I thought I might 
 e’en try it myself. So I e’en went : and here I am, wi’ the 
 writing in this muckle button, when your honor has the siller 
 ready.” 
 
 “ Guard the door,” said Mr. Walker to the soldier ; “ and 
 if this fry of wickedness deceives us, let him sorely rue it. 
 Here,” he continued, handing a purse ; “ and now let me have 
 your button.” 
 
 The young Rapparee deliberately emptied the purse on the 
 table, sounded and counted the pieces one by one, and at last 
 said: 
 
 “ Your honor will just gi’ me three jacobuses along wi’ it, and 
 I’se gi’ your honor the button.” 
 
 “ Rascal !” cried Walker, snatching it, “ you are already 
 overpaid.” 
 
 He cut round the button, and found it to contain a piece of 
 paper, folded small and hard, which he hastily opened, and 
 read with devouring eyes. Strong emotion shook him, as he 
 proceeded ; and he had not yet ended, when, a moment for¬ 
 getful of the presence of the spectators, he broke into a shrill, 
 “ Ah !”—struck the paper triumphantly, and shouted “ All’s not 
 lost.” 
 
 In an instant, however, he corrected himself, ordered the boy 
 out of the room, and desired him to be well looked after till he 
 should require his attendance. Then finishing the reading of his 
 dispatch, he handed it exultingly to Evelyn. 
 
 It proved, indeed, to be a genuine letter from Kirke, inform¬ 
 ing Mr. Walker that he had received his last letter ; that finding 
 it impossible to approach the city, he had sent round a party to 
 Inch, a small island found in Lough Swilly, after coasting round 
 Inishowen Point, and was about to follow them, in order, if pos¬ 
 sible, to divert the enemy from the town. That he expected a 
 large force from England ; and, along with less important things, 
 that he had stores and provisions for Deryy, and was determined 
 to relieve it 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 341 
 
 44 This, then,” said Evelyn, when he had perused the letter, 
 u will put an end, I presume, to the treaty with Hamilton.” 
 
 44 As the Lord liveth, it shall,” answered Mr. Walker. 
 
 44 Yet, like some others,” continued Evelyn, 44 it is a treaty 
 concluded upon.” 
 
 44 Tush, let it be. But we should temporize somewhat. This 
 party to Inch souuds so triflingly that it will never induce the 
 city to reckon on speedy relief. Give me the pen.” 
 
 Without ceremony, Mr. Walker substituted for the words, 
 44 a party to Inch,” 44 six thousand horse and nine thousand foot 
 to Inch and— 
 
 “That,” he added, 44 reads better, and will give them hopes 
 and spirit to quash this treaty.” 
 
 “False hopes, sir,” said Evelyn, rather warmly, as in this 
 well-known act he read a trait of the real character of the gov¬ 
 ernor— 44 false hopes, sir, to tempt falsity to a wretched crowd, 
 already distressed beyond another day’s dependence upon even 
 certain relief.” 
 
 44 Boy,” cried Mr. Walker, trembling with impatience, “how 
 can you judge the policy of experienced men? I fear—though 
 all along my heart yearned to your father’s son—I fear I have 
 been mistaken in your zeal and spirit, and most of all, in your 
 feeling for me. What ! would you so meekly prepare for degra¬ 
 dation and ruin, and so readily abandon me, your appointed 
 teacher, to the mercy of the merciless? Would you—but leave 
 me !—I am carried beyond Christian temper ; leave me to my 
 reflections.” 
 
 Evelyn, taking him at his word, departed to Edmund’s quar¬ 
 ters. lie found him safely past the crisis of his fever ; sensible, 
 but weak as an infant. This was about the middle of July. In 
 a few days, the patient proposed to visit Esther, concerning whom 
 his inquiries had, from the moment he regained his senses, been 
 continual, while Evelyn gave him only evasive answers. Now 
 he insisted on seeing her. His friend urgently opposed him, 
 and, for the present, Edmund complied with his entreaties. 
 
 During another week, Evelyn watched by his bedside, now 
 scarcely provided with a drop of water to cool his friend’s 
 parched lips, and almost destitute of a scrap of food for his own 
 mouth : Jerry offered, indeed, some brandy, which Evelyn had 
 not recollection to wonder how he could have obtained, and 
 which he only declined. Still the governor’s hopes of relief from 
 General Kirke seemed vain and ill-founded. The last horse of 
 
342 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the garrison had been slaughtered and devoured ; and a true, 
 though perhaps not very agreeable idea of the wants of the sol¬ 
 diers and people will be formed, when it is known that consider¬ 
 able sums were offered for cats, rats, mice, horse-blood, raw 
 hides, greaves, and such offal, while a dog, “fattened on the 
 bodies of the Papists,” was invaluable. 
 
 Before the 30th of July, Edmund’s strength, notwithstanding 
 the foul and scanty food he received, was somewhat recruited, 
 and, on that day, he found, or fancied himself able to resume, 
 with more consistency, his determination of visiting Esther. In 
 Evelyn’s absence he rose and dressed himself ; and was met by 
 his friend, preparing to go out. 
 
 “ You see,” he said, “ I am not to die without beholding 
 her ; let us go together ; if you refuse me I shall go alone.” 
 
 Thus urged, Evelyn gave him his arm, himself scarce able to 
 walk. Upon this memorable morning, the garrison of seven 
 thousand five hundred men, regimented in Derry about three 
 months before, was reduced to four thousand. Even of these, 
 one thousand were disabled ; and more than ten thousand of the 
 population had died. As the friends slowly walked along, the 
 streets seemed deserted by the living. Groups of dead bodies 
 almost exclusively filled them ; here and there a famished wretch 
 dropped down dead, or to die. In one case, indeed, they saw a 
 frightful instance of life and death linked together, where a 
 starving infant sprawled upon the breast of its lifeless mother, 
 tearing at it for the milk that was dried up forever. Further 
 on, an affluent gentleman, dying on the pavement, stretched out 
 his hat, half-filled with gold, to a beggar, for the bone he 
 gnawed : and the beggar spurned the gold. A very old man, 
 respectable too, had crawled to a wall to devour a handful of 
 some carrion food, and a young lad, stronger than he, though 
 like him a skeleton, tore it from his clutch, and, when resistance 
 was offered, dealt him a stunning blow. Passing by the church¬ 
 yard, the bodies of those recently dead, and carelessly buried, 
 were exposed to view, rent fifom their grave by a succession of 
 the showers of shells, which had first sent many of them thither, 
 and now refused them its repose. 
 
 Buying and selling was at an end ; greeting and saluting, 
 visiting and returning of visits. Money lost its artificial value ; 
 there was no food that it could purchase, and stark hunger 
 required no other necessary. Shops were left open or shut at 
 random j houses had lost their tenants : the man inclined to 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 343 
 
 theft might rob and plunder ; but when he was ladeu with 
 booty he found it of no use, and he cast it in the mire of the 
 itreets. 
 
 Distinctions of rank were almost lost ; in some cases, natural 
 connection was forgotten. There were no masters—no servants ; 
 they had no reciprocal duties to exercise ; or else common suf¬ 
 fering equalized them. 
 
 The friends gained Esther’s house, and found their way, un¬ 
 ushered, unattended, into her presence. She was sitting in an 
 armchair, dressed in white, wasted to a shadow ; her blue eyes 
 enlarged, and glittering ; a touch of fiery red on her cheeks ; 
 her flattened chest laboring with respiration ; and incapable of 
 moving a joint of her body. It was evident that her former 
 tendency to consumption had been renewed and precipitated by 
 the shocking dist resssherecently experienced. 
 
 As Esther recognized her brother and lover, and beheld the 
 horror of their looks, she strove to smile ; Edmund staggered 
 against the wall. She could not even speak to him, but silent 
 tears ran down her burning and emaciated cheeks. 
 
 “ Ask her to eat,” whispered the mistress of the house ; “ she 
 so loathes the only things we can offer her, that the poor young 
 lady has not tasted food these three days.” 
 
 Edmund made no remark ; he asked no question ; he offered 
 no consolation ; he spoke not a word; but after a moment of 
 frenzied agitation, burst out of the room into the street. Eve¬ 
 lyn strove to follow him ; but the desperate and unnatural 
 strength that now winged the despairing lover, made pursuit 
 useless ; and at last Evelyn dropped. 
 
 Edmund rushed on through the streets, glaring at every lonely 
 wretch he met, as the she-tiger might look round for a prey, 
 when, herself famishing, she has left her young ones in the lair, 
 voracious for food. He ran into open houses, but found none to 
 answer his claim. Continuing his course, Jerry approached 
 him, altogether in such a fashion, that had Edmund felt any woe 
 less than his present one, he must have forgotten it, and smiled. 
 The little man had necessarily suffered in proportion with all 
 around him; and the skirts of his coat, recently supplied by 
 Evelyn, and always too large, hung in helpless waste about his 
 limbs ; the pockets, by the way, swelled out to some bulk. The 
 wound in his foot, growing worse every day, and wholly un¬ 
 attended to, so lamed him that he could not move without a 
 prop; and lie now limped along, his body half-bent, as he leaned 
 
344 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 with both hands upon a short-handled shovel, procured, Heaven 
 knows how or where; his motion being, crab-like, backward. 
 
 “ Food, sir !—I want food l” cried Edmund, stopping him. 
 
 “And so do I ! But what of that ?” said Jerry. “We all 
 want something or other, some day or other. What, then, I 
 say ?—be hearty. I wonder to hear people about me talk so ; 
 I wonder at any man’s fretting, who can have a pound of good 
 cat’s flesh for some shillings; a house to cover him, and a good 
 town to walk in. You are all serious people. There was my 
 sister Janet, never satisfied, and she has just kicked the bucket. 
 Rest her, say I : though that’s a Papist prayer, ’tis a Christian 
 one. Rest to her who never gave it to any.” 
 
 “ Unfortunate old man !” said Edmund, as Jerry, more broken 
 down than he would acknowledge, or even suffer himself to sus¬ 
 pect, sank against a wall ; “ how can you trifle with nature’s 
 sorest misery ? Your niece, too—Esther Evelyn—gasps for 
 proper food. I ask you to help me to some, and this is your 
 answer.” 
 
 “ So bad is she ?” resumed Jerry, really affected ; “ I couldn’t 
 think that; and they wouldn’t let me see my poor niece. Stop, 
 I’ll bring you where we can have good things ; some friends of 
 mine in the camp—no matter whom—hearty fellows, I promise 
 you. Poor Esther ! I never thought it. Come”—attempting 
 to rise, he fell back again—“ stop ; I’m foundered myself, only 
 there’s no use in believing it. Come, I say”—another failure. 
 “But I can’t, though. Here, then,” fumbling at his pockets 
 “ here’s what will steady me. Did you never admire where I 
 got the drop of brandy, now and then, while the serious poor 
 souls of Derry were quarrelling for a drop of water ?” 
 
 Edmund impatiently answered. 
 
 “ Stop, then ;—bless my heart, what is to do ?” he con¬ 
 tinued, as dizziness, and benumbing pain, and sickness came upon 
 him. “ Ship’s in a fog—can’t see a rope’s length ahead ; you’re 
 a hearty lad”—grasping Edmund’s hand—“ I know how it is, 
 now—get to the Rapparees, as fast as you can. The whole 
 fleet of ’em is anchored near Ballougrv hill;—say I sent you—■ 
 that’s enough.” He grew fainter, but rallied. “ Shiver my 
 timbers—old ship going down ?—Tilly-vally ; it all comes of 
 thinking of it. I’m growing serious—hearty, still; and so we 
 ride any squall. Where’s my ballast;—ay”—at last plunging 
 a hand in his pocket—“ here it is, if it would but come out;— 
 merry, goodmen boys, merry— 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 345 
 
 ** * I met a fair Rosy by a mulberry-tree, 
 
 And though Mass was my notion, my devotion was she’ ”— 
 
 a shred of a Rapparee song, which Jerry tried to repeal, as he 
 still tugged at his pocket— 
 
 “ ‘ I met a fair Ro-’ ** 
 
 His voice sank—his eyes fixed ; he shivered—and died 
 Proving that hunger will not spare a merry man, any more than 
 a serious ; and that, on earth at least, mind cannot live without 
 body, however well disposed to life it may be. Certainly if—- 
 combined with simple-heartedness—good-humor and unaffected 
 resignation under every possible evil, could ever have disarmed 
 death, poor Jerry would be alive to this hour to boast of a vic¬ 
 tory. 
 
 Edmund seized the hand he had thrust into his pocket; it 
 was clasped round the corked neck of a bladder, half filled with 
 brandy : in Jerry’s other pocket he got a second large bladder, 
 crumpled into a lump with constant squeezing. Upon sudden 
 and wild impulse, Edmund drank a maddening draught, and 
 gaining from it an accession of artificial strength, ran, acting 
 upon Jerry’s hint concerning the Rapparees, to Butcher’s gate. 
 
 Here he told the men the object of his speed, and offered 
 them the brandy as a bribe to open the gate. They readily 
 took the liquor, but refused him egress. He became furious ; 
 snatched a sword from one of them ; ran on, like a maniac, to 
 where the wall was not much more than a dozen feet high, 
 and jumped down upon a soft embankment of earth and sods. 
 Shots were fired after him, as, regaining his legs, he raced towards 
 Ballougry hill. He escaped them, and gained an outpost of the 
 Rapparees. Edmund knew them by their costume. “Food, 
 food 1” he cried, breaking through them. They had beheld his 
 approach in great amazement, rather than in hostility ; and it 
 was not till he endeavored to force them aside, that they offered 
 violence : then, however, some cuts were aimed at him, and he 
 was wounded in the neck and arm. But still he made way ; and 
 in a few moments came upon the main body of freebooters, as 
 they sat, before their temporary huts, on the grass. 
 
 “ Food 1—give me food 1” Sword in hand, he rushed on them 
 but now his strength failed, and he fell prostrate. 
 
 All that followed was like a dream. He afterwards brought 
 
346 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 faintly to mind, that some had gathered round to injure him ; 
 some to save. That the Whisperer and Galloping Hogan had 
 questioned him ; that he had answered ; and lastly, that as if 
 wrought upon by his sad story, the rude men had given him food 
 and wine. Clasping it close, he made a second desperate effort, 
 and flew back to the city. Little opposition was offered to his 
 entrance, freighted as he came. The gates were opened ; the 
 soldiers seized him, and dragged the food from his hands ; he 
 saved a little, and gained Esther’s house. She was not at home. 
 He learned that, according to her daily custom, she had caused 
 herself to be borne to the church, to attend prayers, which, never 
 neglected in the city since the beginning of the siege, were now, 
 in their terrible distress, more than ever the resource of the pious. 
 To the church Edmund hastened. Pushing in among a great 
 crowd, he vainly looked round for Esther. Again faintness came 
 upon him, and he sank on a seat. 
 
 For some time he was insensible to every thing. Gradually, 
 however, the feeble though shrill tones of old age filled his ear ; 
 and looking towards the pulpit, he saw it occupied by a very 
 aged, white-headed, emaciated clergyman, who, with an energy 
 beyond what his strength could bear, was preaching to the mis¬ 
 erable people. As Edmund’s eyes turned heavily downward, 
 the shrill, childish voice stopped ; theu there was the sound of a 
 sudden fall. “ He is dead 1” exclaimed the congregation. 
 
 This more effectually roused Edmund. He saw the lifeless body 
 of the old man borne from the pulpit. Immediately after, Mr. 
 Walker, assisted up by two young persons, filled his place ; and 
 at the same moment began to preach. His once full and sono¬ 
 rous voice was at times husky and screaming ; sometimes it sunk 
 into a hoarse whisper. But so hushed was the crowd, that every 
 cadence of that whisper was audible. 
 
 “ Gaunt suffering has made another breach,” he said, “ another, 
 of the sorest; but, as is my duty, I mount it. Nor do I fear so 
 to do ; nor shall you fear for me, my afflicted brethren. The 
 voice that, even in a prayer for us, has just been cut short, and 
 silenced on the earth forever, but mounts into the actual pres¬ 
 ence of God, to finish, there, the petition here interrupted. Al¬ 
 though its echoes have failed in the fretted roof of this holy 
 place, yet, with the ear of faith and hope, ye can still hear it 
 ringing, piteously and beseechingly, before the footstool. Let us 
 join our cries to it—our cries of anguish and feebleness ; and 
 surely will the Lord at last deliver us. As when Moses lifted 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 . 347 
 
 np his hands upon the mount, against Amalek, praying that the 
 battle might be turned, and it was ; as when at the prayer and 
 sacrifice of Samuel, the Lord discomfited the Philistines by thun¬ 
 der, aud they were smitten before Israel; as when the great host 
 came up against Jerusalem, and Hezekiah spread the letter of 
 their captain before the Lord, praying for deliverance, and lie 
 Lord sent His destroying angel into their camp ; yea, as Shad- 
 rach, Meshech, and Abednego were delivered from the furnace 
 of fire, and Daniel from the lions’ den ; yea, as Elijah obtained 
 rain when the famine prevailed—” 
 
 The preacher was interrupted by a hoarse weak shout, that 
 came from abroad. He did not attempt to go on. Wild with 
 expectation, he turned and fixed his eyes upon the doorway, and 
 thither the feverish glances of the pallid congregation were also 
 directed. The shout came nearer ; voices were heard at the 
 door. At first, no words could be distinguished ; but soon a 
 thousand tongues cried : “ The ships 1 the ships!” 
 
 “ He hath heard us 1” exclaimed Mr. Walker, dropping on 
 his knees. The congregation, uttering cries of hope and anxiety, 
 hastened from the church. Many died as they sat or stood ; in 
 the streets as they staggered along, or on the steps leading up to 
 the walls. When almost all had abandoned the church, Ed¬ 
 mund looked round for Esther. He found her left helpless, aud 
 nearly insensible. He caught her up in his arms, and followed 
 the people. 
 
 It has already been said that, from the northeast side of the 
 walls, in which was Butcher’s gate, a full view of the river could 
 be commanded. The whole prospect formed a pleasing picture. 
 The horizon was bounded, at a distance, by a sweep of blue hills, 
 called Magilligan’s creeks. About five miles off, a line of low 
 land, on which stood Culmore fort, ran under them, into the 
 water, swelling high, as, at the left hand, it came near and 
 nearer, and overtopped, in its continuation, by the barren sum¬ 
 mit of the Inishowen promontory. To the right, cutting against 
 the blue creeks, rising grounds also swept into the water, appa¬ 
 rently narrowing it from thence down to Culmore fort, but allow¬ 
 ing it to spread, up to the city, into a fine sheet. And, at the 
 back of this last little point, appeared the formidable boom, 
 crossing the river to the opposite shore. 
 
 Esther continued nearly insensible, as Edmund bore her to 
 the walls. But when they had gained them, she recovered suf¬ 
 ficiently to understand what was going forward. 
 
348 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Eat, eat,” he then cried, eagerly—“ eat, my beloved. Yon 
 but want strength—nourishing food. And here—this is nutri¬ 
 tive and good ; and this wine is also gentle and strengthening.” 
 
 “ In a moment/’ she replied, very faintly. “ But first set me 
 down, and look you over the walls, and tell me how this ends 
 Let me hear that you and Evelyn—where is Evelyn ?” 
 
 “ I know not—among the crowd—but safe—safe, dearest 
 Esther.” 
 
 “ Let me first hear that he and you are to be saved indeed. 
 And then— But set me down, Edmund.” 
 
 He complied, and cast his eyes around, and over the water. 
 Near him, and at every side from which a glimpse of the boom 
 could be obtained, the ghastly crowd thronged close ; sons bear¬ 
 ing their parents, brothers their fainting sisters, husbands their 
 fainting wives ; friends supporting each other, in lines and 
 groups, with arms locked or hands clasped. And as they stood, 
 silent and breathless, in the garish sunshine of that midsummer 
 day, all looking more like a concourse of the dead, placed up¬ 
 right out of their graves, than living men to whom its ray was 
 dear. 
 
 And all eyes strained down the broad river, up which, by 
 Culmore fort, four gallant vessels just then came, with a fair 
 and fresh breeze, canvas crowded, and flags and pennons flying. 
 A light frigate, the convoy of the storeships, led the van. She 
 had been exposed to a terrible fire from the old fort ; but she 
 had passed it, giving more than one broadside, and hauled her 
 wind, and lay to, in order to cover the other vessels, till they 
 should get ahead of her. This they effected, and all steadily 
 approached the ponderous boom, though still receiving the fire 
 of hundreds of small-arms from the shore. The largest of the 
 store-ships at last ran straight for the boom. 
 
 “ What is that ?” inquired Esther, as she heard a drawing-in 
 and hissing of breath among the miserable multitude, which 
 sank into a hollow groan. 
 
 “ A ship has struck the boom,” answered Edmund, “ but with- 
 out injuring it ; while, with the shock, herself rebounds and runs 
 ashore. And now”—a loud yell echoed along the banks of the 
 river—“ now the Irish put off in boats to board her.” 
 
 “ God’s will be done !” said Esther, scarcely audible. 
 
 He cast himself on his knees, by her side, and renewned his 
 entreaties that she would taste food and wine. Of the latter 
 she allowed him to give her a mouthful. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 349 
 
 “ Despair not yet, my people,” he then heard Mr. Walker 
 say near him ; “ the frigate will guard the stranded ship—will 
 resist and overcome them. See now her brave crew man the 
 deck, and her gallant captain, hat in hand, cheers them. Ha ! 
 —he drops.” 
 
 A second groan came from the unhappy crowd. 
 
 “ But her crew are not dispirited,” the governor continued ; 
 “ they divert the fire of the batteries and lines from the other 
 ships. And up another comes. But, no ; hers will not be the 
 glory. The first bold adventurer frees herself with that broad¬ 
 side, and once more she runs for the boom.” 
 
 The crowd again sucked in their breath, and their arms and 
 hands were raised, and waved in sympathy of action with every 
 movement they saw. 
 
 “ Esther, my life, my only life!” cried Edmund, as she grew 
 worse, gasping piteously. “Take heart, my beloved ; all will 
 be happy still. Eat, eat, sweet Esther,” he continued, tears 
 blinding him ; “ only eat—or droop not for this—the bold vessel 
 tries it again !”—starting to his feet. “ Now, Esther !—” 
 
 “Now !” echoed Mr. Walker, pressing his lips together, and 
 his arms over his breast. In a second after—“ Long live King 
 William !—huzza!” he shouted aloud. 
 
 A hoarse and awful cry of joy burst from the spectators, as 
 now, indeed, the strong ship, again striking the monstrous impedi¬ 
 ment, broke it into pieces, and, followed by her sister vessels, 
 sailed on, proudly and triumphantly, to succor the wretched 
 city. As that cry arose, the last breath of many escaped with 
 it. Joy had her victims as well as famine and despair ; and 
 Esther was among the number. But, in her case, another shock, 
 of a different kind, assisted, perhaps, the general one. 
 
 “ Hear them, my adored 1” exclaimed Edmund, as the people 
 shouted. 
 
 “ She hears not them nor you,” said the voice of Onagh, at 
 Esther’s back, now sounding rather sorrowful than stern. But 
 her words, at least, the maiden heard ; for, starting from lief 
 lethargy, her eyes fixed their last look on Onagh, and then 
 closed. 
 
350 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A relapse into fever was the instant consequence of the shock 
 Buffered by Edmund. Evelyn also fell a victim to the same 
 disease, against which he had, indeed, long struggled. When 
 consciousness returned, his recollections of the past were dull, 
 and of its saddest event he half doubted. The first person who 
 spoke at his bedside was a good old Protestant clergyman, long 
 the friend of his family. The next face he saw was that of 
 Father M’Donnell. The two old men comforted him ; but 
 delicately and dexterously avoided much conversation. Evelyn 
 himself did not dare to ask one certain question. In a few 
 days more, Father M’Donnell spoke of Eva. When the invalid 
 had been sufficiently prepared, there was a rustle among the 
 drapery of his bed ; then a tender murmuring, and Eva sank on 
 his breast. She had watched his pillow since the day after he 
 became ill. 
 
 Still afraid of the question that lay at his heart, he asked for 
 Edmuud. She arose and left the room ; but speedily returned 
 with her brother by the hand. Evelyn saw that both were 
 habited in black. He was at last satisfied. 
 
 The meeting with Edmund was mute as the grave. They 
 only pressed each other’s hands. Evelyn was shocked at the 
 appearance of M’Donnell. It was not emaciation and paleness 
 alone that gave his figure, face, and manner an altered char¬ 
 acter. 
 
 “ Much as we have suffered together, I should not know 
 you,” said Evelyn. 
 
 M’Donnell withdrew, almost snatched away his hand, and, 
 with an abrupt and husky “ Tush ! and why not ?” turned to a 
 window. Eva whispered, that, apart, from other causes of 
 bitter despair, her brother had lately been dismissed, with a 
 severe and degrading sentence, from his regiment ; and that the 
 effect of all his afflictions had made him fearfully reserved and 
 ungentle. It was but too evident, indeed, that he was devoured 
 by the stern sorrow that fastens upon the heart, empoisons its 
 life-springs, and causes them to flow in sullen and selfish misan¬ 
 thropy. 
 
 When Evelyn grew much better, passes and protections were 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 351 
 
 through his interest, and that of the kind Protestant clergy¬ 
 man, obtained for Edmund, Eva, and Priest M’Donnell, and 
 all prepared to visit Glenarriff. The perfect re-establishment of 
 Evelyn’s health made such a change necessary. But he was 
 further tempted. Eva, expressing her zeal in the public cause 
 to be much cooled since Edmund’s undeserved ill-treatment by 
 King James’s officers, listened to his whispers for a future re¬ 
 union of their hands and fate, in her father’s house, at the Strip 
 of Burne. And now, other reasons made all most anxious to 
 leave Derry. 
 
 Tidings arrived that Schomberg, at the head of an army of 
 twenty thousand Englishmen and foreigners, had landed near 
 Carrickfergus ; reduced it and Belfast; and proceeded south¬ 
 ward towards Dublin. While Kirke, with his considerable force, 
 marched from Derry to join him. Colonel Lloyd, commander 
 of all the remnants of the northern Protestant levies, now col¬ 
 lected into a body, and called by the general name of Enniskil- 
 leners, after also forming an unwelcome junction with Schomberg, 
 continued in his rear, making incursions among the Roman 
 Catholic people of the country, and acquitting himself much to 
 the satisfaction of his corps, who honored him with the title of 
 “ their little Cromwell.” 
 
 From one or other of these cruel men, Eva and Edmund 
 feared an attack on their father, at Glenarriff : hence arose the 
 increased anxiety of all to commence their journey. 
 
 The day was at length appointed. Upon the evening before 
 it, Evelyn secretly left the house, and walked to the adjacent 
 churchyard. He wished to bid farewell to the mouldering 
 remains of his sister ; and also to judge, from the situation 
 of her grave, of the fittest kind of monument to be raised 
 over it. When the sexton led him to the spot, he found his 
 second intention anticipated. A little white marble urn 
 already rose above the grave ; and, looking close, in the 
 waning light, he read thereon — “ Farewell, Esther ! — 
 Ed. M’D.” 
 
 As, deeply touched, he stood by the urn, a soft step ap¬ 
 proached. It was Eva : he concealed himself. She bore on 
 her arm a little garland of white flowers. Gaining the spot on 
 which Evelyn had just stood, she gazed at the base of the mon¬ 
 ument, as if her eyes could have pierced the dense earth, and 
 riveted themselves on the still features of her sister. Then she 
 removed from the urn a faded garland ; and, weeping profusely, 
 
352 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 fell on her knees, and prayed, according to the usage of her 
 Church, for the happiness of the soul of Esther Evelyn. 
 
 Some stones tumbled from the wall of the churchyard ; a 
 man jumped over, pulling his hat over his brows, muffling him¬ 
 self in his cloak, and looldng fiercely around. Eva hastily arose, 
 threw the fresh garland over the urn, and retired. The man 
 walked forward, still glancing behind and around him. When 
 he thought he was unobserved and alone, he suddenly flung 
 himself on the earth where Eva had knelt, spreading out his 
 arms, and grasping the long grass in his convulsed hands, while 
 every muscle quivered, and his sobs echoed through the church¬ 
 yard. Evelyn knew it was Edmund. Some slight noise occurred, 
 and M’Donnell started up, again pulled down his hat, ran to 
 the wall, and bounded over it. 
 
 Evelyn came from his concealment; took his own farewell of 
 his sister’s grave, and returned, stealthily, to his chamber. The 
 friends did not meet that night. ; and each supposed the other 
 was ignorant of the sad visit which each had paid in the church¬ 
 yard. 
 
 Early next morning, accompanied by Father M’Donnell, and, 
 to insure their safety, the Protestant clergyman, they left the 
 city of Derry. 
 
 “ Does Schomberg’s army contain many veteran foreigners, 
 sir ?” asked Evelyn of his reverend friend, when they had been 
 some time on the road. 
 
 “ About a fourth, mostly French. William does not think he 
 can yet spare many Dutch, from England. And upon the same 
 policy, this newly-raised force of English is generalled by a 
 brave old soldier of fortune, who has, from time to time, served 
 every rival court in Europe, always most faithful to his tempora- 
 ry paymaster, though indifferent to the principle of the cause he 
 zealously promotes in his name. Therefore, perhaps, very fit to 
 conduct a war like this, in which partv-spirit runs so high.'’ 
 
 “ The sending of Kirke to assist our northern efforts, may 
 have savored of the same policy,” resumed Evelyn. “A man 
 whose indifference to cause or country is as notorious as his in¬ 
 famy.” 
 
 “ Know you what road Kirke has taken towards Schomberg’s 
 quarters, sir ?” asked Eva, in alarm. 
 
 “ The same we now pursue,” replied the clergyman. “ But 
 do not, my good young lady, give way to uneasiness. He has 
 scarce a day’s march of us, and, with our good horses, we may 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 353 
 
 easily come up with his division before he gains the point I know 
 you think about ; and when we do join him, our documents will 
 fully protect all. But let us push hard.” 
 
 The injunction was unnecessary. Those that heard, were most 
 anxious to anticipate it. With scarce a rest or pause, night or 
 day, the little party held on for Glenarriff, over the same road 
 by which Mr. Walker had led Evelyn and his sister to Derry. 
 
 The sultry evening, one in the latter end of August, had iust 
 begun to approach, when Eva recognized, from a distance, the 
 well-known line of hills that inclosed Glenarriff. 
 
 “ We are now past all danger from those whom you consider 
 as our foes,” resumed the clergyman, at this period of their jour¬ 
 ney. “ Kirke must have deviated from our route, soon after 
 leaving Derry, otherwise we should, ere this, have certainly over 
 taken him.” 
 
 “ God grant it, sir,” cried Eva. 
 
 “ While I, and my loyal Protestant charge,” continued the 
 clergyman, “ have now a right to fear for our own safety, in en¬ 
 tering these remote and hilly fastnesses, amongst which, it is 
 reported, that young wild-cat, Yamen-ac-JcnucJc, occasionally 
 wanders with his freebooters.” 
 
 Eva and Evelyn (Edmund remaining silent, as he rode a short 
 distance behind, during the whole journey) expressed their igno¬ 
 rance of the individual spoken of, and inquired if he was a new 
 Rapparee captain, accommodated with the nom-de-guerre men¬ 
 tioned, Yamen-ac-knuck, or Ned of the hill. 
 
 Their informant replied that they had conjectured aright 
 “We heard nothing of him in Derry until after the relief of the 
 place. Then, however, his exploits reached us, together with 
 some accounts, true or false as they may be, of his person and 
 private history. He is said to be a mere lad, who joined the 
 Rapparee body only while they lay near Hamilton’s camp, pre¬ 
 tending to give that general assistance. When the Irish retreat¬ 
 ed southward, the Rapparees, as is always their custom on such 
 occasions, broke into different bodies. One portion of them 
 remaining without a commander, it is added that this boy, on 
 account of the many instances he had given of great personal 
 courage, ferocity rather, and of cleverness in other needful re¬ 
 spects, was unanimously elected by them. Since when, he has 
 outdone all his predecessors in those acts which make the repu¬ 
 tation of a Rapparee commander. Other accounts add, that he 
 is partly indebted for his sudden elevation to a visit which he 
 
354 : 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 made to Derry, during the siege ; when, on some private business, 
 he had audience of the governor, and, along with a considerable 
 purse, honestly obtained from him, carried back plunder to a 
 great amount, of which the desolate state of the town enabled 
 him to possess himself, and which gained him much considera¬ 
 tion with his fellows.” 
 
 “ I begin to think I have had the honor of knowing, for 
 nany years, the distinguished person you speak of,” said 
 Evelyn. 
 
 “ Indeed 1” and the clergyman was about to make inquiries, 
 when, with a faint scream, Eva, unconsciously, as it seemed, 
 backed her jennet, pointing towards the middle of the line of 
 hill that, at the right hand, formed the boundary of the valley 
 of Glenarriff, into which, at the end opposite to the entrance 
 from the coast, they were now turning. 
 
 All looked, and saw the black ruins of a cabin, recently burnt 
 down, before which, from the branch of a tree, a man’s body 
 was suspended. 
 
 “ He has been in the glen !” she cried, now urging her jennet 
 forward. 
 
 Edmund spoke not a word. Regarding for a moment the 
 object to which every eye was directed, he turned deadly pale, 
 set his teeth, made a motion to draw the sword, which he had 
 not, felt for pistols, of which he was also deprived, and then 
 dashing, in rage and desperation, the rowels into his steed, soon 
 came up with Eva. Evelyn rapidly followed them. The two 
 old clergymen stood a moment behind, one uplifting his hands, 
 the other, with uncovered head, crossing himself. Both then 
 also hastened down the glen. 
 
 As the party proceeded, the few cabins on their way, at the 
 right hand and at the left, presented the same ruinous appear¬ 
 ance of the first they had beheld. But nothing told that the 
 destroyers were at present in the valley. The silence of death 
 reigned over it. No human tones broke the deep repose of the 
 hill side, or of its rocky and barren summit. Not even the low 
 of a cow, or the bark of a household-dog was heard ; naught 
 but the voices of waterfalls, far and near, which, blended in one 
 hoarse whispering cadence, might seem to lament the devastation 
 that had visited their ancient demesne. 
 
 On spurred the little party, in hopelessness and horror, every 
 step they moved adding confirmed anticipations of the worst. 
 They gained a glance of the Strip of Burne, and Eva and Ed- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 355 
 
 mund beheld the humble home that had sheltered their child¬ 
 hood half burnt-down, and yet smoking in the evening sun. 
 From the sycamores and ash trees that had once shadowed it, 
 those cf their poor followers who had dared, after the landing 
 of Schomberg, to cling to the house of their chief, hung dead. 
 
 Indescribable passion kept the brother and sister silent and 
 motionless, for a time. 
 
 “ Our father I” they exclaimed at last, as, flinging themselves 
 from their horses, they prepared to rush forward, partly in the 
 wild hope that, as his dead body did not appear, he might have 
 escaped. 
 
 “ How 1 the song of mirth amid ruin and desolation ?” cried 
 Eva, as, after a few steps, the tones of a harp met her ear. 
 Turning the angle of an intervening bank, she saw Carolan 
 seated, immediately before the ruin, on the smooth, flat stone, 
 where he was accustomed to strike up his announcing lay. The 
 contrast between his smiling face and song of joy, and the hor¬ 
 rors he could not see, petrified, for a moment, the brother and 
 sister, and rooted them to the spot ; while the poor blind lad 
 began to sing words like the following : 
 
 i. 
 
 Come out, old man, at dusk of day. 
 
 Come out and hear the harper play ; 
 
 For I have rhymes, 
 
 And chimes 
 
 Of times .ong past away. 
 
 So come out, come out, come out, old man. 
 
 And hear the harper play. 
 
 n. 
 
 Come out, young girl, and list my lay: 
 
 Young girls like other tunes, they say, 
 
 And I’ve an air, 
 
 So rare. 
 
 To cheer the fall of day. 
 
 So come out, come out, young girl—come out. 
 
 And hear the harper play. 
 
 m. 
 
 Men, women, all—let no one stay— 
 
 Lads, lasses, boys, or old wife gray— 
 
 Down from the moon 
 I’ll croon, 
 
 A tune, or make ye gay, 
 
 So come out, come out, man, woman, child. 
 
 And hear the harper play. 
 
356 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 But before he had ended the words we here translate, the 
 brother and sister broke off to the house ; Eva shrieking, as she 
 said— 
 
 “ Great God ! he thinks he plays his accustomed air to ears 
 that still hear him l” 
 
 “ Who speaks ?” cried Carolan, stopping instantly. “ Eva 
 M’Donnell, why do you scream?” He arose, anxiously turn¬ 
 ing his face in the direction where he had heard the words. 
 But no one replied to him. Evelyn and the two old clergy¬ 
 men followed the brother and sister. He heard the rapid 
 retreating steps—then silence—then wilder screams within 
 the house. In vain the poor harper continued to demand, 
 tears of mixed agitation and bitterness, at being so aban¬ 
 doned, running down his cheeks, “ What has happened, I 
 say ? God of heaven I why do you cry out, Eva ? Eva 
 M’Donnell 1” 
 
 Edmund, his sister, and Evelyn, together broke through 
 masses of fallen thatch and wall, that choked up the doorway, 
 and together entered a part of the large room of the house, 
 which, with the smoking roof yet over it, was most free from 
 impediments. The dead bodies of others of their faithful 
 followers were strewn around, half covered with rubbish ; 
 wounds on their fronts, and weapons near them, told that they 
 had fallen where they lay, while resisting a superior force. One 
 other glance round, and Eva was the first to perceive the corpse 
 of an old man stretched on the clotted hearth. Gashes were 
 visible on his bald head, which lay, crimsoned and cold, upon 
 his once cheerful hearthstone. A short, straight, basket-hilted 
 sword was in his hand, and a wounded stag-hound crouched at 
 his feet. At the first noise of intruders, the faithful animal 
 opened his languid eyes ; exposed, without being able to utter a 
 sound, his formidable tusks ; made an effort to rise and attack 
 Evelyn, but, staggering, fell dead across the body of his old 
 master. 
 
 It need not be added that the shrieks Carolan heard were 
 uttered by Eva. As she cast herself upon the mangled body of 
 her only parent, they rose, peal after peal, with a shrillness 
 which mortal agony could alone send forth, and which, pier¬ 
 cing through the open roof of her ruined house, re-echoed to 
 hill and rock, far beyond the place where the harper heard 
 them. 
 
 A mile and more from where he stood, they were heard by 
 
THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 357 
 
 the man who had caused them, and who rode slowly, at the 
 moment, at the head of the chosen body he had trained to such 
 acts as this, while the main force of his detachment proceeded, 
 at some distance, on their route southward. 
 
 He sat stooped in his saddle, his round shoulders and slight 
 figure having acquired the kind of crouch (the crouch of the 
 tiger before he springs) which sometimes marks the turbaned 
 race, amongst whom he had learnt his humanity. His small, 
 half-shut, jetty eye, glanced upwardly around, as if overshadowed 
 by the turban ; and as he rode he kept twirling his coal-black 
 moustaches, which, according to their early fashion, he wore 
 unusually long and curled. Thus sitting silent, and watchful of 
 every face around, while none dared to address or look at him, 
 the infamous Kirke heard a faint echo of the despairing shrieks 
 of Eva. 
 
 “ Hark ! sergeant,” he said, turning himself in his pad ; u I 
 think there be some of my lambs not yet done bleating.” 
 
 “ With submission to your honor, I think no,” replied the 
 favored sergeant, returning an expressive leer ; “ the prettiest 
 of ’em, in that wild nook below, sleeps by this time.” 
 
 “ But there again ; heard you not that ?” 
 
 J ‘ I believe we hear but the cry of the gull on the shore 
 yonder.” 
 
 “ Thou gull and goose to say so 1 I tell thee that is the 
 bleat of one of my little lambs, in pain, doubtless ; and I 
 will not leave a single one in pain, poor things. So turn, 
 sirrah.” 
 
 The troop was soon in rapid motion, back to the vale of 
 Glenarriff. 
 
 “ Cease, Eva, cease 1” cried Edmund, sternly, as her delirious 
 sorrow still escaped in deafening shrieks. He had not, himself, 
 uttered a cry, nor spoken a word, nor wept a tear, nor flung 
 himself on the ground. “ Cease this vain frenzy, girl. Rise ; 
 aueel at that side of our father’s corpse, while I kneel at this ; 
 and then give me your hands.” 
 
 She heard or heeded him not, and her screams still rang 
 out. 
 
 “ Hear me, I say !” he continued, the dreadful passion that, 
 like the intense though brooding fire of a kiln, burned within 
 him, now getting a first vent in impatience at not being obeyed. 
 “ Sister 1 woman! silence, and listen to the voice of your last 
 relation !” 
 
358 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 This had effect. She raised up her head, and looked at 
 him. 
 
 When he repeated his former instructions, Eva, seeming to 
 understand and fully sympathize with him, hastily knelt at the 
 one side of their dead father, while Edmund knelt at the other, 
 and gave her hands across the body, which he instantly grasped 
 in his. Eva’s own tears were at last dried up ; her features 
 still, though terribly rigid. The glaring eyes of the frantic 
 brother and sister fastened on each other. “ Let us now swear 
 an oath,” resumed M J Donnell. “ Repeat the words I shall 
 speak.” 
 
 “ I will,” she answered, convulsively pressing his hands. 
 
 u Here, over his mangled corpse, by the blood of him who 
 gave us birth, swear 1” 
 
 She repeated the words, and said— 
 
 “ By this I promise to swear.” 
 
 Against the doers of the murder—against their abettors 
 and their cause—their seed and breed, root and branch— 
 revenge, by every plan and wile! With the eye of the wood- 
 cat to watch them—with the thirst of the life-hound to track 
 them—with the subtlety of the hill-fox to encompass them—- 
 with the mercy of the forest-wolf to deal on them ! For this 
 we give up all other practices of life—for this, while we swear 
 to hate them, we forswear their fellowship—bread never to 
 break with them, roof never to enter with them, hand never to 
 cross with them, word never to change with them, with those of 
 their side or their creed, their party or their country, their blood 
 or their descent, their race, from generation to generation!” 
 
 “ Hold, Eva, and remember what you do !” cried Evelyn. 
 
 11 Forbear, my daughter, and swear not, in madness, a horrid 
 oath !” echoed the old priest. 
 
 “ Hide ye, or fly !” interrupted the agitated voice of Carolan, 
 through the choked doorway. “ Fly, or hide ye ! they are up¬ 
 on ye ! I heard their tramp, tramp, down the glen ; and I 
 know the trooper’s tramp, so different from our own.” 
 
 “Who are upon us?” questioned Edmund, his voice and 
 manner changed into a kind of satisfied composure, as if all he 
 wished was near at hand, in the approach of his enemies, al¬ 
 though he stood so poorly prepared to receive them. As he 
 spoke, he rose slowly from his knees, still holding his sister’s 
 hand, and obliging her also to stand up. Evelyn flew to take 
 her other hand. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 359 
 
 u Who comes ?” repeated the harper, “ who but those who 
 were here before, returning to eud their work ? But if—where 
 is Eva M’Donnell ? If ye can hide, behind rock or hill, for a 
 little start of time, I have sent word to some who may yet save 
 us. Where is she ? Let Eva give me her hand ; I can guide 
 her, blind as I am.” 
 
 “ Eva M’Donnell holds by her brother’s hand, Carolaft,” re¬ 
 joined Edmund. 
 
 “ And will not let it go,” added Eva. 
 
 “ Where have you sent, or on whom have you called ?” asked 
 Evelyn, more collected than his wretched friends. 
 
 “ When ye left me alone, by the flat stone, Con M’Donnell 
 came from his hiding-place and threw himself, weeping, at my 
 feet. He did not see ye enter the glen ; he could not hear the 
 tramp of the red-coats ; but I did. And, as I knew his signs 
 from Eva, I sent him to seek one who spoke to me on my path, 
 as I crossed the hills this morning, and who can save ye, if he 
 will. So hide ye, hide ye, as ye can. Whisht! I hear them 
 nearer and nearer—now there is little time. But yet, use it— 
 make speed 1” 
 
 “ It were useless,” said Evelyn, drawing his sword ; “ they 
 are before the house. If they mean us harm, little dependence 
 must we place on the mission of the poor harper.” 
 
 The dragoons were heard hastly dismounting. 
 
 u On this alone I depend,” said M’Donnell, stooping to the 
 hearth. “ Your sword, old man!” he added, as he took the 
 weapon from the stiffened grasp that held it. 
 
 “ Edmund,” said poor Carolan, “ I felt a sword at my feet, 
 Just now. Put it into my hand.” 
 
 “ Let there be no swords used,” said the Protestant clergy¬ 
 man, “ and we shall come to no harm. I hold protection for 
 all. I will stand at the door, and first meet them. Throw 
 down your blades, young men, and let peace be amongst you.” 
 
 ** Throw it from your hand, Edmund M’Donnell,” repeated 
 the old priest. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” answered Edmund, with a return of one of his 
 grim smiles, “ I stand upon my father’s hearth, under my father’s 
 roof-tree—lie at my feet—his daughter by the hand. Here will 
 I fall, or revenge him, and save her.” And his eyes fixed like 
 those of a crouching panther on the doorway. 
 
 Little time had he to watch or wait. Kirke was immedi- 
 atley heard saying, outside, as he used the terms of cruel mockery 
 
360 
 
 IHE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 we have before heard him use, and which were familiar to 
 him. 
 
 “ Aha ! now do I hear you bleat, indeed, my lambs. Knew I not 
 you were here ? Corporal, post half the men at the back of the 
 house—the rest, enter with me ; we shall want none at the 
 front. And harkye, cut me down two or three of my lambs 
 from those trees, to make room, you know. Sergeant, forward.” 
 
 The sergeant, obeying orders, stepped over the threshold, 
 Kirke close behind him, surrounded by his dragoons. In another 
 instant Edmund's highland blade was through the sergeant's 
 heart. In another, drawing it back, as the man fell, he had 
 bounded to the hearth again, seized his sister’s hand, au*d riveted 
 his glance on the door, as if nothing had occurred. 
 
 Kirke jumped far from the door, and, with oaths and blas¬ 
 phemies, was heard to urge on his men to burst, in a body, into 
 the house. The shadows of several came before them, over the 
 floor ; When the Protestant clergyman, anxious to prevent 
 more bloodshed, stept boldly upon the threshold, and addressing 
 Kirke, said— 
 
 “ Here, sir, are no subjects for violence or cruelty. I am a 
 minister of the Established Church. At my back is an officer 
 in King William’s service ; and my other companions are, by 
 these documents,” showing them. “ protected from all aggres¬ 
 sion. In the name of Gfod and of the King, retire, or give your 
 pledge to approach peaceably.” 
 
 This stopped the dragoons for a moment. Kirke, taking 
 the protections from the outstretched hands of the clergyman, 
 glanced over them ; but immediately said, as he regained his 
 self-possession— 
 
 “ Not worth a straw to my lambs. Protections to submitted 
 and disarmed rebels, these. Here I have to deal with sturdy 
 ones, who meet King William’s soldiers with arms in their 
 hands, and have already taken the life of a loyal subject. So 
 come out, old gentleman, if you are what you say. Let + he 
 officer you speak of also range himself on the side he ought to 
 take ; or both abide the consequences. Forward, soldiers, if 
 they do not instantly appear. Forward, pell-mell. Hah !”— 
 interrupting himself, as he caught, through the door, a glimpse 
 of Eva—“ I see within a fairer advocate, and one that may 
 have more persuasion. Let the lady step out, and entreat us 
 for her friends.” 
 
 Poor Eva shrank back, Edmund again bounded towards the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 361 
 
 door, while Evelyn grasped closer the now trembling hand he 
 held—all in recollection of the well-known story that stamps 
 upon the character of Kirke its deepest infamy, and to which 
 his present words seemed the beginning of an intended parallel; 
 the story that every historian, Hume included, holds up to the 
 curses of posterity ; that a poet has also “curst in everlasting 
 verse the reverse pendant to the story rehearsed in history, and 
 by the muse, of another captain under similar circumstances—of 
 the Roman Scipio, on the field of New Carthage. 
 
 To the door M’Donnell again sprang. It seemed as if he 
 was about to break through all opposers, and all prudent recol 
 lections too, for one good thrust at Kirke. But the two clergy¬ 
 men and Carolan blocked up his way, and together exhorted him 
 to refrain. While Evelyn, and even his sister, also besought 
 him to proceed to no further violence, until it should be pro¬ 
 voked by violence. 
 
 During the debate, Evelyn’s eye caught a strange vision. 
 Over the doorway, visible to any who, from the opposite side of 
 the room might front it, but disguised by a remnant of thatch 
 from all without, the figure of a man stealthily crept, winding 
 itself like an eel through an orifice in the roof, until he had got 
 astride on a rafter. Across the rafter he immediately flung, 
 with great adroitness, a rope having a noose at one end. This 
 done, he looked downward, rubbed his hands, as if satisfied so 
 far, and pleasantly reckoning on the result. Then he faced 
 Evelyn, who, at a glance, knew the Whisperer. And the recog¬ 
 nition was mutual. Rory, his face wearing its usual simper, 
 immediately nodded and smirked at him ; made a gentle sign of 
 caution with his hands ; and patting the rope, and pointing- 
 downward, again composed hinself to attend to the business of 
 his situation. 
 
 “ Will she not out ?” Kirke was once more heard to exclaim 
 abroad. “ Then must we in. What means this silly tumult at 
 the door ? Do my lambs butt at each other ? Forward 1” 
 
 A clamor arose among Kirke’s dragoons, but it did not 
 sound like the cry of attack. Shouts followed, which were not 
 theirs, although they strove to echo them. They received and 
 returned a volley, and then pressed, rather in disorder than in 
 enterprise, against the doorway, some, who were first, stumbling 
 backward into the room. At the same moment another scuffle 
 was heard at the back of the house ; while upon the dragoons 
 who entered half a dozen of Rapparees instantly jumped from 
 
 10 
 
362 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the open roof, led by Evelyn's old guardian of the donkey, and 
 seconded by Con M’Donnell, whose cries of onslaught and con¬ 
 tortions of feature were deafening* and hideous. 
 
 Eva shrank to a corner with her reverend guardian ; Evelyn, 
 Carolan, and the Protestant clergyman still tried to restrain 
 Edmund. The dragoons were cut down or shot, as those from 
 abroad continued to press them into the ruined house. At last 
 Kirke himself was forced upon the threshold, and, with out¬ 
 stretched arms and hands, endeavored to avoid the doom of the 
 men who had preceded him. The eye of the boy-captain, or as 
 he was now called, Yamen-ac-knuck, fixed on him, and, instantly 
 springing forward— 
 
 “ Take him alive !” he cried. Two other Rapparees seized, 
 along with Yamen, Kirke’s arm and shoulders, and tugged to 
 get him in. At this juncture commenced the operations of the 
 Whisperer. 
 
 Hastily rubbing his hands, and smacking his lips, he gave one 
 or two preparative glances downward, and while Kirke yet 
 remained fixed in the doorway, gently lowered his noose ; coaxed 
 it a little round its object; at last gave it a sudden and knowing 
 chuck. And to the surprise of all parties, Kirke’s head as 
 suddenly turned aside, his neck stretched, and his feet began to 
 miss the ground. 
 
 “Mille milloone mullah /”* said Rory. " I have him in the 
 very little bite of a sneem-a-skibbeahlf he was so fond of all his 
 life, for others. Captain Yamen, a-chorra-ma-chree, jest lend 
 him a hand—you know it’s nothin’ but the kindness you wanted 
 to keep him for. You, Bryan, a-vich, take this end o’ the 
 sthring. An’ you, too, Murthock, steady the darlin’, a little— 
 there. Asy, now—fair an’ asy goes far in the day. Musha, 
 what bolgh\ is on you, Gineral Kirke, a-hager ? Throth, I 
 don’t think he loves or likes that lift, by the faces he makes— 
 thry it agin, anyhow. Asy, asy—” 
 
 “ Buck, ruch /”§ interrupted some of their friends’ voices 
 from the back of the house ; “ here comes all the Sassenachs to 
 see what’s keepin’ him. A power o’ them—all that went by 
 to-day— ruch , ruch /” and the overmastering shouts of a great 
 'body of soldiers, mixed with the trampling of their horses, and 
 the blasts of their trumpets, sounded very near the house. 
 
 * A thousand million of praises. 
 { What’s the matter. 
 
 Hangman’s knot. 
 Run, run. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 363 
 
 In the pause of consternation which this produced on those 
 of the Rapparees who were in the ruined dwelling, the few 
 remaining dragoons abroad rallied. Answering the cheers of 
 their approaching friends, they burst through the doorway, cut 
 down their general, and received him, in convulsions, in their 
 arms. 
 
 Eva’s shriek arose, and M’Donnell grew more frantic than 
 ever, in his efforts to free himself from the well-meant violence 
 of his friends. 
 
 As the retreating Rapparees struggled on the floor with the 
 dragoons, as their shots flew round, and their cries and execra¬ 
 tions mingled with the still approaching uproar from abroad— 
 his voice, louder than every other sound, was heard to exclaim : 
 
 “Evelyn—traitor—Sassenach — let me go! Men — Irish¬ 
 men—friends—assist me ! He holds me, to betray me to them ! 
 Strike, if he will not free me !” 
 
 No sooner had he spoken, than the cat-eye of the young 
 captain, the last to retreat, fastened on Evelyn with a startled 
 recognition. He presented his pistol, and snapped it at his 
 head ; it missed fire. He seized it by the muzzle, and sank the 
 lock in Evelyn’s forehead, who instantly went down. 
 
 All that followed of the scene was confused to Evelyn. But 
 ere the young bravo, or some one for him, could repeat a threat¬ 
 ened blow, the scream of another female joined that of Eva, and 
 a woman’s figure swam before his eyes, and fell on him. Then 
 came a burst of shouting, roaring, firing, and sword-clashing 
 —a rush into the house—a trampling upon him—and then 
 insensibility. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 When Evelyn regained his senses, the first glance around told 
 him that he was still beneath part of the roof of the ruined 
 house ; that it was night ; and that some feeble taper just served 
 to break the thick darkness. At another glance, he saw himself 
 surrounded by piles of stones and thatch, rising on every side, so 
 high as to shut him out from view of the rest of the apartment, 
 He stirred, and then became sensible that a hand held his, that a 
 
364 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 woman’s eyes watched him, while his head was pillowed on her 
 lap. But she was silent as all else around her. The full sense 
 of his situation crowded upon Evelyn ; though while the dreary 
 stillness smote his heart, he snatched at the hope that it was 
 Eva who watched him. For, added to the confused state of his 
 thoughts, his nearness to the down-turned face, and the imperfect 
 light, did not allow him at once to become certain. 
 
 So, still holding the hand that gently grasped his, he strove 
 to rise. A sudden swimming of dais head baffled the effort and 
 he sank down again. 
 
 “Sleep, sleep, a-chorra-ma-chree,” said a soft voice, some¬ 
 what familiar to him, though not the one he had hoped to hear. 
 “ The pain and the wakeness is on you yet—sleep, sleep.” 
 
 Yielding a moment to the overpowering faintness, it soon 
 passed away. Evelyn was now more successful in his effort to sit 
 up, and fix his eyes on the girl’s face, which he slowly recognized 
 to be that of Moya Laherty—his champion and savior during 
 the attack on his own house. 
 
 “ An how is it wid you now, a-hager ?” questioned his young 
 and not unattractive companion, while surprise kept Evelyn mute. 
 
 “ My poor girl !” he said, as he gratefully pressed her hand, 
 “is it you who are my nurse, and, I suppose, a second time my 
 preserver ?” 
 
 Tears started into her eyes, as, blushing, and casting them 
 down, she replied— 
 
 “ Avoch, don’t, don’t say them kind words to me. They sadden 
 the heart within me, whin they’d fitther make it glad. Sure it’s 
 poor Moya, hersef, is here, an’ a good warrant she had. Why 
 for no whin the word that came to our men, an’ I wid my mam¬ 
 my among ’em, tould me you war here in throuble !” 
 
 “ Ah ! I seem to remember now having seen a woman—you, 
 I suppose—rush between me and some fellow whose hand was 
 raised over me when I fell ?” 
 
 “It’s the thruth you did, I’m thinking.” 
 
 ' And, my God 1” continued Evelyn, gazing at her in alarm 
 and regret, “ this—this wound on your breast must have been 
 received in your struggle to save me ?” 
 
 “What wound, a-gra? it’s nothin’ at all. Only the blood 
 that cum from your own poor head, more to talk of nor any thing 
 that ’ud happen to twenty o’ my likes.” She said this in some 
 confusion, as she tried to draw the coarse drapery closer ove/ 
 her bosom. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 S65 
 
 “ Merciful heaven !” cried Evelyn, as in her nervousness the 
 covering fell, and exposed a gash on the poor girl’s left breast. 
 
 “ Why would you deceive me ? What a cut is there, poor 
 Moya !” 
 
 “ Bother on it 1” said Moya, roughly pulling up the cover¬ 
 ing, and reapplying some herb-dressings that had also fallen off. 
 “ Where ’ud it be goin’ wid itsef, for to vex me this way ? 
 It’s nothin’ I tell you agin, Sassenach, a-chorra ; or”—tears 
 once more gushing. “ Sure if it war, what is it only a dhrop o' 
 the blood spilt for you, that ’ud come, out-an-out, to save one 
 dhrop o’ yours ? I’m glad it’s next the heart, anyhow,” she 
 added, striving to laugh off her emotion, but with a glance, 
 perhaps involuntary, that Evelyn could not mistake. 
 
 It told him that the sentiments entertained towards him by 
 Moya were such as, for many reasons, he could not in manliness 
 or delicacy encourage. He therefore resolved to shun, as much 
 as possible, all personal topics between them. And the subjects 
 which really engrossed his mind, fully returning after this inter¬ 
 ruption, he was about to thank her, in a formal strain, for her 
 disinterested exertions in his behalf, and then pass to other 
 inquiries, when Moya resumed— 
 
 “ An’ how is the head that’s on you, now, Sassenach ?” 
 
 “ Oh, I scarce feel any inconvenience from the wound !” 
 putting up his hand. In some surprise, he found it carefully 
 bandaged. He could not avoid adding—“ For this, too, I am 
 indebted to you, Moya.” 
 
 “ Not the laste in the world. Only whin I watched my time, 
 an’ struv to lift you over the stones an’ rubbish, out o’ their 
 sight, sure when all was quiet agin, I jest crept out, an’ pult the 
 little heribs that my mammy often showed me in the fields an’ by 
 the wather’s brink, an’ tould me war good for a cut or a bruise. 
 And then, I come back, an’ washed off the blood wid the 
 dhrop o’ liquor I had about me, an’ tied em’ on ;—you—God 
 look down on you I—not mindin’ me a bit all the while. Oh, 
 many’s the salt tear I cried from the heart, out, thinkin’ you’d 
 never mind me, nor any thing else in the world, wide 1” 
 
 Now conveying his thanks, as he intended, in a manner calcu¬ 
 lated, without directly shocking or offending the girl, to impress 
 her with the uninterested state of his feelings towards her, Eve¬ 
 lyn, with some embarrassment, changed the subject. “ You know, 
 Moya, I accompanied hither some very dear friends ; can you 
 tell me wha* has become of them ?” He asked this question in a 
 
366 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 dreadful misgiving, glancing around, though his view of the whola 
 apartment was interrupted. 
 
 “ There was two ould men, one a Sassenach clargy, an’ the 
 other a raal clargy, an’ a young man an’—an’ the—his sisther, 
 I’m thinkin’, all in black, poor crature ?” demanded Moya, in 
 some hesitation. 
 
 Evelyn answered that she had truly described the parties. 
 
 ‘‘Then,” added Moya, “put up the Keenthecaun for ’em, if 
 they war any friends o’ yours.” 
 
 “ My God !—how—what do you mean ?” 
 
 “ In regard o’ the clargy, myself know nothing. But, my 
 eyes desaived me, when they opened, afther a time, by the side o’ 
 you, if they didn’t see the young man stuck through the heart, an’ 
 his father’s daughther dragged off by the Sassenach gineral.” 
 
 He was horror-struck, although he had expected, indeed, some 
 tale of the kind. After a moment he started up. 
 
 “ Where ’ud you be for goin’, now, a-cushla, an’ the legs o’ 
 your body not able to carry you ?” 
 
 “ Take the brand, Moya, and follow me,” he cried, with a fierce¬ 
 ness that startled her, and admitted of no opposition. Without 
 another word, but looks of gloom, she obeyed. They scrambled 
 into the middle of the floor, and Evelyn peered eagerly around. 
 
 “ He is not here. Edmund M’Donnell is not here!” he cried. 
 
 Indeed, except those of the dragoons, now stript and rifled, 
 no dead bodies appeared, although Evelyn recollected to have 
 seen many Rapparees fall. Even the corpse of old M’Donnell 
 had been removed from the hearth. 
 
 “You must mistake, good girl,” he resumed. “My friend 
 cannot have fallen here. And, oh ! God grant you may be 
 mistaken in the rest also.” 
 
 “ God grant, Sassenach, dear. But sure little good is on the 
 eyes o’ me—an’ it’s little is on ’em any way, for the matther o’ 
 tihat.” This she said with the conscious glance of acknowledged 
 beauty. “ Bud the bat himself, the baste, has worser in his head 
 within, if they could make a fool o’ me that-a-way, I’m thinkin’ 
 wake as I war.” 
 
 Evelyn again reflected for a moment. 
 
 “ Before I fell, Moya, a numerous re-enforcement came to the 
 dragoons, and the Rapparees were defeated, and flying. Was 
 it not so ?” 
 
 “Jest the very turn it took,” said Moya. 
 
 “ And how, then, the soldiers remaining viotors to the last, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 367 
 
 and last on the ground—how can it have happened that the 
 dead bodies of your friends are alone removed, an 7 that those of 
 the dragoons appear plundered and neglected ?” 
 
 “ Avoch, an’ how do I know ?” said the girl, pettishly. 
 
 “It is very strange,” Evelyn went on rapidly, hoping, from 
 all these appearances, that, in her faintness and confusion, she 
 had really been mistaken as to the distressing events she said 
 Bhe had witnessed. 
 
 “ Only,” resumed Moya, “ whin I went a good way, hj the 
 brook an’ the hill-side, to gether the green heribs, maybe the 
 bc^ r s cum back, an’ I out o’ the house, an’ lifted their dead, to 
 give ’em Christhen berrin, and put a hand to the red-troopers at 
 that same time. Sure it’s a way they have.” 
 
 This hint was destruction to Evelyn’s previous hopes. The 
 only contradiction to which he clung seemed accounted for; he 
 could no longer doubt the correctness of Moya’s story. Eva, 
 then, had indeed fallen into Kirke’s hands ! As Evelyn once 
 more brought to mind the anecdote before alluded to, and also 
 remembered Kirke’s approach to a conference with Eva in the 
 early part of the fray, he clenched his hands and teeth, stamped, 
 and cried out— 
 
 “ Accursed villain ! Come, girl, let us leave this glen.” 
 
 “ An’ where to go ?” asked Moya, in a commiserating and en¬ 
 treating voice, as she watched the emotions of Evelyn. “ Where 
 to go, at this dead o’ the night ?” 
 
 “On to the village first.” 
 
 “ Och, Sassenach, honey, don’t go to stir a step, if you love 
 the dear life, or care for poor Moya. Every nook of the hills on 
 our road hides a Rapparee, an’ all o’ them your book-sworn 
 foes. An’ the village is full o’ your own red-coats.” 
 
 “ Is it ? That’s all I wish. Come.” 
 
 “ But wait a deechy bit, a-chorra-ma-chree ! It’s the red-coats is 
 in it, sure enough, bud your inemies, as mooch as the Rapparees. 
 “ Didn’t I hear the gineral, while the colleen was screechin’ in 
 his hands, the thief-o’-the-world.” 
 
 “ Accursed monster ! Come, girl, or stay behind me I” 
 Evelyn burst out, almost with a shriek. 
 
 “ Is that how it is now ? Musha, God forgi’ you, Sassenach 
 o’ the hard heart! Will you lave poor Mova alone in this black 
 eK an’ the night in it, when she has nowhere to turn her face ; 
 when it’s her life’s-worth to face among her own agin afther her 
 fitayin’ wid you ; afther them seem’ her whin she put her body 
 
368 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 betuxt them an* you, an—? Bud I’ll say little of it. Only this 
 I’ll say, what I was sayin’ afore. Go not to the village, where 
 your own sodgers are waitin’ to be the ruin o’ you. I hard their 
 gineral, I tell you agin, biddin’ ’em look for you well, and tie you 
 behind a throoper’s saddle, an’ take good care o’ you till the 
 march was over. Now, you may jest throw away your own life, 
 that she gave up all to save, an’ lave her in thi? wild glin to 
 lose her own too. Never ’ill she go a foot wid you over the 
 road that’s to lade you to your death, let her own loock be what¬ 
 ever the morn in’ ’ill briug wid it.” 
 
 Evelyn, struck, if not touched, with the apparent devotion and 
 disinterestedness of the poor wandering girl, hastened to assure 
 her that it was impossible for him, by act or word, to show a 
 forgetfulness of her kind services. Then he was about to give 
 reasons why their reception at the village should not be as bad 
 as she apprehended, when Moya interrupted him. 
 
 “ Ochown! I want no talk like that to pay me for what I 
 done, with a good heart. But, Sassenach, Sassenach, dear, I 
 gi’ you the warnin’, an’ take it. The world wide is agin us 
 two, this black night. Let us turn from ’em all. You have no 
 house or home, an’ I have no house or home ; kith or kin, friend 
 or gossip, we have none, or else they stand up agin us. Och ! 
 sure we’re the only friends of one another. So, till betther 
 times come round—till you can get a house agin, an’ sit down 
 in pace an’ quiet, an’ till I—but little’s the matther about 
 Moya. Only turn wid her, till you can be rightified, an’ made 
 safe an’ sure. Turn your feet, wid hers, from the black north, 
 an’ from all its roads and towns, into the green country. I 
 know a lonesome place, and a weeny, waste cabin in it ; the 
 grass about it is as green as a May mornin’, an’ the little 
 sthrame as clear as your own blue eyes, an’ no livin’ thing near, 
 bud all as quiet as the summer sky. When we sit down there, 
 Moya ’ill have a cow for you, to gi’ you milk, for she has the 
 goold to buy it; an’ a cock to crow for you, at break o’ day, 
 and the wolf-dog to watch while you’re sleepin’ ; an’ she’ll dig 
 for you, an’ lay good food forenent you, an’ be your sarvent all 
 day long. Come wid her, a-cuishla-machree, that she may know 
 well you are safe from the rievin’ world—that she may thry to 
 be to you the comforts now lost to you. Ochown ! come wid 
 her, to give her heart pace 1” 
 
 Here the poor Rapparee girl, with a quick, impulsive gesture, 
 laid her weeping face upon his shoulder. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 369 
 
 “ No, Moya,” he replied, gently, “ with the sheerest thanks, 
 and with friendship for your kindness and friendship, this cannot 
 be. I am encompassed with doubts, which I must, one way or 
 another, clear up. I am torn with fears, which I must, one way 
 or another, make certain. And my first necessary step is to 
 follow the soldiers who were here to-day ; therefore, let us to 
 the village. As to your fears for me when I get there, depend 
 on it I shall meet as many friends as foes. Friends able and 
 willing to protect me; and friends to protect you, too, whose 
 safety shall be my immediate care. Were I satisfied, Moya,” 
 he added, moved by the contrast between her devotion, and his 
 otherwise desolate condition—“in one way satisfied—did I 
 know that I stand as blasted and wretched as I fear I do— 
 then might you lead me where you pleased. Then, my poor 
 girl, I would not care what lonely and savage spot on the face 
 of the earth sufficed to hide me.” Hot tears of anguish dropped, 
 as he spoke, upon the girl’s head, which, fearful of hurting her, 
 he had allowed to remain upon his shoulder. 
 
 “ Our only true danger,” he resumed, “ is from the Rapparees 
 on the road—but that we must dare. Cheer up, Moya; lean 
 on me, and let us pursue our way.” 
 
 She allowed him to take her hand in a silence that seemed 
 like sullenness, mixed with bitter grief, and, perhaps, womanly 
 mortification. As he moved a step she sobbed loudly, and 
 resisted a little. But after a struggle, her buoyant nature 
 enabled her to rally, to dry her tears, to assume a careless, 
 laughing air, and at last to say : 
 
 “ Well, Sassenach, I will jest go wid you, to show you the 
 road—I won’t refuse the last good turn, anyhow.” And with 
 these words they walked into the dark glen, Moya humming a 
 merry t-une. 
 
 Evelyn, alarmed, he knew not why, at this sudden change in 
 the girl’s manner, observed : 
 
 “ If you really fear we may be surprised by your angry 
 friends, Moya, such loud singing is rather imprudent on your part.” 
 
 “ Divil a taste, Sassenach,” replied Moya, lightly. “ When 
 the merry fit comes on a body, who can help it ?” And she 
 sang, at the top of her voice : 
 
 “ ‘ Oh! my Moya’s dliressed so fine an’ gay, 
 
 She wears an Irish mantle ; 
 
 Wid frenge about the petticoat, 
 
 That never knew shame or skhandia’ 
 
 10 * 
 
370 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ That’s me. It’s a scrap of a good song, Terry O’Regan, 
 the handsomest young piper on Ireland’s ground, made for me. 
 But it wouldn’t do—I turned him off. An’ then he made 
 another dhass or two, when he thought red Murraugh was my 
 likin’. This is a lilt of it: 
 
 “ * May you never see the harvest, nor hear the young cuckoo, 
 
 For you robbed me of my darlin’, Murraugh, Murraugh Rue.’ ” 
 
 The last air she began to sing was of the first order of Irish 
 musical pathos. Ere poor Moya could get through with it, her 
 bosom became again filled, in accordance to the tune, with the 
 vainly-checked sorrow that was its real passion for the moment. 
 Her voice trembled ; and, bursting into tears, she interrupted 
 herself with— 
 
 “ Och ! what ’ud I be thinking of, at-all-at-all!” 
 
 Evelyn let the fit work on, as Moya, disengaging her arm, 
 walked forward some distance ; and, after a short pause, her 
 voice was again heard singing to another pathetic air these words : 
 
 “ He’s my love, an’ lie’s my likin’, bud he cares not for me ; 
 
 I’d lay down life for Paudeen, so liis love he’d let me be. 
 
 But while I’d die for Paudeen, of me no thought he has ; 
 
 Och! my heart—my heart, it’s breakin’, wid lovin’ Paudeen Dhass !* 
 
 I’d beg the wide world over, to bring him comfort home ; 
 
 But he’d never think about me, wherever I did roam. 
 
 An’ war I in my could grave, my could grave he would pass, 
 
 Widojt a look or token from my own Paudeen Dhass !” 
 
 As Moya finished the last verse, two or three voices chal 
 longed them at some distance. Ever since they left the ruined 
 house, Evelyn had been apprehending that, through vindictive¬ 
 ness at his slight, or else mere whim and inconsistency, it was the 
 girl’s intention to attract, by her loud singiug, some couching 
 body of Rapparees, and betray him into their hands. As the 
 voices now echoed down the glen, his former suspicion amounted 
 to certainty, and stopping full before Moya, he asked— 
 
 “ Girl ! will you destroy me, after all ?” 
 
 “ Och 1 God forgi’ you agin, I say,” she answered ; “ an’ is 
 it that you’re thinkin’ of in regard o’ the little lightness o’ the 
 heart—an" maybe it’s a sorrowful lightness, after all—that jest 
 
 * Handsome Patrick. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 371 
 
 coin over me ? I know it’s the poor boys you’d be afeard of; 
 but listen well to their voices.” 
 
 The challenge was repeated, and Evelyn, indeed, recognized 
 the broad north country tone that he had been accustomed to 
 among his own volunteer corps. As the party advanced, he 
 promptly answered them. When challenged and challengers 
 met, he further recognized an old brother officer in command of 
 it ; his previous surmise that the village of Cushindoll must 
 have been garrisoned by a handful of native troops, rather than 
 by any portion of Kirke’s regular armies, thus proving true. 
 
 After a cordial greeting on both sides, he briefly informed the 
 officer that his present situation was one of extreme anxiety, 
 calling on him to push southward, after Kirke’s division, as soon 
 as possible ; and he therefore required to be accommodated 
 with a horse and attendant. His old acquaintance replied that 
 he should have both, with the greatest pleasure, early the next 
 morning, when the principal part of their detachment, now in 
 Cushindoll, should march, taking the same route with Kirke, 
 for their headquarters, at Schomberg’s camp, near Loughbrick- 
 land. 
 
 u And why not to-night—now ?” asked Evelyn, in some mis¬ 
 giving. 
 
 “ The answer is one that I am distressed to render. Gen¬ 
 eral Kirke, who assumes, at his pleasure, the command and dis¬ 
 posal of our native troops, left express orders with me, in his 
 hasty march through the village, this evening, to make you a 
 prisoner, should you happen to come in my way. I need not 
 add, however, that your captivity shall be nominal, for this 
 night. Early to-morrow we shall ride forward, together, and see 
 an end to the matter, whatever it is.” 
 
 There was no resource. Evelyn, boiling with rage, impa¬ 
 tience, and terrible apprehensions, saw himself obliged to sub¬ 
 mit to one night’s restraint. After getting upon a horse, and 
 requesting that Moya might be accommodated with a seat be¬ 
 hind one of the men, the whole party were about to move back 
 to the village, when Evelyn took the officer aside. 
 
 “ Sir,” he cried, “ I am a most injured and most unhappy 
 man. That villain—that fiend—the cause of all—good reason 
 has he to put me under this arrest ! No matter for the cir¬ 
 cumstances, at present; but answer me one question. Did you 
 see any prisoners—or strangers—of either sex, accompanying 
 him on his route, this evening, through the village ?” 
 
372 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 The officer paused a moment, and answered no. 
 
 “ But could not such be spirited along, without your obser¬ 
 vation ? Could there not be disguises—a horseman’s cloak, or 
 the like—and there was no whisper, no surmise ?” 
 
 “Iam aware of none. Nor can I form any opinion on the 
 secret practices you suggest. I only know, that after Han- 
 mer’s and Stewart’s regiments, and the greater part of his own, 
 moved back to this glen, from the village where they had halted 
 a moment, in some apprehension on Kirke’s account, they all 
 again returned to us, in much haste, and immediately pushed 
 southward, without any explanation.” 
 
 “ Well, ’tis no matter ; to-morrow shall satisfy me. When we 
 gain Schomberg’s camp, I entreat your support, sir, and that of 
 the men here, and, if possible, that of our whole native force, 
 on the spot, while I publicly appeal for justice against most 
 villanous aggression.” 
 
 His brother in arms promptly engaged to render Evelyn all 
 the assistance in his power; and they immediately rode on to 
 Cushindoll. Arrived in their temporary quarters, Evelyn once 
 more entreated that poor Moya might be looked to for the night, 
 and in the morning allowed to remain with the women of the 
 few volunteers who should stay behind ; the Enniskilleners being 
 accompanied, wherever they went, by flocks of their wives, 
 daughters, mothers, and sweethearts, much to the surprise and 
 scandal of the more regular English army. When he had re¬ 
 ceived promises to all he solicited for Moya, he sent to call her 
 before him. 
 
 She entered, silent and pensive, with a mixture of obstinacy 
 or determination in her manner. 
 
 “ I march early to-morrow morning, Moya, and wish to bid 
 you good-by, before I retire to rest, as there will be no time 
 for adieus in the bustle, at break of day.” 
 
 “ Avoch, we thank you, Sassenach.” 
 
 “ Be assured, my good girl, I can never forget your great 
 services and kindnesses j and if it shall ever be in my power to 
 repay them, depend on my gratitude.” 
 
 “ Avoch !” was Moya’s only answer, as, with her chin sunk 
 in her neck, and the knuckle of a finger tapped against her 
 under lip, she twitched, with the point of her huge brogue, a 
 rush that lay on the floor. Evelyn, not well skilled in the man¬ 
 ifestations of sentiment usual amongst those of her caste, felt 
 hurt at a manner that he feared 6eemed to flout his empty 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 373 
 
 words, and point to some more solid remuneration. Under this 
 feeling, he resumed : 
 
 “ You know I atn not rich, Moya ; you were, yourself, a 
 witness of the temporary ruin that has come upon my property. 
 But still—as, separated from your old friends, you may feel 
 certain embarrassments—I have this at your service.” 
 
 He approached and placed a small purse in her passive hand. 
 She retained it a moment, as if no such thing had been in her 
 possession ; at last held it up, glanced at it, fixed upon the 
 giver a look in which, through eyes floating in tears, an outraged 
 and indignant spirit shot forth ; then, dashing it on the floor, 
 and stamping on it— 
 
 “ As the dust o’ the road I care for it, and I tlirate it!” she 
 exclaimed. “ Ochown ! Sassenach, little do you know the 
 heart in poor Moya’s body, within—an’ little, I’m afeard, little 
 kith there’s betwixt your heart an’ her heart, when you’d kill 
 her, entirely, this-a-way. Bud I’m wrongin’ you, maybe ; I’ll 
 say it war meant kindly, though not done as our people ’ud do 
 it. I’ll say it war—an’ so”—stooping and taking up the purse 
 —“ we gi’ you many thanks, aroon, bud it’s not wantin’ the 
 present time.” 
 
 “ Then, my good Moya, farewell!” said Evelyn, convinced 
 he had erred in his reading. He took her hand, rough and red 
 as it was, though small, and of perfect shape, and rather chiv¬ 
 alrously, and in something of the air of a courteous knight of 
 yore, condescending to comfort, as far as honor permitted, the 
 tears of a devoted damsel to whom he was indifferent, kissed it 
 earnestly. 
 
 This was too much for poor Moya. She instantly set up a 
 wild lament, or song of joy—it might have been either, so far 
 as Evelyn’s startled ears could tell—and eagerly returning, with 
 interest, upon the hand she held, the kiss he had vouchsafed, 
 while all the time her eyes rained tears, she broke from him, 
 exclaiming— 
 
 “ Grod be your speed !—but we may meet agin.” 
 
 Retiring to bed, but not to repose, Evelyn counted the hours 
 till daylight. As soon as morning broke, the party to which 
 he was attached commenced its march. All day he urged his 
 fellow-officer to speed. But the usual regulations observed on 
 the march did not permit his request to be attended to. When 
 they halted for the night, Evelyn found, in increased impatience, 
 that owing to the difficulties of the road, not more than a dozen 
 
374 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 miles, out of between thirty and forty which lay before them, 
 had been accomplished. And he now perceived, what he had 
 at first omitted to calculate, that, owing to the start Kirke had 
 over them, he must not expect to come up with that individual 
 until the detachment should reach Schomberg’s camp. 
 
 Evelyn appealed to the officer for permission to ride forward 
 aloue, giving his parole for a reappearance at the point of 
 rendezvous ; but he was informed, that against any such indul¬ 
 gence Kirke had taken the precaution of issuing his commands. 
 Evelyn then inconsiderately threatened to push on, in defiance 
 of every order ; but his grave and prudential companion gave 
 notice that, after the avowal of such an intent, it became his 
 duty, forgetful of all private feelings, to look more attentively 
 to his prisoner. Accordingly he called two men to ride at each 
 side of Evelyn, asking his pardon for the measure. 
 
 Evelyn saw he was obliged to submit, while hope must be 
 his only solace. Thus did he endeavor to check the impatieuce 
 of his spirit, until, on the evening of the third day, after the 
 beginning of their march, the party came in sight of Schomberg’s 
 pemporary camp. 
 
 It was pitched a little to the north of the village of Lough- 
 brickland, partly on a plain, divided by a very bad road, partly 
 on gentle heights to the left; a small lough of water near at 
 hand. Almost all the troops, including the main body of the 
 Enniskilleners, were under arms, in line, and in the act of being 
 reviewed, as the little detachment came up. It was a beautiful 
 August evening, and it lit up a beautiful, a fine, and, to Evelyn, 
 a novel and stirring scene. Pressing as were the claims of his 
 private feelings, he could not avoid paying some attention to the 
 first regular military display which, soldier though he was, had 
 come so closely under his notice. 
 
 During the approach of his party towards the commanding 
 officer, the left of the line he passed was composed of part of 
 the finest-looking among the English army, completely appointed, 
 bestriding large, strong, and handsome horses, their accoutre¬ 
 ments and uniform bright and perfect. It was scarce necessary 
 for him to pass—as, immediately after, he did—the whole body 
 of the Enniskilleners, in order to draw a contrast between them 
 (including himself) and their English allies. Wondering at his 
 former lack of observation, he new saw, with a feeling like 
 shame, the uncouthness and comparative wildness of their ap¬ 
 pearance ; their different colored clothing; their various weap- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 375 
 
 ons ; their pistols dangling by cords to their sword-belts, instead 
 of being secured in holsters ; the ugly and diminutive “ garrons,” 
 on whose backs they sat ; and the hordes of women, almost as 
 rough as the garrons, and uncouth as themselves, who, squatted 
 on the grass at their backs, kept up a shrill gabble, or watched 
 their every movement. He could detect, too, in the glances of 
 the English troops at his old friends, and then at each other, 
 some contempt, some mirth, and doubt of the usefulness, if not 
 certainly of the uselessness of the Enniskilleners. Sentiments in 
 which they were countenanced by Schomberg. 
 
 But Evelyn could not long suffer the intrusion of such general 
 thoughts. Having passed the greater part of the line, his eye 
 caught, seated in his saddle in the middle of the plain, the figure 
 of the man he panted to confront. This, at least, was enough 
 to master every operation of his mind that did not concern him¬ 
 self. 
 
 “ Yonder/’ he whispered hastily to his brother officer—“ yon¬ 
 der is the villain—let us spur forward.” 
 
 “Hold,” cried his friend, “we must approach with some cere 
 mony. Schomberg is at his side.” 
 
 “Were his particular devil there, I care not1” cried Evelyn 
 “ Follow, if you will.” 
 
 “ I needs must follow my prisoner,” answered the officer, now 
 speaking to himself ; “ though this is wild work. Fall back, 
 men—I ride on, alone.” 
 
 As Evelyn approached the place where Kirke stood, he was 
 struck, in the midst of all his speed and impatience, with the 
 figure of the person to whom his detested enemy addressed dis¬ 
 course. This was a very old man, tall and bulky, with a high- 
 colored face, screened by a profusion of snow-white hair, that 
 flowed, almost as fully as a periwig, from under his old-fashioned, 
 though rich and picturesque, helmet. Tenacious, like all old people, 
 of the costume of his early days, he further appeared clad in a 
 corslet of solid plate armor, with pauldrons or paudrons, gardes- 
 brasses, vambrace, and cuishes, to match. While in lieu of the 
 graceless jack-boots, now generally adopted by all horsemen, he 
 sported a pair of the elegant, falling half-boots, of russet color, 
 that marked the era of Charles I., drawn over a tight-fitting 
 pantaloon, which, although the wearer lapsed into Shakspeare’s 
 sixth “ stage,” health and exercise still kept from looking “ lean 
 and slippered.” Thus, in contrast with the muddy-seeming buff 
 coats, the “ potts,” or close steel caps, and huge hats, around 
 
376 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 him—seldom relieved by so much as a gorget—Schomberg’s 
 dress did not appear less stamped with antiquity than hia 
 features. For Evelyn could see, at a closer approach, the marks 
 of extreme age upon them, shown in the red-fringed eye, and in 
 that changeless, unconscious, and expressionless smile of the 
 mouth, which is the forerunner, if not the evidence, of imbecility 
 and dotage. 
 
 Before Evelyn had quite reached his point, and just as the 
 eye of Kirke shot round upon him, and Schomberg had begun 
 to stare, the officer of the Enmskilleners overtook him, and 
 said : 
 
 “ For God’s sake, and for decency’s sake, patience. Com¬ 
 pose yourself, fall back, and let me open this matter. Schom¬ 
 berg has already imbibed unfavorable notions of our temper, 
 and want of discipline ; do not afford him this new proof.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Evelyn, somewhat convinced of a necessity for 
 self-command, “ I will do as you please. Pass on.” 
 
 The officer accordingly passed him, and, with uncovered head, 
 said, “ This gentleman, General Kirke, is the prisoner you de¬ 
 sired at my hands. And in his person, may it please your 
 Grace,” turning to Schomberg, “ behold Captain Robert Eve¬ 
 lyn, an officer of account among our native troops.” 
 
 As Evelyn bowed, his head also uncovered, Kirke leered, 
 and a glance passed between him and Schomberg. 
 
 “Wehafe heard about Mashters Robert Evelyn,” observed 
 Schomberg, touching his helmet. 
 
 “No ill, I trust, my lord duke ?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “Now dat is one of your littel big Irish questions,” an¬ 
 swered the marshal, again exchanging a glance with Kirke. 
 
 “Perhaps I should have proffered my question elsewhere,” 
 retorted Evelyn, fixing his regards on the other general. 
 
 “ Be prudent, I entreat you,” whispered his companion ; 
 “ only be prudent, and fear nothing. I have possessed my troop 
 with all I suspect of your case. They will spread it among the 
 rest of the Enniskilleners, and they amongst the English, who 
 dislike Kirke as much as you do ; and—” 
 
 “ Fear nothing,” interrupted Evelyn, “ I will only be firm.” 
 
 Then moving his horse a few paces forward, he continued to 
 address Kirke. 
 
 “ My brother officer, sir, informs me I am to consider myseif 
 a prisoner, under your arrest.” 
 
 “ He has correctly informed you, sir,” sneered Kirke. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 377 
 
 “ May I beg to be made acquainted with the nature of my 
 offence, General Kirke ?” 
 
 “ Some other time, perhaps, Captain Evelyn—runs not the 
 address so ? For I believe you are all captains.” Once more 
 he looked at Schomberg, but the bluff probity and good feeling 
 for which that old commander was remarkable, did not, in this 
 instance, accord him any answering grin. 
 
 “ I respectfully appeal to the commander-in-chief, to decide 
 whether or no I am entitled to an answer,” continued Evelyn, 
 on whom Schomberg’s expression of countenance was not 
 lost. 
 
 “ Oh, certainlies, you are, mein goot sir,” said Schomberg ; 
 " and General Kirke does not refuse his answers.” 
 
 Kirke slightly bit his lip ; and— 
 
 “ You know the offence already, my lord,” he said ; “ and it 
 is, as I have informed your grace, aiding and abettiug rebels 
 found with arms in their hands.” 
 
 “ That is it,” resumed Schomberg, addressing Evelyn. 
 
 “ Then it is false, may it please your grace,” Evelyn answered. 
 
 “ Mein Heafen !” exclaimed Schomberg, “ here is much more 
 of the Lashers’ hot tempers ; it will expose us all. Dismiss the 
 men,” to some officers who had begun to crowd around, “ and 
 let them not see such bad examples.” The officers drew off to 
 obey his orders. “ Basta! I hafe nefer met such things in any 
 service with your Frenchmens, your Portuguese, your Branden- 
 bergians, your Englishmans, or your Dutchmans ; sacre ! nefer. 
 You, one Enniskilleners—you ride here to join us on your very 
 big lean cats, and all de wild womans of Irelands at your backs, 
 to eat up our food, or to thief it. You cry, in great spirits, 
 indeed, 1 Send us always on de forlorn of de army,’ and you get 
 one little command which does not put you on de forlorn at all. 
 And den you cry again, ‘ Oh, we can nefer do any good now no 
 more, indeed, for we are put under orders !’ And now you 
 come here over again to give us de challenge for de rencontre, 
 de duello, just only because we put you in arrest for fighting 
 against us, mein goot Gott!” 
 
 Evelyn prudently allowed this little burst of heat, uncon¬ 
 nected as it really was with his individual case, to work itself 
 out. Nor did he hasten to reply even when the old disciplinarian 
 had done, hoping that he himself would come back to the point 
 at issue. 
 
 And he was not disappointed. After a short pause, while the 
 
378 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 broken lines were moving hastily across the plain, Schomberg 
 again spoke. 
 
 “ And so, Masthers Captain Evelyn, you say you did not aid 
 and abet rebels—no, indeed ?” 
 
 “ May it please your grace,” answered Evelyn, “ the case is 
 this. I accompanied from Derry (a Protestant clergyman also 
 in company) some very old and dear friends, who had obtained, 
 before we set out, passes and protections from the proper author¬ 
 ities. While visiting with them their ruined house, which Gen¬ 
 eral Kirke had just burnt, and while they were bewailing their 
 aged father, who lay dead on his own hearthstone (though for 
 him, too, we brought a protection with us), this same General 
 Kirke returned to the house, and endeavored to gain entrance 
 for the purpose of sacrificing my friends. Some resistance his 
 people did encounter from the son of the old man who lay mur¬ 
 dered. He then called on me to assist him in murdering that 
 son also, which call I refused, because I durst not lay hand on 
 those who were regularly protected. Against him or his soldiers 
 I never pointed a sword. Such, my lord duke, is the aiding and 
 abetting with which I am charged.” 
 
 “ But it was not aiding and abetting, not at all, when—dat 
 is, if the peoples were, as you hafe said, protected, indeed. I 
 did not hear of protections, before,” he added, glancing at 
 Kirke. 
 
 “Nor are you likely to hear of them again, to much purpose, 
 my lord,” said that officer, still sneering. “ Supposing such 
 documents to have ever existed, one of my men was killed before 
 a word of explanation could be offered or demanded.” 
 
 “ Yes, by the old man’s son, when—his father dead at his feet! 
 more, more, your grace ! his sister at his side 1—the soldier 
 crosse*’ the threshold of his house to execute the cruel orders we 
 had heard General Kirke issue against us,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ Then we cannot help that mans,” resumed Schomberg. 
 '* He was cut down by a protected rebel, in which you call self- 
 defences. Always, that is, if he had his protections. Where is 
 it now, or where is he ?” 
 
 “ Ay, where is it, indeed ?” repeated Kirke. 
 
 “You know, sir,” retorted Evelyn, “that the Protestant cler¬ 
 gyman put it into your hands.” 
 
 “I am not to know any such thing, at your pleasure, sir. 
 The clergyman you speak of is now in Derry, or God knows 
 where,” answered Kirke 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 379 
 
 "Well, this is unlucky. I shall only ask you, then, to declare 
 the name of the youug person in question. It was Edmund 
 McDonnell, I believe ?” 
 
 “ I have heard so.” 
 
 “Then here, my lord duke,” resumed Evelyn, shaking with 
 mpatience, as he produced the protection, which, having fallen 
 from Kirke’s hands during the struggle with the Rapparees, he 
 had picked up before leaving, late at night, the ruined dwelling 
 of the M’Donnells—“ here is the document.” 
 
 Kirke grew pale, as Schomberg, on looking at it, pronounced 
 it to be a true one. “ And General Kirke will now take off 
 your arrest, mein goot sir,” he added. 
 
 Kirke bowed. There was a murmur either against him, or in 
 approval of the arrangement, among many officers, and some 
 privates, English and Irish, who, after the dismiss, had ventured 
 to draw towards the spot. 
 
 “ I humbly thank your grace ; and would crave the freedom 
 of another word,” said the liberated prisoner. “ Since it now 
 appears that Edmund McDonnell stood free from the power of 
 General Kirke, and since it can be shown—if, indeed, the general 
 denies it—that his own eye informed him of the fact, I hope I 
 am not too bold to expect, through the justice and tenderness of 
 your grace, that some account will be given of the fate of the 
 young man, who, when I became insensible, in consequence of 
 this wound,” pointing to his head, “ was surrounded by a numer¬ 
 ous body of soldiers—but whom, upon my recovery, I could not 
 find on the spot, alive or dead; and who has not since been 
 heard of.” 
 
 “ Certainlies. General Kirke will give accounts.” 
 
 “ I know nothing of the matter,” said Kirke, sullenly. 
 
 “ I charge him, under favor of your grace, with a full know¬ 
 ledge of the matter,” continued Evelyn, still trying to check him¬ 
 self, though his bosom was bursting with passion. 
 
 “ Oh, surelies, the general will remember,” said Schomberg, 
 addressing himself coldly to Kirke. 
 
 “ I pray your grace that he may be exhorted to do so. And 
 there is another occasion for his memory. Your grace has heard 
 me speak of a sister of Edmund McDonnell—a young, beautiful, 
 and now orphan lady”—the emotion Evelyn vainly strove to 
 hide filled his eyes, and choked his voice. 
 
 “ Basta !” interrupted Schomberg, frowning suspiciously on 
 Kirke, in full recollection, doubtless, of his well-known char- 
 
380 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 acter. " Is there one handsome young womans missing 
 too ?” 
 
 “And protected also, as your grace may see, by this other 
 paper. Let me add, my wife, my lord duke ; though our marriage 
 was a private one.” A second loud murmur arose among the 
 bystanders, which, perhaps, had the immediate effect of en¬ 
 couraging, or sympathetically exciting all the long-smothered 
 feelings of Evelyn ; for, quickly turning his horse—“ Villain 1” 
 he exclaimed, “ where is that lady ?” 
 
 “ I am not bound,” replied Kirke, with a ghastly smile, “to 
 hold any errant damoselle under my care, for any errant knight 
 that may choose to claim her from me. Though, to say truth, 
 it was a pretty piece of flesh and blood, and, I remember, won 
 some favor in my eyes. Or supposing me to know aught of thr 
 wench, even in that case am I bound—” 
 
 “ Damnable wretch l” interrupted Evelyn, the taunt and im¬ 
 plication wholly depriving him of reason and self-command, as, 
 spurring his horse, he dashed at Kirke, and seized him by the 
 throat. “ Monster ! what have you done with that lady ? 
 Produce her, and produce her as she fell into your tainted hands 
 —the chaste and orphan daughter of a virtuous, a murdered 
 father. As my wife, produce her!—as my wife, blasted villain!” 
 Evelyn’s voice rose piteously shrill. “ Do this, and do it soon—• 
 now—this instant—or by the heaven you scoff, and the hell 
 that aids you—” 
 
 “ Mein Gott!” interrupted Schomberg, advancing, as the re¬ 
 peated murmurs of the spectators seemed to encourage Evelyn, 
 while a portion of Kirke’s own regiment galloped hastily across 
 the ground. 
 
 “ Mein goot Gott, I do say! Here will be one littel engage¬ 
 ment among ourselves, and one victory for the rebels, whoever 
 shall win. Mashters Captain Evelyn! draw off and fall back, 
 or, by mine honors, I will cut your crown. Take your hands 
 away, or expect nothing from me. Sacra !” he continued, as 
 thes-e words brought Evelyn to his senses, and caused him to 
 unloose his grasp ; “ what you mean, Mr. Enniskilleners, to take 
 all de laws into your own hands, and cut every one man’s throat 
 as you like? Fall back, sir ; fall back, too, General Kirke, de 
 other vay. Some of you, gentlemen, stand between them. 
 Basta ! your Spaniard is not half so hot as your wild Irishmans 
 I do a littel begin to think dey will be very goot for a charge, 
 v\ hen their one starved garrons are made fatter. So, vary goot, 
 
THE BO^NE WATER. 
 
 381 
 
 Let both the gentlemens grow cooler dere, and let all the 
 peoples that make one crowd here, for nothing at all, go away, 
 and den we will talk of this matter.” 
 
 But to Schomberg’s surprise and vexation, the Enniskilleners 
 firmly, though respectfully, preferred to remain until they should 
 see their officer righted. 
 
 “ Vary goot, again. And, basta ! if I order you to lay down 
 your arms,” addressing the volunteer officer—the friend of Eve¬ 
 lyn, who had brought him this message, “ which I ought to do, 1 
 suppose you will all go. with all your lean horses, and all your fat 
 womans, over to the rebels, early in the morning ? Or else draw 
 out to fight General Kirke’s men, that I do see are also come to 
 afford us their companies ? It is all vary goot, I say , I will 
 obey your orders, every one. And so let us now end the affair, 
 Geneial Kirke.” 
 
 “ I rely upon your grace to afford me prompt satisfaction for 
 this insult—for this abuse and assault from an inferior officer,” 
 said Kirke. 
 
 “Yes ; if you tell him where to find his wife,” replied Schom- 
 berg. 
 
 “ That I cannot; or—let your grace excuse me—I am not 
 bound to do.” 
 
 “You will see, mein goot General Kirke,” resumed the old 
 marshal, quietly, but angrily. “I am a father myself, and I 
 have been a husband, and I cannot hafe an old man’s child, nor 
 a young man’s wife, made away with in this fashion, by any 
 officer under my commands. You shall also see I am your com¬ 
 mander here, though you were your own commander when James 
 was up, in the west of England yonder. So, if you know vary 
 much about the poor young womans, you will tell me, or— 
 though I cannot force you to give answers, nor punish you for 
 silence—you shall have very little satisfactions at all for Captain 
 Evelyn’s words and blow.” 
 
 “ I thank your grace for the choice you leave me, as well as 
 for the whole spirit of the decision. But I beg to decline an¬ 
 swering the impertinent and wild assertions of any coxcomb ” 
 
 “ Sacra! hafe you the lady in your hands ? Answer me, man.” 
 
 “ Again, may it please your grace, I shall be silent.” 
 
 “ Diavolo 1—Diable !—Deyvil !—take cares what you do ; I 
 will get proofs against you, and, then, look to yourself, General 
 Kirke. Here, Mashters Evelyn, can you give me proofs that 
 this womans-eater took off your wife ?” ' 
 
382 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ I can, my lord, by your allowing me a few days to send for 
 the witness,” answered Evelyn, advancing. 
 
 “ Basta, sir, what will you mean, at all ? Why will you come 
 here to make charges without the proofs by your side ? I tell 
 you, Mashters Robert Evelyn, only let me hafe proofs, and I 
 will change his general’s commission into one dirty bit of waste 
 papers—hagel! I will.” 
 
 “ Meantime, under your grace’s favor, I stand, in the absence 
 of all proof, clear of the charge ; and, therefore, I humbly pre¬ 
 sume, entitled to the satisfaction I have demanded,” resumed 
 Kirke. 
 
 “ No, mein worthy sir, not till we see whether or no Captain 
 Evelyn can make his stories goot.” 
 
 “ Or,” said Evelyn, “ until my witnesses can arrive. Or, 
 without at all troubling your grace to wait for further proof of 
 the matter, I will be content with one plain course. Let me 
 have your grace’s permission,” he continued, in returning rage, 
 “ to prove my words upon the body of the wretch I accuse of 
 this crime, and, at the same moment, let him have the only 
 chance of satisfaction for my former insults, which, waiving the 
 formalities of nominal rank, one courageous gentlemen can seek 
 from another.” 
 
 “ That will all happen as General Kirke will like,” answered 
 Schomberg, not displeased, perhaps, at a prospect of a summary 
 discomfiture, in one shape or another, to Kirke. “ I am satisfied, 
 in order to put ends to this affair, to enable him to meet your 
 challenge, without endangering his rank, and you to give it with¬ 
 out fear of the articles of war. Mein Heafen!—let it be so, if 
 your Irish fashion of the duello likes his English prudence.” 
 
 “ Thanks, my gracious lord—thanks. Here, then.” 
 
 “ But you will remember, mein goot Mashters Evelyn, that 
 this rencontre, end as it may, puts it out of your powers to renew 
 the questions in any other way at all.” 
 
 “ I am content, my lord—more—I am grateful. And now 
 do I pronounce General Kirke a false villain, if he denies my 
 charge, or if he refuses to render up the lady ; and a treble 
 coward, if he refuses me satisfaction. Or if—for my past insults 
 and for this—and this”—he continued, his passion again over¬ 
 coming him, as he struck Kirke with the flat of his sword—“ ii 
 he refuses it.” 
 
 “Fool 1” cried Kirke, in sudden frenzy ; “I do not refuse, 
 Dismount, and follow me.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 383 
 
 They flung themselves from their horses at the same moment. 
 
 “ Not a step from the ground we tread on?” continued Eve¬ 
 lyn, thrusting at him. There was no alternative but combat on 
 the spot. Kirke skilfully parried tin thrust with a beautiful 
 crescent sabre, and seemed content to stand, for a time, upon 
 the defensive, and allow Evelyn’s rage to exhaust itself. Their 
 troops closed round, and Schomberg looked on with much tran¬ 
 quillity. Evelyn continued the attack, and by a rash and desper¬ 
 ate effort, seized Kirke’s blade, near the handle, and closed upon 
 him. But his antagonist had a dagger ready in his left hand, at 
 the sight of which the Euniskilleners cried out, “ Equal weapons ! 
 —fair play I”—and one from among their body, a very young, 
 fresh-colored lad, rushed forward, jumped on the ground, and, 
 running to the combatants, twitched the treacherous weapon out 
 of Kirke’s hand, and disappeared in a trice, back again among 
 the dragoons. Evelyn, at a slight glance, thought the face fa¬ 
 miliar to him. 
 
 During the diversion this incident caused, Kirke regained full 
 use of his sabre, and the combat continued with fury on both 
 sides. At length, having overreached himself with a violent 
 push, Evelyn’s foot slipped on the damp and trodden grass, and 
 he fell. Kirke’s point was instantly at his heart, as he forced 
 Evelyn’s sw T ord from his grasp. 
 
 “ Strike, villain 1” cried the despairing youth ; “you have left 
 me nothing to live for—strike !” 
 
 “ It is not worth the while,” replied his adversary, apprehen¬ 
 sion of those around assisting, perhaps, his wish to appear mag¬ 
 nanimous. “Live longer, and grow wiser.” And he imme¬ 
 diately turned away. 
 
 “ Kirke 1” shrieked Evelyn, starting up, following him, and 
 casting himself wildly on his knees—“ Kirke !—wretch—monster 
 —coward—strike 1 Or, oh! since I can no longer compel your 
 justice—your mercy—I implore—beg it 1 Restore her—unin¬ 
 jured, if you can ; but in any case, restore her, and I will bless 
 you as fervently as I now beg for the boon!” 
 
 “ Tush, sir,” answered Kirke, twitching the skirt of his buff 
 coat out of Evelyn’s desperate grasp, “this is too Quixotic.” 
 And he left the ground. 
 
 “ Rise, Captain Evelyn,” said Schomberg, advancing, appa¬ 
 rently somewhat affected ; “lam sorry for all this—but rise—the 
 discomfiture does not touch your honor. It was a fair combat, 
 fought with all courage on your parts ; and you will not yet 
 
384 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 despair entirely, indeed, of success in the other matter—and you 
 will come to my tent when you are more composed.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Evelyn was led by his brother officers and others, almost in¬ 
 sensible, to one of the huts belonging to the encampment. De¬ 
 spair had fully seized him. He continued nearly unconscious of 
 the friendly words addressed to his ear, and of the friendly 
 actions performed towards him. And when their duties called 
 his friends away, Evelyn felt as indifferent to their absence as he 
 had been to their presence, and equally regardless to the mute 
 attentions of a young private of the Enniskilleners who remained 
 to wait on him, and who, having placed refreshments on a coarse 
 table, stood behind his officer’s seat, deeply interested, apparently, 
 in the afflictiou he could not presume to console. More than 
 once, indeed, a vague idea entered Evelyn’s mind, that the slight, 
 short, and youthful figure which noiselessly moved around him, 
 might be that of the lad who, during his combat w'ith Kirke, had 
 plucked the dagger from the hand of his detested adversary. 
 But so clouded and inane were Evelyn’s thoughts and feelings, 
 with reference to any thing not absolutely making part of his 
 grief, that this notion occurred but to be forgotten ; and he did 
 not once raise his eyes to pursue it by looking at the face of 
 his mute attendant. 
 
 When he began to reflect a little more regularly on the occur¬ 
 rences that had just taken place, Evelyn’s keenest anguish and 
 self-reproach arose from the recollection, that by madly giving way 
 to passion, and putting all upon the chance of a personal combat 
 with Kirke, he had, in the presence of a crowd of witnesses, 
 abandoned all right to seek, in any other shape, a future expla¬ 
 nation of the fate of Eva. And as this thought continued to 
 present itself, he writhed, and groaned aloud. 
 
 When he strove to consider the matter consecutively, he found 
 that, distinct from the entanglement in which it was involved by 
 his own state of mind, it was otherwise clouded and confused. 
 Where could Kirke have disposed of Eva? Was she in his 
 tent this moment ? If so, would he dare to refuse the explana* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 385 
 
 tion sought ft om him, with the proof of his crime so near at 
 baud, and so accessible ? This seemed extraordinary, improbar 
 ble. Yet, where else could he have conveyed her? Or—and 
 the bare surmise was torture—had the ruffian first gratified his 
 brutal passion, and then called on murder to hush, at once and for¬ 
 ever, the voice of his victim, and the wituess against him ? And 
 Edmund,—little doubt could be entertained that Moya’s account 
 of him was irae. It did not appear possible that, after the strong 
 re-enforcement had reached Kirke at the Strip of Burne, he 
 would have spared, in the moment of returned success, the man 
 on account of whose resistance he had incurred, including the 
 Whisperer’s agency, so much danger, vexation, and outrage. 
 Above all, the brother of her on whom he had fixed an unholy eye, 
 and from whom the most determined opposition must have been 
 expected. Tnerefore, M’Donnell had, doubtless, fallen by his 
 father’s side the moment he escaped from Evelyn’s control, and 
 that the soldiers wounded and overpowered him. Eor, in Evelyn’s 
 calculations, retreat or surrender was out of the question on the 
 part of one so excited and so desperate as Edmund continued to 
 be; further maddened, too, by the sight of Eva dragged from him 
 to shame and ruin. Had the Protestant clergyman witnessed 
 that horrible event ? Here came the first ray of hope. Although 
 he could not answer the question, it seemed almost certain that 
 such must have been the case. He therefore determined to 
 write after his reverend friend to Derry, and thus arrive at evi¬ 
 dence, which, if it went hand in hand with Moya’s previous 
 story, would amount to proof. Yet, of what use to him were 
 such proof, when he had beforehand recorded against himself a 
 renunciation of it ? Once more, this reflection brought with it 
 intolerable end despairing agony. 
 
 But, as the evening wore away, Evelyn’s mind gave some 
 slight indication of returning self-control, in the comparative 
 facility w» ,h which it continued to debate other things, but of 
 secondary consideration. What had become of Father M’Don¬ 
 nell and Varolan ? Had they, too, fallen victims to the rage and 
 revenge'- / Kirke ? Alas! it was very probable. And might 
 not the Protestant clergyman himself have shared their fate ? 
 He had endeavored to stem the torrent of Kirke’s violeuce ; he 
 was a witness to the existence of documents which, having been 
 submitted, would make that violence criminal ; perhaps he was 
 a witness to the murder of Edmund, and the forcible abduction 
 jf his sister. The speedy ascertaining of this latter point now 
 
S86 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 became the strongest anxiety of Evelyn ; he resolved, instead of 
 fmtiug, to go to Derry, if, indeed, the stern duties and circum¬ 
 stances of the time permitted such a step. Schomberg should 
 decide that question. 
 
 While sitting motionless, and now in darkness, a messenger 
 arrived from the tent of the commander-in-chief, to say, that if 
 Captain Evelyn was better, the duke would speak with him. 
 Evelyn returned a hasty answer, promising immediate attend¬ 
 ance. His first reason for instantly complying with the intima¬ 
 tion, arose out of his wish to crave leave of absence from the 
 camp ; and he was eagerly rushing out, filled with this idea, 
 when his natural and habitual prudence caused him to recollect 
 that it became his duty and his interest, if he at all presented 
 himself before Schomberg, to place some decent restraint over 
 his manner, and to prepare his mind, difficult and repugnant as 
 was the task, for an attention to whatever general matters his 
 commander might happen to speak of. So, after a necessary 
 pause, and much inward struggle, Evelyn manned and mastered 
 himself, as well as he could, and prepared to leave the hut. As 
 he looked round for his cloak and hat, he perceived they had 
 been placed, by his mute servant, on the seat hitherto occupied 
 by him. In his somewhat calm state of mind, this attention 
 struck him as remarkable ; he began also to connect with it 
 floating recollections of the whole demeanor of this individual 
 during his long fit of abstraction ; then the incident of the 
 dagger, and his fancy, at the time, that the boy’s face was fa¬ 
 miliar to him. At last, won into something like interest, he 
 glanced around in an involuntary wish to make more particular 
 observations. At first he saw no person in the hut; but, ad¬ 
 vancing to a corner, he saw the youth, wrapped in a dragoon’s 
 cloak, lying motionless on the damp floor. 
 
 “ He sleeps,” said Evelyn ; “ and is too happy to be dis¬ 
 turbed.” And he hastened forth, in a renewal of bitterest feel¬ 
 ings at the contrast between his own bosom and that of the 
 sleeping lad. But ere he crossed the threshold of the rude door¬ 
 way, a deep sigh, at his back, seemed in some degree to lessen 
 the strength of the supposed contrast. 
 
 Gaining the tent and the presence of the commander-in-chief, 
 he was bluntly, though kindly received, and found the old veter¬ 
 an engaged, with his secretary, in tracing district maps, examin¬ 
 ing engineers’ plans, and accounts of the agricultural state of 
 the country through which he was about to march. He in* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 387 
 
 formed Evelyn that he was in want of an intelligent, loyal native, 
 acquainted with the roads and the present condition, in many 
 respects, of the southern route he determined immediately to 
 take ; and he paid him the compliment of at once appointing 
 him as a person better qualified for this duty than any one he 
 had yet met since his arrival in Ireland. Evelyn bowed in 
 silence, fearful of saying a word towards declining the honor, but 
 miserably conscious, at the same time, that, should the appoint¬ 
 ment last, he would be obliged to sacrifice his intention of get¬ 
 ting back to Derry. 
 
 Schomberg, gave him little time, indeed, to utter a word on 
 the subject, but immediately invited him to sit by his side, and, 
 referring to the maps, plans, and reports, plunged at once into 
 business. Following up the wise reflections he had previously 
 made as to what topics he might be called on to discuss, Evelyn 
 laboriously endeavored to abstract his mind from its private 
 griefs, and fix it on the matter in hand. He was partially suc¬ 
 cessful ; and the shrewd old general making, doubtless, the al¬ 
 lowance that his knowledge of Evelyn’s situation suggested, ex¬ 
 pressed much content, notwithstanding fits of absence, and hasty 
 and unintelligible answers, with the local information Evelyn was 
 able to convey. 
 
 Finally, Schomberg intimated his resolve of marching upon 
 Newry, early in the morning. His raw army had already suf¬ 
 fered a little, he said, from the very bad condition of the roads, 
 the bogs and swamps they encountered, whenever a campaign 
 ’iue of march had been attempted ; lastly, and particularly, 
 from the want of provisions. But they were refreshed by their 
 present halt, and inspired by the recollection that hitherto their 
 career bad been a triumphant one, unchecked by even the 
 appearance of any enemy. And although Evelyn’s account of 
 the districts lying between Loughbrickland and Newry, and 
 again between Newry and Dundalk, nearer to the coast, were by 
 no means favorable, still Schomberg determined to lead them to 
 both these places in quest of the foe ; especially, as he had to 
 meet his artillery and stores at Carlingford Bay. 
 
 Evelyn, now wholly engaged with his own private affairs, only 
 waited until Schomberg had done speaking to get in, as well as 
 he could, the request for leave of absence. But just as he was 
 about to open his lips for the purpose, the commander kindly 
 bade him good-night, and adding, by the way, that Evelyn would 
 do well to prepare himself for attending him as aid-de-camp 
 
388 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 in lieu of a young English officer, the spoiled child of a wealthy 
 country gentleman, whom the Irish bogs, and other unexpected 
 difficulties, had visited with a severe illness on the second day’s 
 march from Can\ckfergus. 
 
 The complimented person heard this additional honor conferred 
 upon him with more dislike than is generally felt by young and 
 ambitious men, at an unexpected progress on the road of military 
 distinction. Uttering not a word in reply, he only bowed, in 
 an embarrassed manner, and once more endeavored to shape 
 his private purpose into fitting speech, while Schomberg, as 
 if he understood that some demur was about to be made, 
 and as if he thought it kind and useful to his young protege, 
 not to suffer him to give it expression, hastily repeated his 
 farewells for the night, and would have ended all further con¬ 
 ference. 
 
 But just as Evelyn was about to retire, confused and over¬ 
 whelmed, a sudden spirit unloosed his tongue, and he urged, 
 respectfully and modestly, his long-suppressed suit. At the first 
 words, Schomberg looked surprised ; and, when he understood 
 the full nature of the request, offended and stern. If, by such 
 an untimely movement, he said, Captain Evelyn meant to decline 
 the trouble or the honor of the appointments conferred upon 
 him, he w r as at liberty to free himself of them, that moment; 
 but not to absent himself from ordinary duty. It was another 
 question, whether a young man, already suspected, though not 
 by the loyal friends that knew him well, of lukewarmness to the 
 cause of King Wdliam, should be permitted to— 
 
 Here poor Evelyn, at first hurt by the half-uttered insinuation, 
 burst into indignant tears. Schomberg did not finish the sen¬ 
 tence, but, advancing to him, changed his stern tone into one of 
 kindness and commiseration ; gave him to understand that he 
 suspected the object of his intended journey ; but that, under 
 the circumstances, it were better, even for his private interests, 
 to keep an eye at home ; that he had not forgotten to consider 
 vhat might be the more prudent course of conduct; and that 
 he would, himself, assist Evelyn in adopting it. Meantime, he 
 exhorted him to attend strictly to his professional duties, as, at 
 once, his more respectable line of behavior, and that best calcu¬ 
 lated to supersede the vain excess of thoughts and feelings that 
 always attended on a distressed mind. Adding, that he had 
 created an interest, as Well by his spirited, though somewhat 
 extravagant bearing, in the contest with Kirke, as by his sound 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 389 
 
 and well-regulated order of intellect, which would be recollected 
 to his advantage. 
 
 With these, to him, empty and useless panegyrics, Evelyn was 
 obliged to retire to his hut. Unable to make personal inquiries 
 in Derry, he wrote, the moment he could sit down, the letter he 
 had at first planned. As he folded it, the desperate thought 
 occurred of abandoning the camp, by stealth, and still satisfying 
 himself in the speediest way. But the charge and punishment 
 of desertion stared him in the face ; and honor, the last senti¬ 
 ment that, amidst a crowd of misfortunes, deserts the bosom 
 which it has once solaced and ennobled, frowned a disapproval. 
 Then frenzy began to reassert her empire ; and, laying his hand 
 on his sword, he asked himself why he did not, that moment, cut 
 his way with it into Kirke’s tent, and at least assure himself 
 whether or not Eva was there. The pledge he had given, the 
 line of conduct to which he had bound himself, the obligation 
 imposed upon him by the very defeat he had undergone ; all this, 
 assisted by the renewed promptings of honor, helped, however, 
 to make him master his passion. And, at last, exhausted and 
 supremely miserable, he cast himself on his rough couch, groan¬ 
 ing bitterly. 
 
 In this situation his notice was once more challenged by a 
 heavy sigh from his young attendant, who, till then, had stood, 
 unobserved by Evelyn, some distance behind him. Still he took 
 no immediate notice of this person ; until at last the boy changed 
 his place, and advancing with a cautious step, laid on the table, 
 before his temporary master, such food as Evelyn did not think 
 the camp afforded. At this he turned round, in a half-risen 
 posture, and looked sharply at his attendant. He stood near 
 the far wall of the rude hovel, the collar of a dragoon’s cloak 
 clasped over his chin, and hiding half his face, while the broad- 
 leafed hat of the time, pulled over his brows, almost entirely 
 disguised the other half. The head, too, was turned aside, as if 
 confused by the scrutiny of which he was the object. Altogether, 
 an analysis of the features was impossible. 
 
 Evelyn, after the effort of a moment, gave up the task, in 
 renewed indifference, and once more wholly surrendered himself 
 to the misery of his situation. The very presence of a second 
 person became forgotten. The little supper remained untouched ; 
 the hours of night passed unnoticed. It was not till the brands 
 which had been kindled on the hearth, and which gave the only 
 light of the apartment, dickered out, one by one, and at length 
 
300 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 almost entirely darkened, that, starting into a moment’s recollec¬ 
 tion, as another deep-drawn sigh reached his ear, and turning a 
 second time round, Evelyn beheld his sad and silent companion 
 standing in the very spot where he had last seen him, motionless 
 as a statue, and scarce perceptible in the increasing gloom. 
 
 Reproaching himself with cruel inattention to the comforts of 
 a being so apparently devoted, he then made a hasty sign, and 
 said : 
 
 “ Remove these things, boy ; eat—retire to rest—and forgive 
 my absence of mind.” 
 
 The lad slowly moved to the table ; took away the untasted 
 food ; but, instead of partaking of it, put it up in a corner of 
 the hut; and then, making a rude obeisance, left Evelyn alone. 
 
 Evelyn remained sleepless and agitated. His conjectures had 
 lately been directed to the kind of promise made by Schomberg 
 to assist him in a certain course for the recovery of Eva. What 
 could that course be ? Something the general had said of keep¬ 
 ing a strict watch at home. Did that mean closely observing 
 Kirke, on the spot ? Evelyn believed it did : and then he set 
 himself to plan the measure to be taken. He could institute 
 inquiries among Kirke’s confidants and creatures ; he would by 
 that means find out Eva’s real place of durance ; when he had 
 done so, he would contrive a communication with her, and 
 arrange her escape. If, indeed, she still lived, it was his first 
 duty, now the only private one of his life, to rescue her from a 
 continuance of the horror and infamy by which she might be 
 surrounded. And if Eva were restored to liberty, vengeance 
 could yet be had on the author of her wrongs. For the present, 
 Evelyn was fixed in the dreadful conclusion that she was already 
 lost to him forever; that an immediate effort could not prevent 
 a foregone event; that future retribution, and her eventual 
 restoration to liberty, were all he could hope for. Strange to 
 say, this self-wrought certainty, even of utter woe, calmed, in a 
 degree, the sufferer’s mind ; the future, unconnected with Eva, 
 began to be sullenly canvassed. And—oh, shame to the human 
 heart!—wars and enterprises, and the haughty front of ambition, 
 began to suggest a stern tolerance of life ; and the new honors 
 to which Evelyn had just been appointed, were, for the first 
 time, recollected. All in one short night ? Ay, all in one short 
 night! Such is the human heart. 
 
 An hour might have elapsed after the disappearance of the 
 singular attendant, when Evelyn heard a stealthy step at the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 391 
 
 door of his hut. Grasping his sword, he lay quiet to note whom 
 the intruder might be ; when, by the light of the late moon, 
 which shone brightly through the doorway, he again saw the 
 lad, cautiously entering, and looking earnestly towards his couch, 
 as if to see whether he slept or waked. Now more than ever 
 interested, Evelyn, remaining on his guard, gave symptoms of 
 deep sleep, and still watched the midnight visitor. 
 
 The figure stepped very slowly, and half bent with caution, 
 across the rough floor ; gained the front of his couch, stooped 
 over Evelyn, looked long in his face, and then stepping back, 
 drew a rude dagger. Evelyn was about to spring up, but 
 another moment corrected the impulse. The attendant drew 
 the weapon only to lay it on the floor, where, finally, he 
 stretched himself, with many sighs, and continued caution of 
 manner, and muffling himself in his cloak, lay motionless and 
 silent at the feet of his chosen master. 
 
 Evelyn hastily concluding that his brother officer had con¬ 
 siderately appointed this person to watch over him in his afflic¬ 
 tion, took no further notice. Towards morning, he was surprised 
 into a fitful slumber. A trumpet-call awoke him ; and looking 
 to the foot of his couch, the attendant was gone. 
 
 The shrill reveille continued to send its summoning voice 
 abroad. Evelyn hastily arose, and found the whole force in 
 motion ; some striking the tents, some forming into marching 
 order. Apprehensive that he had delayed too long from Schom- 
 berg, he hurried towards the marshal’s tent, chiding and despis¬ 
 ing the sluggish spirit that, notwithstanding an enduring cause 
 for watchfulness, could have betrayed him into sleep. 
 
 His anxious attendant of the preceding night was nowhere to 
 be seen ; but Evelyn, meeting the brother officer, whom he 
 believed had appointed that person to wait on him, offered his 
 thanks for the considerate courtesy, and was informed that the 
 lad himself deserved most acknowledgment, as he had been 
 allowed to serve Evelyn at his own particular instance. 
 
 Scarce afforded time to wonder at such a circumstance, 
 Evelyn, seeing Schomberg in his saddle at a little distance, 
 spurred to join him. The white-headed general bade him good¬ 
 morning, with continued cordiality ; and, in a short time, the 
 army was on its route to Newry. 
 
 The distance was but a short day’s march ; yet, owing to the 
 increased badness of the roads, the difficulties and distresses of 
 Schomberg’s troops thickened on the way. The Enniskilleners, 
 
S92 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 indeed, who formed his advance, made comparatively light of a 
 succession of vicissitudes and inconveniences to which they had 
 been accustomed. The blue and white Dutch foot-guards, too, 
 his own regiment of horse, and the French regiments of La 
 Mellonier, Du Cambon, and La Caillemotte, bore their mishaps 
 like veteran troops, to whom patience and perseverance were 
 familiar. But to the English portion of the numerous army, 
 mostly made up of new levies, unaccustomed to the front of 
 war, in an enemy’s country, and just ravished from the easy life 
 and good things of old England, the march was dispiriting and 
 disastrous. 
 
 When, after much pause and straggling on the road, the 
 army got a sight of Newry, hoping for rest and refreshment 
 within it, their flagging spirits gained no relief from beholding 
 the town in flames, it haviug been just fired and abandoned by 
 the enemy and inhabitants Schomberg entered the deserted 
 and crumbling streets in great indignation and chagrin ; affect¬ 
 ing to regard as barbarous a mode of warfare that he knew 
 well was iu high repute among the more polished destroyers of 
 the Continent, and which has since told with effect in our own 
 improved age. He sent after the enemy a high-toned, gasconad¬ 
 ing message, expressive of his horror at such proceedings, and 
 threatening them with terrible retaliations, unauthorized, as he 
 also well knew, by the laws of war, or by the nature of the 
 offence. But, up to this time, it was the error of all invaders of 
 Ireland, to imagine that the fair (if they are ever fair) usages 
 of war might occasionally be outraged towards her, and that 
 her native energies and national mind might be cowed by an 
 empty threat. 
 
 Notwithstanding the mishaps and privations of the army, for 
 the country through which they had lately passed was a desert ; 
 notwithstanding the complaints and lamentations of the men, 
 Newry was no place to rest in ; and Schomberg speedily left ifc 
 to follow the men to Dundalk. And now came a climax to the 
 sufferings of which the army had previously encountered but a 
 foretaste. The road, falling down towards the coast, lay through 
 bogs and marshes, or over barren hills. At every step, the sol 
 diers stuck in mud, or floundered through bog-water, scarce able 
 to afford each other assistance to the next dry perch of land ; in 
 many cases abandoning their arras, accoutrements, or horses, and 
 only anxious to attend to self-preservation. The heavy Septern* 
 ber rains, too, began to pour down, to accumulate the difficulties 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 393 
 
 and perils of the way. And still to heighten their distress, pro¬ 
 visions grew scarce, and no fresh supply was to be had. Upon 
 every side reigned solitude and famine. The Protestant farmers 
 had quitted the country, after Hamilton’s success at Dromore 
 and Hillsborough, the previous spring ; the Catholics now fled 
 at the approach of Schomberg. So that the cattle had been 
 driven away, by one party or the other, or lay slaughtered and 
 putrified in the fields, or by the road-side ; while the harvest of 
 the present year had been cut down and was rotting on the 
 ground. Not a living thing was to be seen. In the thatch of 
 the cabins encountered on the disastrous march, crucifixes were 
 placed over the doorways, doubtless in the spirit of an appeal to 
 Christian enemies, to spare from burning and destroying the 
 roofs abandoned to their mercy, yet thus deemed to be protected 
 by the symbol of a common faith. But not always, alas! did 
 the rancor of mere sectarian hatred acknowledge that symbol of 
 sufficient efficacy to restrain, or the spirit of that appeal of suf¬ 
 ficient power to save. While, in another view, such vestiges of 
 men called up, in the minds of the new soldiers, a stronger sense 
 of the solitude which they served but to illustrate, and struck a 
 deeper terror into the hearts of those who had just come from 
 scenes of joyous life and smiling plenty, to encounter the miser¬ 
 able contrast by which they were at present assailed. 
 
 Evelyn had discouraged, as directly as was befitting a person 
 in his relative situation, this precipitate march of Schomberg 
 through an enemy’s country, bare of supplies, naturally difficult, 
 and with an army unused to such operations. But Schomberg, 
 while he eagerly sought information, disregarded every thing like 
 advice. It appeared to Evelyn, that, for once in his life, at 
 least, the old campaigner had acted with more haste than speed, 
 more energy than wisdom, more confidence in himself than pru¬ 
 dential respect for the talents of the enemy. 
 
 Now, however, as the fatigued army approached Dundalk, 
 Evelyn began to hope that things might turn up for the best. 
 Here Schomberg might rest and refresh his men ; meet his ar¬ 
 tillery and stores ; and afterwards advance, at his leisure, through 
 an easier country, to look for the Irish force. The place, though 
 like Newry abandoned, had not like it been fired ; and this 
 helped to improve the future prospects. 
 
 But Evelyn miscalculated. Dundalk had not been burnt 
 down, merely because those who had the arrangement of the 
 question did not think such a proceeding necessary. Schomberg 
 
394 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 and bis army had been decoyed into it, and that was enough. 
 After waiting some time for the little fleet he expected, along 
 the coast, from Belfast, and at length witnessing its arrival, 
 Schomberg proposed to march on Drogheda, where, at the dis¬ 
 tance of only about eighteen miles, the main strength of the 
 Irish army, amounting to twenty thousand, seemed to await him. 
 But, at the first step, he found himself shut in ; the only two 
 passes by which he could advance being effectually secured by 
 Sarsfield, Rosen, and Hamilton. With nothing but a superior 
 force—his present one being only about equal to the enemy— 
 could he venture to push forward. As a strong re-enforcement 
 of Danes had been promised him, he sat down where he was, 
 intrenching himself, to await their arrival. 
 
 His position was strong. Fortifying Dundalk, and throwing 
 some troops into it, his front faced the west, protected by the 
 river between him and the enemy ; on the east rose the Newry 
 mountains ; on the south was a boggy valley, falling down to 
 the sea ; on the north were other bogs and mountains. Thus 
 placed, he could entertain no fears of being attacked in his iu- 
 trenchments ; while he was hemmed in, he was also kept safe. 
 But here ended the advantages of his situation : here, too, its 
 disadvantages began. The ground upon which he hutted the 
 greater part of his army, though admirable for self-defence 
 against a human foe, was, in itself, the worst antagonist they 
 could have encountered. Low, damp, barren, and now satu¬ 
 rated with the rains that every day grew heavier, its baneful 
 effects soon began to be visible among the plump recruits who 
 formed, as has been seen, the majority of Schomberg’s force. 
 The scarcity of provisions accumulated the distress ; and while 
 hundreds perished with contagious diseases, the clamors of the 
 survivors rose loud. 
 
 Schomberg sent pressing requests to William for the promised 
 re-enforcements, and received, in answer, as pressing injunctions 
 to break from his intrenchments, and offer battle. His rejoinders , 
 were, however, consistent in preferring his own plan. While 
 preparing his dispatches for England, he occasionally did Evelyn 
 the honor of selecting him as an amanuensis, and of communi¬ 
 cating to him some of his opinions. About the middle of Octo¬ 
 ber, after repeated instructions had come from William, and 
 while disease, hunger, death, and clamor abounded among the 
 English lines, those of the Enniskilleners and foreigners re¬ 
 maining comparatively at ease, in every way, the old com- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 395 
 
 mander was, on a particular night, unusually confidential with 
 Evelyn. 
 
 His master, King William, he said, labored under the misap¬ 
 prehensions with which, partly from unwise statements given by 
 colonial Irishmen, he had, himself, entered upon this campaign. 
 He despised an Irish enemy too much, and reckoned on taking 
 them at more odds than the game seemed to allow. The king 
 had supposed enough done when he appointed him, Schomberg, 
 to command an army of- young English peasants—very nearly, 
 indeed, on a par, in point of discipline, with the wild Irish they 
 were sent to oppose, but unable to cope with the difficulties of 
 climate, season, country, and starvation, to which the rebel 
 kerne were accustomed, and took like a second nature. The 
 general applauded the fortitude and constancy of his other 
 troops ; but as for the young English yeomen, the very superior 
 advantages of their life at home unfitted them for so venture¬ 
 some a campaign at so short a notice. Excellent soldiers they 
 would, after a little time, have doubtless become, provided they 
 could have been well victualled every day. But, continued 
 Schomberg, with some knowledge of Shakspeare, while speaking 
 of his own countrymen : 
 
 “ They want tlieir porridge, and their fat bull beeves; 
 
 Either they must be dieted like mules. 
 
 And have their provender tied to their throats, 
 
 Or piteous they will look like drowned mice.” 
 
 It was also forgotten, the old marshal continued, that Irish 
 officers might arrive at some military tactics, while the French 
 officers by their side were, he protested his “ goot Grot,” not to be 
 undervalued on any account. Finally, Schomberg engaged Evelyn 
 to copy a dispatch for William, which contained this passage : 
 
 “ If your majesty was well aware of the state of your army, 
 and that of the enemy, the nature of the country, and the situ¬ 
 ation of the two camps, I do not believe you would incline to 
 risk an attack. If we do not succeed, your majesty’s army 
 would be lost without reserve. I make use of that term ; for I 
 do believe, that if once put into disorder it could not be re-estab¬ 
 lished.” 
 
 Thus, for some time, Schomberg passively submitted to the 
 destructive consequences of his position, in daily hope of a 
 re-enforcement, only satisfied that the enemy would not attack 
 him Nor was he disappointed. The French and Irish officers 
 
396 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 were content to let his army waste away with famine, dysentery, 
 and other afflictions too loathsome to indicate. Once, indeed, 
 before the date of the last dispatch mentioned, King James, 
 against the unanimous advice of his generals, drew his force 
 from Drogheda, advanced and encamped within cannon-shot of 
 Schomberg, challenged him, for some time, to come out, and was 
 guilty of the vain-glorious bravado of crossing the river in 
 Schomberg’s front, with a wing of his army, and some field-pieces, 
 and in every way renewing the provocations to battle. But the 
 matter ended as he must, or ought to have known it would end— 
 Schomberg let him go back as he came. 
 
 Meantime, while the great question remained undecided, some 
 secondary affairs were engaged in, on both sides. The Ennis- 
 killeners, commanded by Lloyd, their “ little Cromwell,” and 
 accompanied by Evelyn, made excursions from the intrenehments, 
 and on one occasion defeated a body of the enemy, and drove in 
 some cattle to the relief of their famishing and powerless breth¬ 
 ren. Afterwards they made a long forced march, accompanied 
 by some of Schomberg’s dragoons, and a French detachment, to 
 relieve Siigo, on which Sarsfield, after reducing Jamestown, had 
 moved, and which was defended by a Dutch and a French general. 
 But here they were routed, and suffered much, having been first 
 out-manoeuvred. After a gallant defence of the fort by St. 
 Sauvier, this strong and important place also remained in 
 Sarsfield’s hands. 
 
 Tiius, it may be said, ended Schomberg’s disastrous campaign. 
 Towards the middle of November, he re-embarked his cannon for 
 Belfast. James then broke up his camp, and retired southward 
 to Dublin, leaving his adversary also free to march northward, 
 in quest of winter-quarters ; a liberty of which he was not tardy 
 in availiug himself. 
 
 When the tents and huts were uncovered, the whole ground 
 appeared like a hospital ; and Schomberg found that, in every 
 vvay, his army had decreased one-half 
 
 Ere he began his retreat northward, he appointed some 
 officers, English, foreign, and Irish, to carry dispatches to Wil¬ 
 liam, as well for the purpose of requesting anew the Danish re- 
 enforcement, as of justifying his conduct to the grumbling English 
 parliament, who, unable to comprehend, on any legitimate 
 ground, the failure of their army in Ireland, charged Schomberg 
 with all the blame. 
 
 Amongst the native officers named in this mission was Evelyn 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 397 
 
 The appointment came at the very moment when, after months 
 of undiminished suspense and torture, he had hoped at last, in 
 furtherance of his private concerns, to be left master of his own 
 actions. 
 
 During all the vicissitudes of the camp, Evelyn failed not to 
 employ every available means in endeavoring to ascertain 
 whether or not Kirke kept a lady concealed in his tent. His 
 secret inquiries either ended in dissatisfaction, or else led him to 
 believe that his suspicions were, in this instance, unfounded. 
 Towards the conclusion of the campaign he became assured, that 
 if Eva remained, indeed, under Kirke’s control, or, if she lived 
 at all, some other retreat had been chosen for her. After such 
 a conclusion, he grew intensely anxious to commence inquiries in 
 person ; but, while attached to Schomberg, on active service, 
 this was impossible. Baffling, as well as he could, the agony 
 and uncertainty which filled his bosom, Evelyn awaited the end 
 of the campaign, again to request leave of absence. Now, at 
 the very moment hope had promised as auspicious, he again saw 
 himself cut off from all effectual exertion in the matter that lay 
 nearest his heart, and most concerned his existence. Decline the 
 appointment he durst not. Pride, honor, spirit, duty, consistency, 
 would not permit such a course. Social degradation, if not 
 actual punishment, would attend it. And he could do no more 
 than venture to remind Schomberg of his private situation, and 
 respectfully solicit him to attend to it in his absence. 
 
 It occurred to Evelyn, also, to take advantage of the devoted¬ 
 ness manifested towards him by the young person in the camp at 
 Loughbrickland. He concluded, that such sincere sympathy as 
 that unknown individual had shown towards his afflictions, might 
 readily be turned into zeal in his service. But he called to mind 
 that, for some time, the lad had not waited ou him ; that, since 
 the march from Loughbrickland, he had not come within his 
 view more than once or twice ; first, immediately after the evac¬ 
 uation of Newry, and a second time, on taking up a position at 
 Dundalk : on both occasions, during the confusion and distress 
 that prevailed, Evelyn had paid him little regard. Now he 
 made inquiries after him, and, in some self-reproach at his contin 
 ued neglect of a being apparently so mild, attentive, and affec 
 tionate, learned that, at the first breaking out of the infectiou 
 diseases of the camp, he had become ill ; was afterwards trans 
 ported, with a number of sick, to Belfast, and, at present, was 
 probably dead. 
 
398 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Upon the last night of Schomberg’s sojourn at Dundalk, 
 Evelyn prepared for his voyage to England. A vessel awaited 
 him and his brother officers in Carlingford Bay. Opening the 
 valise which held the few things necessary for travel, and what¬ 
 ever valuable little matters he did not choose to leave behind 
 him, he was surprised and grieved at not being able to find some 
 early pledges received from Eva—a ring, a lock of hair, and 
 such remembrances. He tossed the contents of his valise over 
 and over ; he ransacked every crevice and corner ; they were 
 not forthcoming. He must have lost them, during the hurried 
 marches from place to place ! His eye was caught by a sealed 
 note, pinned to the inside of the valise. Snatching it, he recog • 
 nized the handwriting of Eva on the superscription, which wan 
 directed to him. He tore it open, and a ring fell out of it, as. 
 his feet—Eva’s marriage ring. 
 
 The billet ran thus : 
 
 “We are separated forever; your own course makes this 
 indispensable. But apart even from your conduct, ruin and 
 degradation have come between us. Think not of me. I am 
 handed over to a fate relentless as you will find it impenetrable. 
 Be happy. I will pray that you may be so. Farewell.—Eva/’ 
 
 No date was added. It might have remained in the valise 
 since his arrival at Dundalk. But, no matter when or where 
 written, it at last brought to a horrid certainty Evelyn’s worst 
 apprehensions on Eva’s account. The “ ruin and degradation” 
 that had forever separated them pointed to but one possible 
 meaning, and that coincided with all his former suspicions. No 
 further could he calculate. He flung himself, despairing, on the 
 ground. 
 
 In a short time came the question, what conduct of his 
 seemed to make this “ misery indispensable ?” Tush, he an¬ 
 swered himself, here is but a pretence to divert my mind from 
 the real cause. And to what fate, “ relentless as it would prove 
 impenetrable,” had the wretched Eva consigned herself ? Death ! 
 replied Evelyn’s heart. She could not survive her fair name ; 
 and the question was left in doubt only to save him an over¬ 
 whelming pang. 
 
 He sprang to his feet. He grasped his sword. He wa 
 rushing, bareheaded, to seek Kirke in his tent, and cut him 
 down on the spot. Past circumstances crowded on his recol 
 lection, sickened his heart, and arrested his furious career. He 
 felt at a glance all the controlling reasons before enumerated. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 399 
 
 And now came the additional thought, that if Eva had indeed 
 perished, all positive proof of Kirke’s guilt must thereby be 
 removed, and all justification of revenge torn from him. 
 
 How came the note where he had found it ? At the first 
 difficulty in answering, his mind abandoned the matter as insig¬ 
 nificant ; once more he relapsed into despair. Some persons 
 clanged, heavily armed, into his hut. They called to him ; they 
 shook him by the shoulder ; they told him the boat waited to 
 coast him to the vessel, which would speedily spread her can¬ 
 vas for England, in a fair, though high wind. The dash and 
 roar of a sea, canopied by the blackest night, and scoured by 
 tempest, glanced across his thoughts. He arose ; he said he 
 w as quite ready ; and so embarked for England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Allowing his motions to be guided by his friends, Evelyn 
 accompanied them, on the afternoon of the morning which com¬ 
 pleted their journey, in search of Mr. Walker, who, it was be¬ 
 lieved, would be a useful guide and prompter in furthering their 
 present business, and initiating them into the mysteries of a 
 court, at which, if fame erred not, he had for some time been 
 flatteringly accepted. 
 
 Indeed, no name was now more popular in London than that 
 of Mr. Walker. He had just published his Diary of the Siege 
 of Derry, in which the reader may be assured he was his own 
 hero. It had yet encountered none of the discredit soon after 
 cast on it by men of his own party, who deemed it their duty, 
 by publications also in London, to strip the reverend egotist of 
 some plumes which he had dexterously borrowed from, it was 
 asserted, braver and honester colleagues. King William had, at 
 the instance of Burnet, presented him with five thousand pounds, 
 and—the bishopric of the city which he had preserved for his 
 master, against the cautions of its former bishop, not found so 
 serviceable. Ministers of state, lights of the Church, and ladies 
 of illustrious title, joined in tneir attentions and compliments to 
 the right reverend captain in God. Tillotson eulogized him in a 
 
400 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 letter to Lady Russell. In a word, his royal patron alone 
 (though the fact was not then suspected) was the sole person 
 who, after all his achievements, thought Mr. Walker—a trouble¬ 
 some fool. 
 
 Evelyn accompanied his friends to seek this hero of nine days 
 at the address in the Strand, which, ere their departure from Ire¬ 
 land, they had obtained as his. Here they met a new proof of 
 the flattering attentions paid to their countryman. He was not at 
 home ; but an acquaintance, calling at the same time, informed 
 the Irish deputation that he would most likely be found at the 
 house of Sir Godfrey Kneller, sitting for his portrait,* at the 
 request of some admiring friends, to that humbug of his day. 
 Thither our party repaired. Mr. Walker had just left, and was 
 perhaps gone to Whitehall, to attend the king’s levee. Arriving 
 at Whitehall, they learned that, early that very morning, the 
 court had been removed to Kensington, to the house just pur¬ 
 chased by William from his pompous minister, Nottingham. 
 Doubtless, the Bishop of Londonderry had followed it. 
 
 To Kensington, then, the deputation repaired. Crossing St. 
 James’ Park and the Green Park, Evelyn and his friends rode 
 through what was then the open country, to the new seat of 
 royalty. At the village all was bustle, rattle, and life. Noble 
 persons of both sexes promenaded the then scanty streets in search 
 of inconvenient lodgings, or dashed by in their carriages ; the 
 Dutch guards were everywhere seen in motion ; the confounded 
 but delighted inhabitants hurried about, evidently not yet at ease 
 amid the influx of greatness with which they were so suddenly 
 called to hold communication. Already might be heard the 
 clink of trowels, and the clattering of laborers, busy at the nod 
 of the enterprising builders of 1689 in erecting new houses for 
 the new visitants, and even so soon engaged in commencing those 
 respectable additions to the town, which, continued through 
 other reigns, in proportion for the demand thus began for them, 
 
 * A good print of this portrait may be found between two unautlion- 
 tic catchpennies of the same era, in the British Museum. A supposed 
 copy of it was, in 1828, the property of a picture-trading Dublin con¬ 
 noisseur, who, once a year, let (or hired) it to certain persons, by whom 
 it was carried to a Dublin tavern to witness a dinner and debauch got 
 up in honor of the original. Another engraving is shown in Derry, 
 by a descendant of Walker, as resembling him. But it is spurious, 
 like two out of the three already mentioned, as preserved under the 
 care of our esteemed friend, Mr. Smith, of the print-room, British 
 Museum.-—B. O’H. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 401 
 
 at last made Kensington a considerable place. By virtue of 
 their mission, Schomberg’s deputation easily passed the outpost 
 guards of the new palace, and arrived in front of the grand 
 entrance, which was in the courtyard on the west. Many addi¬ 
 tions have since been made to the old pile ; but the buildings 
 which then surrounded this yard, and those at present forming 
 the south front, seem to have been the only considerable parts 
 of the original structure. 
 
 Directing, in the first instance, their inquiries after Mr. Walker, 
 our party learned that he had, that morning, presented himself 
 at the palace, but not having obtained an audience, was now, 
 most probably, walking about the gardens. The deputation 
 separated into different bodies, to look out for their accredited 
 agent, and Evelyn was, perhaps designedly, left alone, his fits of 
 abstraction having all along rendered him a useless, and even a 
 troublesome companion. He sauntered slowly through shades 
 and openings, little wildernesses, and noble walks, even then so 
 well and artfully arranged and contrasted, as to give full promise 
 of a plaisaunce, as much superior to the gardens of the Tuileries, 
 or the grounds of St. Cloud, as they were and are to the scat¬ 
 tered heap of red brick of which it is a shame to make them the 
 accompaniment. 
 
 But little delight had this beautiful scene for the heart of 
 Evelyn. He did not admire ; he scarce looked at it. The only 
 effect produced on him was an unconscious impression of loneli¬ 
 ness, that assisted the melancholy of his mood. Passing out of 
 the secret and solitary haunts of the garden into its more open 
 and frequented promenades, his eye became, however, diverted 
 by the groups of courtly persons, clad in richest attire, glancing 
 along the walks, or turning aside from them, or moving by the 
 edge of a considerable sheet of water near at hand. Nobles 
 aud noble dames, generals, law-officers, and other suitors, like 
 himself and the dignitary he came to seek, were all awaiting 
 (what scarce any expected) a sight and a word of the singularly 
 unapproachable monarch whom they had lately called to the 
 throne of their country ; but who, by his rudeness, along with 
 other matters, already began to make them regret their election. 
 
 Inconvenienced by the sight of so many persons, Evelyn hast¬ 
 ily returned to seek the less public paths of the garden. He 
 now found himself in a thicldy-planted shrubbery, where the 
 dark evergreen-trees made a shade,- although it was winter. 
 Continuing his way, he suddenly emerged into an open semicir- 
 
402 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 cular space, at the extremity of which was a seat, occupied by a 
 single person, whose averted head, bent upon his arm, seemed to 
 indicate a mood of deep reflection. This individual was very 
 young ; his figure slight, his stature short, and his dress foreign. 
 The last observation called up quick associations that thrilled 
 through Evelyn ; exactly such a dress had Eva worn upon the 
 night when she met him, along with Esther and Edmund, disguised 
 in male attire, outside the walls of Derry. Such had been, too, 
 her figure, in that graceful disguise—such her air. Evelyn’s 
 heart palpitated ; he stood rooted to the spot ; he gazed stead¬ 
 fastly on the stranger, hoping that the head might turn, and the 
 features be submitted to his view. But the figure remained a 
 long time motionless : when at length it moved, the face was 
 still averted ; but, in this position, the boy drew a sheathed 
 dagger from his bosom, half bared it, looked at its edge, kissed 
 it fervently, and put it up again. Evelyn advanced a step. The 
 solitary started, glanced one angry and startled look at the intrud¬ 
 er, darted into the thickets at his back, and left Evelyn almost 
 senseless with consternation. The features were those of Eva, 
 altered, indeed, under the influence of violent passion, and show¬ 
 ing the same new and strange character he had noticed in them 
 when she first appeared in her masculine dress. Still they were 
 Eva’s. 
 
 Conjecturing, in one flash of thought, that Eva, no matter 
 how at liberty, giving way to some wild impulse of her romantic 
 and spirited nature, called up by her late griefs, had devoted 
 herself to a desperate achievement, and was here—a concealed 
 dagger in her bosom—to attempt it; recollecting her former 
 vague, though alarming conversations, and getting a full new 
 of the danger and horror of her predicament, Evelyn, after the 
 confusion of a moment, plunged into the thicket in pursuit. He 
 heard rapid steps near him, and for some time was guided onward ; 
 but no one met his eye. Branches of trees that he broke through 
 were in agitation from the quick passage, a moment before, of 
 some other person. He still remained at fault. He emerged 
 from the thicket, and looked around him, on one of the broad, 
 smooth gravelled walks. No figure, such as he was in chase of, 
 met his glance. He rushed forward, at random, by the side of 
 the lake before mentioned, passing, without observation, detaeficd 
 groups of people. A hand caught his arm ; a familiar v“ice 
 saluted him ; he turned, and knew his old friend, Qon^x 
 Walker. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 403 
 
 *'Your haste is on my account, I doubt not, Captain Evelyn. 
 I heard of your intended voyage ; here has your name been just 
 handled,” said the new dignitary, inclining his head to a person 
 with whom he had stood in close conversation, and who, as his 
 costume declared, was also high in the Church. “You have 
 heard me allude to the name of Dr. Burnet. Know him now as 
 my Lord Bishop of Salisbury.” 
 
 Evelyn made hurried obeisance to a man about Walker’s age, 
 but shorter, and much stouter in figure, with heavy limbs, and a 
 commonplace face, such as might become a busy, close, opinion¬ 
 ated, and moderately clever mechanic. He looked, indeed, a 
 plodding tradesman, but no more. Nor did his new silk apron 
 take from the character with which nature appeared to have 
 stamped Dr. Burnet, and which all historians (except himself) 
 are disposed to allow him. 
 
 “ Tarry but a moment,” continued the Bishop of Derry, “ until 
 my lord and I have shortly discussed our topic. Then I shall 
 inquire into your affair.” 
 
 Evelyn still looked wildly around, almost cursing the inter¬ 
 ruption, and heedless of the words Burnet addressed to his old 
 friend. Until a sentence, striking, by curious coincidence, the 
 chord of his distracted thoughts, startled him into attention. 
 
 “ I aver,” said the Bishop of Salisbury, “ that no living woman 
 is so well-disposed to the act.” 
 
 Eva, the only living woman poor Evelyn could recognize as 
 an object of remark—Eva—and the “ act” he feared she was 
 madly engaged to perform, answered to this observation. Pale 
 and trembling, he prepared himself to listen to an account of her 
 purposed detection and ruin. But a few more sentences assured 
 liim that he only heard a eulogium (since preached and printed 
 by the admiring speaker) upon the eldest daughter of James II., 
 Queen Mary of England. 
 
 “ Her age and rank,” resumed the closet counsellor of a second 
 Goneril, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, as one of his arms 
 seesawed, awkwardly—“ her age and rank have denied her much 
 opportunity for study ; yet she has gone far that way. She is 
 particularly careful of her time, which she chiefly directs between 
 her books.” 
 
 “ Ay, my lord ; but touching her majesty’s disposition to be¬ 
 friend us, in this matter,” interrupted Walker. 
 
 “ Her needle and her devotion,” continued the imperturbable 
 panegyrist. “ It were easy to give amazing instances of hoT 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 404 
 
 understanding, in matters of divinity. She has so well under¬ 
 stood our disputes with the Church of Rome, that she is capable 
 of managing debates in them, with an equal degree of address 
 and judgmeut.” 
 
 “ And, therefore, more able and willing, doubtless, to direct 
 to that idolatrous Church, the somewhat torpid zeal of his dis¬ 
 senting majesty,” observed Walker. 
 
 “ Doubtless ; and seeing how coldly our suggestions of whole¬ 
 some constraint of the Popish superstition have been met by her 
 royal consort. Forasmuch,” continued Burnet, still quoting 
 himself by anticipation—“forasmuch as I found, while in Hol¬ 
 land, that the main thing the ministers of that country, ana 
 those who had charge of his education, infused into him, was an 
 abhorrence of the Arminian, rather than of the Romish doctrine. 
 Nevertheless, I despair nothing of seeing a good impression 
 wrought. Because,” he went on, getting into a kind of Athan- 
 asian sublimity of style, “ the sovereignty is in her ; it is also in 
 another. Her administration supplies the other’s absence. Mon¬ 
 archy here seems to have lost its very essence ; it being a gov¬ 
 ernment by one. But as the administration is only in one at a 
 time, so—” 
 
 A person like a gentleman usher interrupted the new dignitary 
 by a message to him to attend the queen. He gave a sign of 
 humble compliance, but stayed to finish his sentence— 
 
 “ As the administration is only in one at a time, so they are 
 more one than espousals or a joint tenure of the throne—” 
 
 The messenger gave a hint for dispatch. 
 
 “ Than espousals, or a joint tenure of the throne can make 
 them,” still continued the eulogist, as art last he waddled off, 
 however, seesawing the air, and repeating his climax till he was 
 out of hearing. 
 
 “And there goes,” said Walker, looking after him, “the 
 strange instrument whom it has pleased God to use in working 
 out the greatest deliverance that ever was allowed to a nation. 
 Assisted by a woman whom, notwithstanding his praises, every 
 father must tremble to see guilty of the joy which she evinces at 
 the downfall of a parent.” 
 
 Having received from Evelyn an intimation of the wishes of 
 the deputation to call on him for an introduction to the king, 
 Mr. Walker, as we still prefer to designate him, declared, with 
 some vehemence, that such a service was not to be expected at 
 bis hands, inasmuch as he. himself, had not yet enjoyed an audi* 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 405 
 
 ence of his majesty. A sum of money and a Church appoint¬ 
 ment he had, indeed, received in the king’s name, as some 
 recompense for what he had done in Ireland. But all cordial 
 approach to William was denied. 
 
 Had Evelyn been in a mood to attend to what he heard, this 
 must have astonished him, and what followed still more so. Mr. 
 Walker, rapidly and in evident warmth, proceeded to say that 
 the whole conduct of the new monarch impressed his zealous 
 Protestant subjects with a fear that he was arbitrary in his 
 views, as well as disagreeable in his private manners. Above 
 all, that he was averse to the interests of the established reli¬ 
 gion, and indifferent to the encroachment of Popery. While he 
 disgusted with his reserve, or his rudeness, all the great men who 
 surrounded him, giving up to field sports the time he refused to 
 them, William maintained in England a Duch standing army, and 
 had been heard to say, he would, and could trust no other. And 
 in this army were as many Papists, men and officers, as James 
 had ever proposed to have in his. He had suspended, as sum¬ 
 marily as James, the bishops who refused to lay down their con¬ 
 sciences at his feet. He had repeatedly sought to exempt all 
 those of his own religion (the Presbyterian) from the test oaths ; 
 the very attempt which, made in behalf of another sect, had 
 cost James a crown, and gained it for William. He had, at one 
 sweep, abolished the Established Church in Scotland, and he had 
 caused to be instituted an ecclesiastical court of commission, 
 doubtless in the hopes of effecting the same thing, under name 
 of a comprehension, in England. He had allowed Holland to 
 interfere with the trade of London, which was now sensibly 
 diminished. He had, in a season of public debt and distress, 
 expended large sums on the new palace at Hampton Court, and 
 now an additionally large one on the purchase of Kensington. 
 Worst of all, when certain zealous dignitaries, and others of the 
 Established Church, had earnestly recommended him to bind up, 
 in a salutary fetter of new penal laws, the hands and energies of 
 Papists, he had sullenly refused, saying, that he came to England 
 to assist Protestantism, but not to persecute Roman Catholics ; 
 at another time, adding that he could not pretend to screen the 
 Protestants of Germany and Hungary, at the same time that he 
 should persecute Catholics in England and Ireland. Such a 
 course, Mr. Walker continued, had not been expected from the 
 man who was called from his own country, solely for the protec¬ 
 tion of Protestantism against Popery, and of English freedom 
 
4rOG 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 against despotic monarchy. Men’s eyes had, therefore, become 
 opened of late to some other imperfections in the conduct of the 
 prince, who so much disappointed all. It was now recollected 
 that, contrary to his solemn declarations, he had aspired to the 
 crown without waiting till it was vacant, or decreed to be so. 
 That he had himself caused such vacancy, by treating his father- 
 in-law with insolence, rigor, and great cruelty, turning him out of 
 his palace, and, in reality, terrifying him out of the kingdom. 
 That the reports countenanced by him of the false birth of the 
 Prince of Wales, and the treaty with France to enslave England, 
 appeared to be false, and must be esteemed nothing more than 
 wicked rumors, framed for certain ends. That, merely out of 
 complaisance to him, James had been refused a hearing in his 
 own defence. Lastly, Mr. Walker hinted that it became a 
 question, whether or no legitimate succession and divine right 
 should have been so speedily shoved aside to make room for a 
 strange prince, now so little likely to give satisfaction ; and 
 whispers of intended resistance, in which, indeed, he did not 
 implicate himself, actually escaped the lips of the angry, or con¬ 
 scientious, churchman. 
 
 Despite his abstraction and tantalizing interest in a very differ¬ 
 ent subject, Evelyn was at length overtaken with astonishment, 
 to hear such details and sentiments from the man who, only a 
 few months before, had viewed and stated the character and 
 merits of William in a very different light. He ventured to 
 hint his surprise, but his friend stopped him by the remark, that 
 time and experience alone could enable any one to settle in the 
 truth. Then, still indulging his zeal, candor, or disappointment, 
 he found new subjects of animadversion in William’s flagrant 
 neglect of Ireland ; insinuating that some sensible men were not 
 slow in attributing, as the cause for all the mismanagement in 
 that quarter, a plan to let the country get embroiled, deeper and 
 deeper ; that so, at last, William and his Dutch followers, for 
 whom he could not otherwise provide, might have the merit of 
 subduing it, and, at the same time, of monopolizing, to the pre- 
 indice of loyal and more deserving Irish Protestants, the addi¬ 
 tional forfeitures and confiscations that must take place among 
 the properties of Irish Papists. The king had, indeed, lately 
 mentioned his intention of going over to finish the war in person. 
 But little was expected from that pledge. And Mr. Walker 
 wound up by saying, that the late defeats of the English at sea, 
 and particularly the failure of Torrington in a descent upon 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 407 
 
 Cork, where, at the head of the combined fleets of Holland 
 and England, he had been discomfited by the French admiral, 
 who now infested the Channel—that these losses and disgraces, 
 never encountered in any other reign, and preceded, in the very 
 former reign, by brilliant success, powerfully assisted in making 
 a great portion of the national miud disgusted with its new 
 master. 
 
 At this moment, Mr. Walker was interrupted by a stir among 
 a considerable body of Dutch horse-guards, who were posted 
 round a back entrance into the west court. Nearly at the same 
 time a loud clatter of horses’ feet was heard in the court, accom¬ 
 panied by a flourish of trumpets. 
 
 “Ay,” continued Mr. Walker, “there he goes, as usual, to 
 review his camp at Hounslow, or start a deer in Windsor Forest. 
 Leaving unnoticed the faithful and anxious subject, and the im¬ 
 portant business that vainly craves his attention.” 
 
 Evelyn became attracted by another incident. Soma of the 
 guards stationed, as has just been said, at the door which com¬ 
 municated with the garden, surrounded, as if to press back, an 
 individual who seemed anxious to pass into the court. At a 
 second glance, Evelyn recognized the slight figure and foreign 
 dress of the person who so terribly interested him. Instantly he 
 darted from his friend’s side towards the spot. On his way, a 
 turn in the path, round a clump of trees, intercepted his view ; 
 and when he arrived near the guards the stranger was gone. 
 But Evelyn could hear them allude, in the Dutch language, 
 which he had partially acquired in Schomberg’s Irish camp, to 
 the incident which so much alarmed him. The soldiers seemed 
 to make light of it ; expressing some satirical mirth at the igno¬ 
 rance and impudence of the unknown stripling, who, out of curi¬ 
 osity, or a foolish notion of the importance of his private affairs, 
 could hope to press himself on the king at such a moment: they 
 added, that from the dispatch of his retreat, it was to be hoped 
 the repulse he had got would teach him some experience. 
 
 As Evelyn stood confused and agitated, his friends, accompa¬ 
 nied by Mr. Walker, came up to say that, since the king had 
 left the palace for the day, it would be useless to remain any 
 longer in attendance. But that the Bishop of Salisbury had 
 iugfc pledged himself to arrange, through the interest of the Queen, 
 a speedy audience for the Irish deputation, who should make it 
 their business to procure lodgings in the village, and contentedly 
 and respectfully await the proper summons. 
 
408 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Evelyn continued almost unconscious of these intimations. 
 His friends noticed his unbusiness-like abstraction, and once more 
 he was left by them alone in the gardens. His eye turned round, 
 and his thoughts turned internally, still in search of one sole 
 object, one sole explanation. He watched and lingered about 
 the paths and secret haunts of the garden, until all else had re¬ 
 tired, and he found himself suspiciously regarded by the Dutch 
 troops, stationed as sentinels at different points. At last, as 
 evening fell, it became necessary for him to seek his friends in 
 the adjacent village. Some of them met him by chance in the 
 streets, conveyed him to his lodgings, and, at his request, left 
 him to his reflections. 
 
 “ This,” thought Evelyn—“this, then, is the fate to which 
 she has devoted herself—revenge—blind, unjust, and ruinous 
 revenge 1” He shuddered with a degree of revulsion to contem¬ 
 plate a young and unprotected woman abandoning herself to 
 such a course. He feared to tell himself what shape he sus¬ 
 pected Eva’s intentions to have taken. But most of all did he 
 fear to calculate the consequences of her madness. 
 
 Could there be a doubt it was she ? A rapid thought struck 
 him : the young person in the camp at Dundalk—could it be he ? 
 He tried to call back his notions of the face of that person. 
 He had seen it but once, during the struggle with Kirke ; his 
 mind was utterly confused at the moment ; his powers of obser¬ 
 vation clouded. His glance had only suggested, in a vague 
 manner, that he knew it before. Could he now venture decid¬ 
 edly to say that it was not one and the same with the face he 
 beheld this morning ? He would not positively say so. If not, 
 it remained probable that his mute attendant, in Schoraberg’s 
 camp, and the individual encountered in the gardens, were one 
 and the same. Thus, then, Eva differently disguised, had twice 
 appeared to him. Who else could leave the note where he had 
 found it ? Here was additional probability. And yet, no ; 
 Evelyn, although he durst not fully assure himself, irresistibly 
 rejected these arguments, as soon as he had built them up. He 
 could not keep to the belief that it was Eva who had snatched 
 the dagger from Kirke, and afterwards attended him in the hut. 
 In other words, that the person, whose appearance and actions 
 now alarmed him, was that individual, in a changed dress ; for, 
 as he began to doubt all his powers of clear and certain deduc¬ 
 tion, he at last put to himself a final question—ought he to be so 
 sure that he had really seen Eva in the gardens ? As, in a 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 409 
 
 former instance, the confusion of his mind seemed to deny him a 
 right to come to positive assurance. 
 
 Weary with uncertainty, Evelyn sank into repose. But the 
 next day brought renewed fears, and a recurrence to the con¬ 
 viction that it was, indeed, Eva whom he had met. Expectation 
 01 excitement could not have left him so open to be deceived ; 
 could not have beguiled him into the momentary certainty that 
 features so well known were before him. A strangeness of char¬ 
 acter, a new expression and meaning, there had, indeed, been 
 attached to them. But again he brought to mind that the same 
 effect had been seemingly wrought in Eva’s face upon the night 
 when, in a very similar dress, she had met him outside the walls 
 of Derry ; when he knew he gazed upon her, and almost thought 
 her another person. Wholly occupied by these reflections, and 
 anxiously hoping that he might once more be afforded a more 
 satisfactory interview, days and weeks dragged over Evelyn’s 
 head. At last came a summons to attend his friends to the 
 palace, in the expectation—for it was only an expectation—of 
 being admitted to an audience of the king. Evelyn passively 
 joined them, almost unconscious of the business in hand, and 
 completely ignorant of the State topics, the opinions and anec- 
 dotes that, since his arrival in England, had been flying around 
 him. 
 
 “ I should wish,” said Charles Y., “ to address my God in 
 Spanish, my mistress in Italian, my friend in French, my birds in 
 English, and my horses in Dutch.” And as Evelyn, along with 
 his companions, followed the Bishops of Salisbury and Derry 
 through the guards that, without and within, beset every avenue 
 of Kensington Palace, he was well disposed, so far as he attended 
 to the matter, to admit the reasonableness of the wish, in the 
 last instance, at least. Much as he had formerly disliked the 
 gurgling and splashing sound of the language of the new-comers, 
 it had never irritated his nerves so effectually as at present it 
 did, while breaking the lordly silence of the spacious hall and 
 staircase he ascended. Upon each landing-place a group of 
 Dutch officers were stationed, questioning all who approached 
 the king’s apartments, and afterwards discoursing with one 
 another, while ever and anon they sucked their massive pipes, 
 and puffed out a contribution to the grand cloud of smoke be¬ 
 neath which they were canopied. An anteroom, gained from 
 the second landing-place, was also filled with them and their 
 esteemed vapor. But here reigned comparative silence, as the 
 
 18 
 
no 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 royal warders, not obliged to be as watchful as their brethren 
 outside and below stairs, could stretch themselves out on forms 
 or ottomans, and closely attaching themselves to their puffing 
 pastime, devote their souls to taciturnity. 
 
 At an explanation given by the Bishop of Salisbury, our 
 party were permitted to pass through the anteroom into the 
 chamber of audience. The first figures which, even here, struck 
 the eye, were some of the highest in rank of the Dutch officers, 
 still smoking, and not unfrequently withdrawing their pipes from 
 their lips, to inflict upon the Turkey carpet that indignity, for 
 the committing of which Chesterfield has since averred he 
 Always found it in his heart to knock a man down. Through 
 volumes of smoke appeared, at the end of the chamber next the 
 anteroom, considerable groups of sage and serious persons, cabi¬ 
 net ministers, parliamentary deputies, law-officers, church digni¬ 
 taries, aud some noble dames. All waiting to render accounts of 
 certain commissions, or to present addresses, or to proffer humble 
 suits to the ear of royalty ; and all evincing some disgust, the 
 ladies especially, of the Dutch atmosphere they were constrained 
 to breathe on English ground ; with some impatience of the 
 length of time they were kept waiting. Every eye was fixed 
 upon a tapestried arras, which, with a division in the middle, 
 fell over a small closet-door at one side of the remote end wall 
 of the apartment. Disagreeable silence prevailed. The Dutch 
 general officers spoke not a word, even to each other; greetings 
 were exchanged in dumb show between the English portion of 
 the levee ; at most, cautious whispers alone could be heard. 
 Thus nearly an hour had passed since the admission of Evelyn 
 and his friends, when the tedium was at length relieved by the 
 quick opening of the door which communicated with the ante¬ 
 room, and the as quick entrance of a remarkable little man, on 
 whom every glance immediately fixed ; for whom every one 
 made way ; and who, in Evelyn’s miud, if not the king, must be 
 a personage of nearly equal importance and interest. 
 
 Joined to a low, slight, but agile and graceful figure, he had 
 that kind of sallow, broad-boned, hollow-cheeked visage, with 
 cocked nose, sharp chin, and lively gray eyes, which English 
 children grown ones, too, assume to themselves as the authentic 
 abstract of Gallic faces in general. 
 
 “The prime favorite,” whispered Mr. Walker to Evelyn, as 
 this individual smirkingly returned the many salutations he met 
 on his way through the courtly crowd. “ Monsieur Bentinck, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 411 
 
 now ray Lord Portland, first commissioner on the privy list, and 
 groom of the stole and privy purse.” 
 
 At another step, the envied and then sole confidant of Wil¬ 
 liam III. stood by the Bishop of Salisbury, earnestly grasping 
 bis hands, while they spoke very seriously and secretly on some 
 matter of apparent importance, perhaps of alarm. Ere Ben- 
 tinck parted from his right reverend friend, a few sentences be¬ 
 came audible. 
 
 “ You will then break the news, to-day, my lord ?” asked Bur¬ 
 net. 
 
 “ Oui, monsieur, il le faut absolument. r 
 
 “ But does not your lordship think, that, as the first detector 
 of this affair, I—•” 
 
 “ Mais oui, monseigneur, bien certainement—dat is, when his 
 majeste shall know—voyez-vous !” and away he glided towards 
 the far end of the apartment, leaving the dignitary in a seeming 
 quandary, and bowing at either side to the Dutch officers, who, 
 without moving their pipes or their limbs, just eyed him, in his 
 passage along, as a mastiff eyes the kind of major-domo trotting- 
 about-the-house of a little pig-tailed pug, whom his master’s will 
 has taught him to tolerate, without loving or respecting. The 
 favorite disappeared behind the arras of the closet-door. Thither 
 every eye was again directed, while profound silence reassumed 
 its reign in the audience chamber. Nearly another hour elapsed. 
 At length the arras once more rustled. Bentinck issued through 
 it ; gave a sign to those in attendance ; and took his place at 
 tne side of the little door, standik^ erect and motionless, except 
 that with one arm he held the tapestry apart. Courtiers, digni¬ 
 taries, suitors, all assumed attitudes of attention. Even the 
 Dutch officers slowly withdrew their meerschaums from their 
 lips, and their arms clanging, got upright upon their legs, and 
 seemed a little interested. 
 
 Presently appeared William and Mary. The queen first 
 emerged from the closet, the arm of her royal partner drawn 
 through hers, as if, reversing the usage between the sexes, she 
 had led him, against his will, from the recesses of his sullen 
 privacy. She was fully as tall, and looked taller than the king 
 her person almost twice as big, and seemed more so on account 
 of the shapeless flow of her costume, every shred of which 
 seemed ready to fall off. Her features were fine, but large, mas¬ 
 culine, and haughty ; the up-turned, high-piled fashion of her 
 dark hair confirmed them in this bold character. William’s 
 
412 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 slight, almost emaciated figure, clad in the heavy horseman’s 
 boots, loose, broad-skirted coat, and long-flapped vest, which he 
 generally wore in readiness for the hunting-field, or the review- 
 ground, appeared to little advantage by the side of a lady so 
 handsome, so haughty, and so commanding. While his thin, 
 iragged, copper features, exhibiting a discontent that might be 
 construed into sneer and misanthropy, but that was, perhaps, as 
 much the result of peevishness inseparable from continued bad 
 health, were nearly lost in the huge periwig that fashion then 
 inflicted on the heads of its votaries. 
 
 Having made one step into the audience-chamber, and cast 
 one keen glauce around, the king, as if instinctively, drew back 
 again, evidently disinclined to encounter the multifarious business 
 that an assemblage so numerous seemed to portend. His 
 manner indicated a mixed shyness and self-importance, such as 
 an idle and overgrown schoolboy might evince at being called 
 on to take his turn in exhibiting before a Christmas company. 
 Queen Mary whispered, however, a few earnest words, that had 
 the effect of controlling this movement. Then, after some 
 further short discourse with her royal partner, she spoke aloud, 
 in a full imposing voice. 
 
 “ His majesty is unusually indisposed, and disinclined 10 much 
 business to-day, my lords and gentlemen, yet will he endeavor a 
 word, in turn, with my Lord Bishop of Salisbury, my Lord 
 Chief-Justice, the Marquis of Caermarthen, my Lord Shrews¬ 
 bury, and one of the Irish deputation.” 
 
 Burnet, the law lord, and the privy councillors, accordingly 
 detached themselves from the far groups. Walker, answering 
 to the last invitation, also advanced a step, when William, as if 
 his quick eye had caught the movemeut, half turned on his heel, 
 and addressed a word to the ear of his queen, who immediately 
 added— 
 
 “ His majesty will hear, in preference to the others of the 
 deputation from Ireland, brief speech from the officer who comes 
 especially accredited by letters from Duke Schomberg ; Captain 
 Evelyn, belike.” 
 
 Walker bit his lip, and stepped back. Evelyn bowed low, 
 and walked forward. 
 
 “ So, Sir John Holt,” he heard William say, abruptly, to the 
 chief-justice, as he came near the private group—(William 
 spoke English distinctly, it having been almost his domestic 
 ianguage, and that by which his mother, Mary of England, had 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 413 
 
 conveyed to him the scanty education he could boast)—“ So, 
 Sir John Holt ; you have outlived, I believe, all the great law¬ 
 yers of your day.” 
 
 “ I had nearly outlived the law, but for your majesty,” replied 
 Sir John, elegantly foiling the gratuitous rudeness. 
 
 “ Humph !” turning aside with an air that all knew betokened 
 an end to further conference with the chief-justice. “So, 
 Bishop of Salisbury.’’ 
 
 “ Touching your majesty’s mature consideration of—” Burnet 
 began. The queen interrupted him. 
 
 “ The bishop hopes your majesty has come to a conclusion on 
 the good measure we last discoursed on, this morning.” 
 
 “ The conclusion and the answer have before been rendered, 
 madame,” said William coldly ; “I am no persecutor. In the 
 name of God, let the matter end. So,” turning just as coldly 
 to Evelyn, “ you be the Irish captain Schomberg mentions ?” 
 Evelyn bowed. 
 
 “ Get you before the parliament, sir, you and your fellows. 
 It is time we were freed from their addresses, by your evidence. 
 What know we of the Irish failures ? and yet they press us, 
 day after day, for an explanation. Why did he not fight, sir ? 
 No matter, reserve an answer for the parliament, I say. Now, 
 my Lord Shrewsbury,” again turning aside, “ you can tell, in a 
 word, how they at length agree to settle our revenue. For 
 life, my lord ?” 
 
 “I grieve to say but a year, may it please your majesty.” 
 
 “ And this their final resolve ? Insolents 1 they will leave us 
 but the shadow of power—a pageant title, and no more. What 
 of the indemnity bill, my lord ?” 
 
 “ Still warmly disputed, your highness.’ 
 
 “ And the comprehension lost, too ?” 
 
 “ Nolumus leges Anglice mutari, is the decision of your 
 majesty’s commissioners, quoted from a well-known source,” 
 answered Shrewsbury. 
 
 “ Fools ! they were not asked to change the laws of England. 
 Bigots !” he added, inaudibly, as if about to re-enter his closet, 
 leaving his queen behind him. 
 
 “ Will it please your majesty,” said the Marquis of Caer- 
 raarthen, following him, “ to consider the proposals of the Tory 
 noblemen and gentlemen, in all things to study your highness’s 
 pleasure, provided—” 
 
 “ Provided I come to open rupture with my insolent Whig 
 
414 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 parliament, and give them a petty triumph over their petty 
 enemies,” interrupted William ; “ goes it not so, my lord mar¬ 
 quis ? I appeal to God to witness, that never was prince so 
 beset by an ungrateful and fickle people. Whig and Tory— 
 Tory and Whig—Nonjurors, and—look ye, my lords, I can trust 
 your Tory no more than your Whig—I love not either—I fear 
 both. Both have insulted my crown, and embittered my exist¬ 
 ence. Look ye again, my resolution, long discussed, is at last 
 taken : our convoy is ready. Bentinck, see that saddles are also 
 ready by the morning. I leave them all to the turbulence they 
 live by. I will seek my native court and my faithful and tran¬ 
 quil Hollanders,” glancing at the row of motionless officers, 
 whose lethargic air seemed the very pride of his eye. “ I will 
 have rest and friends about me, peace and allegiance. Let your 
 own English Mary stay behind to rule ye, she understands it. 
 As God heareth me, I do not; and on the same appeal do I 
 declare—” 
 
 “ My gracious sire,” interrupted Shrewsbury, dropping on Ills 
 knee, while his eyes glistened, “ desert not the people you have 
 saved ; the good work you have so well begun.” 
 
 “ Save us from ourselves,” said Caermarthen, also kneeling and 
 much alFected, or seeming so ; “ from a renewal of the peril in 
 which you found us.” 
 
 “ From a return of Popery !” groaned Burnet. 
 
 “ This is the time for one hint,” whispered Bentinck to the 
 prostrate bishop ; “ it will rouse him.” 
 
 “ From present and absolute treason!” continued Burnet, in a 
 low voice, understanding the favorite ; “ from the effects of a 
 plot this moment carried on against your majesty’s crown 1” 
 William started, reddened, his slight figure became erect and 
 stern, his eye kindled up, and he turned fully round 
 
 “ What say you, my lords ? A plot so soon ?” 
 
 “ Arretez-vous /” here cried Bentinck., from the side of the 
 door, as he frowningly fixed his glance on some person who 
 endeavored to approach, unbidden, the remote and private group, 
 often interrupted by the crowd through which he struggled. At 
 the same moment the watchful favorite darted along the spacious 
 apartment, and seized the arm of a young man, in a foreign dress. 
 Evelyn’s heart jumped to his throat; though the face remained 
 hidden, it was the individual he had seen in the gardens. 
 
 This incident attracted the keenest attention of all. The 
 noblemen and bishop arose ; the king again stept back, anti 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 415 
 
 followed with his eye the motions of Bentinck ; the queen, sailing 
 to him like a ruffled swan, once more took his arm. But no 
 cause for alarm at first appeared. Bentinck was only seen to 
 take a paper from the stripling’s hand, and then heard to say : 
 “ Present it myself? ma foi! I shall know my duties better— 
 quelle folie /” 
 
 “ Present it, at the instant, whatever it may import,” cried 
 the queen, in some misgiving ; “ shall he not, my liege ?” 
 
 William nodded, coldly. Bentinck gave a folded letter. 
 
 “ It purports,” said the king, after he had glanced over it, 
 “ to be a credential, in the youth’s favor, from a well-known 
 hand. But,” after another pause, “ seize the bearer ! it is a 
 forgery.” 
 
 The Dutch officers at last got iuto motion. The groups at 
 the remote end of the room appeared at first disturbed, and then 
 astonished. It was finally reported that the young stranger had 
 escaped from the room, and down stairs, through all the guards, 
 out of the palace. 
 
 “ Pursue him !” cried the queen, in a voice of thunder. 
 
 “Belike you say true, my lords,” resumed William, now 
 relapsed into his usual coldness, and in remark upon some closely 
 whispered information conveyed by Burnet and Bentinck, “ be¬ 
 like there is a plot, and that this very youth makes part of it. 
 To our closet, madam. Follow us, Bishop of Salisbury.” 
 
 Bentinck, unbidden, was included in the invitation. 
 
 “ Sir James Montgomery, you say, one of the very com- 
 passers of the revolution ?” Mary asked, as soon as they had 
 entered the closet. 
 
 “ The same, your highness ; and by his brother did I, with 
 some prudence, discover it.” 
 
 “ But Monsieur Nevil Payne is the head of all,” observed 
 Portland, “ as I found out by bribing one to be my spy on 
 him.” 
 
 “ Montgomery’s brother hath assured me, and, craving pardon 
 of my Lord Portland, I believe I know most of this matter— 
 hath assured me that a treaty with James has absolutely been 
 signed by the whole cabal, English and Scotch, as they are. 
 
 “ By my Lords Ross, Aunandale, and Nottingham, as I can 
 proof,” continued the zealous favorite. 
 
 “ By my Lords Clarendon, Yarmouth, Newberry, Griffin, 
 Castlemain, and many other lords and gentlemen in England,” 
 continued the as zealous bishop. 
 
416 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 11 Aud Hume, Argyle, Breadalbane, and others too, in Scot* 
 land,” interrupted Bentinck. 
 
 “ Are the proofs yet plain ?” asked William. 
 
 “We hope soon to have them so,” answered the bishop and 
 favorite iu a breath. 
 
 “ When they are,” resumed William, “ let us talk more about 
 it. For the present this matter alters our plan of going imme¬ 
 diately to Holland. We might fly from fools, not from foes ; 
 from disquietude, not danger. Now shall the Irish war soon 
 receive, indeed, our personal care. And I shall go to Ireland, 
 my lord bishop, with a lighter heart. For,” repeating an ex¬ 
 pression he had often used, “ I believe I better know how to 
 engage in a campaign than to govern England.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Evelyn remained in a state of the most torturing suspense. 
 He had heard the orders given to pursue the bearer of the forged 
 letter ; he had heard the guards get into motion for pursuit; as 
 he gained the streets of the village, all were in confusion, speak¬ 
 ing of the wretched fugitive; some making inquiries, some giving 
 hints of the way he had, or might have taken. Evelyn walked 
 about till a late hour in the evening, to assure himself of the 
 result ; aud at last retired to his lodgings, partially relieved. The 
 retreat, or even the course of the suspected person, had not been 
 discovered. 
 
 The next day, and the next, brought him the same assurances. 
 Active measures were taken in London as well as Kensington, 
 still to no purpose. Pursuit gradually died away. The circum¬ 
 stance as gradually ceased to be talked of. Evel)n could no 
 longer doubt that the fugitive, anticipating his enemies, had 
 hastily embarked for Ireland at .some near port. 
 
 But while the belief eased his mind in one respect, it was only 
 to propose a new cause of uneasiness. Eva—for Evelyn now 
 scarce doubted her identity with this individual—Eva, though 
 free from immediate danger in Eugland, was exposed, in Ireland, 
 to all the perils and disgrace of the unworthy character, and the 
 course of action her enraged spirit had prompted her to adopt 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 417 
 
 It became his great duty, and now the only solicitude of his life, 
 to seek her out, to convince her of the impropriety of her career, 
 to win her from it, and if past circumstances would not permit 
 their ultimate reunion, at least to restore her to a life more worthy 
 of her and him. Already had he determined on a plan by which 
 he hoped to hear of Eva, to approach her, and endeavor to 
 effect his view. But it was necessary that he should first be 
 in Ireland. And here arose his new cause for disquietude. To 
 Ireland he could not go, until he had answered the claims of the 
 public duty which compelled him to come to England. Unless, 
 indeed, he broke through all the restraints of that duty, now 
 confirmed and made coercive by the commands of the king to 
 attend a summons from the parliament. 
 
 Patience and hope once more became, then, his only support. 
 But the continued quarrelling of the king with his subjects ; 
 the progress and details of the widespread conspiracy just de¬ 
 tected; the endless whispers of a court ; nothing interested him 
 sufficiently to fill up the aching blank of a separation from his 
 own wretched concerns. At last he was called, with his friends, 
 before a committee of the Commons. After a wearisome inves¬ 
 tigation, and attendance from day to day, Schomberg became re¬ 
 lieved from the imaginary odium of a defeat he could not have 
 provided agaiust, and some poor “ victualler” was selected to 
 bear, in his stead, the weight of parliamentary indignation and 
 self-conceit. Still came no relief to Evelyn. The Irish deputa¬ 
 tion, and he, in particular, received peremptory notice to attend 
 at the beck of the legislators, lest, in the course of the session, 
 their local information might once more be required. And it was 
 not until William, provoked beyond endurance with continued 
 retaliations upon his imperiousness and rudeuess, at last dissolved 
 the very parliament that had called him to the throne—he and 
 they separating in mutual disgust, and with mutual charges of 
 ingratitude—that Evelyn found himself at liberty to leave Eng¬ 
 land. 
 
 Then he lost as little time as possible in posting to Liverpool 
 Mr. Walker and some of his brother deputies accompanied him 
 It was arranged to take a vessel to Belfast. For more than a 
 week none offered. And when at length they engaged with one, 
 the weather became furiously tempestuous ; the wind set in theii 
 teeth, and, for nearly double the time of their former delay, re¬ 
 mained so ; the captain refusing to venture out of harbor. Eve¬ 
 lyn, as many others in his situation have done, before and since, 
 
 18 * 
 
418 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 lost all temper with the winds and waves ; and thought of .ear¬ 
 ing Liverpool for some other port. But the daily hope of a 
 favorable change in the weather, added to the remonstrances of 
 his friends, and the usual good prophecies of the captain, kept 
 him stationary. As even the elements can be tired out, though 
 they will not be bullied, he finally embarked for Belfast, about 
 six weeks after the dissolution of Parliament. 
 
 But though it is a point to embark, when a man is in a hurry, 
 the chances against his speedy arrival at any given port are by 
 no means removed by his getting out to sea. Such, at least, 
 was the case at the time of our story ; people were then happy 
 to be assisted by the winds of heaven, instead of entering into a 
 contest with them. After some days 7 patient tacking, in rather 
 calm weather, during which the captain was content to make 
 what way he could, the breeze again blew into their teeth, and, 
 keeping firm in this point, increased to a gale, and at last rose 
 to a hurricane. Yielding to its fury, the sole anxiety of the 
 captain now was to preserve as much sea-room as possible, and 
 avoid all contact with the inhospitable southeast coast of Ireland, 
 as well as with the sublime, but equally dangerous coast of North 
 and South Wales. So down the channel the ship flew, running 
 eleven knots an hour, and bearing Evelyn further and further 
 from his point, with thrice the celerity at which it had at first 
 borne him towards it. Milford was past ; Land’s end was past, 
 and, what was worse, doubled. From St. George’s Channel 
 they were now blown into the British Channel, with every pros¬ 
 pect of being compelled to run for a French port, and there, of 
 course, become prisoners of war—if, indeed, some French ship 
 of the line did not save them that trouble, by meeting them 
 about the Downs, or off Beachy-head, and taking them under 
 her protection. 
 
 This chance was not, however, in store for them. Soon after 
 entering the British Channel, the wind, without abating its vio¬ 
 lence, changed so as to bear them fairly through the Straits of 
 Dover ; and, at last growing moderate, suffered Evelyn to land 
 at Ramsgate,—about four hundred miles, even by land-travelling, 
 further from Belfast than when he had embarked at Liverpool. 
 And nearly another fortnight was thus spent to no purpose. 
 
 From Ramsgate he resolved to recommence his journey to 
 Belfast, by passing through Er gland ; proceeding, still by land, 
 to Scotland ; and at last, taking a vessel from some opposite 
 port to the Irish northern town. Disgusted with the sea, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 419 
 
 only anxious to get home, this plan he thought the most prudent, 
 particularly as the weather continued stormy and unsettled. But 
 the reader must not suppose that Evelyn was able to accomplish 
 his long journey in less than treble the time that, at the present 
 day, it would cost him. In fact, he did not reach the point of 
 embarkation in Scotland until the month of April had nearly 
 been spent ; more delay and demur still happened, short as was 
 the sea to be crossed, until he finally touched Irish ground. 
 Then Schomberg had transferred his headquarters from Belfast 
 to Lisburne, some further distance south ; thither Evelyn was 
 compelled to follow him, to render up an account of his com¬ 
 mission. It took many days, after his meeting with the old 
 general, to perform this duty, in a satisfactory manner, Schom¬ 
 berg afterwards insisting on his services in disciplining some con¬ 
 siderable bodies of native re-enforcements, just come up to the 
 Enniskilleners. To his utter impatience, anguish, and, we may 
 say, despair, the summer sun of June was bright and unclouded 
 in the sky, ere he could get a hearing for his continued requests 
 to absent himself on private business. 
 
 But at length obtaining a pass from his commanding officer, 
 Evelyn prepared to travel southward. Early upon the morning 
 of his departure from Lisburne, Mr. Walker, once more capari¬ 
 soned as a true son of the church militant, entered his quarters. 
 Evelyn stared, but neither wished nor had time to embarrass 
 himself further with the matter. His old friend saved him the 
 trouble of inquiries. Seeing Ireland still abandoned by the 
 sovereign who ought to protect her, and now totally despairing, 
 along with all zealous and watchful observers, of the personal 
 interference of William, he could not avoid, he said, again taking 
 the sword into his hand, in the hopes that his future efforts for 
 his country and religion might be crowned with a portion of th* 
 humble success that it had before pleased God to accord then*. 
 Mr. Walker added, that he had just succeeded in rallying some 
 of the old and faithful parishioners who, at the hour of necu, 
 honored him with a command at Donoughmore. That he had, 
 yesterday, marched them to join Schomberg, and was now pre¬ 
 pared to head them, at the call of patriotism, and of the Lord, 
 on any good service. 
 
 Evelyn, scarce heeding this information, hastily took leave o«T 
 the spurred, and belted, and helmeted dignitary, and mounting a 
 good steed, set forth, alone, on his southern journey. 
 
 The morning was young, Evelyn’s anxiety great, and his horata 
 
420 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 good. Notwithstanding the badness of the road, on which he 
 had, the last autumn, witnessed such distress, his progress gave 
 hope that a considerable day’s journey should be performed ere 
 the sun’s decline. He met few individuals coming against him 
 on the lonely way, and those few were expresses from near out¬ 
 posts to Schomberg’s headquarters. Fewer still passed him from 
 behind. But, about two hours after he had been on horseback, 
 his attention was fixed by observing that a solitary horseman, 
 like himself, and wearing the large blue cloak, that was a badge 
 of the Enniskillen dragoons, followed in his track, seeming 
 exactly to time his motions to those of Evelyn ; spurring hard 
 when he spurred, pulling up when he slackened his speed; and 
 once or twice, as Evelyn came to a dead halt, for experiment 
 sake, halting also. 
 
 In his present mood, this irritated Evelyn. He did not wish 
 to be watched and dogged in such a fashion. He wanted to 
 think, and could not. He wanted to be alone, and this strange 
 kind of companionship, although the horseman never ventured 
 nearer than two or three hundred yards, did not permit him to 
 feel as if he were so. He tried every civil means of making the 
 person pass on ; all were useless. At last, he even turned his 
 horse’s head, intending to ride back, and confront the object of 
 his impatience: here, too, his movements were imitated. His 
 shadow retreated also, and having as good a horse, Evelyn 
 found it as difficult to get before him, as to have walked past his 
 real shadow, with the sun in his back. Finally, amused, as much 
 as annoyed, he resolved to hold on in his own course, and put 
 the matter out of his head. 
 
 During an afternoon halt, which he made to refresh his horse 
 and himself, Evelyn saw nothing of his self-elected warder, and 
 hoped now to continue free of his attentions. But he had not 
 resumed his journey above a few minutes, when the same person 
 again appeared at the usual distance behind him. As evening 
 fell, after he had passed the last of the English outposts, and 
 come in view of the ruins of Newry, this pertinacious dogging 
 of his steps by an unknown individual, begot some suspicion, if 
 not alarm. At length, while approaching an outpost of the 
 Irish army, he resolutely drew up, and resolved to get his perse 
 cutor in his front, before he would venture further. But now 
 the stranger horseman did not seem any longer to shun an en¬ 
 counter. Putting his steed to full gallop, he quickly gained the 
 place where Evelyn stood, it need not be added, on the defensive, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 421 
 
 tiid, keeping the far side of the road, rapidly passed him, saying, 
 in his quick transit : 
 
 “ Do you know what you’re for doing, sir ? Do you know 
 them that’s afore you? Yon’s the wild Irish folk.” 
 
 “ I know it,” replied Evelyn ; “ and it is my intention to 
 approach them in peace.” 
 
 “ Then a friend may do no harm aforehand,” continued the 
 stranger. “Just pull up a bit, Captain Evelyn; I mane you 
 good.” 
 
 And forward the horseman rode. Evelyn could perceive that, 
 in uttering the words we have noticed, the speaker made a 
 clumsy effort to alter the tones of the voice from the southern 
 Irish brogue, to the half-Scottish northern slang ; while he also 
 endeavored, by slouching his hat, and raising his cloak, to con¬ 
 ceal his face and figure. In the latter effort, he was assisted by 
 the twilight. Yet Evelyn did not doubt that he looked upon 
 the slight boyish figure of his former singular attendant in the 
 camp of Loughbrickland. 
 
 He remained stationary, in consequence of the hint received. 
 The stranger speedily came up with a body of men who occu¬ 
 pied a few cabins and temporary huts, on a little eminence. In 
 a few moments, Evelyn saw some horse, even worse mounted 
 and equipped than the Enniskilleners, and about a hundred pike- 
 men, mostly barefooted, and with no arms but the pike, advance 
 towards him. When they came close, a strong voice challenged 
 him, whose tones, he thought, were familiar to his ear, and pres¬ 
 ently he was by the side of Friar O’Haggerty, who, with a 
 drawn sword in his hand, a steel cap on his head, and a sash 
 tied round his cassock, appeared in command of the party. 
 
 “ Do you come as friend or foe ?” said the reverend captain. 
 
 “ I approach your lines, of a free will, to request safe and 
 speedy conduct to General Sarsfield, with whom I am anxious 
 to hold discourse of some import,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ That is to say, you abandon the cause and service of the 
 usurper, to give King James such information and service as 
 are in your power to give ?” 
 
 “ Pardon me ; I have but a request to make. To Genera 
 Sarsfield I will answer any questions.” 
 
 “ That is to say, you will answer none of mine ?” 
 
 “ On all common and courteous topics, any of yours, fredy 
 
 “ That is to say, you choose to remain silent touching the 
 business of your present journey ?” 
 
422 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Even so, with your leave.” 
 
 “ I command you to make a full disclosure,” continued 
 O’Haggerty, closing on him, and speaking low : “ I give no 
 leave for such contemptuous silence.” 
 
 “ Then, without your leave, sir,” replied Evelyn. 
 
 “ Beware,” resumed the friar ; “ I can compel your confidence 
 —or, at the least, cross your journey.” 
 
 “ I doubt if you can—or that you dare, sir.” 
 
 “ Guard him to the huts,” cried the friar, addressiug his men, 
 as he turned off. 
 
 “You will interrupt me at your peril,” said Evelyn. “ I take all 
 to witness my protest against this measure. I take all to witness 
 that I am obstructed in my progress to hold important commu¬ 
 nication with General Sarsfield.” 
 
 O’Haggerty remained silent. Evelyn was led to a hut ; and 
 then, a sentinel having been placed at the door, left to his reflec¬ 
 tions. The interruption irritated him beyond bounds. If it 
 continued, it must prove fatal to all his hopes and projects. He 
 sat for some time chafing with impatience. The night fell fast ; 
 he reckoned on another interview with O’Haggerty, but was dis¬ 
 appointed. Neither that holy commander, nor any other person 
 approached his hut. 
 
 Hours flew on, and the only footstep that he could hear was 
 that of the solitary sentinel who paced before the door of his 
 temporary prison. He approached the door, and requested the 
 man to bear a message from him to his reverend commandei ; 
 but “ Nein Sassenach —gho mock a-sinn” (no English get out 
 of that) as the rude soldier brought his pike to a charge, was 
 the only answer he could obtain. 
 
 At last he thought another footstep stealthily came up with 
 the sentinel. He listened ; the man stopped ; Evelyn heard low 
 whisperings ; and in a- few moments his follower of the day 
 entered, with caution, the small and frail apartment. Evelyn 
 was now assured that this was the same person, who, almost in 
 a similar situation, had before visited his nightly solitude. Fear¬ 
 ing nothing from former recollections, he observed the motions 
 of the stranger with strong interest. The self-elected attendant 
 stepped lightly across the rugged floor, and, as had previously 
 happened in the hut of Loughbrickland, laid before him some 
 food, and a flask of wine ; saying in a tone low enough not to 
 waken Evelyn if he had slept soundly : 
 
 “ Ate, ate, barrin’ the sleep isn’t on you ” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 423 
 
 “ I am awake,” replied Evelyn, “ and thank you for your 
 attentions. Have I not experienced them before, in Schomberg’s 
 camp ?” 
 
 The boy was silent. 
 
 “ Answer, I entreat you, if it is not very disagreeable. Are 
 you not the youth who took the dagger from Kirke’s hand ?— 
 who waited on me during the evening and night of that day ?— 
 who slept at my feet, and who followed me, all this day’s 
 Journey ?” 
 
 “ I am, then,” replied the stranger, in a low voice, as he stood 
 almost invisible, some paces off. 
 
 “ And who are you, to whom I am so much indebted ? Who 
 strove to confront me when I was alone in despair ; friendless, 
 companionless, abandoned by all; and who now again art by my 
 side in affliction ? Who are you ?” 
 
 A deep sigh was the only answer. 
 
 “Tell me, at least, on what account it has been my good for¬ 
 tune to meet so kind a friend ? You are not a northern ; you 
 cannot be attached to the cause you seem to follow. Why have 
 you entered into the ranks of the Enniskilleners ?” 
 
 “To be near you.” 
 
 “ But you soon left me, after you got to Dundalk. Yet, no ; 
 now I remember the cause, poor lad ; you became sick, did you 
 not ?” 
 
 “ An’ is it only now you remember it ?” in a tone of deep 
 reproach. 
 
 “ Forgive me. You know or may have known, that my own 
 griefs were overwhelming ; nor had I forgotten you so much, 
 either. Tell me,” continued Evelyn, a quick and agitating, 
 though wild association springing up, “ have I ever seen you 
 since your illness, until this day ?” 
 
 The stranger was again silent. 
 
 “ Tell me, I entreat ! have I not seen you in England—in 
 the gardens of the king’s palace at Kensington ?” he cried, 
 starting up, and approaching the figure, which receded to the 
 v ocr ; “ who are you, I say, or rather are you not she whom my 
 soul leaps to meet—are you not Eva—and did I not see you 
 I here ?” 
 
 The stranger uttered an impassioned and impatient cry, and 
 then said, loudly and rapidly : 
 
 “ No, Sassenach, no! I am not her ; but you saw her there.” 
 
 “ Her !—whom ?—whom did I see ? Consider your answer.” 
 
424 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Her you think so much about, Eva M’Danniel, that’s now 
 the ridin’ Rapparee.” 
 
 “ Heavens!” cried Evelyn, his worst fears more than confirmed, 
 “but have a care! How are you assured of this? Tell me 
 truly—and who are you, I again demand, on whose word the 
 lady I love and only live for, is thus forever blasted ? Speak!” 
 
 “ Thonomonduoul!” cried the person addressed, in an altered 
 tone, and now fully giving way to passion, “ I’ll spake no word 
 for such a biddin’—I’ll spake no word for the stampin’ an’ the 
 threatenin’ of him that when the body is afore him that saved 
 his life, more than onst, and ventured life mille times for him, ’ud 
 forget all, an’ thrate me like a dog just for sakes of a thrapsin’ 
 throllap that turns her back on him to go wid the Rapparee 
 captains. Ba,nnocth-lath* an’ may God reward you.” 
 
 “ Hold,” cried Evelyn, as the person was about to pass 
 through the doorway. “ I was too hasty, and indeed too harsh 
 and ungrateful. Your kind attentions should not be so soon 
 forgotten; and they are not. Forgive me and let us speak 
 further.” 
 
 “ Let us, then; and somethin’ in raison,” and the figure stopt, 
 inside the door. 
 
 “ I am now more than ever anxious to know who you are, and 
 earnestly request you to inform me. Could I see your features, 
 I think I should at once meet proof of what I now begin to 
 suspect.” 
 
 “ Why, then, it ’ud be the first time you’d see ’em.” 
 
 “I believe not; though I understand you wish to be unknown 
 to me. But ’tis no matter; I will not press my question, since 
 you dislike it. Only let me stand acquitted in your opinion. 
 Let me assure you how truly and deeply you have at last aroused 
 my gratitude; and let me take the hand to which I owe so much.” 
 He extended his arm, and a small hand was placed in his. 
 “ Come,” Evelyn continued, gently forcing his companion to the 
 seat he had left, “let us sit down, together, and partake of the 
 good cheer you have brought me ; there—thanks, thanks, dear, 
 kind friend,” he whispered, as he passed his arm round the waist 
 of his visitor, whose head fell on his shoulder, and whose tears 
 now came fast. “Ay, now,” he cried, as a round and panting 
 bosom was pressed to his, “ now, at least, do I know who y • u 
 are!—you are a woman. There is but one woman alive coo \ 
 
 * Good-night. 
 
425 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 have placed herself in such a situation; and now, Moya Laherty, 
 I am sure it is you ! And now,” starting up and standing be¬ 
 tween her and the door, “ let me tell you more—let me tell you 
 I suspect you.” The girl screamed loudly, and strove to escape. 
 11 1 suspect all the stories you have been imposing on me ; and 
 by Heaven 1 you stir not till you truly answer my questions ” 
 Again there was a scream ; and the figure glided round the 
 wall, towards the door, Evelyn baffling its movements. At the 
 same time, the sentinel abroad gave the alarm, and the sound ol 
 tramping footsteps was heard approaching. Evelyn became con¬ 
 fused, and lost, in the darkness, all sight of the figure. Still 
 keeping his back turned to the door, he endeavored, however, to 
 prevent the egress of any person. As the alarmed guard quickly 
 came up, his eye caught, an instant before their entrance, a re¬ 
 newed stir in the gloom ; he sprang forward, grasped in his arras 
 some person who struggled violently. The rude guards broke 
 in, bearing lights ; the glare flashed on the face of the person in 
 Evelyn’s custody ; he looked close into the features—they were 
 Eva’s—excited, as he had seen them, in Kensington Gardens, 
 and still strangely influenced by the accompaniment of male 
 attire. Uttering a loud cry, he sprang back ; instantly the 
 guards seized and surrounded him ; and, when he again glanced 
 round, Evelyn could see no one but them in the hovel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Recovering, in a degree, from his consternation, Evelyn 
 wildly questioned the soldiers as to the identity of the person 
 with whom they had found him struggling. But they could not, 
 or would not, understand him ; and at last an officer (so called, 
 though in costume or manner he scarce eclipsed his humbler 
 brethren), coldly warning him to keep his quarters in a quieter 
 manner, withdrew his men, and once more Evelyn was left 
 alone. 
 
 The morning broke, and no one appeared either to elucidate 
 the mystery of the night, or to relieve him from his durance. 
 He could observe, however, that two soldiers now guarded him. 
 Of them he made new inquiries and requests, but got no answer 
 
426 
 
 THE BOYIsE WATEft. 
 
 Evening approached, and the officer waited on him with a mes¬ 
 sage from O’ Haggerty, to know whether or not he would now 
 give the information he had before refused. When he stead¬ 
 fastly declined to answer any further questions, the officer retired, 
 observing, in turn, a negligent silence upon the continued demands 
 of Evelyn for an accouut of the person found with him, the pre¬ 
 vious night, in the hut. 
 
 Darkness again wrapt the interior of his prison, and Evelyn 
 panted with the hope that the object of all his thoughts and 
 solicitude might a second time visit him. But he was disap¬ 
 pointed. The short summer night passed over in quietude and 
 monotony. Another day, and another night elapsed—a third 
 and fourth—and still he was left torn with suspense and incer¬ 
 titude. At length, after a week’s confinement, the officer re¬ 
 turned to present him with a passport to Sarsfield, conveying, 
 at the same time, an angry censure on his obstinacy, and an inti¬ 
 mation that he was released only in the hope that the nature of 
 his business with the popular Irish general might be of service 
 to King James. Evelyn concluded that O’Haggerty’s curiosity 
 and officiousness having been tired out, he feared, on reflection, 
 absolutely to obstruct the zeal of a converted enemy, seemingly 
 indicated under such peculiar circumstances. Restored to liberty, 
 and presented with his good horse, he lost no time in pushing on 
 for Dublin, where, as he had been informed, Sarsfield now rested. 
 
 But, notwithstanding his intended speed, Evelyn was doomed 
 to encounter additional interruption and delay, as he passed 
 through the Irish lines and quarters. It was not till the after¬ 
 noon of the twentieth of the month, that he found himself enter¬ 
 ing the metropolis of Ireland. 
 
 At the first military station, where he made inquiries after 
 the abode of Sarsfield, he was, despite his documents, put under 
 arrest, and marched as a prisoner to Sarsfield’s house. 
 
 Escorted into an empty apartment, his guard remained by his 
 side, while the subaltern went to announce him to the general. 
 He sent in his name and description at full, Captain Evelyn, an 
 officer of the Enniskillen dragoons. In a few moments the 
 subaltern returned, led him to the door of another apartment, 
 flung it open, and Evelyn was in the presence of Sarsfield. 
 Hamilton, Sheldon, and many other Irish officers of distinction, 
 whom he found at a table, with wine before them, as if sitting 
 after dinner. 
 
 All rose politely, though formally, as he entered, and their 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 427 
 
 eyes fixed on him with evident curiosity and interest. He bowed, 
 particularly to Sarsfield and Hamilton, whom he at once recog¬ 
 nized, and proceeded to address the former. 
 
 “ I come, General Sarsfield, most anxious to have the honor 
 of some discourse with you.” 
 
 “ You know me then, sir?” 
 
 “ I have seen you before, sir, under circumstances I can never 
 forget, although they may have escaped your recollection.” 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Evelyn, sit.” All resumed their seats as Evelyn 
 complied with the invitation, Sarsfield’s eye resting intently on 
 the stranger. There was a pause, Evelyn not wishing to go on 
 at present. 
 
 “ Friend or foe, Mr. Evelyn ? Excuse a question the times 
 and your uniform render convenient,” resumed Sarsfield. 
 
 “ On no hostile intent do I come, surely,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ Welcome, then, or welcome in any character. Soldiers are 
 not churls, even when foes. I pledge you a welcome, sir ;” he 
 filled a glass of wine for Evelyn, and he and his friends drank 
 the stranger's health. 
 
 Another pause ensued. Sarsfield again spoke. 
 
 “ May we compliment ourselves on the gaining for King James 
 a hitherto respectable opponent, sir ?” 
 
 ‘* No, sir, 1 am King William’s officer.” 
 
 •* And as a partisan of the Prince of Orange, sir, you now 
 come before us ?” 
 
 “ I have said, as King William’s officer.” 
 
 " Still attached to his cause ?” 
 
 “ And not to be separated from it.” 
 
 Sarsfield’s glance continued earnestly and studiously fixed on 
 nis visitor. The other persons present looked at each other. 
 Sarsfield went on : 
 
 “ Then, sir, we have, of course, the honor to recognize, in you, 
 an accredited agent from the rebel party, sent to us on some 
 especial matter ?” 
 
 “ No, sir ; I come on no official appointment.” 
 
 “ Indeed ? it follows, then, that, from some unexplained motive, 
 you choose to surrender yourself as a prisoner of war. For you 
 cannot be ignorant, Mr. Evelyn, that such must be the nature 
 of your present unauthorized situation.” 
 
 “ I hope it will not so turn out, sir.” 
 
 u Ay ? But, whatever may be your private motive, you were 
 aware of the chance.” 
 
423 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Assuredly I was.” 
 
 “ And not loth to encounter it ?” 
 
 “ No. I was assured General Sarsfield would, when he knew 
 the matter that urged me to this very unusual step, be, himself, 
 my security for it.” 
 
 “ Ay, forsooth ?” again queried Sarsfield, his regards still 
 deeply fixed on Evelyn ; “ and what gave you this convenient 
 assurance ?” 
 
 “ Your character,” answered Evelyn, “ such as it is known by 
 general report, and such as I have myself observed it to be on 
 the occasion I before glanced at—namely, when I saw you inter¬ 
 est yourself, joined, too, by another gentleman present, for the 
 life of a young man, then of your party, at King James’s camp, 
 near Derry.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Sarsfield, as if suddenly recollecting the matter, 
 u and this explains some misgiving I felt, at your first appear¬ 
 ance, of having seen you before. Your own life, I believe, was 
 also at stake along with that young man’s ? w 
 
 Evelyn assented. “ And it is upon business in which he and 
 I are closely concerned, that I now crave your ear, at your good 
 leisure,” he continued. 
 
 Sarsfield’s friends rose to take their leave. 
 
 “ I believe I, too, remember the affair,” said Hamilton, as he 
 stood up ; “ and now perfectly call to mind the face of Mr. 
 Evelyn. Though, indeed, it was whiter and more disturbed 
 when I last saw it ; Galmoy having caused it some agitation. 
 Have you since been on active service, sir ?” 
 
 “ I saw you at Dromore and Hillsborough, General Hamil¬ 
 ton,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ Well, you might as well have seen me elsewhere. But, as 
 to the rest, was it more pleasing service ?” 
 
 “ I must not find fault with the performance of duty, at any 
 time, sir.” 
 
 “ Certainly, no ; yet Mr. Evelyn will allow us to express our 
 surprise, or if not, our regret, that so pretty a man should not have 
 preferred the right side, and, assuredly, the gallanter one.” 
 
 “ It were idle for me, General Hamilton, to mention the causes 
 that first led me to think yours the wrong one. Though I 
 might easily state why, for more recent arguments, I continue to 
 believe it is.” 
 
 “ Why ay ; you might tell us that James has given assent to 
 the mad bill for repealing the Act of Settlement.” 
 
THE EOYNE WATEK. 
 
 429 
 
 “ Whereby many honorable families are disinherited and sought 
 to be beggared,” interrupted Evelyn. 
 
 “ And that he has also assented to the motion for getting 
 tithes aud benelices conferred on his Roman Catholic clergy.” 
 
 “ Against the promise, renewed even at his landing in Ireland, 
 that he would preserve the Established Church in all its rights 
 and privileges—” 
 
 “ And that some of the old cathedrals have been taken back 
 from you ; that the college has a Popish head ; and that a brass 
 penny goes for a silver shilling. Have I not almost summed up 
 your reasons ?” 
 
 “ Many of them you indeed have.” 
 
 “ Yet, will you not remember that if, by the repeal of the Act 
 of Settlement, many honorable persons are deprived of property, 
 as many, at least, were victims, in a similar way, to its enact¬ 
 ment ? That its making was an unjustified act, while its marring 
 is but—” 
 
 “ Tush, tush, General Hamilton ; now you speak too lightly,” 
 interrupted Sarsfield. “ You know you strive to vindicate a 
 measure that you dislike.” 
 
 “ I have called it a mad act,” answered Hamilton, “ and I 
 think it so. I think it one directly calculated to divide, against 
 the king, my master, the country which it ought to be his policy 
 to keep knit together in his interests. Yet might I argue a 
 little, on natural principle, to show a fair foe that the breach of 
 the old statute was not so monstrous as its observance. As to 
 James’s share in the matter, he should further be informed that 
 his majesty wished it not ; that he advised against it ; but that 
 when Tyrconnel’s packed parliament called on him to approve 
 their vote, he had no alternative but to refuse ; and by that re¬ 
 fusal estrange from him the only men who were disposed to stand 
 by his side in a case of extremity.” 
 
 “ With eveu less zeal, Mr. Evelyn, do we defend the taking 
 Church revenues out of the hands of your clergyman,” continued 
 Sarsfield. “ The question is not if it be equitable, but if it be 
 politic, and, above all, consistent with the royal proclamations 
 issi *?d. As to the churches, he has publicly commanded them 
 to be restored to you. Only that our reverend guides, having 
 once got their old roofs over their heads, stoutly refuse to yield 
 possession of their own, even at their king’s command—God 
 bless them 1” 
 
 “ And now a brass sixpence for your remaining objection, sir 99 
 
m 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 resumed Hamilton. “ What can King James do ? If you all 
 stand up to keep gold and silver out of his hands, the tinker and 
 brazier must supply his mint : will you blame him for being the 
 poor man you have made him ? But farewell, Mr. Evelyn. 
 You still look obstinate, I fear. Well, sir, I bind myself to 
 pray for your conversion. Gentlemen, with you—we meet at 
 the castle, General Sarsfield ?” 
 
 “ At the castle, at nine,” his host answered ; and Sarsfield 
 and Evelyn were left together. 
 
 “Now, sir, what leads you hither ?” 
 
 “ In the first place, General Sarsfield, I am here to throw 
 myself, as an open enemy of your cause, upon your private and 
 honorable protection.” 
 
 “You have it, young man ; as readily as it is boldly sought. 
 Nor in forgetfulness, either, that you are the beloved friend of 
 the young M’Donnell, whose father and I have known each other. 
 And have you not said your business concerned him as well as 
 yourself ?” 
 
 Evelyn promptly acquainted Sarsfield with the double alliance 
 that had once been proposed between him and Edmund M’Don¬ 
 nell ; the death of Esther, and the consequent despair of Ed¬ 
 mund ; the scene at the Strip of Burne ; the disappearance of 
 M’Donnell and his sister; the supposed death of the one, and 
 wretched situation of the other ; his suspicions that, in a degrad¬ 
 ing disguise, she had attached herself to some part of king 
 James’s army, but, he especially feared, to the lowest part of it, 
 the Rapparees. Evelyn concluded by passionately requesting 
 that Sarsfield would exert himself to discover where and how poor 
 Eva might be approached. For the sake of his interest in Ed¬ 
 mund M’Donnell, Evelyn ventured, he said, to urge this prayer ; 
 for the sake of his memory, and that of his father—for the sake 
 of the young creature devoted to ruin—in the name of manliness, 
 bravery, and charity, he besought him to grant it. 
 
 Sarsfield heard him like a man who, although plunged into the 
 stern business of the world, had not forgotten the sympathy of 
 man’s heart for man. When, towards the end of his appeal, 
 poor Evelyn, overpowered by a return of his wretched feeliugs 
 grew warm and earnest ; when his voice faltered and his hands 
 trembled ; when he wept; the general, seemed strougly touched 
 with the young man’s energy of sorrow. 
 
 “ Truly did you argue,” he said kindly, u that the confidence 
 you came to give would insure my interest in your sad case. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 431 
 
 We are friends, Mr. Evelyn, however we may stand to-morrow 
 in the field. I will do my best to save and protect the daughter 
 of my old friend ; the sister of my young protege, the wife of Mr. 
 Evelyn. Be you indeed so sure that her present fate is such as 
 you intimate ? M’Donnell,” he went on musing, and as if 
 struck with a sudden thought—“ Miss M’Donnell ; let me 
 see—” 
 
 “ Eva M’Donnell, sir.” 
 
 “ Ay,” continued Sarsfield ; “of a lady called McDonnell I 
 believe 1 have lately heard—if indeed, I have not seen her. Is 
 she not young ? and pretty, withal ?” 
 
 “ Young, and most beautiful,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ Oh ! I cry your mercy, sir,” half smiling at the energy of a 
 description he had required as matter of fact. “ I say nothing 
 positive ; nothing to give you a hope that may be disappointed. 
 I can know nothing of the maiden, and therefore should venture 
 no guess. Yet, rest with me, here, a few hours, until it is time 
 to attend the king’s evening party, at the castle. Then, in all 
 confidence and honor, come with me : foe and stranger as you 
 are, and strange as may be the proceeding, we can, perhaps, find 
 means to introduce you where, if you use your eyes, the lady I 
 mean will, in all probability, appear. Meantime, be my guest, 
 and let us speak of what in honor we may.” 
 
 Evelyn readily complied. The soldier foes pledged each other’s 
 health, and spent the evening in free discourse, until the hour of 
 nine ; when Sarsfield took Evelyn’s arm, and walked him to the 
 castle. 
 
 As they passed into the upper court, or yard, Evelyn could 
 perceive that the guards at the outside and inner gates, and all 
 the soldiers in the guard-rooms, were, to a man, French. Sars¬ 
 field caught his eye noting this, and observed : 
 
 “Ay, thus it is, Mr. Evelyn ; these haughty foreigners push 
 us aside on our own thresholds : what think you ? In mounting 
 guard, here, on his majesty’s person, they have been heard to 
 declare, that they will obey no commands but those of their 
 petit-maitre general, Lauzan ; that, in fact, they are not the 
 soldiers of the king in whose service they have emoarked I 
 Credit me, sir, whenever you are able to obtain an advantage 
 over us, it will be on account of the bickerings and divisions 
 caused by these fellows. King James began his Irish wars by 
 refusing an army of twenty thousand Frenchmen from Louis, 
 Baying, he would succeed by his own subjects, or not at all 
 
432 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Would to heaven he had been consistent enough to reject the 
 paltry re-enforcements from France he has lately accepted ; the 
 five thousand, last year, under Rosen, and now about the same 
 number, under Lauzan ! Whatever we have done well, was 
 done before they came. Whatever we may do well, will be done 
 without them.” 
 
 Traversing other apartments of the castle, Sarsfield led Eve 
 lyn into the spacious and princely hall, since altered and fitted 
 up, in 1783, at the institution of the only national order in Ire¬ 
 land, and thence called St. Patrick’s Hall. Here was a joyous 
 blaze of light, and a numerous, brave, and brilliant company. 
 All the beauty of Ireland, the noble dames and gentle damsels 
 belonging to the Irish aristocracy, collected round James from 
 town and country, were grouped about the extensive apartment, 
 sitting or promenading, and listening, with a gracious air, to the 
 novel and fascinating style of adulation imported by their French 
 gallants from the court of Louis XIY. In the irresistible pres¬ 
 ence of the newcomers, the poor native youth were forgotten 
 and neglected by their fair countrywomen, and might be seen 
 standing or striding about in that stiff awkwardness, meant to 
 be dignity, but which was really the result of a mixed feeling of 
 inferiority and of chagrin. Here and there, indeed, an Irish 
 gallant, whose strength of mind, or whose self-conceit, enabled 
 him to keep up his confidence, was successful in engaging the 
 ear and smiles of some maiden, above the influence of the general 
 infatuation ; or of engrossing some rustic beauty, to whom atten¬ 
 tion of any kind proved new and welcome, and whose experience 
 had not yet called up a squeamish taste, or a power of nice dis¬ 
 tinction. Of the former class of successful squires of dames, on 
 his own ground, was Hamilton, whom Evelyn at once detected 
 sauntering where he liked, amid the crowded competition of the 
 brilliant hall, with an air of which the very ease and assurance 
 were, perhaps, his best passport to the success that almost in 
 every quarter awaited him from smiling eyes and coral lips, and 
 cheeks that blushed so prettily, forsooth, it were pity not to give 
 them gentle cause for the sweet suffusion. 
 
 Towards the far end of the hall, at either side of an open- 
 arched entrance into another gayly-lighted apartment, Sarsfield 
 pointed out to Evelyn the Duke of Berwick, his brother, the 
 Grand Prior, the Duke of Powis, the Earls of Melford, Dover, 
 Seaforth, and Abercorn ; the two Lords Howard ; the Marquis 
 of Abbeville ; the Bishops of Chester and Galway ; some dozen 
 
THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 433 
 
 of other nobles, English and Irish ; a crowd of baronets, chiefly 
 from England, mixed up with French and Irish general-officers, 
 and a sufficient portion of ecclesiastics, in cassocks, shaveu 
 crowns, or scraps of black skull-caps. Among the baronets was 
 one remarkable gentleman, who at first attracted, and then 
 amused, Evelyn. He was middle-sized, between sixty and 
 seventy, but of good, full, round muscle, and straight as a gate¬ 
 post ; wearing a dishevelled tie-wig, pushed back, or else made 
 not to come more forward than the crown of his head. His coat 
 was of the oldest known cut, meeting, without a collar, the edge 
 of his jaws, and accommodating itself to their pendant inden¬ 
 tures, with profusely broad skirts, much gathered behind, point¬ 
 ing out stiffly in front, and reaching nearly to the middle of his 
 sturdy legs, with ample sleeves, still more ample cuffs, and gaping 
 packet-holes, placed far below the hips. The half-seen legs 
 boasted carnation stockings, clocked half-way up ; the feet were 
 furnished with open-mouthed shoes, eclipsing the ankle, propped 
 by wooden heels, and having square toes of, at the least, four 
 inches across. Then, his face well suited this dress. When seen 
 in profile, it was a succession of concave lines, from the forehead 
 to the tip of the chin, looking not unlike the segment of a huge 
 griddle-cake, out of the edge of which a hungry boy has taken a 
 succession of mouthfuls : first, a bite for the line of the nose ; 
 then one for the indent between nose and upper lip ; next a good 
 and curious one for the ever-open mouth, displaying toothless 
 gums ; lastly, one for the curve beneath the under lip. Not 
 omitting to say that the chin, with its lower lip, jutted out, in a 
 straight line, a full inch beyond the upper maxillary : while from 
 its point fell a sweep of fat jaw, that at last was hid under the 
 waving mazes of his tie-wig. 
 
 Thus appointed, by nature and art, the ancient knight-baronet 
 strode about, his two hands thrust at arms’ length, into his pro¬ 
 found pocket-holes ; a roundish, pot-crowned hat, with a most 
 picturesque ruggedness of outline round the brim, squeezed under 
 his right arm ; his pig-tail tie curling playfully over his left 
 shoulder ; a long sword, worn horizontally, and sticking out full 
 two feet behind. Thus he strode here and there, smiling an 
 eternal smile with his gaping, gum-tinged mouth ; his entire face 
 simpering; a certain racy air of content, pride, and confidence 
 displayed in his whole appearance and action ; and going up to 
 every one who would listen to him—or, when repelled at every 
 side, pacing backward and forward before the open alcove ; and 
 
 19 
 
434 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 repeating, under every change of circumstance, one or two 
 phrases, that at once gave insight into the cause of his happiness, 
 and into his extreme simplicity of character, such as— 
 
 “ Ay, sir ; ay, my lord ; ay, Sir Peter ; this be, indeed, a 
 king ; your true king of old England. Your true son of a hun¬ 
 dred kings. His father’s child, my lord duke. That loves us ; 
 that is sweet and benign to us ; that will fight for us ; that will 
 lead us home again, to old England, and the good county oi 
 Norfolk. Ay, my lords ; ay, sirs ; ay, gentle ladies. This be 
 our own sweet liege ; our own prince of kings.” 
 
 The eulogist was poor Sir Thomas Dereham, or Doreham, of 
 the county which he has himself mentioned, who followed over 
 the world, the fortunes of James II., and who, disappointed of 
 the happy return home on which he so confidently reckoned, 
 afterwards died at Florence of a broken heart. His liege rev¬ 
 erence for his “ legitimate” monarch warmed into strong personal 
 affection, which James repaid with, at all times, a show of kind¬ 
 ness, that merited Sir Thomas’s individual praises ; but was 
 rather in contrast to the severe hauteur that more generally 
 characterized the fallen king towards the rest of his subjects. 
 More time, it is freely admitted, has been spent on this single 
 sketch than is allowable, away from the progress of our story. 
 But the old gentleman happened to interest us as much as he did 
 Evelyn ; and perhaps the reader will not feel tired, or displeased, 
 thus to get, incidentally, a glimpse of a character that may help 
 to afford some additional illustration of the time, persons, and 
 events, now under notice. 
 
 Evelyn was called back from his excursive duty of Sir 
 Thomas, by having his attention directed by Sarsfield into the 
 inner apartment, and fixed on the persons of two old men, the 
 one wearing full ducal robes, the other clad in the undress of a 
 Roman Catholic priest, who, from time to time, crossed the open 
 arch, seemingly in grave and earnest conversation. 
 
 “ My Lord Duke of Tyrconnel, our Irish lord-lieutenant, with 
 nis reverend chaplain,” said Sarsfield ; “ a man—perhaps I might 
 say, two men—who have done, by hot and bad counsels, more 
 injury to King James’s cause in Ireland, than prayers, or even 
 blows, are certain to amend. They await, in that inner cham¬ 
 ber, the entrance, from his closet, of the king, who is also attend¬ 
 ed there by a ghostly adviser, of whom, mayhap, you may have 
 heard—Father Petre. 
 
 “ And do you not get a glance, at the left side of the chamber 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 435 
 
 of some gayly-attired ladies, half hidden by the cross-wall of the 
 arch ? There sits my Lady Tyrconnel, surrounded by her dam¬ 
 sels of honor, also awaiting the king’s appearance, by whom, 
 alone, her ladyship consents to be led into the hall, to meet her 
 fair guests of the evening. But, hark ! she will not now have to 
 tarry long.” 
 
 As Sarsfield spoke, the ladies, who formed the subject of his 
 remark, got into a graceful bustle, and came a little nearer to 
 the open arch. Tyrconnel and the ecclesiastic suddenly drew 
 back, as they crossed the inner apartment from the other side ; 
 guards closed the very remote wall. In a few seconds James 
 approached, from some unseen side-door, followed by a little 
 parchment-looking man, the place where Lady Tyrconnel stood ; 
 offered his hand with the old kingly air ; and presently led 
 through the archway, his dimpling and smiling hostess, attended 
 by a number of young and beautiful maids of honor. Father 
 Petre followed close in James’s steps ; Tyrconnel an his rever¬ 
 end companion followed. As the king passed into the hall, Sir 
 Thomas Doreham, his hands still in his pockets, bowed repeat¬ 
 edly, and mumbled many raptures ; the nobles and generals at 
 each side made their salutations ; and, as a burst of music came 
 from a gallery near to where Evelyn stood, all in the hall— 
 gallants, dames and damsels—all stood up, or else became, as 
 they promenaded about, fixed in attitudes of attention. 
 
 James continued to walk by the side of the hall opposite to 
 Evelyn, still attending Lady Tyrconnel, and noticing, with old- 
 fashioned and imposing condescension, the different groups that 
 stood awaiting that honor, while the lady gave the welcome of 
 a great hostess to humbler guests. Evelyn, whose whole obser¬ 
 vation, notwithstanding the state of his feelings, became fixed on 
 James, remarked that his dress differed, on this occasion, as 
 widely from that in which he had first seen him at Johnstown, 
 as it did from the courtly and peaceful costume that would best 
 have become the scene and situation. The deposed monarch 
 wore, indeed, a suit that he was fond, and, perhaps, vain of 
 assuming, inasmuch as it served to call up the recollections of all 
 beholders to the bravery, spirit, and wisdom he had evinced, 
 when it was his official uniform as Lord High Admiral of Eng¬ 
 land. It consisted of a bright, plain breast-piece, coming down 
 to his hips, interrupted and edged by a broad scarlet sash, folded, 
 wrought, and fringed with gold, and crossed obliquely by a piece 
 of mazarine blue silk (not riband) also folded—the emblem, 
 
436 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 according to the fashion of his day, of the Order of the Garter : 
 the sleeves were of stiff, orange-colored silk, flowered in gold, 
 reaching a little below the elbows ; white satin thence puffing 
 out to the wrists, which were clouded in point ruffles. From 
 under his breast-piece, broad skirts of blue cloth folded over, as 
 far down as his knees. White silk stockings and shoes, a peri¬ 
 wig flowing, at either side, to the breast, and the tail of a point 
 neckcloth, falling quite as low, completed the honorable and 
 memorable suit, of which, so far as it becomes a man, the wearer 
 could not, after all, be too proud. 
 
 Turning to the second side of the hall, James approached 
 Sarsfield, bent his head in return to his bow, and that of Evelyn, 
 and was passing on, when his eye turned on Evelyn, and, check¬ 
 ing himself, he said : 
 
 “An officer of your horse, General Sarsfield ?” 
 
 “ No, my liege ; Captain Evelyn—Mr. Evelyn, I would say, 
 an officer of the Enniskillen dragoons, who—•” 
 
 “ Ay ?—say you so ? Why have we not received intimation 
 that there was business for this evening. Your ladyship’s pardon 
 — allons.” 
 
 With a signal to Sarsfield, he walked on, completed his round, 
 returned, alone, to the general, and resumed : 
 
 “ To our closet, both of you.” Then, leading the way, with¬ 
 out further ceremony, Sarsfield and Evelyn, equally taken by 
 surprise, found themselves, in a few minutes, in James’s private 
 closet, accompanied by Father Petre, the French ambassador, 
 Count D’Avoux, and a few other persons whom the king had 
 met on his way, and motioned to attend him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 “ And now, sir,” said James to Evelyn, the moment the closet- 
 door had closed, “ your business—your mission from our rebel 
 subjects.” 
 
 “ May it please your majesty,” answered Evelyn, in confusion, 
 “ I am charged with no mission : I but—” 
 
 “Your business, then, of whatever nature it may be, or how¬ 
 soever called, and briefly, sir.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 437 
 
 “ My business, here, does not at all concern your majesty—is 
 not of a public kind—is not—” 
 
 “ How. General Sarsfield ? What means this ?” interrupted 
 James. 
 
 “ Sir,” replied Sarsfield, “ the stripling speaks truth.” 
 
 “ How is it, then, I ask ? What brings to our court a rebel 
 and a traitor, who hath no business here ? What practices be 
 these ?” 
 
 “Under your majesty’s favor, none that shrink from inquiry, 
 or merit your majesty’s displeasure. I had hoped I was above 
 suspicion of such.” 
 
 “ Sarsfield, you are. But inform us, quickly and briefly.” 
 
 “ Your majesty beholds in Mr. Evelyn a person on whose 
 account, and that of a friend of his, I once received at the 
 Johnstown camp, your majesty’s gracious instructions touching—” 
 
 “ I remember some slight matter of the kind ; a question of 
 Galmoy’s right to take the life of a mad stripling and his friend 
 —well, well.” 
 
 “ Since then, that loyal subject of your majesty hath, by a 
 violent chance of war, been separated from this, his bosom 
 friend, and is, perchance, dead. His sister, a beautiful lady, also 
 disappears ; is supposed, in a fit of distraction, to play the part 
 of heroine in your majesty’s service ; and is now anxiously 
 sought after by her betrothed husband, Mr. Evelyn, who, foe as 
 he is, singly approaches your majesty’s court, and, in entire reli¬ 
 ance on your majesty’s respect and tenderness of the private 
 concerns of private affection, has had no fear to claim my service 
 in furtherance of his sad inquiry.” 
 
 “ And you, Sarsfield, are warrant for him and his story, his 
 proceedings and intentions ?” The general assented. 
 
 11 Then let him have no cause to repent his confidence in our 
 humane feelings, which—though in the clash of unnatural politics 
 we have seen them overlooked—still find place in our bosom.” 
 
 Sarsfield knew he had dexterously touched the string that 
 would vibrate in unison with his purpose, and was prepared for 
 the allusion of the outraged and deserted father. 
 
 “ It only appearing to us marvellous, and unnatural,” resumed 
 James, turning his glance on Evelyn, “ that a gallant, who can 
 so readily give us credit for humanity, and who chooses his lady 
 love from amongst the daughters of our loyal subjects, should 
 himself stand up a rebel against our crown and privilege.” 
 
 Evelyn did not venture a reply. Sarsfield spoke for him. 
 
438 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Touching that very point, my liege, Mr. Evelyn and I have 
 held all honorable discourse. Credit me, while his prejudices 
 Seem but of a mild cast, whatever reason she may bring to rec- 
 commend them, he upholds to be grounded on strong con¬ 
 viction.” 
 
 “Seldom has it chanced,” continued James, “that we have 
 been afforded the opportunity of demanding from an enemy, face 
 to face, his reason for hostility. Now would it please us to hear 
 your friend speak his. Alas ! we are reduced to the extremity of 
 wishing to vindicate our blackened character to the meanest 
 subject whom slander may have misled to rebel against us. 
 Speak, sir ; tell the reasons you suppose you have to draw your 
 sword against your sovereign. Tell them, and he will, himself, 
 condescend to answer you.” 
 
 Evelyn, through mixed confusion, and the fear of a fate more 
 serious than befell Gil Bias with the archbishop, continued 
 silent. 
 
 “ Speak out, man !” resumed James. “Saints and martyrs I 
 have you fear that after the plighting our royal word for your 
 safety, and after the commanding you, with our own lips, to tell 
 the blunt truth, peril may attend your boldest speech ?” 
 
 Denying any such apprehension, and thus compelled to say 
 something, Evelyn at once resolved to answer, manfully and 
 honorably, the strange claim made upon him ; and accordingly 
 said, that, while in the early stages of the late civil commotions, 
 he but wavered in his opinion of a ground for just resistance, 
 his majesty’s abdication had of itself seemed to release him from 
 allegiance. 
 
 At this James was taking fire, when he caught the fixed, cold, 
 and monitory eye of Father Petre. Checking himself, he turned 
 round, a moment, as if fully to master his temper ; and at length 
 said : 
 
 “ Abdication is giving up a right in possession, by one’s own 
 free act and will. I was driven from my throne by threat, 
 positive violence, and the necessity of self-preservation. And 
 when those who so drove me away, found me absent, they called 
 the consequences of their own well-planned measures, my willing 
 •ct and deed ; their cruelty, my weakness ; my extremity, my 
 choice. Thus, from the first, their assertion of their right to my 
 crown was a deliberate falsehood, for the circumstantial framing 
 of which they had contrived, beforehand, a painstaking plot. 
 
 “ Had I abdicated, I must have expressed upon some occasion, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 439 
 
 or to some person, my pleasure so to do. Whereas, I left be¬ 
 hind me, at the very moment I was first compelled to leave 
 London, my avowals of the necessitous circumstances that forced 
 me into an absence ; my protests against them ; and my firm re¬ 
 solves to labor, under every change of fortune, for the restoration 
 of my crown, and the happiness and satisfaction of my people. 
 Witness my letter to the lords and others of the privy council ; 
 my letter to the Earl of Feversham, my general ; and afterwards, 
 various other letters, messages, and declarations, to different 
 public bodies. 
 
 “ Upon the sudden news of the landing of the Prince of 
 Orange, I was deserted by all upon whom I could have placed 
 reliance. The men who grew into greatness under my love and 
 confidence—the children—but, pass we that. My very army I 
 could not trust. Could I have done so, I would have had one 
 good blow for it. 
 
 “ In such a situation, what was to have been my course ? 
 Durst I, with any respect for the first instinct of nature, have 
 awaited the approach of my bad son-in-law, with his bad advis¬ 
 ers ? The sense of the indignities put forth in his proclamation, 
 and the just apprehension of further attempts on our person, by 
 those who already endeavored to murder our reputation by in¬ 
 famous calumnies (as if—” His graceful delivery, for which he 
 was remarkable, here failed him ; his words faltered, and his lip 
 quivered—“ as if we had been capable of supposing a Prince of 
 Wales)—calumnies incomparably more injurious than the destroy¬ 
 ing our person itself; together with a serious reflection on a say¬ 
 ing of our royal father, 1 that there is little distance between the 
 prisons and the graves of princes ’—these were some of our 
 reasons for deeming it a duty to attend to the law of nature, 
 and save life, at least, from the hands of a near relation, and for 
 the benefit of our subjects. 
 
 “ After my obstruction on the river,” he went on, speaking 
 now as if to himself, “ where our royal person was rudely handled 
 by some of the meanest of mankind, and after my return to 
 Whitehall, I might have expected better usage from the Prince 
 of Orange, in consequence of what I had writ to him by my Lord 
 Feversham. But instead of an answer such as I might have 
 hoped, what was I to expect, after the usage I received, by his 
 makiug the said Earl a prisoner, against the practice and the 
 law of nations ? The sending his own foreign guards, at eleven 
 o’clock at night, to take possession of the posts at Whitehall, 
 
440 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 without advertising me in the least manner of it ? The sending 
 me, at one of the clock, after midnight, when I was in bed, an 
 order to be gone out of my own palace, before twelve that same 
 morning ? After all this, what could I hope from him, at whose 
 hands a sovereign prince, and uncle, and a father, could meet 
 with no better entertainment ? How could I hope to be safe 
 from him who had tried to paint me as black as hell to my own 
 people and the world, adopting in his declaration all the infamous 
 charges against me ? My English guards taken away, and a 
 Dutch guard accompanying me to Rochester, whither I had 
 desired to remove ? Thus w r as the royal martyr, our father, 
 encompassed about, until a proper time arrived for the taking 
 his life as well as crown. Tims I would not brook to remain 
 when liberty offered. I was born free, and desired to remain so. 
 Therefore the world need not be surprised at my withdrawing 
 myself, a second time, from Rochester. 
 
 “And now, stripling, if you have truly stated your only or 
 chief cause for rebellion, to arise from the abdicating, by us, the 
 throne of our ancestors, return to those who helped you to such 
 a reason, and tell them, that from the sovereign prince they have 
 caused you to wrong, and disposed you to destroy, you have 
 heard his own apology. Tell them that to yourself, an undistin¬ 
 guished subject, he has, in all the humility that becomes his 
 humbled situation, and in all the earnestness that becomes an 
 injured man and a Christian king, vouchsafed to vindicate him¬ 
 self, and the infant son who suffers with him, from their cruel 
 slander. And so, farewell. And the happiest conscience that 
 Heaven is willing to allow, attend you on the day when you draw 
 your young sword against us.” 
 
 Motioning to Sarsfield, he turned away. The general led 
 Evelyn from the closet ; our friend, much surprised at the sud¬ 
 den command of temper with which James had made his state¬ 
 ment, after the imperious bursts of spirit that had marked the 
 opening of the interview. 
 
 They had scarcely passed the archway into the great hall, 
 when the deposed king, attended by all who had followed him to 
 his closet, trod in thhr footsteps, and advanced to where Lady 
 Tyrconnel sat, surrounded by her beautiful maidens of honor; 
 speaking, at each side, as he walked along : 
 
 “ Look not so grave, lords and dames, gallants and gentle 
 damsels ; here has been nothing to disturb the joy of our meet¬ 
 ing ; nothing to turn the red rose white on fair maidens’ cheeks, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 441 
 
 or cloud the brows of our zealous and loving nobles. The song, 
 my lady of Tyrconnel ! That quaint song which, upon an 
 evening before, one of your beauties sang us to the wild music 
 of your native harp. Flutters the gentle bird now at your 
 side ?” 
 
 After a befitting answer, there was some motion amoug the 
 crowd of beautiful attendants ; and, in a few moments, the prelud¬ 
 ing tinkle of a harp was heard. Evelyn, his heart agitated even 
 whilst James spoke the last words, now started at the sound, 
 and, grasping Sarsfield’s arm, looked towards the blooming 
 group. But the performer was completely hidden from his view 
 by the clustering around her of her sister maidens, and also by 
 the closing in of all who were in that quarter of the room, in 
 order to evince their interest in the pastime recommended by the 
 praises of royalty. 
 
 But, as the song proceeded, as the clear and powerful, though 
 wild voice rose to the roof of the spacious hall, fully conveying 
 the words, and giving a soul to the enthusiasm of the native 
 music, Evelyn could no longer doubt who was the songstress. It 
 was one of Carolan’s best airs, composed, at Eva’s request, by 
 the shores of Red Bay, set to words of Edmund’s writing ; and 
 often had he heard it from Eva’s lips. At this certainty, his 
 heart swelled and shrank again ; his breath failed him, his eyes 
 swam, his limbs shook ; and, uttering a hasty exclamation, he 
 stepped forward towards the group, when Sarsfield checked him, 
 saying : 
 
 “ For God’s sake, no—not now—compose yourself ! Why, 
 you are pale, and you tremble 1 Be a mau!” 
 
 As, amid a deep hush of its admiring hearers, the song con¬ 
 tinued to ring through the hall, one of its most thrilling notes 
 was as if caught up by a trumpet in the courtyard of the castle. 
 Nearly at the same moment, a roll of kettle-drums was heard, 
 and guns were fired, far and near, as if from different points 
 around the city. The voice of the songstress broke off ; screams 
 escaped many of the ladies, thus taken by surprise during so 
 profound a pause, and while their sensibilities were excited to 
 the utmost. Some nobles and officers started, and laid their 
 hands on their swords ; and James walked rapidly up the hall, 
 followed by his courtiers and generals, to meet, the next minute, 
 the gentleman whose business it was to approach him with the 
 intelligence. 
 
 “ Well, sir, the news ?” he asked, ere they had met. 
 
 19* 
 
442 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Captain Farlow, who has just galloped in, waits to com* 
 municate it to your majesty.” 
 
 “ Admit Captain Farlow, without ceremony.” The messenger 
 rapidly retired. 
 
 As the king, accompanied by the lordly and martial crowd 
 who clustered around him, had left Lady Tyrconnel and her 
 female group, Evelyn’s eyes again flew in quest of Eva ; now 
 she was at last visible to his view. Her affrighted companions, 
 dividing and shrinking at either side, had left alone, still seated 
 at the harp, the syren who had just formed the focus of their 
 blooming circle. There, one arm flung over the instrument, 
 another raised to catch the flowing hair on her neck, as with 
 a countenance full of energetic, but not terrified inquiry, she 
 turned round to fix her glances on the far door of the hall— 
 there, indeed, was Evelyn’s long-lost, long-sought Eva. During 
 the momentary observation he was afforded, poor Evelyn felt 
 that never before had he seen her in a change of character so 
 novel, startling, and imposing. Her courtly dress, so much in 
 contrast with her former simple and romantic attire, might, 
 indeed, have assisted the impression. Her long hair was twisted 
 up from the forehead, disposed into a succession of bows, and 
 fell, in similar bunches, on her neck and shoulders ; her loose robe 
 of stiff, white silk, hung off her neck ; the ample sleeves, open at 
 the front, did not reach past the elbows, and were fastened, at 
 certain distances, by clasps of pearl. Clouds of point lace fell 
 round the bosom, the shoulders, and the sleeves, while only an 
 indication of waist was given, amid the luxury of Grecian folds 
 and splendid negligence that marked the courtly costume of the 
 day. Eva, thus seen, for the first time, by her bewildered and 
 admiring husband, might, indeed, gain much from a dress like 
 this ; yet was her air, and the expression of her face and figure, 
 as new and commanding as her guise ; her features beamed with 
 more elevated thought and sentiment. Her very proportions 
 seemed to have acquired a line of fullness, of grace, and of im¬ 
 portance, other than he had been accustomed to attribute to 
 them. Altogether she seemed a lofty lady, born to move in 
 courts and tend on queens, rather than the simple, though en* 
 thusiastic Eva he had first seen in the valley of Glenarrifif, and 
 wooed and won by the moonlight windings of Red Bay. 
 
 All this, which, unfortunately for narrators, has taken so long 
 to describe, being seen and felt by Evelyn at a glance, his 
 thoughts reverted in consternation to the other late transforma- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 443 
 
 tions of character he had attributed to Eva. He was following 
 up the reverie, during the short pause since the departure of the 
 king’s messenger from the hall, when her eye, suddenly flashing 
 round, lighted on his. He started, and moved a step forward ; 
 she averted her regards without recognition. Again he stepped 
 on, iu motion, to address her. Again Sarsfield held him back, 
 with, “On your life, no! Attend to this announcement.” An 
 officer walked rapidly, though with a jaded step, down the hall, 
 his boots and skirts soiled with travel, his periwig and uniform 
 covered with dust, and intense anxiety exhibited in his pale, lank 
 features. 
 
 “ You have ridden hard of late, Captain Farlow ?” James 
 cried, as they met. 
 
 “ From the Newry mountains, my liege, since late last night; 
 where—” the rest was inaudible to the company. 
 
 “ God’s saints I” cried James, starting back, “ say you so, 
 man, and our advices so positive against it ? Speak out the 
 news, sir ; we wish no secret of it now. Hear, nobles and noble 
 officers ; fair dames and damsels—hear, and get you to your 
 orisons for us ;—hear all, and let the evening’s pastime change 
 into sterner bustle. Six days and nights have passed since the 
 Prince of Orange touched Irish ground ; and Captain Farlow, 
 who brings the tidings, has been worsted, at the head of a 
 detachment of two thousand men, by a part of the usurper’s 
 army. So, gentle ladies, good-night ! Lords, and others of the 
 privy council, attend us. Hamilton, Sarsfield, join us. Our 
 other zealous generals, to your posts, and prepare for the march 
 by midnight ; some one warn Luttrell to repair to the castle for 
 his militia orders. Holy saints ! how have we been deceived by 
 poor politicians, in this matter ? . But, come—counsel first, 
 courage after—and at last one good blow for it 1” 
 
 Followed by all whose duty it was to follow, James again 
 sought his closet. 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Evelyn, to horse, to horse !” cried Sarsfield, as, 
 clasping his hand, he also turned to follow. “ Take this pass— 
 ride, ride—and get you beyond our lines as speedily as may be. 
 Call at my quarters ; I shall give you a few of my Lucan troopers 
 for the road. Farewell, sir—till we meet again!” Touching 
 the hilt of his sword, as, looking askance over his shoulder, he 
 smiled in high excitement, and strode away. 
 
 Evelyn stood a moment more than ever overwhelmed. The 
 next, his eye once more sought Eva. He caught a glimpse of 
 
U4: 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER 
 
 her face and figure, retiring through the open archway with 
 Lady Tyrconnel and her ruffled flock. He darted after them. 
 Some obstruction arose from the bustling and broken groups of 
 nobles, gentlemen, and officers he met in his way. And when, 
 at last, Evelyn reached into the inner chamber, it was empty,— 
 a door, just in the action of being closed, showing him a skirt 
 of female drapery, and thus indicating that, through it, the fair 
 crowd had withdrawn. 
 
 As he stood, baffled and confounded, some persons inquisi¬ 
 tively, and rather hostilely, addressed him. This brought him to 
 a sense of his strange, and, perhaps, perilous situation. An 
 instant after, and he was hurrying out of the Castle, his ears 
 filled with the renewed trumpet-blasts that breathed hate and 
 death to his cause and him ; his steps every moment crossed by 
 armed foes, challenging and questioning him. Sarsfield’s pass¬ 
 port brought him, however, to Sarsfield’s house ; there he found 
 the men he had been promised, mounted to accompany him ; 
 and he sprang to his saddle, and spurred northward, to carry to 
 his friends intelligence of the roar of preparation that already 
 was loud in his rear. 
 
 As he and his escort rode through Essex-gate, a horseman 
 passed them at a furious rate. Evelyn was struck with the 
 general air of this person, and his soul sickened within him at 
 the thought of whom it might be. A glare from the torches, 
 carried by two of the troopers, just then caught the stranger’s 
 profile, and his worst forebodings became confirmed. He pulled 
 up, and drew back with an involuntary shudder ; the next instant 
 he dashed spurs into his horse, and galloped after. But no one 
 could be seen on the suburb road before him ; and the receding 
 clatter of a horse’s hoofs down a cross-road to the right, seemed 
 to intimate that in that direction the rider had disappeared. 
 Affrighted, almost terrified, and mad with impatience, Evelyn, 
 after a short pause, gloomily continued his journey. 
 
 “My lords and gentlemen,” James meanwhile said to his 
 council, “ you all know how unexpectedly this news has come 
 upon us. Every advice from England, every opinion here, 
 agreed in making us think that the Prince of Orange was held 
 so busy by contests with his parliament at home, that he could 
 not venture upon an Irish war in person. Yet, during six 
 days has he been amongst us, while \we knew nothing of it 
 Your speedy counsel, now, as to what is to be done. Whatever 
 we resolve, must be resolved promptly, and as promptly executed. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 445 
 
 Let us not acknowledge that we have been taken off our guard. 
 Above all, let our actions show that we have not— 
 
 “ None are ignorant that the diseases of Schomberg’s camp 
 at Dundalk, reached to our own camp, and that we suffered 
 almost as much as he ; that—” 
 
 He was here interrupted by the entrance of a person with a 
 packet. He eagerly opened and read it. 
 
 “ From France, my lords and gentlemen ; from the queen ! 
 Her majesty writes on the very matter that now engages us ; 
 informed, as it appears, long before ourselves, of the expedition 
 of the Priuce of Orange. Let all our zealous friends peruse the 
 paper ; meantime we proceed in our council. 
 
 “ It is well known, I say, that, together with disease and 
 sickness, the native army, which so honorably closed the last 
 campaign, has been much reduced by bad food, and sometimes 
 the want of food of any kind, while no recruitings have since 
 taken place for our service. Further, it is known how earnestly 
 aud often I have meantime pressed the French cabinet to afford 
 us the troops, and other helps, which his most Christian Majesty 
 ordered to be prepared for us—how our loving queen strove, 
 on the spot, in the same view. Yet, through the jealousy of 
 the minister, offended because I refused his naming of a general, 
 in favor of the gallant Lauzan, now by your side—how much 
 we have been disappointed in our expectations of aid ! Only 
 six thousand Frenchmen at last sent to us ; and while our faith¬ 
 ful Irish lack arms and food, clothes and shoes, little of the other 
 assistance that was, perchance, more necessary. So that, my 
 lords aud gentlemen, between natives and allies, I doubt if our 
 present army, badly appointed as it is, destitute of field-pieces 
 and muskets, amounts to more than thirty thousand.” 
 
 “ To no more, my liege, including garrisons,” said Sarsfield ; 
 “ while the utmost force disposable for the field is about twenty- 
 five thousand.” 
 
 “ You have come possessed of the strength of the enemy, 
 Captain Farlow?” resumed James. 
 
 “ I have, sir. Thirty-six thousand, since William’s meeting 
 with Schomberg ; all veteran troops, completely supplied and 
 appointed ; and mostly foreigners, inured to war, fatigue, and 
 victory.” 
 
 “ The odds are against us,” said James, in a downcast and 
 undecided tone. 
 
 “ Not while Heaven be with us,” observed Father Petre. 
 
446 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ And our cause that of our king and holy Church/’ echoed 
 Tyrconnel’s reverend chaplain. 
 
 “ Surely thus are we the host, and they a remnant/’ said old 
 Tyrconnel, encouraged by the the confidence of the clergymen. 
 
 “ Speak, Count de Lauzan,” resumed James, half offended at 
 the intrusion of opinions which he had not called for, even 
 though they agreed with his own. 
 
 The count answered in French, that, nnder the circumstances, 
 and particularly after having perused the queen’s letter, he 
 would strongly recommend precaution in every shape ; adding, 
 that he was not long enough in Ireland to offer very particular 
 opinions. 
 
 The French ambassador, D’Avoux, when called on, made 
 similar vague observations. 
 
 “Now, Sarsfield,” continued James. 
 
 “ May it please your majesty,” said the general, “ the visible 
 odds, at least,” bowing to the ecclesiastics, “ are, as your ma¬ 
 jesty hath observed, against us. I incline, on the whole, to be 
 governed by Count de Lauzan’s opinion.” 
 
 “ For the first time in your life, then,” whispered Hamilton, 
 “ A’ God’s name, don’t pay him this flattery.” 
 
 “ Hamilton,” said James, smiling, “ we observe your zeal with 
 Sarsfield’s ear, and can read by your eye that you would willing¬ 
 ly spoil a scarlet cloak for one good horse-charge at our son-in¬ 
 law, on fair ground, and your troops about equal. But let Sars¬ 
 field say his say. Nor do I fear you or other noble Irish 
 generals present are offended, that we have called on him, though 
 less in rank than you and them, to render us a first answer. 
 Sarsfield, speak on.” 
 
 “The chances being so much against us, I turn to her maj¬ 
 esty’s gracious letter, my liege. Here is King Louis’ promise, 
 that when the convoy which has brought William to Ireland 
 shall join the English fleet, he will send a sufficient number of 
 frigates and privateers to destroy his transports, still at sea, and 
 coasting after him ; and then pin him up, here, while the hitherto 
 successful fleets of France shall once more engage the English 
 admiral, and, if again triumphant, make a landing in England. 
 Therefore, I think your majesty might do well to await the issue 
 of things at sea ; and adding to the strength of your already 
 formidable garrisons, retire from Ulster, across the Shannon, 
 where the army may not only be kept up, but recruited, re¬ 
 freshed, and better disciplined. Should the views of his most 
 
THE BOYNE WATEK. 
 
 447 
 
 Christian majesty but in a degree succeed, William’s army might, 
 as the autumn approaches, share the fate of Schomberg’s, fast 
 year. Or else, England may be lost to him before he can return 
 thither. Your majesty might, meantime, continue in the south, 
 prepared to take speedy advantage of any such turns of fortune.” 
 
 The Duke of Berwick and Powis, the members of James’s 
 privy council, with the exception of Tyrconnel and Father Petre, 
 the Lords Clare and Galway, and the majority of his other Irish 
 officers present, seconded this prudent advice. James stooped 
 down to whisper with the ancient ecclesiastic. There was a deep 
 pause. At last he manned himself, and spoke. 
 
 “ Much reason there is in the opinions offered. But should I 
 now abandon Dublin, is it not likely that my friends in it will 
 despair of my cause, capitulate without a blow, and make terms 
 for themselves, away from my interests ? And may not many 
 other friends follow their example ? For the sake of God and 
 of gallantry, let us not run such a risk. A much more serious 
 one than engaging in a good cause, with good consciences, and 
 brave hearts, a somewhat superior enemy. Courage, gentlemen! 
 And now, action and bustle, too 1 In the name of Heaven and 
 our countries, we march northward, to join our main army at 
 Ardee, by the dawn. Should the enemy advance on us, the 
 pass of the Boyne shall, at the least, be contested. Sir Patrick 
 Trant,” he continued, in a changed and melancholy tone, “ hie 
 thee to Waterford ; and, in case of the worst, secure and pre¬ 
 pare a vessel for our safe re-embarkation to France. My 
 daughter’s husband must not, even yet, make us a prisoner, at 
 his mercy. Though I fear it not, gallant lords and gentlemen.” 
 (He again looked spiritedly around, through the tears that 
 stood in his eyes.) “ My cause the best, and you to prop it, I 
 think but of success and victory. ’Tis the first time, during the 
 wrong and suffering of years, that I have had promise of a fair 
 battle for my crown. And now, at last,” repeating words he 
 often used, “ one good blow for it 1” 
 
 “ The Lord prompts our king to speak !” observed Father' 
 Petre. 
 
 “ Long live King James !” cried Tyrconnel. 
 
 “ He will play the hero too much,” remarked Sarsfield to 
 many assenting Irish officers about him. 
 
 “We will charge them, at all events,” said Hamilton. 
 
448 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 Distracted in his thoughts, agitated and irritated in his feel¬ 
 ings, Evelyn held his northern course. Separating from his 
 escort at the last outpost of the Irish lines, he gained, on the 
 noon of the second day, William’s camp at Loughbrickland. 
 His leave of absence being that very day expired, he hastened 
 to present himself to Schomberg, whom he found busy in assist- 
 ing the other general officers to get the whole army into march¬ 
 ing order. 
 
 Near to Schomberg’s hut he met Walker, accompanied by 
 Dr. Dopping, Bishop of Meath, and a group of clergymen, wait¬ 
 ing, under Schomberg’s auspices, to present an address of con¬ 
 gratulation to William, and somewhat chagrined that he had 
 waited a long time.” 
 
 “ He shuns us,” grumbled the Bishop of Derry, “as if he had 
 no common cause with us, and only came to Ireland in the view 
 I before mentioned to you—namely, to conquer it for his Dutch 
 followers.” 
 
 “ Observe how his army is constituted. Distrusting English 
 soldiers, he takes care that much more than half of it shall 
 be foreigners. It contains ten thousand Danes, nine thousand 
 Dutch, and four thousand French refugees. And the superior¬ 
 ity in officers is still more remarkable. Then he brings with him 
 the Prince of Denmark, more from a fear of leaving him behind, 
 and to lessen the odium of fighting against his father-in-law by 
 dividing that odium, than to do honor to the husband of James’s 
 second daughter, whom he did not even permit to travel in the 
 coach with him. From a similar precaution, he fetches over a 
 number of English nobility and men of fashion, nominally as 
 volunteers, but really as hostages, to insure the good conduct 
 of their friends at home, touching the widespread plot that has 
 been discovered, and the great French descent expected on the 
 English coast.” 
 
 While the bishop thus gave vent to his irritation, Evelyn 
 gazed at the whole army drawn out in marching array, extend¬ 
 ing to the right and to the left, further than his eye could reach, 
 aud forming, in their perfect appointments and excellent condi¬ 
 tion, a magnificent and imposing spectacle. 
 
 At a great distance, a stir presently became visible, and 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 449 
 
 Schomberg intimated that the king approached ; galloping along 
 the line, to bestow on it a parting inspection. 
 
 “ Now/’ resumed Walker, “ will you see him in the only char¬ 
 acter in which he is admirable. Since he has landed in Ireland, 
 his whole conduct shows, indeed, gallant and heroic, and like a 
 great captain. He accepts no better quarters than his soldiers 
 have ; he rides among them by day, stirring up their mettle ; he 
 sleeps with them on the field by night. And once, when it was 
 proposed to get wine for his use, ‘No/ he said (in their hearing, 
 however), * I will drink water with my soldiers. 7 77 
 
 While the dignitary spoke, William approached, at full sweep, 
 distancing his aids-de-camp and other attendants, and appearing, 
 indeed, so different a man from the William our friend had seen 
 at Kensington Palace, that it was difficult to believe him the 
 same person. He sat erect and motionless in the saddle, as if 
 he were, indeed, part of the noble animal he bestrode. His 
 usually languid eyes glared and flashed ; excitement lent a high 
 color to his wasted cheeks ; and every muscle of his body ex¬ 
 pressed energy, as, with a drawn sword occasionally moved 
 round his head, he addressed, in his rapid transit along the line, 
 brief, but spirit-stirring words of approbation and encourage¬ 
 ment, to the officers and soldiers, who waved their hats and 
 plumes, and shouted as he passed. 
 
 His eye lighting on Schomberg, he suddenly pulled up and 
 approached him. 
 
 “ For Dundalk so soon, my liege ? 77 asked the old duke. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered William, “ before the rains come on.” 
 
 Schomberg, understanding the allusion, colored, bowed, and 
 drew back. 
 
 “ Does your majesty hold to be useless any further tarrying 
 for information of the enemy ? 77 inquired General Douglas. 
 
 “ I have not come to Ireland to let the grass grow under my 
 feet/ 7 was William’s reply, as he motioned to turn off. 
 
 “ May it please your excellent majesty, 77 said Walker, stepping 
 forward, “ to hear the address of which your grace has been ad¬ 
 vised, and which the Bishop of Meath, these reverend gentlemen, 
 and myself, have been deputed to present ? 77 
 
 “ Ay,” cri'ed William, ungraciously, “ if it be brief. 77 
 
 Upon which the Bishop of Derry began to read aloud a long- 
 winded and elaborate composition, that had cost much care and 
 study, thanking William for coming to Ireland, and God for 
 allowing him to come, and ending with a statement of the former 
 
450 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 woes suffered by loyal Protestants from Irish Papists—their 
 merits, past and present—and humble hope that his majesty 
 would— 
 
 Here William, who had more than once winced under the in¬ 
 fliction of so long a piece of rhetoric, interrupted the right rev¬ 
 erend captain. Now that he was in his element and his glory—• 
 in the saddle and the field—speaking much more flowingly and 
 energetically than was his wont, he said : 
 
 “ I know the rest, Bishops of Derry and Meath ! It contains 
 matter on which I have often been urged in England. But as I 
 have answered before, so I now answer. My creed does not 
 teach me persecution ; and I do not come to Ireland, no more 
 than I came to England, to persecute Papists, but to assist 
 Protestants. Our parliaments, here and there, may do as they 
 like. I am not skilled in the way of parliaments. But by me, 
 or by my command. Papists shall be treated as fair foes, and 
 naught beyond. So, farewell, my lords and gentlemen. Sound 
 the march !—march 1” he screamed along the line. “ For Dun¬ 
 dalk, Duke Schomberg 1” And, dashing spurs into his willing 
 charger, he was out of sight in a few minutes. 
 
 Between three and four days brought the army to Dundalk, 
 now no longer formidable, in a fine season, and in the absence of 
 an enemy. The king halted but a short time in the town, when, 
 hearing that James had retired from Ardee, he hastened thither. 
 Here, gaining further information that his father-in-law had re¬ 
 crossed the Boyne at and near Drogheda, he still moved after 
 him. The morning of the 30th of June saw William and his 
 whole army within view of the Boyne Water, and of the Irish 
 camp. 
 
 Turning to the left, off the road, attended by Schomberg, 
 Prince George of Denmark, Major-General Scavenmore, the 
 Bishop of Derry, Lords Sidney and Portland, Generals Kirke 
 and Douglas, and their respective aids-de-camp, amongst whom 
 vas Evelyn, riding by Schomberg’s side, the king ascended a 
 hill, called Tully-Escar, which commanded, at cannon-shot dis¬ 
 tance, the town of Drogheda, and altogether afforded a good 
 observation of the country and the hostile lines. 
 
 Evelyn was pleased and animated with the whole view from 
 the top of this hill. To the left appeared the steeple and castle 
 of Drogheda, peering over the gentle ascent of the middle dis¬ 
 tance. Running to the left, this eminence at last fell in broken 
 lines to the sea, whose waters gleamed above it. A continual*** 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 451 
 
 of the same line ran to the right also of the town, overtopped, 
 in its whole course, by hills more blue and remote. Owing to 
 the high nature of the sweeps of ground between him and the 
 Boyne, few or no glimpses of the river could be obtained. But 
 on a memorable little hillock, forming part of the mass of the 
 middle distance, clustered the Irish camp, obviously at the oppo¬ 
 site side of the hidden water, and running in scattered patches 
 towards Drogheda. Bodies of troops, horse and foot, looking 
 insignificant, either from their real paucity of number, or the 
 distance they were at, and the extent of ground over which they 
 were strewn, appeared in motion, about the camp, as William 
 ascended his point of observation. Some traces of a continued 
 line could be noted as far to the left as the town. 
 
 William and his officers soon had their glasses out, and some 
 pause ensued. At length, Evelyn heard him say: 
 
 “ If they have no other advantage, their position seems a 
 strong one. Their right rests on the town ; their left on those 
 broken heights ; and their centre—who can tell us the nature of 
 the ground between their centre and the river ?” 
 
 The captain of the guides answered that it was mostly swampy 
 ground along the whole line, from the bases of the heights to 
 the edge of the Boyne. 
 
 “ Better still for them ; a river and a marsh between them 
 and us. Is there not a bridge at hand, on our right V 7 
 
 “ Only one,” he was answered ; “ at the village of Slane, 
 about seven miles up the river.” 
 
 “Many fords ?” he still questioned. 
 
 “ But one known ford, about opposite the center of the Irish 
 army.” 
 
 “ Yes,” resumed William, after another pause, “ it is a strong 
 and well-chosen position.” 
 
 “ But a poor appearance of an enemy, my liege/ said Major- 
 General Scavenmore. 
 
 “ I do not know,” replied William. “ However, we shall soon 
 become better acquainted with their numbers.” 
 
 •‘Your majesty can have no opinion, whatever may be their 
 numbers, of a foe so despicable,” observed Walker. 
 
 " I do not know that, either, Bishop of Derry. Did you find 
 them, as you described them, at Hillsborough and Long-cause¬ 
 way ?” 
 
 “ Your majesty does not incline to force the river ?” inquired 
 Schomberg. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 452 
 
 “I have assuredly no wish to make this a Dundalk campaign, 
 if there be much choice left, Duke Schomberg. But come,” he 
 continued, as some confusion arose in part of the army who had 
 ascended and sat down upon an adjacent height, in view of the 
 Irish camp, and thus provoked a few shots, while a ball struck 
 the very hill occupied by William and his officers ; “ we have 
 looked at them long enough at a distance, as they seem to think. 
 Let us see them nearer ; and, at the same time, get our over- 
 curious simpletons out of their range. Follow, gentlemen. 
 Prince George, we have troubled you little in this council, out 
 of tenderness to your inexperience in such matters ; and doubt¬ 
 less you will thank us for any trouble we can save you. So, 
 choose your steps, and descend. Tell the guide to lead over the 
 cross-road towards the water. Portland, hither.” 
 
 Having gained the point from which he had deviated and as¬ 
 cended, and thus again sunk below all view of the Irish camp, 
 William accordingly followed the guide over a wretched bridle- 
 road, which, still at his late distance from the enemy, first ran, 
 behind considerable heights, parallel to the river, and then took 
 a diagonal sweep towards it. At one of its angles he halted ; 
 and ascertaining that his whole army remained out of sight of 
 the Irish, ordered them to halt, also, and make a morning meal. 
 Upon a large stone, flattened at the top, Portland, assisted by 
 some person in waiting, arranged William’s own breakfast, which 
 consisted only of the coarse bread shared by his soldiers, and 
 ample draughts from a huge, black, Dutch-looking bottle, that 
 emitted a potent scent at a good distance. The king then took 
 his meerschaum, and in profound silence applied himself to it. In 
 a little time he called for water. None was to be had, and he 
 rose and asked it, himself, at a miserable hovel by the road-side, 
 near to his primitive breakfast-table, which still stands, un¬ 
 moved and immovable, upon the spot where he found it ; its 
 fame equal to his own, and promising to be as durable in the 
 simple neighborhood. 
 
 Renewing his march, he continued, still out of view of James’s 
 camp, to approach the Boyne ; and at last turned into a solitary 
 little valley that led straight to it. The sides of the gentle 
 slopings, at either hand, were intersected by natural trench works, 
 within which, as well as over the bottom of the valley, he en¬ 
 camped, and halted his whole army. The place since retains 
 the name of William’s Glen. 
 
 About an hour after noon, atteuded by Schomberg, with Eve- 
 
TIIE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 453 
 
 Iyn, Portland, Schomberg’s son, General Douglas, and other 
 officers, the king emerged from one of the little hollows described, 
 and found himself on the brow of an eminence, that, with another 
 sweep between it and the Boyne Water, suddenly gave him a 
 full and near view of James’s camp. Here, referring to his map 
 and using his glass, he sat in his saddle for some time. Then, 
 ordering out a body of horse, he obliquely descended the heights, 
 and rode first to within musket-shot, of the pass of Oldbridge, 
 and next a good distance, to his right, up the river. During all 
 these movements, William observed a profound silence, which 
 none of his generals interrupted. 
 
 Retracing his steps, he again won the top of the second little 
 eminence, whence he had made his first observations, and, dis¬ 
 mounting, sat upon the grass. In this situation, he was about 
 two miles from Drogheda, on which rested James’s right; about 
 a mile, in a diagonal direction, from Dunore Hill, which was 
 near to his centre, and only some hundred yards from the ford 
 of Oldbridge, which was marked by the neighborhood of a gi¬ 
 gantic and isolated rock, since chosen as the base of the Boyne 
 monument. Between him and Dunore Hill lay, beyond the 
 river, one or two introductory swells of land, with, at their bases, 
 and stretching to the river’s side, an extensive marsh, now no 
 longer visible. 
 
 When William had descended to ride up the river, accompa¬ 
 nied by his officers, and the body of horse, some stir appeared 
 through the camp on Dunore Hill. By the time he came back, 
 another body of Irish horse had been drawn out in a ploughed 
 field, immediately opposite to the place on which he had coolly 
 chosen to sit down. Schomberg ventured to point out the 
 enemy, and hint a change of position. William, with much 
 coldness, if not contempt of manner, said there was no more 
 danger there than in any other place : such was the belief of his 
 dark fatalism. 
 
 “ Besides,” he added, “ they have no cannon. And surely a 
 horseman’s pop-gun cannot reach us.” 
 
 But he miscalculated. At that very moment, James, standing 
 beside two field-pieces, was observing him, unseen, from behind a 
 wall of loose stones, and otherwise screened by the horse. A 
 celebrated gunner in his service, named Burke, had levelled the 
 cannon, and held a lighted match in his hand. 
 
 “ I have him covered as dead as Julius Caesar, your majesty: 
 and now a shot for the three crowns 1” 
 
454 
 
 THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 11 Hold 1” cried James, irresolute in the very act lie had 
 planned, as he struck down the field-piece. “ Knave ! harm not 
 my daughter’s husband.” 
 
 Burke, as if the command had come too late, fired, at random, 
 the gun furthest from him, and almost instantly that which 
 James had borne down. The shot from the first killed one oi 
 William’s aids-de-camp, and the horses of Count Schomberg and 
 Evelyn ; but the shot from the second, misdirected from Burke’s 
 level, only sent one ball across the water, which, striking against 
 the edge of the lower bank, under William, glanced up and 
 touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 William fell, however, from the effect of the ball. His officers 
 crowded round him ; the hostile party, at the other side of the 
 river, thinking him dead, shouted loudly, galloped off to Dunore 
 Hill, joined their main body, communicated the supposed event, 
 and shouts of tenfold power rang through hill and valley, spread¬ 
 ing towards Drogheda, until they were lost in the distance. 
 While James, still inconsistent, glorying in the imaginary result 
 that he had first proposed and afterwards prevented, instantly 
 sent dispatches to Dublin and Paris, announcing William’s death ; 
 and illuminations, and other rejoicings, subsequently took place 
 in both cities, in consequence of the news. 
 
 At the report of the shots, various bodies of William’s army, 
 and many pieces of artillery, appeared ou the heights about him. 
 Evelyn, though scarce recovered from the confusion of his own 
 fall, while his horse went down, was the first to step towards the 
 king, raise him, tear off his neckcloth, and bind it round his 
 shoulder. In answer to this, William only said, repulsively, as 
 he started to his feet— 
 
 “ Pshaw, sir—naught ; it should have come nearer. Every 
 bullet has its billet.” 
 
 But, observing the alarm and confusion of the troops who 
 now appeared, he turned to them, with a surprising change of 
 spirit and energy, and refusing the sling in which he was requested 
 to rest his arm, took off with that very arm his hat and plume, 
 waved it thrice round his head, and, exactly as he had done at 
 Maestrieht, in 1696, when, also slightly wounded, his troops be¬ 
 came dispirited, thrice cheered aloud, until their cheers answered 
 him, and sent the lie to the hostile shouts that ran along the 
 opposite bank of the river. 
 
 Until towards evening, William continued, after this, to ride 
 among his troops, showing himself to them, and in every way 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 455 
 
 keeping up their spirits. Meantime, none of his generals knew 
 any thing of his intentions ; whether or no he would attack 
 James ; or if so, in what manner. Schomberg retiring with 
 Evelyn to his tent, expressed much dissatisfaction at a reserve 
 that, towards a man of his experience and rank—the descend¬ 
 ant of a noble family in his own country ; the husband of a 
 Dudley ; Marshal of France, Grandee of Portugal, General¬ 
 issimo of Prussia, and Duke of England—was, at the least, 
 uucourteous and humiliating. Evelyn could give him no com¬ 
 fort ; and the venerable old soldier of fortune had recourse to 
 his national consolation, and spent the evening in his tent, puff¬ 
 ing much, and saying little, though often there 
 
 -“ broke 
 
 A sigh tliro’ suffocating smoke.” 
 
 Not until the late hour of nine o’clock was he roused by a mes¬ 
 sage to attend the king at a council, and to bring with him the 
 Enniskillen officer who had been one of the deputies to England, 
 and who had offered his majesty some service that day. Ac¬ 
 cordingly, Evelyn attended him to a cabin which, in lieu of fitter 
 accommodation, served for the royal quarters. 
 
 They found William, surrounded by all his general officers, 
 steadfastly regarding a map. Profound silence reigned in the 
 council. 
 
 “ Has the Irish officer yet arrived ?” was the king’s first 
 question. 
 
 Evelyn advanced and bowed. 
 
 “ Hearken, sir,” continued William. “ Behind Dunore Hill, at 
 the distance of some miles, we have here marked a village called 
 Duleek, a pass between us and Dublin. Know you the nature 
 of the ground lying towards it from Slane Bridge, some miles up 
 the river ?” 
 
 Evelyn answered in the affirmative, and described the ground 
 to be, at first, marshy and uneven, but afterwards not difficult. 
 William again paused ; but suddenly broke the renewed silence. 
 
 “ To-morrow morning, my lords and gentlemen, we shall cross 
 this river.” 
 
 Schomberg ventured to dissent, saying, that the enemy’s posi¬ 
 tion was so formidable, more time and observation were required 
 to consider an attack. 
 
 “ Perhaps,” William observed, ' that was the way at Dun* 
 
456 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 dalk, and might do as well here. Nevertheless, we shall try 
 them to-morrow morning.” 
 
 The old general, curbing his chagrin, took the map, and again 
 recommended, since his majesty was determined on battle, to 
 send a strong detachment, that night, up to Slane Bridge, with 
 the view of getting between James and Duleek, and so taking 
 some certain step towards a victory. 
 
 “ Leaving the detachment to fare as it may, before we can 
 cross in the morning ? Silly, my lord duke!” said William. 
 “ Heaven send we do not sometimes outlive our talents and 
 ourselves.” 
 
 Without trusting his tongue to an answer, Schomberg took 
 his hat, bowed, and left the hovel. 
 
 “ Dotage,” muttered William. “ Attend, my lords and gentle¬ 
 men. The river shall be crossed early to-morrow morning, in 
 three places. Our right shall first move on Slane, push over 
 the bridge, take the enemy’s left in flank, and get between them 
 and Duleek. Soon after, our centre and main force shall cross 
 the ford opposite this village of Oldbridge, and engage the 
 enemy’s main force also. Our left, composed of all the horse 
 remaining after this disposition, shall await the result of the two 
 first attempts, and then, crossing at a pass I have myself dis¬ 
 covered, within a mile of Drogheda, rout their right. And so, 
 good-night, and good repose till daybreak. The officers destined 
 to command the different divisions shall receive notice of their 
 appointments by bedtime ; also, a notice of the particular troops 
 who are to form our right, left, and centre. To your tents, my 
 lords and gentlemen. A word, sir,” to Evelyn, as he withdrew 
 with the rest; “we lost an aid-de-camp to-day ; see that you 
 take his place to-morrow morning. We may require your know¬ 
 ledge of the ground. Bear this paper to Duke Schomberg, this 
 to his son and General Douglas, this to La Caillemotte ; but 
 deliver none for an hour to come. Then, return to us. And 
 hark—as we have been told that the enemy choose to distinguish 
 themselves tomorrow by white favors in their hats, convey our 
 pleasure to our generals that they, and every soldier of the army, 
 do assume green for their color ; a green bough, or the like—so, 
 speed you. What a trick, dear Bentinck,” he continued, turning 
 to his prime favorite, after Evelyn had departed to execute this 
 command, well known to have really been issued by William— 
 “ what a farce is this fashion of choosing a color to cut each 
 other’s throats under! Yet, as it has been used on the other 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 457 
 
 Bide of the river, we must needs adopt it. And, gramere.y for 
 their wisdom, I suppose whatever way the battle may go, James 
 will be recollected by his white badge, and I by my green badge, 
 to the third and fourth generations of our gracious partisans, 
 better than by any particular knowledge of our real differences, 
 our motives, or our principles. Oh, yes 1 In this land of Ire¬ 
 land, especially, which, since my good Englishers first possessed 
 it, has been kept down only by allowing its quarrelsome people 
 to gore each other ;—here, I warrant you, long after the result 
 of to-morrow’s struggle, the children’s children of the Irish 
 among our troops, will be more ready to crack a Papist’s crown, 
 in honor of the colors their ancestors now happen to wear in 
 their caps, than anxious to understand the cause of our policy 
 in fighting at their head. ‘ William and the green forever 1’ 
 ‘ Huzzah for the loyal and Protestant green !’ will cause, from 
 time to time, more petty warfare, than, perhaps, the amount of 
 this coming battle of the Boyne Water.” 
 
 His majesty, though a prince of considerable foresight, has, 
 nowever, been strangely unprophetie in part of these remarks, 
 giving the two parties credit for much more recollection of facts, 
 than, cynical as he might be, they afterwards proved themselves 
 entitled to. Por—explain it who can—James’s defeated ad¬ 
 herents bequeathed, as an honorable color for their children to 
 fight for, the very green under which they were prostrated, 
 while his own sensible and grateful friends afterwards attacked 
 it as a vile color, although it had led them to victory. Attacked 
 it wherever it appeared, except when met in trees and fields ; 
 and mounted a sweeter color of their own, to entitle them to say 
 to the heroes of the much slandered green, “ Take that for com¬ 
 ing a-night to Jane Smile 1” 
 
 “I am sick of their conceits,” continued William ; “of their 
 catching me up, here and everywhere, in England and in Ire¬ 
 land, as their little demigod of a faction or of a sect ; as their 
 J ack-the-giant-queller of Whig against Tory, Tory against Whig, 
 or Episcopalian against Papist. Fools! let them look at the 
 effort of my life—of my very boyhood, and at last understand 
 me. Let them see, why, step after step, I won back the poor 
 birthright of which my father had been plundered. Why I 
 courted all the kings of Europe into a league against one. Why 
 I wedded English Mary, in my own good time, after refusing 
 her proffered hand by that English lord, Arlington, who took 
 me for a child, to be pleased with whipt-cream, and fine speeches. 
 
 20 
 
458 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Why I came to England. Why I am in Ireland. Why I look 
 to fight a battle to-morrow. Fools ! I cry again, they will not 
 think that about this very day, Louis may have defeated my 
 best ally, Prince Waldeck. Light me a meerschaum, dear Ben- 
 tick, and open the cabinet.” 
 
 The duke of Portland, complying with these orders, duly pre¬ 
 sented the meerschaum, and then unlocked a little portable case, 
 that would now be called a garde-de-vin, out of which he took 
 the self-same black, Dutch-built bottle we have already seen in 
 requisition, and filling from it some bumper glasses, presented 
 them, in rapid succession, to William. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 Evelyn punctually obeyed the king’s orders to wait an hour 
 before he delivered the sealed papers to the different officers 
 named by him. Remaining in General Douglas’s tent, as he 
 deemed it his duty to know if any reply was to be conveyed to 
 William, he heard that officer intimate to young Count Schom- 
 berg, who was present, that, by virtue of the instructions re¬ 
 ceived, they were appointed to move, with the ten thousand 
 Danes, on Slane Bridge, at six o’clock in the morning. When 
 Evelyn handed old Schomberg his dispatch— 
 
 “ Aye,” grumbled he, “ ’tis as I had expectations—one writ¬ 
 ten orders to tell me my own business. Very well ; it is the 
 first I am ever sent.” 
 
 Admiring the self-dependence and energy of William, who, at 
 the very time he summoned a council of war, had already deter¬ 
 mined on every step to be taken, Evelyn repaired to the royal 
 hut to give an account of his mission. He was as coldly re¬ 
 ceived f.nd listened to, as if he and his business were objects of 
 the utfcost indifference, nay, disgust. He was about to retire 
 in equal disgust, when William commanded his attendance. 
 The king smoked many pipes in profound silence, while Evelyn 
 continued to stand. At last he rose up, about midnight, ordered 
 out a troop of horse, and, accompanied by them and Portland, 
 rode through his whole encampment, seeing that every thing waa 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 459 
 
 as it should be, in readiness for the dawn. Then he dismissed 
 Evelyn, coldly warning him to be stirring early. 
 
 Had his young aid-de-camp felt peace at heart, he would, 
 doubtless, have sought, during this release, the refreshing sleep 
 necessary to fit him for a vigorous observance of the king’s last 
 intimation. But, in the midst even of the great scene around 
 him, private sorrows seized upon his heart. Scarce conscious of 
 his own movements, he walked out from the valley of the camp, 
 gained the river’s side, and sauntered with its current. 
 
 One or two circumstances served a little to rouse and divert 
 him. Approaching, unseen, a picket formed of his own native 
 troop, he heard them in loud and furious conversation, across 
 the narrow river, with a patrol of the enemy, composed of Irish 
 and French soldiers. The Frenchmen had begun the colloquy 
 by wishing their foes a blithe good-night ; the Irish had chimed 
 in by inquiring if they found themselves as comfortable as on 
 the banks of the Finn, and amid the bogs of Dundalk ; adding, 
 that if such was not the case, they, the Irish, would do their best, 
 early in the morning, to make them so. Both spoke in their 
 different kinds of broken English, which, though only half intel¬ 
 ligible to the Northerns, was sufficiently comprehended to irri¬ 
 tate their recollections. They answered the premature gascon¬ 
 ade by vituperation and threat, that showed a nature and a mood 
 incapable of trifling, and sullenly averse to any communion with 
 their hated foes, otherwise than what the sword might permit. 
 The French and Irish laughed loudly at their wrath, and sepa¬ 
 rately wishing them “ bon soil*,” and “ bannacth lath,” moved up 
 the heights. 
 
 Passing the Enniskilleners, Evelyn walked further down the 
 river, and arrived at a point where, from the opposite banks, 
 two vedettes of the different armies almost confronted each 
 other. These men, an English and an Irish soldier, both good 
 specimens of their country, were also in conversation. 
 
 “ Good-night, goodman Teague,” began the Englishman, 
 heartily. 
 
 “ Musha, good-night to hur, kindly, a-vich,” answered the 
 other, jeeringly. 
 
 “ What dost un, there ?” continued Johnny. 
 
 “The likes hur does there, I’m thinkin’,” replied Paddy. 
 
 “ Why, I be watching thee, belike.” 
 
 “Well, aroon ; one good turn desarves another.’ 1 
 
 “ Be’st un not of the woild Irish folk ?” 
 
460 . 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Avoeh—ay, God look down on us !” 
 
 “ Hast un supped, to-night ?” 
 
 “ A thrifle, accordin’ to manners.” 
 
 “ Hast un drank enough ?” 
 
 “ Lashings an’ lavins.” 
 
 “ Well, I only thought to offer thee some’at, if thee hadst 
 oeen athirst, mon.” 
 
 “ Oh, for the matther o’ that, I could be dhry any time.” 
 
 “ Look out, then and he flung a leather bottle across the 
 river. 
 
 “ Musha, sweet war hur fist, an’ good look to hur,” answered 
 Pat, from the opposite bank, as he stopped to pick it up. 
 “ An’ wait—thry a taste o’ this,” hurling across his own ample 
 horn. 
 
 “ Health, goodman Teague ; it be proper brandy,” resumed 
 John, duly availing himself of the invitation. 
 
 “ An’ here’s tow’ds hur good health, too,” cried the other. 
 
 And Evelyn walked on, pleased with the manly communion 
 of the soldier foes, which, he perceived, could happen between 
 fair enemies of the two countries, while between the mongrel 
 factions of one, mean though deadly rancor forbid its occur¬ 
 rence. 
 
 These incidents, together with the balm of the summer night- 
 breeze, and the growing interest of the scene around, soothed, 
 as much as was possible, the agonized thoughts of Evelyn. He 
 turned from the river, and ascending the little eminence to his 
 left, walked back towards the ford of Oldbridge, until he found 
 himself about the spot where, during the day, William had been 
 slightly wounded. And now, the observation of eye and of 
 mind, which his situation compelled him to take, almost wholly 
 abstracted him, for a time, from his individual griefs and inter¬ 
 ests. 
 
 It was nearly an hour past midnight. The moon had set, the sky 
 was overcast by an unbroken mass of low, black, sultry clouds, 
 md the darkest night that the turn of the summer solstice cau 
 bring, brooded under them. A glance downward, at his right, 
 showed him William’s encampment. He had but to turn his 
 eye, and look across the river, to get a view of almost the whole 
 present disposition of the enemy. 
 
 The bosom of the little valley, so close to him, and the ravines 
 in its sides, were numerously strewn with tents, and, here and 
 there, with a light and temporary hut, or rather summer bower, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 461 
 
 made of boughs, leaves, rushes, and sods. But, owing to the 
 closeness of the midsummer night, few of the troops, either officers 
 or men, remained under cover of any kind ; choosing rather to 
 stretch themselves in clusters, on the soft sward, while their piles 
 of brilliant arms were scattered through them, flashing in the 
 flicker of the numerous watch-fires, of which ^the united blaze 
 almost vividly illuminated the valley. Some,* who could not or 
 would not sleep, stood over their supine brethren iu solitary 
 groups, or sat upon the most mossy knolls of the valley, whisper¬ 
 ing, if, indeed, they spoke at all, their hopes, fears, or sensations. 
 While hundreds of the horses, left free to graze, or lie down, 
 shared their watchfulness and inaction, and, with a touching 
 instinct of companionship, either gathered round, as if they 
 could listen to the midnight comments of their masters, or with 
 drooping heads and necks, bent over those who were sleeping. 
 
 The open picture on the opposite bank of the Boyne was a 
 relief to this close scene. To the right and to the left, as far 
 as Evelyn could see, appeared the enemy’s fires, still more numer¬ 
 ous than those of his friends, occupying height after height, 
 from the river, until partial illuminations in the murky sky alone 
 told that they continued, out of view, over the country beyond 
 the encampment. Around them, now iu unshaped blackness, 
 now touched with red flame, moved the few waking soldiers of 
 James’s army ; dark masses that predominated over the sombre 
 green of the hills, indicating different portions of his main force, 
 sunk in sleep, or else closely keeping a position. The tents round 
 Dunore Hill confusedly gleamed, like white stones, or flocks of 
 sheep, in darkness and distance. The windows of a little village, 
 half-way, in a diagonal direction, between Evelyn and the camp, 
 glimmered, while partially seen, with interior lights. Old houses, 
 immediately opposite to him, and very near the water’s edge, 
 also gave out a strong light. From a church, on the pinnacle 
 of Dunore Hill, came the most vivid glow of all ; seeming to 
 intimate that within its walls James had taken up his quarters. 
 
 But whatever might be their different appearances, both hosts 
 were wrapped in the same awful silence and inaction. No sound 
 came on Evelyn’s ear, save the footsteps of a sentinel near at 
 hand, the distant tramp of a horse patrol, or the murmurs of the 
 gentle river, as it rippled over the shallows of Oldbridge ford, 
 and wound on its course, black under the clouds of midnight. 
 The contrast between the simple and sylvan scenery at either 
 hand, and the armed bands who now occupied it, strongly 
 
462 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 occurred to Evelyn—the one so quiet, inviting peace ; the others 
 come to fill it with war and horror. Between their own present 
 repose, and the purposes that filled their bosoms, and the fierce 
 action into which they would start by morning, a still stronger 
 contrast arose. And then, Evelyn could not avoid feeling deep¬ 
 est awe as he fou^d himself waking and watching amid the sleep 
 of so many hostile thousands,, over whom, as in contempt of 
 their petty differences, nature asserted the common dominion that 
 proclaimed them her common children. 
 
 Nor, ere he bade farewell to the scene, could Evelyn refrain 
 from considering the importance of the circumstances that had 
 brought it before him, and of the results that, one way or 
 another, must flow from its change into the morning battle. He 
 looked upon the armies of two rival kings, headed by the rivals 
 in person, and about to strike a blow for the crown of three 
 kingdoms. The political position of millions hung upon that 
 blow ; the extinction or perpetuation of a line of kings ; above 
 all, the great question of the legitimacy, and the divine right of 
 kings. Nay, differently connected as William and James were 
 with the hostile politics of the continent, the termination of to¬ 
 morrow’s sanguinary struggle must have a strong influence on 
 the whole state of affairs throughout Europe—throughout the 
 world. The misery or happiness of the greater portion of man¬ 
 kind was connected with the “ coming event,” and thus the cal¬ 
 culations upon it swelled into tremendous interest. Overpowered 
 by them, Evelyn descended the eminence, and retired to his 
 hut. 
 
 He thought it was impossible he could sleep, under the press¬ 
 ure of the mixed interests, private and public, that bore upon 
 him. Yet he was beguiled into a slumber, from which the souud 
 of a drum aroused him ; and starting up, he hastened to Wil¬ 
 liam’s quarters. As he moved through the camp, all was stern 
 hum and bustle. While the qfchoes of the opposite bauk repeated 
 the brisk summons of the English drum, other drums rolled their 
 answering signals through James’s lines. It was broad daylight. 
 
 Eearful of having overslept himself, Evelyn stood before the 
 king in some misgiving. A severe, though careless, rebuke he 
 did encounter ; but William was too busy to pay him much 
 attention. All his officers of division stood around him, armed 
 and braced—some pale with intense expectation. But he sat in 
 the midst, as unmoved almost as a statue. His last orders to 
 Douglas and young Schomberg seemed to have been just com- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 4G3 
 
 pleted, for they bowed, as Evelyn entered, and soon withdrew 
 from the cabin. 
 
 “ With them, Bentinck and Auverkirke,” he said, after a 
 short pause ; and the two persons named also quickly departed. 
 
 “ Stand to your arms where you are, Duke Schomberg,” he 
 continued, “ until we know how they speed up the river ; then 
 let Caillemotte, first, cross at Oldbridge; and do you follow, 
 when ’tis necessary. The Dutch and Enniskillen horse, with a 
 reserve of the Danes, and the few English, shall move, under 
 ourself, down towards Drogheda. Farewell, and speed ye.” 
 
 He was left alone with Evelyn and two other aids-de-camp. 
 He took a turn, slowly, through the cabin ; then moved to the 
 door, snatched the reins of his charger from the soldier who 
 waited with it, bounded into the saddle, and in a few seconds 
 stood, with his aids-de-camp, on the brow of the second eminence, 
 which gave a full view of the enemy’s ground. 
 
 A soul stirring scene presented itself to Evelyn. To his right, 
 along the banks of the river, the ten thousand Danes, under 
 young Schomberg and Douglas,, already appeared moving on 
 Slaue. They were excellent troops, handsomely appointed ; and 
 their long and bristling line of bayonets, winding along the 
 Boyne, and flashing in the fresh sunshine of the now unclouded 
 morning, advanced in fine order. Upon the opposite bank, 
 large bodies of Irish infantry were rapidly taking possession of 
 breastworks, thrown up at the fort of Oldbridge ; of ruined 
 houses, some distance behind, and of ditches still behind the 
 houses ; their motley uniform, their rusty half-pikes, supported 
 with but few firelocks, their naked legs, and altogether their 
 wild appearance, forming a strange contrast to the soldier-like 
 lines of their enemies. James had wished to post his only reg¬ 
 ular troops, the French infantry, at this important point; but 
 the Irish, offended, and devoted, though uncalculating, furiously 
 opposed the order ; claimed, as their right, the post of danger ; 
 and ran to take possession of it, threatening to fire on whomso¬ 
 ever should oppose them. During their hasty movements, much 
 bustle could be noticed at the camp of Dunorc. Presently, sev¬ 
 eral squadron of horse, and a line of French foot, successively 
 parted from it, and keeping almost at the top of the continued 
 swells, up the river, passed Oldbridge, obviously detached to 
 oppose Douglas and young Schomberg. At the same time, 
 another considerable body of horse descended, obliquely, one or 
 two eminences that swept from Dunore towards the river, and, as 
 
464 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 if to support the Irish infantry, posted in the breastworks, houses, 
 and ditches, hovered, some time, about the heights, and at last 
 settled, like a storm-swayed cloud, immediately over them. 
 
 As soon as Douglas and Schomberg saw the counteracting 
 motions of the lines sent against them, their trumpets sounded, 
 their drums beat, their raven standards fluttered quicker in the 
 breeze ; and Evelvn could observe, though the vast line was now 
 at a good distance, that all the horse stationed behind passed 
 the infantry with great speed, joined their brethren in front, and 
 pushed on with them, in a separate body, leaving the foot-soldiers 
 to follow as they could. At the same moment, their observant 
 enemies, on the other side, made a similar manoeuvre ; their 
 horse straining along the high ground at a gallop, in order to 
 pull up the advantage, in distance, possessed by the Danes ; 
 while the light French infantry tracked them, in double-quick 
 time, both horses and men occasionally falling and scrambling 
 over the difficult ground, and every nerve strained to recover 
 from such disasters, and answer the chiding and imperious calls 
 of their drums and trumpets, in advance. Thus, before a blow 
 was struck, the preluding contest between those two divisions of 
 the hostile armies, had powerful interest in the mind of Evelyn. 
 He panted with anxiety as, changing his glance from one side of 
 the river to the other, he saw how, step by step, the different 
 parties gained or lost an advantage ; until, owing to an abrupt 
 elbow formed by the river, both at last disappeared, to meet five 
 miles higher up, and there bring to a clash their fierce rivalry. 
 
 As soon as they had retired out of view, some field-pieces, 
 from Dunore Hill, and the midheights above Oldbridge, began 
 to play on such small detachments, or reconnoitering parties of 
 the English force, as were to be seen. William, who, all along, 
 had watched the progress of the Danes with obvious satisfaction, 
 now sent an aid-de-camp to get into motion the left wing, of 
 about five thousand horse, which awaited his command to move 
 down the river, between the two camps and Drogheda. In a 
 few minutes they were ready. Forming them out of shot and 
 sight of the enemy, behind the eminences on which he had hith¬ 
 erto stood, and placing himself at their head, he immediately 
 led them towards their position, still endeavoring, by every 
 possible change of ground, to gain it without observation from 
 Dunore Hill. 
 
 Advancing very slowly and cautiously, he was able, after the 
 lapse of about an hour, to accomplish his object. Under cover 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 465 
 
 of the last descent between him and the Boyne, and immediately 
 opposite to the ford which, at the proper moment, he intended 
 to pass, William at last halted his five thousand horse. In this 
 situation, Dunore Hill, previously to his left, was at his right ; 
 Drogheda down the river ; his centre, about two Euglish miles 
 up from him ; and Slane, as has been said, about five from it, 
 so that his entire line now extended over a distance of about 
 seven English miles. 
 
 In profound silence did he halt his people ; without word or 
 motion did he sit in his saddle, at their head. Not a whisper 
 was breathed amongst them, as they stood motionless as himself 
 Even his dragged features underwent no change. But, in this, 
 few of his soldiers were able to imitate him. Their color waned 
 and came from time to time, as expectation, suspense, or anxiety 
 checkered their thoughts. And while the fitful cannonading 
 which they had left behind, about the centre of the line, visited 
 them in their distant and lonely place, eye turned to eye for a 
 solution of the cause or result of its continuance. Evelyn most 
 acutely felt the inactive and painful pause. His solicitude to 
 learn something of the attempt on Slane was excessive. He 
 listened, to catch, if possible, the remote noise of small-arms, 
 which, as the light breeze blew fair down the river, he hoped 
 might be conveyed along the gentle water, and so proclaim, at 
 the least, that the hostile divisions had met. 
 
 Near another hour elapsed ere he heard something like the 
 sounds he so earnestly expected. At the same moment, William 
 slightly moved in his saddle ; his eyebrows were elevated, and a 
 faint flush came to his cheek. The distant reports of musketry 
 continued, but he grew perfectly calm again ; only drawing out his 
 massive watch, as if to mark the time at which he might expect 
 intelligence of a certain event. 
 
 Within the second hour after his arrival on the slope, William 
 once more showed signs of animation, quickly turning his head 
 to the right. Evelyn heard the gallop of a single horseman, 
 coming nearer every moment. Cannon and musketry shots 
 echoed, simultaneously, from the contiguous bank of the river, 
 opposite to William, seeming to intimate that the rider was their 
 mark. In a few minutes the express, pale and agitated, swept 
 iuto the dell ; spurred towards William, who now anxiously 
 turned to hear his news ; took off his hat; extended his arm, 
 and moved his lips, as if makiug a convulsive effort to speak. At 
 the next bound of his horse, he dropped lifeless from the saddle. 
 
 20 * 
 
m 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 4 ‘ Fool 1” said William, bitterly rather than impatiently, 
 44 could he not have shunned their shot ? Ride, sir, ride,” to 
 one of his aids-de-camp, a fine young man— 44 ride to the centre, 
 and bring me their tidings ; and now, as time is precious, take 
 the shortest wav bv the bank of the river.’’ 
 
 •/ f 
 
 With first a pale, and then a high-colored cheek, the gallant 
 youth spurred off. Again some near shots were heard from the 
 opposite bank, followed by the shout of a few voices. William 
 frowned, vexatiously, and— 
 
 44 Follow him, sir,” he said to Evelyn, who, in another instant, 
 was sweeping along the river’s edge, completely exposed to the 
 fire of some concealed foes at the other side. He had sped but 
 a short distance, when his horse swerved at the sight of the 
 young aid-de-camp, lying motionless on the sward. 
 
 44 Can I aid you, sir ?” asked Evelyn. No answer came ; and, 
 as he spoke, his own steed fell dead under him. 
 
 44 Let me bear you aside,” he continued, extricating himself, 
 unhurt, from the animal. But at another glance, he saw that 
 the youth was completely lifeless. A shot had reached him in 
 the very heart ; and the blood now burst through his mouth. 
 
 Seizing his horse, which stood near his dead master, Evelyn 
 sprang into the saddle ; pursued his course at fiery speed ; gained 
 the glen of the camp ; spoke briefly with Schomberg ; and re¬ 
 turned with his tidings to the king ; choosing, however, a less 
 dangerous route than that by which he had left him. 
 
 44 The pass at Slane has been, at first, easily carried, my liege ; 
 the enemy’s horse pursued by Count Schomberg, round a great 
 bog, towards Dnleek ; and their infantry, by Douglas, through 
 the bog itself, they not having been up in time to show any 
 force, or form in a body. But strong re-enforcements have since 
 reached them from Dunore. They have rallied, and gained their 
 lost ground. Douglas has sent to the centre for re-enforcements, 
 also ; and Duke Schomberg waits the result.” 
 
 44 And has he not himself yet moved on Oldbridge ?” 
 
 44 Not yet, my liege ; considering that—” 
 
 44 Back, sir,” interrupted William. 44 Let him now try them 
 there, however it may go at Slane. The different regiments, i». 
 turn, as I have notified. Await you the trial, and again come 
 back to report it.” 
 
 A brief space brought Evelyn, a second time, to the side of 
 his old commander. Schomberg heard, with displeasure, the 
 orders to cross the ford of Oldbridge. It was not time, he said 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 467 
 
 Bui, conformably to previous arrangement, he noticed his early 
 and long-tried friend, the brave Caillemotte, to lead over the ad¬ 
 vance of the centre ; himself still remaining near the gorge of 
 the glen, surrounded by a strong reserve, all infantry. 
 
 Old Caillemotte readily put himself at the head of the Dutch 
 Guards, and his own French Protestants, and led them, shout¬ 
 ing, from the glen, whence a few moments brought them, by a 
 turn to the left, straight upon the ford. The Brandenbergians, 
 emulative of glory, could not be restrained from following them ; 
 and about ten thousand foot plunged at once into the river. 
 Evelyn, his intense interest stronger than his personal fears, 
 galloped to the bank, and there stood to witness the event. 
 
 So sudden an obstruction to the stream of the river caused it 
 to swell, and many of the soldiers waded across, hip high, under 
 a scanty and ill-directed fire from the Irish, who possessed the 
 breastworks and old houses. Rapidly forming, as they gained the 
 hostile bank, the brave foreigners instantly attacked their foes. 
 Before the whole advance had crossed, the Irish abandoned, first 
 the breastworks, and then the houses, leaving the enemy in easy 
 possession of the ground they had been too anxious to occupy. 
 But, at this moment, Evelyn saw a movement among the dense 
 body of horse, over them. In a few seconds, down swept the 
 formidable reserve, as if impelled by ungovernable fury and in¬ 
 dignation at the retreat of their brethren. They came upon the 
 Dutch and French regiments like a tornado ; charged them, 
 with frantic shouts, and broke through them in all directions. 
 Their commander singled out Caillemotte, upon the verge of the 
 bank ; Evelyn recognized young Hamilton. After a few passes, 
 Caillemotte fell ; and treble confusion now seized the French 
 and Dutch troops, who were cut down at every side, and forced 
 back across the ford. The Brandenbergians, the last who had 
 attempted it, turned and fled precipitately through the water, 
 by the place where Evelyn stood ; the French followed them. 
 Some of the Irish horse pursued the Dutch at the opposite side ; 
 and Hamilton, heading the rest, galloped through the river after 
 the fugitives. 
 
 Ere he gained the English bank, Evelyn flew to Schomberg. 
 At the news of Caillemotte’s fall, the aged general flushed red 
 with anger ; not waiting to put on his corselet or helmet, gave 
 the word to his reserve to follow, and rushed towards the ford. 
 Hamilton did not appear, being, unknown to Schomberg, lower 
 down on the bank. Evelyn, instinctively asserted his place at 
 
468 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 the old marshal’s side. They met in their way the Branden* 
 bergians, and the broken French regiments; rallied them ; and 
 Schomberg, placing himself at the head of the latter, led them 
 a second time across. In the middle of the water he was stopped 
 by two or three soldiers, bearing the dying Caillemotte. 
 
 “ My old and faithful friend 1” cried Schomberg, clasping his 
 hand. 
 
 “ To glory, my lads, to glory !” shouted Caillemotte, and died. 
 
 “ Gentlemen, behold your persecutors !” Schomberg instantly 
 exclaimed, turning to the French soldiers, and splashing onward. 
 
 The reserve he had ordered to follow him advanced but 
 slowly. Only about a thousand of its number had as yet entered 
 the river, and this was a foot regiment of Enniskilleners, headed 
 by George Walker. As Schomberg, with the French, Branden- 
 bergians, and the natives allies, again showed a formidable front 
 on the Irish bank, the galloping of horse sounded behind, and 
 Hamilton, accompanied by his troop, dashed back across the 
 ford, passed the Enniskilleners, a second time broke through 
 the French, regained his own side, surrounded and hurried 
 Schomberg and Evelyn along, and, at some distance from the 
 river, turned upon the old general, and called on him to surrender. 
 
 The answer was a thrust of Schomberg’s sword, which, with 
 some difficulty, he parried, and they engaged furiously, while 
 Evelyn was held prisoner by two soldiers. After some enraged 
 efforts on Schomberg’s part, impetuosity and the weakness of 
 old age exhausted him. Hamilton observed this, and reining 
 back his horse, said— 
 
 “ Surrender, brave old man. Let some younger colleague— 
 let your son, whom to-day I long to meet, fight out this matter 
 with me.” 
 
 “ Boy !” cried the insulted, not soothed old soldier, “ content 
 you with what his father can do I” And he spurred to his an¬ 
 tagonist, again strong in vengeance. The approachiug tramp of 
 infantry was heard ; immediately their fire flew among the Irish 
 troop ; and a shot from one of his own soldiers brought Schom¬ 
 berg to the ground, quite dead. 
 
 “ Wretches !” roared Hamilton, fiercely facing them, while 
 his troop fell back, leaving Evelyn free. “ What slave among 
 you fired that shot ?” 
 
 “ ’Twas I !” answered the foremost soldier of the Enniskillen- 
 ers, yet ignorant of its real effect, as he covered Hamilton with 
 his musket. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 469 
 
 “ Then be it your last I” And ere the man could pull a trigger, 
 his skull was cleft to his eyes. 
 
 “ Charge!” he continued, as almost his entire body of horse 
 gathered round him, and, at the same time, some regiments of 
 French infantry, rising from the near heights, where none had 
 expected to see them, threatened the right of the English centre, 
 who were still crossing the ford, while the Irish foot also rallied, 
 returned to some of their posts, and showed a determined face. 
 By this time, too, the news of Schomberg’s death spread, like a 
 blight, among his soldiers ; the whole centre of the English 
 force shook under the announcement ; and at Hamilton’s re¬ 
 newed charge, the Irish side of the river became wholly cleared 
 of its foes. The French Protestants, the Brandenbergians, the 
 surviving Dutch, the English regiments, and, notwithstanding 
 the superhuman bravery of George Walker, the Enniskilleners 
 all fell back in confusion to their own bank. 
 
 Evelyn found himself irresistibly involved in the retreat, mixed 
 up with the Enniskilleners, and very near the Bishop of Derry. 
 One small body of horse, the wildest-looking of the wild force, 
 furiously and rashly pressed them through the water, and even 
 pushed on, unsupported, after the whole English centre. Evelyn 
 recognized in the mad leader of these madmen his old acquaint¬ 
 ance, Friar O’Haggerty. Nor was Walker slow in discovering 
 him. As soon as the friar had reached the hostile bank, the 
 bishop adroitly wheeled round him, and cut him off from retreat, 
 with a few of his troop. 
 
 “ Well met at last, brother,” he said, confronting him. “ Time 
 settles all accounts. ’Tis some long years since you promised to 
 meet me here, and make a certain story good.” 
 
 “ It is,” answered the friar ; “ but, with the Lord’s help, now 
 I hold my promise, if you like the ground.” 
 
 “There needs not better,” resumed Walker, “with God to 
 judge between us. Keep your stand.” 
 
 He drew a pistol from tiis belt, and fired at O’Haggerty, who 
 instantly returned the shot. Their swords flew out, and clashed 
 around their heads. They closed, seized each other’s weapons, 
 and dragged each other from their saddles. The fall loosed the 
 hold of both ; they started to their feet, and renewed the con¬ 
 test in a silence only broken by the toilsome breathing for life or 
 death ; their teeth clenched ; their features set and stiffened, as 
 if the muscles had been changed to iron ; and their eyes shoot* 
 ing forth, with basilisk intensity, the deadly hate that filled them 
 
470 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 The strife was short; O’Haggerty reeled and fell beneath a 
 dreadful blow, and, as he went down, the bishop’s point twice 
 pierced his throat. Walker stood over him an instant, his stern 
 regards changing to a grim smile as he contemplated his victory. 
 The friar stirred, and he drew and cocked a pistol, to make all 
 certain. While his glances were, for a second, thus diverted, 
 the dying man slowly opened his eyes, fixed them on Walker, 
 stealthily placed his hand on a long skein under his cloak, again 
 closed his eyes, and, as the blood gurgled in his throat, seemed 
 resigned to the last agony. 
 
 “ Friar,” in his usual slow and steady tone, began the bishop, 
 when, with a sudden and unexpected effort, the prostrate man 
 sprang up, seized his conqueror by the breast, whose pistol was 
 instantly discharged, with the muzzle to his head, but not before 
 he had buried his hideous weapon, to the hilt, in Walker’s ab¬ 
 domen. Then, falling lifeless, he dragged upon his own body, 
 with the gripe of a bull-dog, his mortally wounded foe. 
 
 This scene, occurring in much shorter time than it has taken 
 to describe, obviously excited the horror of the very soldiers 
 whose trade was carnage. But of none of the spectators so 
 much as Evelyn, who, acquainted with the long nurtured hatred 
 between the two ecclesiastics, and recollecting that to them was 
 mankind partly indebted for the civil war that now desolated 
 his country, witnessed such a consummation of their mutual big¬ 
 otry, on the very field they had fomented, with a sickening of 
 heart against the whole cause, and a feeling that degraded the 
 chivalry of a well-fought day into a cruel and sanguinary conflict 
 between petty passions and sordid interests, and a blasphemous 
 outrage upon the name and the charities of God. 
 
 Disgusted and dispirited, he put his horse in motion to return 
 to William j leaving the whole centre of the army content to 
 form, as well as they could, at their own side of the Boyne. 
 Hamilton was content to stand opposite to them, now supported 
 by the French and Irish infantry, as if awaiting the answer of 
 some expresses he had sent to Dunore, probably for re-enforce¬ 
 ments ; his force being still much inferior to his antagonists, 
 particularly since they had all rallied and got firmly together. 
 
 “ S’death, sir 1” cried William, the moment Evelyn approached 
 him in his lonely defile, where, like a kite in a cage, he had for 
 some time been impatiently snuffing his quarry afar off, until ad 
 last his appetite grew wild with provocation. “ S’death, sir ; 
 what a loitering knave art thou ! Here has been one of my 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 471 
 
 people to the river’s brink, half an hour since, and returned with 
 news that it ran from Oldbridge foul with mud, and some red¬ 
 der stains, perchance. How fares the centre ?” 
 
 “ Repulsed, my liege.” 
 
 “ Slaves 1” dashing spurs iuto his charger—but suddenly 
 reigning him up—“ and the right ?” 
 
 “No news from them since, sir, and—” 
 
 “ Forward !” roared William, again furiously urging his horse, 
 as he turned to his men, and down to the river’s edge he instant¬ 
 ly dashed, they and Evelyn following. The bank where he 
 gained it was high ; but in he plunged without a second’s pause, 
 and in a few moments gained, with his left wing, the opposite 
 side. 
 
 “ Forward 1” still he cried, here pausing an instant, as, disen¬ 
 gaging his wounded arm from the sling he had been prevailed 
 upon, over-night, to rest it in, he drew his sword, and waived it 
 round his head. “ Forward, gentlemen, to win, alone, this blun¬ 
 dering day, and teach yon saucy kerne their distance 1 On their 
 flank ! their flank ! wherever they appear! Courage, my friends, 
 and victory ! Huzza !” 
 
 They cheered loud, and galloped after him. Small bodies ol 
 Irish horse were instantly seen flying from their reconnoitering 
 points, along the river, and making for Dunore Hill, or passing 
 it, as if to approach the Irish centre at Oldbridge. Evelyn 
 spurred amain to keep by William’s side. 
 
 “ Caillemotte is down, my liege,” he exclaimed, during the 
 furious ride. 
 
 “ Then I have lost a brave officer,” said the king. 
 
 “ And old Schomberg, too, sir.” 
 
 “Is he ? He should have died sooner.” Spurring hard. 
 
 “ And Bishop Walker,” continued Evelyn. 
 
 “ The fool! what did he there ?”* asked William. 
 
 They soon passed Dunore Hill, under a dropping fire of field- 
 pieces and small-arms, that did little execution, and came in sight 
 of a considerable body of French and Irish horse and foot, that, 
 seemingly detached, in part from Oldbridge, and in part from 
 Dunore, were hastily forming on the slope of a spacious ascent, 
 the second between Oldbridge and the other point mentioned. 
 A little village, called Sheephouse, approached by a winding 
 lane—of which almost all vestiges are now gone—was behind 
 
 * Dalrymple, p. 40, b. 2, vol. 
 
472 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 them. As soon as William’s falcon eye caught sight of the foe, 
 he pointed them out to his people, again waived his sword, 
 cheered, and led the way, still in a furious gallop, against the 
 swelling ground. 
 
 At the distance of about fifty yards, he was saluted by a de¬ 
 structive volley of musketry. Numbers of his soldiers dropped, 
 and horses and men went rolling down the slope. Another vol¬ 
 ley had equal effect. Still William pressed on. Now the smoke 
 of their own firing completely hid his enemies. Evelyn, as in 
 terrible excitement, and some confusion, he kept at the king’s 
 side, could see nothing but a gray and dense cloud, out of which 
 issued the quick and faint flashes that sent death among his 
 comrades. But suddenly, at the command of a rising breeze, it 
 parted—rolled off—and he beheld, within a few plunges of his 
 steed, the close ranks of French and Irish foot, brindling, in 
 front, with bayonets and rude pikes, and wildly contrasted in 
 uniform and equipment. At their left, a strong body of horse 
 were just prancing into a charge. 
 
 The charge, a mutual one, was given ; breast to breast the 
 hostile steeds met. In the tremendous shock, their rival masters 
 broke through each other’s ranks, and all was confused strife, 
 clash, groan, cheer, and execration. Evelyn’s horse fell twice. 
 Scarce sensible of his movement, he at last found himself hurried 
 down the slope, along with the whole of the left wing. Some 
 Irish pikemen had taken them in flank, and produced utter dis¬ 
 order. 
 
 The enemy, horse and foot, retired to their position. William, 
 with soul-stirring words, rallied his men ; reformed them ; and 
 prepared to make a second charge. At this moment additional 
 spuadrons of horse joined the Irish, from the direction of Old- 
 bridge. Portions of Dutch, French, and English infantry also 
 appeared advancing, at some distance, along the river’s side to 
 the king. While the loud report of musketry and shouting, 
 behind them, intimated that, at the important ford, the contest 
 between the centres of the two armies had been renewed. That 
 part, at least, of the English force had recrossed, now seemed 
 evident in the approach of the foot to William. 
 
 Inspired by their sight, although not waiting for them, William 
 a second time led his horse up the eminence. The enemy retired 
 through the lane into the village, and disappeared. Now, con¬ 
 fident of success, he galloped through it, after them. But the 
 manoeuvre proved only a feint to seduce him into more peril 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 473 
 
 Their horse charged furiously upon him ; their foot appeared at 
 favorable points, over its hedges, and from some cabins at either 
 side. Again William was repulsed. Leaving the Enniskilleners, 
 whom he had at first headed, to meet the shock, he wheeled 
 round to bring up the Dutch. But the Enniskilleners wheeled 
 after him. While, for the time, he vainly cried, “ What, my 
 friends! what, Irish, is not your king at your head, and will you 
 do nothing for him ?” All again became confusion. 
 
 While the main force fell back, Evelyn was assailed by half a 
 dozen Irish horse, and cut off from his comrades. Not cool 
 enough to calculate his situation, he struck madly, at every side, 
 prodigal of life. 
 
 “ No quarter, if he strike another blow!” cried a shrill voice, 
 advancing. But this only made him furious ; and he continued 
 to defend himself well, until the same voice resumed— 
 
 “ To the traitor’s heart, then!” and as one of the wild-looking 
 men half-stunned him with a baffled cut, the features of Eva 
 M’Donnell swam before his eyes, and, in the foreign costume he 
 knew so well, Evelyn deemed that her sword was raised to shed 
 his blood. 
 
 His brain reeled, and he fell from his horse. There was the 
 gallop of other horsemen towards him, and another face, of 
 power to call up even more wondrous and confounding associ¬ 
 ations, seemed to flit, as in a dream, past him. Ere many 
 seconds had elapsed, an Irish officer had dashed up, flung him¬ 
 self from his horse, ran to Evelyn, and struck aside the blade 
 that was now descending— 
 
 “ Quarter, quarter I” cried the well-known tones of Sarsfield. 
 “ This is my prisoner. Ha! Mr. Evelyn ?—then we have met 
 again.” 
 
 Evelyn could not answer him. 
 
 “ To horse, sir,” Sarsfield continued ; “ and come out of fur 
 ther danger with me.” 
 
 Assisting him to mount as he spoke, he took Evelyn’s bridle, 
 and led him, through the village, and the thick of the Irish 
 troops posted in it, to the last eminence between them and 
 Dunore Hill. Here Sarsfield paused, and turning his face to the 
 battle, said— 
 
 “ Let us note the end of the affair, in this point, ere I return 
 with the bad tidings, to collect which I have alone been per¬ 
 mitted to place my foot on the field, this day.” 
 
 Evelyn, now restored fully to his senses, found himself in a 
 
m 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 situation that afforded almost an entire view of the battle from 
 Oldbridge to the village of Sheephouse. Bodies of foot still 
 pressed over the ford, and were still charged by the Irish pike- 
 men and horse left at that point. William had been joined by 
 the detachment of foot, and stood nearly under Evelyn, prepared 
 for a renewed attack on the enemy that had twice foiled him. 
 Other scattered portions of infantry escaped, as they landed, 
 towards their king ; often interrupted by flying troops of Irish 
 horse. The whole Irish force at Oldbridge attacked the last 
 and main body of their enemies. At the same moment, William 
 charged up to Sheephouse, so that, over a great expanse of 
 ground, all was now struggle, uproar, and dreadful interest. 
 
 “ That’s Hamiltou still at their head, yonder,” said Sarsfield, 
 looking towards the ford. “ Great as is the distance, I know 
 him in his saddle among thousands. They meet!” he exclaimed, 
 grasping his sword, “ and we are again successful. But see, 
 Hamilton has ventured too far ; he is cut off, and taken prisoner.” 
 
 Even while he spoke, William once more charged up the 
 ascent, to Sheephouse, and once more was driven through the 
 lane, down towards the river. Sarsfield cheered. 
 
 “ Sheldon, well done ! well done !” he cried. 
 
 But, at this very moment, the tide of battle turned. The Irish 
 horse, rushing precipitously onward, lost sight of, and left behind 
 them, two English regiments of dragoons, commanded by Sir 
 Albert Cunningham and Captain Levison, who, taking advantage 
 of their absence, flung themselves from their saddles, jumped 
 behind the now unoccupied hedges of the lane, there waited the 
 return of the hitherto triumphant enemy ; fired on them, with 
 deadly effect, as they galloped up to the village, and threw them 
 into disorder. Then, cheering on a near troop, headed by the 
 afterwards celebrated Ginkle, the Irish were taken in rear, 
 pressed up the lane, and so kept employed until the whole of 
 William’s right wing, including its late re-enforcements from 
 Oldbridge, had time to rally, and a fourth time charge them at 
 a disadvantage. 
 
 “ By heaven and St. Patrick!” exclaimed Sarsfield, as he 
 witnessed these accidents, “ we are beaten at every point if 
 William wins the village before our last little reserve at Dunore 
 gets down to Sheldon—And does it yet move ?” turning his 
 eyes to the hill over him. “ No ! not a yard 1 Ride with me, 
 Mr. Evelyn! Oh, there is no time, now, to send him help!. 
 But hold—our weakened centre, at the ford, appears retiring on 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 475 
 
 Sheephouse in a body—that may do ! they may be up, in season, 
 to take William in flank ! Ride, sir, ride!” 
 
 They wheeled up Dunore Hill, and found James standing in 
 a churchyard, on its summit, surrounded by some officers, and a 
 considerable body of horse. His distended eyes were rolling 
 over the plains and slopes below—he gaped—he gasped—and 
 perspiration teemed from his forehead, as, with arms crossed over 
 his breast, he desperately griped, in both hands, a naked but idle 
 sword. Let justice still be done to one of the most unfortunate 
 of mankind. Let not a shade of cowardice be attributed to 
 him whose gallantry, until this day, friends and foes, and the 
 brave and distinguished of different nations, concurred in assert¬ 
 ing, and whose unparalleled afflictions, whose outraged and torn 
 heart, may well supply an apology for the mingled extravagance 
 and weakness that, since the usurpation of a daughter, charac¬ 
 terized his conduct, and that now, on Dunore Hill, made him 
 shudder at the unnatural chance of falling into the hands of that 
 daughter’s husband. The betrayed friend and deserted father 
 had broken down ; but James could not have been a coward. 
 
 “ My liege, my liege 1” cried Sarsfield, the moment he came 
 up, “ now, at the least, send down my Lucan men and their 
 comrades, or all is lost!” 
 
 “How—where—whither?” asked James, his presence of mind 
 quite gone. “ What news from Lauzan, and the left wing at 
 Slane ? That was your mission, General Sarsfield—speed 
 
 it!” 
 
 “ Lauzan has withdrawn the whole left towards Duleek, 
 fearing young Schomberg’s movement to cut him off. But these 
 horse, my liege—these horse ! Shall I lead them down to 
 Sheldon ?” 
 
 “ Has the enemy much force at Oldbridge ? I deemed their 
 main body had marched on Slane—” 
 
 “ You did, my liege, but it was in error. At Oldbridge 
 their strength remained ; and while their left now tugs with our 
 handful at Sheephouse, at Oldbridge they have crossed—” 
 
 “Re-enforce our centre from our right!” cried James, wildly. 
 
 “Your majesty should recollect that there is no right. That 
 after weakening the centre by detachments to the left, when 
 your majesty deemed William’s main force had moved on Slane, 
 Tyrconnel brought up his right to Oldbridge. But it matters 
 not—one good charge, again successful, at Sheephouse, where, 
 as your majesty may see, our whole present strength has concern 
 
476 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 trated. One good charge, I say—let Sheldon be well seconded, 
 and—” 
 
 “Lauzan ! Lauzan ! where is Lauzan ?” interrupted James, 
 heedless of what was said, and showing, in every look and word, 
 the utter abandonment of an effort he had never manfully 
 depended on, although obstinately and boyishly he had stood 
 alone as its prompter. “ Where is our dear Lauzan, I ask, whose 
 advice, alone, can now help us to a conclusion? You had our 
 orders, sir, to send him a summons hither—” 
 
 “ And obeyed the orders, my liege,” said Sarsfield, in cool in¬ 
 dignation. “ He is here as a witness.” 
 
 Lauzan galloped, indeed, at the instant, into the churchyard. 
 James rushed towards him—would almost have embraced him. 
 
 “ Let your majesty guard your sacred person !” exclaimed the 
 French commander-in-chief. “Let your majesty ride with me 
 to join our left on the Duleek road. For Dublin, sire! For 
 France!” 
 
 “ Stir not, my liege 1” cried Sarsfield, “ the day still wavers— 
 look! William is still kept in check at Sheephouse ; the rem¬ 
 nant of our centre has just joined Sheldon, there—order me to 
 head my Lucan horse and join him, too—order Count Lauzan 
 to march back his left—” 
 
 “ Haste, sire, haste !” interrupted Lauzan, “ or the enemy cuts 
 you off from Dubliu. Your best friends are down or scattered— 
 Sir Neale O’Neal at Slane ; my lords of Dungan and Carling- 
 ford. the Marquis of Hoquincourt, Arundel, Ashford, Fitzgerald, 
 most of the exempts, and many other officers, in the centre. 
 Of Parker’s two squadrons of horse, but thirty men have come 
 off. Haste, sire—for safety—for life 1” 
 
 “Is, all then lost?” asked James, faintly. “Sarsfield”—he 
 clasped his hand, and met his eyes—“ good friend, farewell 1” 
 and he was turning off with Lauzan. 
 
 “ God’s mercy, sire ! do you leave us, without a cause ? Will 
 your majesty, whose courage the world has seen and praised, 
 show your back to the battle while it yet roars beneath your 
 feet ? All is not lost, my liege—believe not the interested 
 report of a dainty Frenchman. Look around you—over the 
 field—on this hill—and see your sacred person still protected. 
 Command me down, I say! Or, mount, my gracious prince, 
 mount your own good horse, and let me but spur at your side. 
 Head us, sire—head your own devoted people on a last charge— 
 strike with your own sword one blow—for your triple crown, nay 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 477 
 
 liege—for your exiled queen—for your infant son—cry courage! 
 for God, for St. George, and St. Patrick!—and that will be the 
 blow to end it1” 
 
 “ There is not a moment to be lost,” whispered Lauzan. 
 James, his nerves completely shattered, moved like an automaton 
 from the churchyard. 
 
 “ Gone !” resumed Sarsfield, standing overwhelmed with shame 
 and ra^e. “ Accursed be the tongue that prompts him! Ac¬ 
 cursed the rashness that brought us to this, and now too soon 
 abandons us? Accursed be this day for us and for Ireland! 
 And see, already comes the teeming of the curse—Sheldon, 
 unsupported, at last gives way, and wheels towards us—our 
 shattered centre also retreat, round the rise, towards the Duleek 
 pass—the cheers of our enemies shake the hills and skies. The 
 battle is lost !” he continued, grinding, rather than stamping, 
 his iron heel into the ground. “ Come, Mr. Evelyn, I have now 
 but one duty to perform ; my horse must follow to guard this 
 poor king”—large bodies of Irish troops here passed towards 
 the Duleek road in good order—“ Tyrconnel, Sheldon, and the 
 rest, will manage a retreat for the centre.” 
 
 An officer of dragoons, covered with soil and blood, dashed 
 by the churchyard. 
 
 “ Where is the king ?” he asked of Sarsfield. 
 
 “ Gone, Sheldon, gone!” answered his brother officer. 
 
 “ Cead mille curses!” cried the brave man, fiercely spurring 
 
 off. 
 
 Crowds of soldiers, horse and foot, stopped to look over the 
 inclosure in front, obviously astonished, and muttering their 
 remarks to each other. One, amid a group of very wild-look¬ 
 ing fellows, said, in the simpering tones of the Whisperer : 
 
 “ Mostha, ay ; Shamus-a-,” using a vulgar, cruel, and 
 
 unmerited Irish expletive, recollected to this day, but rather 
 uusuited to our pages. “ Shamus-a-is gone, sure enough.” 
 
 “Come, Mr. Evelyn,” resumed Sarsfield; “my prisoner, al¬ 
 though you have witnessed our shame.” 
 
 “ Your shame I have not witnessed, General Sarsfield,” 
 said Evelyu, wishing to soothe the agonies of a brave man’s 
 spirit. “ It was a well-fought day.” 
 
 “ Sir,” cried Sarsfield, grasping his hands, and echoing a senti¬ 
 ment expressed by some of bis brother officers, “ change gen¬ 
 erals with us, and we’ll fight it over again.” 
 
478 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY1 
 
 With a stumbling step, amid graves and headstones, James 
 turned with Lauzan from the churchyard of Dunore. Gaining 
 his horse, he rode in speed and profound silence towards the left 
 wing of his army, already, as has been said, in advance on Dub¬ 
 lin, while the voice of the undecided battle yet sent its mingled 
 roar after him. His road was a wild one, lying through a waste 
 and flat country. The evening began, prematurely, to fall, for 
 gathering clouds and tempest obscured the summer light. Thus, 
 after about an hour’s journey, every thing, on his way, around 
 him and above him, looked bleak and desolate as his fortunes. 
 
 At what was then called the Pass of Duleek, Sarsfield, ac¬ 
 companied by his prisoner, joined the fallen king. It became 
 there arranged that Lauzan should stay behind to assist the 
 other general officers in arranging the retreat of the whole army, 
 while James proceeded southward to Dublin, escorted by Sars- 
 field’s horse alone. 
 
 The melancholy journey continued in unbroken silence. At 
 about eight o’clock, James entered, for the last time, his Irish 
 metropolis. As he and his escort passed some outposts of mili¬ 
 tia, and, afterwards, the whispering groups of citizens in the 
 streets, no question was asked of the couriers from the battle. 
 Men only looked on his brow, and then turned to each other to 
 discuss the tidings they read but too plainly there. 
 
 Passing into the castle-yard, some hundreds ot Scottish noble¬ 
 men and gentlemen, the last unsubdued remnant of those gallant 
 soldiers, who, under the gallant Dundee, had just escaped from 
 the failure of James’s cause in the Highlands, appeared drawn 
 up, awaiting his arrival, to make a tender of their services, as a 
 guard for his person, willing to follow his fortunes over the 
 world. 
 
 “ Alas! brave men,” answered James, “ I can now give you 
 no appointments suited to your rank. I am poor, as well as 
 powerless.” 
 
 The officers said, that not wishing to be a burden on their 
 royal master, and only anxious to share whatever fortune was 
 his, they begged permission to form themselves into a regiment 
 of private soldiers for his service. He bowed, in agitated silence, 
 and entered the castle. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 479 
 
 “Let the council be sent for,” he muttered to Sarslield, ag 
 they ascended the stairs. The general obeyed his orders. 
 
 “ If it be proper or possible,” whispered Evelyn to his com¬ 
 panion, “ I should request leave to follow you : you know my 
 motive.” 
 
 Sarsfield hesitated ; but James, himself, just then stopped on 
 the stairs, and desired that the Enniskillen officer might attend 
 him. Accordingly, Sarsfield and Evelyn followed in his steps. 
 
 “ Wilson 1” cried James, the moment he gained the great hall, 
 speaking to a gentleman who bowed to him—“from France?” 
 
 “ With letters from the queen, my liege.” 
 
 Trembling in every joint, the deposed monarch tore open the 
 packet. 
 
 “My God!” he cried, after reading it, “how doth fortune 
 sport with me ! Here be tidings that a death-blow is struck in 
 our favor on the Continent, Sarsfield ; that Waldeck has been 
 totally routed by Louis at Fleurus ! Would to Heaven, Sars¬ 
 field, I had listened to—but that is past. Welcome, lords and 
 gentlemen,” addressing his two chancellors, Secretary Neagle, 
 the Duke of Powis, the Marquis of Abbeville, the Chief Baron, 
 and others of his council, who then entered. “We have com¬ 
 mands for your ear—and welcome, too, my lady of Tyrconnel,” 
 who also appeared through the archway at the remote end of 
 the hall, accompanied by her maidens of honor. “ Your lord is 
 well, fair lady, and will greet you to-morrow.” 
 
 “For that, and for your majesty’s safety, grace to God,” 
 replied his hostess. “ Choose you to sup, my liege ?” 
 
 “•Madam,” answered James, “did you know the breakfast I 
 have had, you would not deem I held much stomach for supper.” 
 The lady and her attendants drew back. Evelyn’s eye became 
 fixed on them. 
 
 “We have lost the day, my lords and gentlemen,” he contin¬ 
 ued, “ and I prepare to take my leave of you. God has gone 
 over from us to the Prince of Orange. We stand before you a 
 deposed and defeated king ; whose worst crime—as the God 
 who abandons him shall judge him !—whose worst crime was an 
 effort to grant civil and religious freedom to all sects of his sub¬ 
 jects. On that point I wish first to address you. Note it well. 
 Note the awful declaration in which it is made. And let one oi 
 our enemies, now present, note both, and remember them. 
 
 “ With a desire and a plan to overturn the established reli¬ 
 gion of these realms we have been charged. It is false. I here 
 
480 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 make no further assertion, but the rather show ye proof. Look 
 at these papers. One is our testament ; the other an advice to 
 our son, penned in the spirit of a similar advice of our martyred 
 father, to our brother Charles ; and both prepared to meet the 
 chance of the battle that has this day gone against us. As the 
 solemn and true words of a man going to meet his last account, 
 it must be regarded by you and by posterity. For, die when I 
 may, it shall pass to my son unaltered from its present shape 
 and tenor.” (As James now read it, the document stands, in¬ 
 deed, at the present day, well authenticated under the gracious 
 auspices of the reigning sovereign.) “Our leading injunction to the 
 Prince of Wales is, as you shall hear,” resumed James, read¬ 
 ing— 
 
 “ ‘ Endeavor to settle liberty of conscience by a law.’ ‘ Be 
 not persuaded to depart from that. Our blessed Saviour 
 whipped people out of the temple ; but I never heard He com¬ 
 manded any should be forced into it.’ ‘ ’Tis by gentleness and 
 instruction, and good example, people are to be gained, and not 
 by terror.’ 
 
 “ So much,” continued James, speaking, “ for our true senti¬ 
 ments on religious toleration. Now hearken to some particular 
 proofs of our wish—so contrary to the foul charge pretended 
 against us—to maintain, in place and ascendency, even while we 
 allowed equal privileges to Catholics, the established faith of our 
 realms. In recommending our son to have five commissioners of 
 the treasury, we desire him to choose three Church of England 
 men, one Catholic, and one Dissenter. In recommending two 
 secretaries of state, we mention one Protestant, one Catholic. 
 We advise him to have his war secretary Catholic, and the 
 secretary of his navy—the great, though now shamed bulwark 
 of Britain—Protestant. 
 
 “ My lords and gentlemen, enough. When the fury of those 
 whose hands are against me shall have passed away, men wik 
 rescue me, even by this evidence, from the charge of having 
 plotted to overturn the Protestant religion. When I am ashes, 
 my cruel enemies will be confounded. 
 
 “ That, only in the view of granting to all my subjects free¬ 
 dom of conscience, my kingly privilege was asserted, I deny not 
 —I wish not to deny. And what advice vainly prompted me to 
 do so ? It is said I have been misguided by bad advisers. 
 Some, perchance, there be, who attempted unsafe counsel* vfith 
 me : but who, I ask, was, in this matter, my counsellor ? The 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 481 
 
 royal martyr, our murdered father. From his written advice to 
 our brother Charles, I became thus instructed. 
 
 “ * Your prerogative is best showed and exercised in remit¬ 
 ting, rather than exacting, the rigor of the laws, there being 
 uotliing worse than legal tyranny. 7 
 
 “ But, my lords and gentlemen, while I believed this maxim 
 to be true, and lawfully strove to act upon it, I have been 
 taught the truth of another, also contained in that advice of our 
 royal father : 
 
 ‘ 1 1 have observed/ says the martyr of bigotry, ‘ that the 
 Devil of Rebellion doth commonly turn himself into the Angel of 
 Reformation ; and the old serpent can pretend new lights. 
 When some men’s consciences accuse them for sedition and fac¬ 
 tion, they must stop its mouth with the name and noise of reli¬ 
 gion ; when piety pleads for peace, they cry out zeal. 7 
 
 “ And so, my lords and gentlemen, turn we to present mat¬ 
 ters, 77 James continued. “ The pass of the Boyne is forced by 
 the Prince of Orange, and Dublin must immediately be evacu¬ 
 ated. I am for France. Do not fire the city, nor in any way 
 injure it. Hold it for the conquerer, and try to get his mercy 
 for yourselves. Perchance he will prove kinder to you than ever 
 he did to his wife’s father. Farewell, my faithful servants. 
 Faithful ye have been, yet now I part ye without the power of 
 offering any recompense save my words—and tears, 77 the wretched 
 king added, as he turned aside, and those near him could, amid 
 his groans and sobs, hear him name his daughters. 
 
 “ What is to be done ? I know not yet, 77 he went on, com¬ 
 posedly, after a pause, “ whether we can still have a blow for it, 
 or yield at once— 77 
 
 “Ay, a score of hard blows for it, my liege, 77 interrupted 
 Sarsfield. 
 
 “ I hope little from my subjects in Ireland, if you mean that, 
 Sarsfield. Often was I warned against them. And though 
 they have not, like my English subjects, wholly forsaken me, yet 
 am I assured by Lauzan that but for the cowardice of our Irish 
 foot at Oldbridge, we need not this day have fled from the 
 field. 77 
 
 “ Believe not Lauzan, my liege ; he lies in his throat, 77 cried 
 Sarsfield warmly. James turned with— 
 
 “ How, sir ! this bold language to our face ?” when he en¬ 
 countered a sharper rebuke from another quarter. 
 
 A hasty motion took place among the group of maidens who 
 
 21 
 
432 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 surrounded Lady Tyrconnel at the far archway. While Evelyn 
 starred as if it had been her spectre, Eva M’Donnell quickly 
 walked from amongst them towards where the king stood, say¬ 
 ing passionately as she came up— 
 
 “ If flying from the field be the question, my liege, who gave 
 the lesson V 1 
 
 “ God’s saints !” cried James, 11 and by whom are we asked 
 this insulting question ?” 
 
 “ By one, sire,” continued Eva, “ who is a victim—and a will¬ 
 ing one—to your cause and you. Who staked all upon it—and 
 lost all. Whose affections have been blighted ; whose father and 
 brother have been sacrificed ; and who stands alone and friend¬ 
 less, to-night, only because she and they loved their king too well. 
 By an Irishwoman, my liege, who has in her veins the kindred 
 blood already lavished to do you service—the blood that still 
 throbs to flow, maiden as she is, in your righteous cause. But 
 that, while it is loyal to you, is loyal to her country, also ; and 
 now rises, honestly and indignantly to denounce the ingratitude, 
 even of a king, which dares prompt him to slander the very 
 bravery he feared to see out in his own cause. Do your pleasure 
 with me, sire, for my boldness.” She turned to a near seat, and 
 averting her face, covered it with her hands. 
 
 11 Now, indeed, farewell, my lords and gentlemen,” said James ; 
 “ the example of rude insult which General Sarsfield has set, 
 seems to be too soon followed, and this roof no longer protects 
 us. Earewell 1 some more dutiful escort awaits us abroad, per¬ 
 chance. My daughters 1” he exclaimed, clasping his hands, as 
 he rushed through the door, “ this, too, ye have doomed me to 
 hear.” 
 
 “ Gracious prince !” cried Sarsfield, starting across, dropping 
 on his knee, and touching his skirt, while Eva also knelt at the 
 general’s side. 
 
 “ My king and master, pardon ! and part not in anger from 
 your devoted and loving servant.” 
 
 “ Pardon, pardon, sire,” echoed Eva ; “I am wild with many 
 griefs, and knew not what I said.” 
 
 “ Sarsfield,” answered James, extending one hand to him, and 
 the other to poor Eva, you are forgiven from my heart. Nay, 
 nay,” as the general kissed his hand, “ this is too much—why, 
 man, I feel your tears on my hand. What I a soldier, and 
 weep ?” wretchedly smiling through his own bitter tears—“ rise. 
 Farewell, and bless you. And you, poor young maiden.” He 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 483 
 
 raised her, and kissed her upturned forehead. “ Pardon us 
 rather, the sorrow we have brought on you and yours, and fare 
 you well, too—farewell to all. Ah ! my Lady Tyrconnel,” as a 
 loud lament arose down the hall, “ will you not advance to make 
 us an adieu ? So, fare you well—commend me to your lord. 
 And now, once more, Sarsfield—” 
 
 “ My gracious liege, I go with you to Waterford.” 
 
 “ No, Sarsfield, no. Other officers can be better spared ; 
 remain with the army. Agree with Lauzan as you can, and do 
 the best between you. On your life, no stirring hence !” he 
 continued, as they both passed through the door. 
 
 In the yard, James found, added to the escort in waiting on 
 him, a newly-come regiment. He inquired who they were, and 
 was told he saw, now hastily clad in the uniform of private sol¬ 
 diers, the Scottish noblemen and gentlemen he had met on his 
 arrival. He started, and seemed overwhelmed. He walked up 
 to them, and, one by one, asked their names, and wrote them in 
 his tablets. He thanked them, one by one, in a suppressed 
 voice, for the honor they had done him. Then, removing to 
 their front, he bowed, with his hat off; walked towards his 
 horse ; stopped, returned, bowed again, and burst into tears. 
 The body knelt, bent their heads and eyes steadfastly on the 
 ground ; arose, and gave him the usual honors. 
 
 James mounted his horse. His escort, headed by many of 
 his chief officers, got into motion. Sarsfield a second time bent 
 his knee, and took his master’s hand. All present remained un¬ 
 covered, in the big drops of rain that announced a coming 
 storm. “ My daughters, Sarsfield !” whispered this real Lear, 
 as he pressed his general’s hand, and spurred upon his night 
 iourney towards Waterford. And well, indeed, might he have 
 applied to himself the well-known lines— 
 
 “ Spit, fire ! spout, rain! 
 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters 1 
 I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness— 
 
 I never gave you kingdom, called you children— 
 
 You owe me subscription ; why then, let fall 
 Your horrible pleasure!” 
 
 As James retired from the hall, Eva stood near Evelyn. She 
 could not but have recognized him, yet she showed no token that 
 she had done so. Amid the confusion and distress that reigned 
 around, he easily approached her. 
 
484 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 u Eva ! adored Eva ! do you live ? are you safe ? do you 
 stand by my side ? and will you not turn to me to give happi¬ 
 ness, and accept protection ?” he said, passionately. 
 
 She walked away, with a strange mixture of coldness, lofti¬ 
 ness, and deepest sorrow in her face and manner ; but spoke not 
 a word. 
 
 “ Unjust, ungenerous Eva !” he continued, following her step 
 —“ fickle, cruel, and inexplicable Eva ! why am I treated thus ? 
 Oh, my heart bursts with questions, and aches and breaks for 
 your confidence ! Have I done aught to warrant its withdraw¬ 
 ing from me ? only answer that !” 
 
 She bent on him an eye of dignified and deep reproach, and 
 walked hastily towards her companions. Still he followed. But 
 ere he could again come up with her, they advancing as she 
 moved, gathered round her ; and all were about to leave the hall. 
 
 " I entreat—I demand the explanation !” Evelyn continued, 
 speaking vehemently, and still walking on, when an officer of the 
 household stopped him. At the same moment, Sarsfield re-en¬ 
 tered, his step heavy, and his face clouded with sorrow, took his 
 arm, and led him back towards the public entrance to the hall. 
 
 “ Pardon me, sir,” cried Evelyn—“ pardon the introduction of 
 my private concerns at such a moment ; but here have I met 
 again my affianced—my wedded lady—she who addressed the 
 king. I appeal to you to procure me freedom and opportunity 
 to approach and discourse with her.” 
 
 “ It cannot now be,” answered Sarsfield. “ The departure of 
 Lady Tyrconnel for the south must first be thought of, and ad¬ 
 mits not the interruption of a moment. But as your lady will 
 accompany her, ye shall meet, some other day, and soon I 
 charge myself with remembering it. For the present, Mr. Eve¬ 
 lyn, bustle, bustle. We all leave Dublin to-night. And though 
 James be gone, and William over the Boyne, there is yet one 
 good blow left us on the Banks of the Shannon.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV II. 
 
 Evelyn, accompanying the scarcely diminished Irish army that 
 fought at the Boyne, arrived in Limerick. William did not pur¬ 
 sue them, nor interrupt their motions. The news of the battle of 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 485 
 
 Fleuru reached him on the field, and tamed his former ardor 
 into prudence. Soon after, worse tidings came to hand—namely, 
 another victory of the French admiral off Beachy-head, over 
 the combined fleets of Holland and England ; on which occasion, 
 according to a Dutch writer, “ France had all the glory, Hol¬ 
 land all the loss, and England all the shame.” And after this, 
 there was not left a ship to protect the whole coast of old Eng¬ 
 land ; while the triumphant enemy chased Torrington into the 
 very mouth of the Thames, and set fire to an English village. 
 
 William well knew that his nominal and hardly-earned victory 
 of the Boyne was much more than counterbalanced by these 
 great failures elsewhere—by the last, in particular, unparalleled 
 in the history of Great Britain ; that James, and the partisans 
 of James, were, notwithstanding their retreat southward, now 
 placed on higher ground than they had ever before occupied. 
 And while advice also arrived of the consternation of his 
 friends, and the plottings of his enemies, in England, he pru¬ 
 dently declined an immediate renewal of the contest with his 
 Irish foes, against whom, after the effort they had made, and in 
 their present rallied spirits, he could not be very certain of re¬ 
 newed success. At the same time that one advantage gained 
 by them over him, would most probably cost him the crown of 
 his three kingdoms. 
 
 Contenting himself, therefore, with almost full dominion in 
 Ulster, and as much as he could, without fighting, secure of Lein¬ 
 ster and Munster, he took Dublin, Carlow, Kilkenny, and 
 Waterford, with their dependencies ; advancing very slowly and 
 cautiously, and shunning all contact with the Irish army. 
 
 “The only trial he has ventured with us,” said John Grace, a 
 representative of one of the oldest English settlers in Ireland, 
 and aid-de-camp to Sarsfield, as, in Evelyn’s presence, he and 
 his commanding-officer discussed these matters, “ was to detach 
 Douglas, after the Boyne affair, to Athlone, garrisoned by our 
 friends lately posted in the north, and having my old grand-dad 
 Dick for a governor.” 
 
 “ And, there, he got no unkind welcome, John,” said Sars¬ 
 field. 
 
 “ It so appeareth,” replied the gallant and gay-hearted aid-de- 
 camp. “ That is my answer,” quoth grand-dad Dick, blazing a 
 pistol at the summoner. “ And you may tell your master I will 
 hold out, until I eat my old boots.” 
 
 “ And well did he keep his word. Douglas, at the head of 
 
m 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 his reduced ten thousand, has been gallantly repulsed, and forced 
 to raise the siege,” resumed Sarsfield ; “ so there is little comfort, 
 still, for the bad tidings from France and England.” 
 
 “ Heavens !” he continued, bitterly, though enthusiastically, 
 “ had James but considered the counsel we offered him—did he 
 now stand by our side on the banks of the Shannon, without 
 having, at mad odds, risked a battle—without the recollection 
 of a repulse to thwart him or console William—what a blow, in 
 the very thick of some of the opportunities we foretold, might 
 be made for our country !” 
 
 He took Evelyn aside. 
 
 “ Mr. Evelyn, I come, this morning, at last to bring you an 
 answer, but such a one as I grieve to impart. After much 
 mystery and reserve among the noble maidens attending here 
 upon her Grace of Tyrconnel, I am credibly informed your 
 lady left Dublin, for some part wide of Limerick, at the very 
 moment we evacuated the former city.” 
 
 No further explanation could Evelyn obtain. He assured 
 himself that so much was correct, but none knew Eva’s desti¬ 
 nation. That he remained thrice wretched must be believed. 
 But it would be impossible, as well as tedious, to attempt a con¬ 
 tinued portraiture of his feelings. Let us rather proceed with 
 events that gradually brought them to a certainty. 
 
 The Irish remained in Limerick, governed by Monsieur Bois> 
 seleau, and principally officered by the prudent English Duke of 
 Berwick, and the mad Irish Duke of Tyrconnel. Sarsfield had 
 little influence, being equally disagreeable to his French and to 
 his native commander, for his notice of the hauteur of the one, 
 and rash and weak conduct of the other. Lauzan had with¬ 
 drawn himself and his French allies to Galway, ostensibly with a 
 view of garrisoning that town, but really in disgust of a cause 
 that, since his landing, he regarded as hopeless, and sought to 
 embarrass into a speedy termination. From his present position, 
 he sent over to Louis the most dispiriting statements, joined to 
 earnest requests for transports, and a convoy to re-embark his 
 army. Thus, then, Limerick was held by Irish soldiers alone ; 
 and, in the confidence of native, though undisciplined, strength, 
 awaited the approach of William at the head of his veteran 
 foreigners of different countries. 
 
 About six weeks after the battle of the Boyne, William at 
 last deemed he might lay siege to Limerick : though it should 
 not be forgotten that, ere he came to the resolution, he had re- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 487 
 
 advanced near to Dublin on his way to England, content to leave, 
 unsubdued, in the heart of their own country, the foes he had 
 arrived to exterminate. In the beginning of August he appeared 
 before the town, approaching it in an easterly direction. His 
 besieging army was twenty thousand strong. Turning round 
 the walls, he occupied, with his encampment, some high ground 
 called Singlands. After the Irish, still engaged on their unfin¬ 
 ished outworks, had retired under shelter of their own guns, he 
 planted his first cannon on an eminence, in advance of the camp, 
 and within shot of the city ; a position previously held during 
 the siege by Cromwell’s army. Having sent in a summons, and 
 received, signed by the French governor, a very polite, tech¬ 
 nical, but point-blank refusal, he commenced his first cannonad¬ 
 ing against the citadel, a square building, at the extremity of 
 the Irish town, nearest to his camp, defended, in front, by two 
 well-mounted bastions, and in flank, along the contiguous wall, 
 by four massive towers. The citadel is yet standing, converted, 
 with some alterations and additions, into a purpose very different 
 from that for which it was first erected ; it is at present a 
 hospital. Its bastions are in tolerable preservation, and the 
 towers along its adjacent wall, one of which is the ruin of the 
 Black Battery, show, even in their crumbled fragments—the 
 joint effects of devastating war, and equally devastating time—a 
 formidable appearance. The curious observer will not fail to 
 note, upon and about the citadel, the marks of William’s balls, 
 during this first cannonade. They are easily distinguishable from 
 the slow and noiseless breaches made by the lapse of almost two 
 centuries ; the abruptly-splintered coigne, or the nearly circular 
 concavity, still showing how the hard stone was shattered or 
 reduced to powder by each sharp concussion with the baffled 
 shot. 
 
 Thus Evelyn once more saw himself exposed to the chances 
 of a siege. Yet he was surprised also to observe, that though 
 the cannonading gave partial annoyance, it was by no means of 
 the formidable kind calculated to make a breach, or seriously to 
 awe an obstinate city. But his surprise was soon to meet a 
 solution. 
 
 Limerick was then composed of the English town and the 
 Irish town, the former situated in an island, formed by two em¬ 
 bracing arms of the Shannon ; divided from the Irish town by 
 the lesser arm, and by the greater from the county of Clare, 
 formerly Thomond. 
 
188 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Against the remote side of the Irish town William had sat 
 down. Thomond Bridge, the only communication between the 
 English town and the county of Clare, was well guarded and 
 fortified. At its Limerick end was a gate, with portcullis. At 
 the opposite end, the footing over two arches drew up, and 
 warders, occupying turrets at either side, constantly had care of 
 it. Beyond, entered from the very steep approach at the 
 country side, stood King John’s castle ; two massive and im¬ 
 posing round towers, connected by a front only the breadth of 
 a wide archway. Which castle, with the perfectly level and 
 well-built old bridge of Thomond, was the sole benefit King 
 John or his insolent visit ever conferred on Ireland. At thi; 
 time, double-gated, walled-in, and fortified by bastions, th 
 castle chiefly served to increase the security of the bridge. I 
 it also were the quarters of some distinguished officers, and c. 
 Sarsfield in particular. 
 
 Upon an evening, the second or third after the commence¬ 
 ment of the smge, he, his favorite aid-de-camp, and Evelyn, 
 stood upon one of its bastions that afforded a view of the 
 abrupt descent falling down to the drawbridge. All were 
 silent. Occupied by their own thoughts, they seemed to watch 
 the effect of the long, slanting beams of the sun, streaming over 
 the top of the rugged steep from the open country. Suddenly, 
 those beams flashed fiercely from the helm and breast-piece of a 
 single horseman, who, at a rapid, yet methodical gallop, gained 
 the edge of the acclivity. Sarsfield started ; marvelling, doubt¬ 
 less, at the rider’s appearance from a quarter whence no friend 
 was expected, and whence it was impossible a foe could thus 
 singly approach. Evelyn also became interested, from a certain 
 misgiving. He kept his glance fixed. As the horseman, evi¬ 
 dently careless of the peril of his rough and steep road, swept 
 towards the drawbridge, and he and his dull-black steed swelling 
 to giant-size, Evelyn could not doubt his man—Galloping Hogan. 
 
 Advanced to within a civil distance of the guard at the 
 county of Clare end of the drawbridge, the Rapp are e drew up, 
 and, as they challenged him, saluted them in a courteous, soldier¬ 
 like manner. They parleyed together. Then a man walked 
 from the group towards an entrance to King John’s castle ; 
 demanded to speak with General Sarsfield, and was answered, 
 from the bastion, by Sarsfield himself. The general asked from 
 whom Hogan came. The soldier did not know. “ Let him ad¬ 
 vance to where you stand f and Hogan accordingly gave the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 489 
 
 rein to his willing steed, who, in a few stretches of his colossal 
 limbs, brought his master to the spot required. Here the Rap¬ 
 paree gave another salute up to the bastion, and composed him* 
 self to answer questions. 
 
 " If you seek General Sarsfield, he is before you—say your 
 errand, sir.” 
 
 “ With all duty and courtesy, gineral, to your private ear,” 
 answered Hogan. 
 
 “ From whom come you V 1 
 
 “ An’ I’ll tell that, too, if you let me—in my own way, 
 gineral.” 
 
 “ From friends or foes ?” 
 
 “ Friends, afther a manner.” 
 
 “ I should suppose,” said Sarsfield to Grace, “ only for the un¬ 
 usual likeness to a soldier in the fellow’s furniture and manner, 
 as also, indeed, the utter stupidity of his vacant, staring features, 
 that he was a Rapparee.” 
 
 “ Doubt him not for those reasons,” observed Evelyn. “ The 
 man is truly what you suspect ; I know him sufficiently well.” 
 
 “ Then I will speak with him, at the safe side of the wall 
 though. For while they usually affect to be our friends, these 
 rascals have ever their own interests in whatever they do. You, 
 sir—fall back on the guard.” 
 
 Hogan, again saluting, obeyed. Sarsfield descended to the 
 gate. In a few minutes Evelyn saw him joined by the Rap¬ 
 paree, now on foot; and they walked up and down, engaged in 
 earnest conversation—Sarsfield, though a good-sized mem, look¬ 
 ing like a boy, beside his gigantic companion. 
 
 The information Hogan conveyed seemed much to interest 
 the general. He stopped ; frowned earnestly at the Rapparee, 
 as if at once to doubt and probe his story ; then spoke quickly, 
 as if cross-examining him ; paused again ; waved Hogan, after 
 a few additional words, towards the guard-house ; and returned, 
 much excited, into the fortification. 
 
 The moment he joined his friends on the bastion, he drew 
 John Grace aside, and gave him some instructions, which roused 
 into an energy equal to his own the features of that young 
 officer. As they parted, Evelyn heard these words : 
 
 “ Closeness and prudence, John. Five hundred of my own 
 horse, at the least, to meet me here by half an hour past nine. 
 The harvest night will then have fully fallen. Ask no more to 
 be of our party. I trust none other with my purpose, and there- 
 
 21 * 
 
m 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 fore no other can I leave behind to tend the signal-fire from 
 Mary’s steeple. So to business, John. And remember the 
 signal. If they make no stir at William’s camp, let it burn 
 evenly, till midnight. If they do—and see that our spies look 
 close, and bring you tidings good and quick—then three times 
 let it blaze high, and three times go out. And so, till the morn¬ 
 ing, farewell.” 
 
 His aid-de-camp retired, and he turned to Evelyn. 
 
 “ Mr. Evelyn, you are concerned in this. I have often heard 
 you wish to get free discourse, under a safeguard, from the Rap- 
 paree captain called Yaman-ac-knuck. Come with me when the 
 night sets in, and, as I can hear, we shall see him before morning.” 
 
 “ Thanks, sir. I will willingly ride with you, always assured 
 that I am not exposed to join iu any attempt against King Wil¬ 
 liam’s arms.” 
 
 “ Content you, sir. I speak but for your private advantage.” 
 Evelyn had no more to say. 
 
 Sarsfield remained near him—sometimes standing motionless, 
 his face turned to the right up the river ; sometimes striding 
 impatiently along the contiguous wall ; and sometimes turning 
 his flushed brow to the tardy west, as if impatient of the dull 
 red glow that was so long fading into the blank of night. The 
 short, quick sighs that will flit at intervals from a breast filled 
 with a great purpose, served more particularly to denote his 
 mood. 
 
 At last the moonless night fell down. The hour was come. 
 Five hundred Lucan horse awaited his pleasure at the gate ; 
 and in a few seconds he and they, Evelyn by his side, dashed up 
 the steep ascent leading to the country. They met Hogan, 
 ready-mounted, on the summit of the elevation ; and, without a 
 moment’s pause, the Rapparee, placed at Sarsfield’s left hand, 
 and well-looked after by dragoons, before and behind, led the 
 way, soon turning to the right, along the road to Killaloe, a 
 considerable village about ten miles up the river. 
 
 During the commencement of the hard ride, Evelyn could 
 perceive that the route gave occasional glimpses, to his right, of 
 the broad and curving Shannon, drearily visible under the 
 shadows of night. To his left, and before him, ran, almost at a 
 parallel with the road, the remote county Clare hills, relieved, iu 
 their intense blackness, against the dim sky, at the nearest com¬ 
 mencement of their range, but mingling and massing with the 
 general gloom as they receded in the distance. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 491 
 
 Some time after leaving the city, and getting into this line—■ 
 where, obliquely and from a good distance, a gun detached from 
 the hostile battery might possibly be brought to bear on them 
 from William’s side—Hogan pulled up. 
 
 “ Fair an’ asy here,” he said. “ The night an’ the wather 
 together are the divil entirely for sharpenin’ people’s ears. An’ 
 though it’s a crooked shot they’d have to make, betther let the 
 horses’ hoofs go as quiet over this rocky road as a body can. I 
 believe you are of my mind, General Sarsfield ?” 
 
 “ I am. Though we should little regard their shot, yet their 
 observation we do not want.” 
 
 “ That’s the thruth, general. Though, upon my honor, a shot 
 or two might not be amiss now, at laste. Howsomever, it was 
 thrown away on a single man and horse, like myself, this even¬ 
 ing.” 
 
 “ What! They saw you coming, then ?” 
 
 “ Troth an’ they did, an’ had the impidence to bring a flying 
 gun to bear on me too. But that’s what I call wilful waste, 
 gineral. For, supposin’ they doue their work never so well, no 
 single man an’ horse—the best-sized on the face of the earth— 
 ever pays the waste of shot and powther, barrin’ from a firelock, 
 carbine, or petronel.” 
 
 “You say true,” answered Sarsfield, smiling at the matter-of- 
 fact, and certainly disinterested, calculations of his guide, w and 
 you must have seen service, I reckon ?” 
 
 “ That,” replied Hogan, “ is visible, l believe, to any soldier 
 who notes my appearance, which I studiously attend to even 
 among the poor cratures it is now my lot to call comrades. I 
 w r as with ould Schomberg at Maestricht, when he prevailed on 
 little Willie to raise the siege, before they grew cronies, in the 
 long run.” 
 
 “ Why did you leave regular service ?” 
 
 “ A thrick I had of not likin’ to stay long in the same place, 
 or doin’ the same thing. I began the world with a light heart 
 an’ nothing in my pocket, an’, faith, maybe no pocket to put it 
 in if I had. My father had eleven of us, all as big as himself ; 
 all able to ate and drink as much—'God bless the mark !—and 
 very little to give us, for that same purpose, afther the estate 
 grew into a thrifle o’ debt, an’ the husbands o’ seven o’ my 
 sisters come down on it for marriage portions. So we had to 
 cut out our own loaf with our own hands. One went east, another 
 west j one south, an’ another north ; ou3 this way, an’ another 
 
492 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 that ; an’ my own self went over to their high mightinesses. I 
 liked them well enough for a time. Their atm’, an’ drinkin’, an’ 
 smokin’, an’ fightin’-work, an’ all. But there was a bother about 
 somethin’ or other they thought to lay to my charge ; a little 
 misunderstanding on the head of a weighty valise belonging to 
 an officer of our own corps ; to say nothin’ of the hole in his 
 crown, that they supposed he never got from the enemy. So, 
 this, an’ more o’ their glum an gosther about the measure of 
 Hollands I allowed myself—as if a man of my inches could live 
 on what sarved, well enough, a bit of a stumpy Dutchman—wny, 
 upon the whole, I say, I got tired, and left them.” 
 
 “ And then came home, I warrant ?” 
 
 “Just so, gineral,” answered Hogan ; “in the saison.” 
 
 “ To command an independent army of your own ?” continued 
 Sarsfield. 
 
 “ That same, for some time, till I met a betther man than 
 myself, and afther a fair thrial between us, allowed him the upper 
 hand. All in honor, you see, general. Natural talents and 
 gifts ever gain their own, the world over. And a man, how- 
 somever great, is bound to sarve a greater as loyally as ever he 
 took care of himself, when onct they come together, and the 
 struggle for who shall is past.” 
 
 “1 respect your reasoning,” said Sarsfield, half serious, 
 indeed, in his admiration of the honor amongst rogues thus 
 illustrated. “ How soon was this after your capture of Mr. 
 Evelyn’s house, in the north ?” For Evelyn had told Sarsfield 
 the story. 
 
 “ Long afther, gineral. I see the fame of that clever little 
 affair has reached you. Long afther our retreat from Derry, 
 even, where I was commander-in-chief of the independent Irish 
 brigade, until it increased to such numbers as to require to be 
 fairly halved between myself and another. Then I marched for 
 the south, about here, with my own half; my colleague, that, 
 at the time, I never saw, stopping in the north ; and, under the 
 convenient thravelling name of Yamen-ac-knuck, doing such 
 wondhers as made nothing of my fame in my own district. So 
 that I got jealous of him—I mane in the way that brave men 
 get jealous of ach other—and longed to meet him face to face, 
 and, as I said, have a thrial for it. And there’s the end o’ my 
 story. Yamen-ac-knuck, and no other, is the man that got me 
 undher.” 
 
 “What!” cried Evelyn, “a person so young, and so insig- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 493 
 
 uificant in bodily prowess ? I take it for granted the trial was 
 a personal rencounter. And, as I know, or some years since did 
 know, the lad you speak of, his victory over such a man as you, 
 General Hogan, much surprises me.” 
 
 “ Captain Hogan, if you plase, masther. The title of gineral 
 does not fairly belong to me, since that same day we’re spakin’ 
 of. And don’t be so much surprised, masther (I have not the 
 honor of recollecting your name, though the voice is somewhat 
 familiar to me) ; the few years you mention may have done a 
 good dale towards adding to the size of Gineral Yaman’s four 
 bones, and putting good muscle on ’em. And I promise you, 
 masther, that when I met him, only a few months ago, he was 
 what you’d call a tall fellow—that is, if he stood alone, and out 
 of view of a man of rare stature. And, perchance, making up, 
 in activity, and, most of all, in a knowledge of his limbs and 
 weapons, what he wanted in weight and inches.” 
 
 “ It may be,” answered Evelyn ; “ but where, and in what 
 manner, did ye meet ?” 
 
 “ On a northern road, and in the manner following. Not able 
 to hould myself quiet with the noise of his great doings, I took 
 it into my head to gallop a bit alone to the north, and have one 
 look at this Yameu-ac-knuck. Well, masther, as I was one day 
 galloping along a by-road, I met a man alone, like myself, com¬ 
 ing hot against me. Says I to him, * Do you know any thing of 
 one Yamen-ac-knuck ?’ ‘ A little,’ says he. * Maybe you’re 
 
 looking for him ?’ ‘ I am,’ says I; ‘ and I come many a mile to 
 
 see him.’ ‘ Any special business V says he. ‘ Why, yes,’ say I ; 
 ‘I’d like just to get him afore me, and, after all his mighty 
 great doings, have one bout to thry which shall.’ ‘ Would 
 you ?’ says he ; ‘ then you needn’t thravel much further. I’m 
 Yamen-ac-knuck.’ ‘ You 1’ says I, looking at him. ‘ Ay, my 
 own self,’ says he. ‘ Very well, again,’ says I. ‘And do you 
 know who lam?’ ‘ No,’ says he ; ‘ maybe you’d tell.’ ‘ Maybe 
 I would,’ says I ; ‘ I’m Galloping Hogan.’ ‘ Are you ?’ says 
 he, reining back his horse, to take a good view o’ me, while I 
 done the same by him ; and so, we shook hands, and, after chat¬ 
 ting a bit, went to our work, like two brothers. 
 
 “The first thrial was at the wrastling. We sthripped to the 
 buffs, and took hoult of ach other. He threw me, two falls out 
 o’ three. Ay, well may ye cry out; but it’s the blessed thruth 
 I’m telling. 4 You’re the man so far,’ says I ; ‘ will you thry a 
 long shot with the carbiue, now ?’ ‘ Never say it again,’ says 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 *94 
 
 he. With that we stepped thirty steps from one another, and 
 fired, at a word. His first ball took me in the flish of the back ; 
 his second, in the flish of the cheek ; his third—but before he 
 fired that— 4 now, just to touch your hip/ says he ; and before 
 the saying was out, I felt it in the hip, sure enough. 4 I know 
 you’re not hurt, he then called out, 4 with any o’ the three shots, 
 as I made the proper allowances. But they all grazed you ; and 
 as none o’ yours came nearer than an inch, or so, I suppose this 
 will do, too.’ 
 
 “ I agreed in the same ; and we stepped up, face to face, 
 again. 4 Put on your pott, and your back-and-breast/ Yamen- 
 ac-knuck went on, 4 and draw your soord.’ 4 Never say it again/ 
 says I, cock-sure of the matter, now, at laste. So, we helped 
 ach other to our defences and weapons ; picked out a handy 
 bit o’ ground ; crossed our soords, and began our last work 
 with two hearts as light as any feather. 
 
 44 As I expected, this came to my hand nater than the wrast- 
 ling or the shooting ; and, after a good half hour, he wasn’t 
 able to scratch me. 4 Let us rest/ says he, 4 and go to the brook 
 for a sup o’ water ; the day is hot.’ 4 Let us/ says I ; and we 
 went; sat down, a bit, afther drinking ; come back to our 
 ground, and tackled to for the second bout. In a little time I 
 drew a taste o’ blood from his showlder ; and when he felt it 
 and saw it, Yamen-ac-knuck lost all Christian temper, and his 
 face grew so angry, and so grand, along with it, that it was 
 frightful. I never saw, afore, a mortial man able to stir me 
 with a look, or able to make me feel that he was my masther ; 
 not among all the great men, ginerals, and kiugs, that came under 
 my eyes, did I ever see his likes, in regard o’ that. 4 Your sword 
 —your sword, fellow !’ he cried out, closing me. My heart 
 gave it up before my hand; and it was no cowardice, but the 
 masthery he had over me by coorse of nature, I think. He got 
 it, and bid me beg my life. ‘No/ says I ; 4 but if you give it, 
 I’ll sarve you loyally, while my life lasts.’ 4 Well/ says he, get¬ 
 ting mighty quiet in a moment, 4 that will do as well—betther, 
 maybe ; you’re a tall, stout chap ; and I believe I may depend 
 on you.’ With that, Gineral Sarsfield, we sthruck a bargain. 
 I marched up my men from the south, to put ’em undher him, 
 at the Boyne, where we worked together, our two brigades 
 helping ach other. And from that day to this, I’m Yamen’s 
 captain ; and, by the same token, his courier to you, this holy 
 and blessed night.” 
 
THE BOYHE WATER. 
 
 495 
 
 The Rapparee’s story brought them past the point at which 
 they could have continued exposed to any observation. Of this 
 he gave notice himself ; and urging the propriety of their 
 renewing their “ bit of a gallop,” all set off, under his guidance, 
 at full speed. 
 
 The road over which the party journeyed was not the same 
 now usually taken from Limerick to Killaloe. Our predecessors 
 seem to have been possessed with a stubborn idea of going for¬ 
 ward in the straightest line possible, and were not to be deterred 
 from this resolve by any except insurmountable obstructions. 
 Accordingly, their route from Limerick to Killaloe, at the time 
 of our story, ran boldly forward over hills so steep as to give 
 the panting horse an appearance as if he went on his hinder legs, 
 and then, of course, down precipitate declivities, that, vice versa , 
 seemed to throw his heels into the air. When rocky barriers or 
 high banks opposed, no effort had been made to remove them ; 
 so that the way often became narrowed almost to the breadth 
 indispensable for a single horseman. Huge stones sometimes 
 choked up even such passes, leaving the Lucan troopers to strug¬ 
 gle on as they might. For the greater part of the route, a thick 
 wood of old oak spread at either hand, nearly excluding the feeble 
 starlight. More than once they had to dismount, to bring their 
 eyes in close acquaintance with the difficulties to be surmounted. 
 
 A road, very nearly in the same line, may, at this day, be- 
 travelled. But our present taste, or our more effeminate atten¬ 
 tion to convenience, has suggested the propriety of wheeling 
 round the bases of the hills, instead of clambering over them. 
 Rocks that would have defied Old Time till doomsday, have dis¬ 
 appeared before the ephemeral cunning of those whom Time has 
 outlived. Altogether, the way has been freed of the impedi¬ 
 ments Sarsfield’s men had to contend with ; so that, with all 
 our veneration for antiquity, we are reduced to admit, that if we 
 have lost much of the herculean prowess of our ancestors, in 
 surmounting toilsome difficulties, we have providentially acquired 
 a better method of avoiding them. 
 
 From the summits of the different heights, as he went along, 
 Sarsfield turned in his saddle to fix his eye on the beacon-light 
 that flared on Mary’s steeple. Ever it met his glance burning 
 brightly and steadily, without a variation, save that caused by 
 gradually increasing distance. But another sudden flame, 
 bursting out upon an eminence, over the road, now startled him 
 and caused him to question Hogan. 
 
496 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “That’s a token that friends are near at hand, giueral, to 
 greet you, and pass you on. The signal appears from the ould 
 castle of Aherina, built by the red-haired Danes, I hear say, in 
 the times gone by. To tell God’s thruth, the thiefs were no 
 great hand at the architecture. It’s on the highest knock* 
 about here, though many more knocks surround us, not to be 
 seen by raison of the darkness. The lads wait your challenge.” 
 
 “ Then will I follow you. Stand, men, and expect me here ; 
 a few only with us. Are you curious to mount to this Rappa- 
 ree fastness, Master Evelyn ?” 
 
 Evelyn accompanied him, Hogan, and a few dragoons up the 
 little hill. They were challenged by some persons who stood 
 inside a rude trench that, at a short distance, surrounded the 
 old building, and whose half-naked figures and wild features were 
 in part lit up by the glaring light from the top of one of the 
 rudest of those square castles, formerly abounding in Ireland, 
 and of which the ruins of many, and of this among the number, 
 are yet to be seen. Hogan answered their challenge. They re¬ 
 turned a shout of recognition ; and while some hastened to 
 remove a barrier of sods, bushes, and large stones that filled 
 a gap in the inclosure, others entered the building by a rude 
 Gothic archway, so low as to require them to bend almost 
 double. They shortly returned, attending a person who, from 
 his steel cap and breast-piece, in which the flame bickered 
 brightly, seemed to be their commander. As he rushed out to 
 greet Sarsfield, in a manner at once ardent and wild, Evelyn 
 recognized Con M’Donnell. 
 
 And the recognition was mutual. Suddenly checking himseil 
 in his hurried advance to Sarsfield, the dumb man’s eye fixed on 
 Evelyn. Emitting a fearful scream, he snatched a piece of 
 flaming wood from one of the men—ran with it towards our as¬ 
 tonished friend—held it up to his face—screamed again—drew 
 back—looked very angry and agitated—drew his sword—and 
 made signs to the surrounding Rapparees to take into custody the 
 object of his wrath. 
 
 There was a movement to obey his commands ; but Sarsfield 
 first, and Hogan next interfered—the latter conversing with Con 
 M’Donnell in his own language, often pointing to the road, as if 
 to warn him of the proximity of five hundred of the celebrated 
 Lucan horse. At last it seemed that the expostulation proved 
 
 * Hill. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 497 
 
 successful. The dumb man paused a moment, glared his fiery 
 eyes on the ground, took a sudden thought, seized a horse near 
 him, led the way down the eminence, and in a few moments the 
 whole Limerick party were in a renewed motion after him, at a 
 furious rate. Hogan, as if from a proper care of the character 
 that had gained him his surname, resolved not to be outgalloped 
 by auy man, keeping close by Con M’DonnelPs side. 
 
 The night seemed trebly darker than before, on account of 
 their sudden removal from the strong, flaring lights at Aherina 
 Castle. Straining agaiust a steep hill, they continued a route, 
 that, at almost every step, presented a difficulty. The night- 
 wind moaned over a black moor below them, and agitated with 
 a hollow noise the myriad branches of the great wood that 
 stretched across to the mountains. Then they descended, and 
 got a view of the twinkling lights of the little village of Bridge¬ 
 town under them—itself partly on a height, though thus com¬ 
 manded by a greater one. Fast went the dragoons down the 
 steep, scaring the few inhabitants.of the lonely group of cabins, 
 and doing their best to keep in sight Hogan and his dumb com¬ 
 panion. Splash they went over a rough stream, that crossed the 
 road at the bottom. Up. they strained, passing the little village 
 like a whirlwind, against an ascent, at its other side. Round 
 they wheeled to the left, now approaching the forms of vast 
 hills that had hitherto only vaguely overshadowed the blank 
 waste to their left and before them, but that now cowered round 
 in some shape and meaning. Onward, still onward, until they 
 were shut up amid amphitheatrical curvings of hills on every 
 side. Round, round again ; and down and up, and down again, 
 until the horses’ hoofs rang hollow over the little bridge of 
 Ballycorney, that with one rude arch crossed a considerable 
 mountain-torrent, rushing from the hills to their left, through a 
 deep-wooded dell at either side. Here Sarsfield gave the word 
 to halt, while he inquired who would undertake to guide him and 
 his men across the Shannon, three miles up at Killaloe. 
 
 The only person present acquainted with the ford was Cap¬ 
 tain Hogan. But with much propriety he stated, that having 
 only crossed it once or twice, and on both occasions in the day¬ 
 time, he could not take upon himself the responsibility of guid¬ 
 ing over it, in the darkness of night, so large a body of men. 
 He added, however, that on his way to Limerick he had made 
 it his business to inquire, in the neighborhood, who was most 
 likely to afford, at a pinch, such a good service. “ And yonder, 
 
498 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 gineral,” continued Hogan, pointing to a respectable looking 
 house on the steep road-side—“ yonder lives the man, Masther 
 Cecil, I hear, son of the owner of the house.” In a few minutes 
 half a dozen carbines thundered at the dcor ; and in a short 
 time the young man was, without a choice between refusal and 
 assent, mounted behind a trooper, Sarsfi eld’s cocked pistol at 
 one ear, Galloping Hogan’s at the other, and both, he was given 
 to understand, ready to be used in case of treachery, or even 
 want of zeal, with indifferent good effect. So that, although 
 a stanch Williamite, Master Cecil found himself compelled to 
 guide the Lucan horse towards Killaloe ford, on James’s service. 
 
 Up from Ballycorney Bridge, the five hundred Lucan horse 
 again clattered, just as a waning moon began to rise, and faintly 
 show a somewhat more open and expansive view than had hitherto 
 been afforded. It showed the river curving through valleys and 
 plains ; the near mountains coming out, as they half caught the 
 weak light, into greater varieties of form ; crossing and intersecting 
 each other ; above all, the bold summit of the Crag Hill. While 
 to the right, over the river, Sarsfield and Evelyn, directed by 
 Hogan, beheld the gloomy range of mountains, situated in the 
 county of Tipperary, towards which they were in motion, and 
 which, at earlier periods of their forced march, could have been 
 seen, were it daylight, or, as was now beginning to be the case, 
 even moonlight. 
 
 “ And there they are,” said Hogan, “ Llieve Iellum—that Is, 
 the mountains of Iellum, an ancient prince of the district. Im¬ 
 properly, and as my worthy instructor often told me when I was 
 a boy at my book, ungrammatically called Slieve Bloom, Slieve 
 being the singular. Also fitly termed Dho knock-dhee-og , or 
 the twelve hills, there being that number remarkable above the 
 rest, by reason of natural size and importance.” 
 
 Scarcely attending to the Rapparee’s half-heard topography, 
 Sarsfield watchfully followed in the steps of his new guide, often 
 urging him to increase his speed. Again the wild and wayward 
 road, after precipitously descending to Ballyheige brook, made 
 many turns and sweeps, each alternately showing, like the sud¬ 
 den changes of a panorama, close and stupendously-open scenes. 
 Until, at last, Killaloe appeared in sight, partly on an eminence 
 before them. Not more than a hundred yards further on the 
 left, was a broad spread of the Shannon, called Lough Dier- 
 gart, shining in the more matured moonlight, and encompassed 
 by numerous curving hills, of which some of the bases dipped 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 499 
 
 into the placid water, particularly that of the bold and barren 
 crag. While a dark clump of trees, just at the shore, marked 
 the spot where, it is said, Brian Bourhoidhe had his patrimonial 
 castle. 
 
 Swiftly came the formidable party into the little town of 
 Killaloe, frightening to their doors or windows, and then back 
 again to their beds or hiding-places, the startled and marvelling 
 inhabitants. Evelyn scarce had time to cast his eye over the 
 venerable, though by no means splendid cathedral, which he had 
 heard was built in 1165, by Donald O’Brien, King of Lum- 
 neach (Limerick), or to notice, near to it, a curious old struc¬ 
 ture, with a slanting stone roof, of which he had also heard, 
 and which an English-Irish antiquary has since pronounced to 
 be a specimen of the earliest Christian temples constructed in 
 Ireland. Sarsfield, not allowing a moment’s pause, obliged 
 young Master Cecil to lead the way over the Shannon, at a ford 
 some yards above the present bridge of Killaloe, and then com¬ 
 manded by a fort and battery. Half an hour before midnight, 
 all his people had safely crossed into the county of Tipperary. 
 And still, without breathing, the whole sortie was continued, 
 over hill and hollow, dwarfishly wooded, or boggy and barren, 
 the Llieve Iellum hills now very near, with their black and mas¬ 
 sive despot, the Keeper, frowning prominently amid all. 
 
 About two miles might have been passed, after crossing the 
 Shannon, when the party had to dash over an angry mountain- 
 brook, that ran through a deep-wooded hollow, receding, blackly 
 and mysteriously, to their right and left. Ere Hogan and Con 
 M’Donnell led the way, they hastily pulled up at the stream’s 
 edge ; and while the dumb man gesticulated violently, the Rap- 
 paree captain gave a shrill whistle. Sarsfield could scarce de¬ 
 mand the cause of a signal that somewhat startled him, when it 
 was caught up and repeated again and again, all through the 
 recesses of the hollows ; and more than a hundred men were 
 seen breaking through the wood on every side, or running up and 
 down the chafing brook, in motion towards Hogan. Aware of 
 the occasional treachery of the Rapparees to friends, as well as 
 foes, Sarsfield looked close, half suspecting an ambush of the 
 regular enemy. But a moment’s observation told him he was 
 approached by the same kind of half-naked, though fully-armed 
 people, who had garrisoned Aherina Castle. And when they 
 had all gathered round, he was further relieved by noticing their 
 inferiority in number to his own troop. 
 
500 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ It’s only an outpost, gineral,” remarked Hogan, perhaps in 
 reply to Sarsfield’s looks. “ For howsomever safe we may be 
 among these hills, betther sure than sorry is our word. Is all 
 right at the camp V ’ to the young fellow who seemed to com¬ 
 mand the wild party. 
 
 “ All’s right,” answered the lad ; “ we expected you. Tak’ a 
 score of my men to lead ye on—they ken the road best.” 
 
 Hogan assented. With “ bannacth-lath,” and “gude-night till 
 ye,” the two Rapparee officers parted. 
 
 “ Stop !” cried Evelyn ; “surely I know that voice. Here is 
 the good-fellow, General Sarsfield, I have come to see—” 
 
 “ No stopping if you plase, masther,” answered Hogan, in¬ 
 creasing his gallop, to cross the defile which, since their days, 
 goes by the name of Labba-dhy-ah , or bed of thieves. 
 
 “ Perhaps you are not aware, sir,” continued Evelyn, “ that 
 you have just seen the conqueror of the doughty Galloping 
 Hogan—Yamen-ac-knuck.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! that slight boy ?” asked Sarsfield, incredulously. 
 
 “ Take care you know what you’re saying, masther,” observed 
 Hogan, in reply to Evelyn. 
 
 “Why, you spoke of Yamen-ac-knuck. And that lad I know 
 to be he.” 
 
 “ Onct upon a time, maybe so, masther. But it’s a name that 
 sarves many’s the one, now-a-days.” 
 
 “ What 1” cried Evelyn, quickly associating some former in¬ 
 cidents, and passing suspicions, “is Yamen-ac-knuck another 
 person, then ?”— 
 
 “ Wait a bit,” answered Hogan. “ I thank my God I have 
 something dacenter to show for the story I tould, than sich a 
 scratch-cat as that.” 
 
 “ But tell me,” resumed Evelyn, much excited, “ what is the 
 real name of your general ?” 
 
 ‘ It’s hard to tell what a body doesn’t know, masther.” 
 
 “ Well, only another word, did he fight at the Boyne ?” 
 
 “ I tould you so, afore, masther.” 
 
 “ Supporting Sheldon’s horse ?” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, I’m thinking.” 
 
 “Then I have, indeed, seen him!” thought Evelyn; “and 
 every way that lying girl has deceived me ! Thank God !” 
 Not clearly knowing why he felt such joy, at all events in refer¬ 
 ence to his connection with Eva, Evelyn rode on in high spirits, 
 and in earnest and agitating expectations. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 601 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 u From Limerick, that day, bould Sarsfield dashed away, 
 
 Until he came to Cullen, where their artillery lay; 
 
 The Lord cleared up the firmament, the moon and stars shone 
 bright, 
 
 And for the Battle of the Boyne he had revenge that night." 
 
 Irish Ballad. 
 
 Still (as since they crossed the Shannon they had done) press¬ 
 ing over small hills, diving into hollows, and splashing through 
 brooks, the road now seemiug to wind off from a forward course, 
 now coming upon it again, the party, after midnight, saw a 
 partial illumination in the atmosphere, and presently arrived at 
 the place of their temporary destination. 
 
 From a considerable eminence, they descended into a flat of 
 black, boggy ground, encircled by a chain of low hills, thickly 
 wooded, and overtopped by the sombre and shadowy forms of 
 distant mountains. A round, stagnant lough, spreading over 
 about three acres, was in the middle of the bottom thus hemmed 
 in and embowered: again, the lough inclosed a little round island, 
 of about a quarter of an acre. By the verge of the water, Eve¬ 
 lyn indistinctly saw groups of rude huts. Similar edifices seemed 
 huddled together on the island, one of superior size rising over 
 the rest. Other dark masses, stationary, or in a slow and waver¬ 
 ing motion, gave indication of the human occupants of this sol¬ 
 itary and dreary scene. Indeed, at his first glance, every thing 
 was but vaguely distinguished by Evelyn. Lurid gleams from 
 the huts, or, here and there, an expiring fire alone relieved the 
 surrounding objects, animate or inanimate, for the rising moon 
 was almost wholly excluded. From the middle of the island, 
 solely, spread the somewhat superior blaze that, faintly reflected 
 in the atmosphere, had, at a little distance, intimated his approach 
 to the grand headquarters of the Rapparees. The changes 
 wrought by time have since dried up the little lough ; but its 
 site is well known among the hills. Any traveller as adventurous 
 as Sarsfield, or ourselves, may still find the place we describe 
 pointed out *o him as, in former days, the freebooter's haunt. 
 
 From the swampy nature of the ground, horses could not 
 approach the lough. All, accordingly, dismounted ; and while 
 liogau engaged that the greater number of the dragoons should, 
 
502 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 under his eye, oe well looked after, Sarsfield and Evelyn, led by 
 Con M’Donnell, and accompanied but by a few of their own 
 men, stealthily paced onward. The living masses now began to 
 thicken around : cautious whisperings and low talking came 
 from persons they could not see. But when, at the edge of the 
 water, Con M’Donnell uttered a wild cry, as if giving a signal 
 to the island, they were instantly surrounded by hordes of shock¬ 
 headed Rapparees, now more discernible in the chief light that 
 shone across the lough. Some of them wore portions of the 
 uniform of almost every regiment, on both sides, in Ireland ; 
 some, the rags of the common coat, vest, and breeches, generally 
 adopted by the peasantry of the south ; and some, nothing but 
 a profusion of coarse gray cloth, ludicrously emulative of the 
 cut of a topcoat, but which hung in easy folds around their 
 naked limbs, its arms never used, dangling before or behind, as 
 we see to be the case with some of the costume at present in 
 esteem amongst a portion of his majesty’s horse-soldiers. Of 
 those whose appearance was most en militaire, a steel cap, with 
 a projection about the ears and back of the wearer, something 
 like a London dustman’s hat of our day, was worn by a fellow 
 who, except his flowing great coat, appeared otherwise naked. 
 The breast-piece of a dragoon adorned another, upon whose head 
 was no covering of any kind. A high conical grenadier’s cap 
 was sported by a third, joined to a horseman’s buff jacket, or 
 else a fine fringed and embroidered French vest. Or, haply, a 
 fragile hat and plume, that once graced the brows of gentle 
 maiden or matron, now unfitly, and with some hideous intima¬ 
 tion of the way in which it had been obtained, flapped and 
 waved over the harsh and grimacing features of a fourth. The 
 legs and feet of all had, indeed, one common uniform—Adam’s, 
 when he was innocent. The wild people, grinning graciously and 
 ducking low to Sarsfield, shaking hands with his few attending 
 dragoons, or capering and prancing round them, broke towards 
 our party from the dark groups hitherto seen around ; or sprang 
 up, in knots, from the ground ; or galloped out of their low huts, 
 hastily and iuartificially constructed with stakes of bogwood 
 branches of trees, turf, and rushes. Their attentions grew dis 
 agreeable, if not startling, until the signal being answered by 
 hoisting something like a flag over the principal edifice on the 
 island, the strangers were approached by a rude raft, made first 
 of a kind of wickerwork, on a large scale, and then covered with 
 sods and leaves. At a glance, Evelyn knew Rory-na-chopple to 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 503 
 
 be the pilot of this singlar machine. Nor was Rory slow in dis¬ 
 cerning him, and in manifesting his recognition, at the same time 
 that he did his devoirs to Sarsfield. Con M’Donnell stood, until 
 the raft touched the mainland, regarding this civility with mani¬ 
 fest displeasure and impatience ; when Rory was within reach of 
 his signs, he seemed to reprehend, severely and authoritatively, 
 all show of welcome to Evelyn. A few seconds brought them 
 with their dragoons over the lough. Here the dumb man took 
 Sarsfield’s arm, as politely as he knew how, but very abruptly ; 
 hurried him towards the middle of the island, motioning Rory to 
 take Evelyn in charge. Onward both pressed, followed by the 
 dragoons, towards the larger hut, crowds of Rapparees still di¬ 
 viding to let them pass, or following them with clamorous greet¬ 
 ings. Evelyn at last found himself in a spacious kind of bower, 
 constructed more carefully and daintily than the other huts, but 
 occupied only by some of the higher class of Rapparees, whose 
 faces he had before seen in his own house, and affording him no 
 view of the person his heart had been panting to look upon. 
 
 One part of the sylvan walls which surrounded him was cov¬ 
 ered, to the height of a man, with a rude tapestry of otter and 
 fox skins, attached together, and as, at its sides, some vivid and 
 steady light came through, Evelyn supposed it led into another 
 apartment. Nor was he mistaken. When Con M’Dounell had 
 graciously forced Sarsfield to a seat, and bent upon Evelyn 
 another dangerous scowl, he rapidly strode across the floor, 
 flung aside the arras of skins, which, catching upon the woven 
 wall, remained apart, after his rough motion, thus allowing a 
 view of the interior. Then he approached a man, who, seated 
 sideways at a small rough table, Evelyn at once recognized. 
 
 At once, although a new and extraordinary change had come 
 over face and bearing. Of the round-cheeked, fresh-colored, 
 ingenuous boy he had appeared when Evelyn first saw him in 
 his father’s thatched house, in Glenarriff, not a trace, alas! re¬ 
 mained : that character, however, Evelyn could not expect to see. 
 But the manly and soldierly dash of Edmund during their after¬ 
 rencounter, in Little Deer-park, had also vanished. Yet this, 
 too, the friend recollected, seemed long ago to have as fully 
 yielded to the almost savage sternness that followed the death 
 of Esther, and the degradation of poor M’Donnell from his 
 place in Lord Antrim’s regiment. And at length Evelyn only 
 wondered to behold the very latest change he had witnessed now 
 occupied by another, as novel as it was deeply interesting and 
 
504 
 
 THE BOYNE WATE2. 
 
 imposing. Edmund M’Donnell, before bis z,tf5P.lics ' >as roused 
 by the near approach of his uncle, had set oa'm 'a& quiescent 
 at the little table, every limb and feature cor.pv><l. His cheek, 
 no longer red and full in boyhood, nor yet pele and worn with 
 sorrow and despair, had a brown, healthy color ; no wrinkles of 
 passion or grief furrowed his fair and ample forehead. His eye, 
 which Evelyn first knew a quick and flashing eye, and afterwards 
 a deep and glaring one, was at rest; his mouth, that used tc 
 breathe with quick thought, or curl out, open and haughtily, 
 was gently shut, its lips forming, in profile, the graceful curves 
 that statuaries love to copy. In a word, all was quietness about 
 him ; he looked a calm, unruffled, reflective man. And, unless 
 such calmness itself give a kind of sternness, Edmund M’Donnell, 
 though with the alias of a formidable freebooter to his name, 
 was no longer stern. 
 
 When ne perceived his uncle’s near approach, he extended his 
 hands, and the dumb man fell on his nephew’s neck. In a few 
 minutes they made signs to each other, and Edmund seemed first 
 interested, and then slightly agitated. He pointed to the rude 
 arras, looking towards some person hitherto unseen within. A 
 light foot approached the opening ; a small hand grasped the 
 arras. Evelyn’s heart swelled to his throat—he was satisfied. 
 The features that rapidly peered into the outer room could not 
 be mistaken ; one only glance he had ; the arras fell, and he 
 was left in torture. 
 
 A considerable pause ensued. At last, Con M’Donnell re¬ 
 appeared through the opening, not now leaving it apart, how¬ 
 ever, and beckoned Sarsfield, while, in an ill-humor of a different 
 kind from that he had before manifested, he once more frowned 
 on Evelyn. The general arose at his bidding ; both disappeared 
 into the interior of the hut ; and Evelyn was left to the atten¬ 
 tions, anecdotes, and characteristic humor of Rory-na-choppel 
 and his fellows. Two well-armed body-guards taking up their 
 posts at either side of the opening. 
 
 After another long pause, Sarsfield came out to Evelyn, and 
 took him aside. 
 
 “ Here is a singular discovery,” he said ; “ this doughty free¬ 
 booter proves to be ai old friend, in whom we are both inter¬ 
 ested.” 
 
 “ I know it, sir,” replied Evelyn, with a groan. “ I have seen 
 him.” 
 
 “ Something seems to have happened between ye that causes 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 505 
 
 him to wish you should not come in his way. His dumb rela¬ 
 tive even urged worse measures towards you, and is angry at 
 their being declined. I seek not to learn your private affairs ; 
 but if you dislike to rest in this hut for the remainder of the 
 night, I shall get you sent across the lough to the care of my 
 dragoons—what say you ?” 
 
 “I fear it not, sir ; I will rest where I am ; but I thank you. 
 As to M’Donnell’s whim—” 
 
 “ Hush 1” interrupted Sarsfield—“ all mention of a name, 
 which he seems anxious to have forgotten, is, in your present 
 situation, dangerous.” 
 
 “ I care not, sir. I was about to say, that whatever may be 
 the supposed ground of his hostility to me, I am ignorant of it, 
 and also assured of its cruelty and injustice.” 
 
 “ Well, well ; to-morrow may give you more explanation. 
 Good-night. I rest, by invitation, in the interior of this wild 
 house—good-night.” 
 
 In a few moments after Sarsfield had finallv withdrawn, a 
 number of women, old and young, entered the hut, bearing in 
 their arms bundles of heath and rushes, and proceeded to arrange 
 couches round the sides of the outer apartment. Two of them, 
 muffled in the deep-hooded, old Irish mantle, officiated as Evelyn’s 
 chambermaids. For some time he saw nothing of the features 
 of either ; but towards the conclusion of their hasty work, the 
 hood of one fell back, and showed him a visage he had cause to 
 know well—that of Moya Laherty. He started, and almost 
 cried out. Moya quickly pulled up her hood, and flew out of 
 the hut. The other woman cautiously glancing round, came 
 close, and he knew Onagh. With more meaning and quietness 
 of manner than he had ever seen her evince, she pressed her 
 finger on her lip and whispering, “ Be prudent, and you have a 
 friend,” followed her companion. 
 
 It was now daydawn. The Bapparees and the dragoons 
 around him settled themselves to take a few hours’ sleep. Eve¬ 
 lyn also lay on his fresh heather, but not for repose. Of the 
 present fate of Eva he at last felt certain. Even supposing 
 Moya Laherty’s story of her having been carried off by Kirke 
 from Glenarriff, as wholly untrue—(and after the proofs he had 
 got of the girl’s wilful falsehoods in other respects, little credit 
 could be attached to her in this)—still was Eva so degraded by 
 her former and present associations and acts, that she could no 
 longer be thought of with any feeling but one of pity and sorrow 
 
 22 
 
506 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 ful regret. The mystery of her sudden departure, alone and 
 unprotected, from Dublin, on the night of its evacuation by the 
 Irish, was now explained. Her rapid and alarming change of 
 character, upon the first occasion he had seen her in Dublin 
 Castle, from the fascinating maid of honor, into the disguised 
 rider who had passed him at Essex-gate, also seemed fully 
 accounted for. Upon the news of the landing of William, she 
 had hastened to join her Rapparee brother at the Boyne ; and 
 Evelyn could not doubt that her attendance upon the Lady 
 Lieutenant was artfully contrived by Edmund and herself in 
 furtherance of some private views. Then, the warmth with 
 which she had chidden James for deserting the field of battle, 
 seemed naturally to spring from a person who had been an actual 
 spectator of the struggle, and who had arrived from the ground, 
 perhaps at the same moment with himself, agitated by fresh and 
 glowing recollections, and by all the indignant sentiments they 
 would call up in such a bosom as Eva’s. In a word, it was now 
 made certain to Evelyn, that, from the moment their house had 
 been burnt, and their father murdered, M’Donnell and his im¬ 
 petuous sister had abandoned themselves to a desperate course 
 of arbitrary revenge. 
 
 As to the hostility manifested by Edmund towards him, he 
 regarded it as nothing more than affectation, adopted for the 
 purpose of keeping up, between them and him, an eternal sepa¬ 
 ration, which they had at first wantonly caused, and for which 
 their hearts told them there was now an insuperable neces¬ 
 sity. 
 
 Bodily fatigue beguiled him from distressing reflections into a 
 sound sleep, from which he did not awake until roused by Sars- 
 field, at rather an advanced hour in the morning. Starting up, 
 he saw the hut deserted by the Rapparees, while a loud noise of 
 bustle reached him from abroad. 
 
 “ If you are willing to try your chance for a further satisfac¬ 
 tion of your own affairs, by following me in my route, arise, 
 break your fast, and prepare to start into the mountains,” said 
 the general. 
 
 Evelyn thanked him ; not presuming to ask a word concerning 
 Sarsfield’s expedition, although, so far as he was able to consider 
 any thing apart from his private concerns, it deeply interested him. 
 They partook of some coarse food together ; and accompanied 
 by Hogan and Rory-na-choppel, crossed the lough to join the 
 main body of dragoons. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 507 
 
 Arrived amongst them, they found a great uproar. The men 
 stated that their horses had been allowed to stray away over¬ 
 night, and were now not at hand. 
 
 “ Is that all ?" asked Hogan ; “ here's one to remedy the evil. 
 To work, Rory." 
 
 “ Musha, yes, then, wid the little janious God ga' me and 
 off he rapidly shuffled, disappearing over some near eminences. 
 
 In a few moments the Whisperer was seen coming back, lead¬ 
 ing by their bridles or halters, a crowd of the dragoons' horses, 
 while more followed in the rear, without any compulsion. 
 
 “ An' ye can thry wid them for a start, till we go a bit far¬ 
 ther aff," he said, giving up his prisoners, and again disappearing, 
 only again to return with more. Until, after repeated sallies, 
 every dragoon again possessed his steed, and with Sarsfield at 
 their head, and still guided by Hogan, all were ready to move 
 forward. 
 
 “ Your general certainly follows with his force ?'' asked Sars¬ 
 field of Hogan, as they got into motion. 
 
 “ As sure as Keeper Hill, that you now see before you, gen¬ 
 eral, so remarkable in size and consideration, over the surrounding 
 hills. Somewhat like a man of great natural stature at the head 
 of a crowd of less favored comrades." 
 
 After about a mile's journeying, the objects Hogan had, with 
 some self-complacency, in his illustration, been describing, more 
 fully confronted Evelyn. The party had ascended and descended 
 over many successive eminences, and deviating from their last 
 available strip of road, now really approached the mountains. 
 To their left rose, indeed, the great Keeper Hill, aptly called, 
 whether through chance or design, the giant of his range ; black, 
 barren, and desolate. A vast mass, showing rather bold round¬ 
 ness, than picturesque grandeur of form ; with no white or gray 
 rocks, or patches of green, breaking the sombre monotony of his 
 heathery mantle ; and altogether filling and oppressing the mind 
 with an idea of terrible loneliness. Opposite to him was his 
 sole near rival—a rival in contrasted shape only—Glancoolla 
 Mountain, with steep, craggy sides, its outline sharp and varied, 
 while that of Keeper was round and full. But although a more 
 beautiful object, and, withal, a stupendous one, yielding in im¬ 
 posing effect to its uncouth and frowning opponent. 
 
 Behind Keeper rose the black heads of other hills of the re¬ 
 ceding range ; hill after hill, at different distances. Between 
 him and Glancoolla, sweeping to the left of the party, was the 
 
508 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 desolate Talley through which they were to pursue their 
 course. 
 
 Although somewhat acquainted with mountain scenery, per¬ 
 haps on a larger scale than even what now lay before him, Eve¬ 
 lyn’s first impression on glancing along those bleak and inhospi¬ 
 table hill-sides, and on seeing peak after peak rise up in the only 
 direction he had to go, was one of instinctive shrinking, if not 
 of terror. And the faces of the dragoons around seemed to 
 sympathize with him. But he was allowed little time to com¬ 
 bat such vain feelings. The galloping Rapparee plunged boldly 
 from the last road-track to be found in this uninhabited district, 
 upon the soft and pathless sward, that henceforth was to be their 
 only footing. Onward the numerous party moved, slowly, and 
 in silence as deep as that of the desert they explored 
 
 Immediate dispatch did not seem the object of Sarsfield. On 
 the contrary, from what Evelyn could casually collect, the gen¬ 
 eral rather appeared to linger on the way, so as not to reach a 
 certain point until evening. Tardily, therefore, notwithstanding 
 the expostulations of Hogan, was the wild way pursued, until, 
 after getting imperceptibly at the other side of Keeper Hill, 
 Hogan, turning in his saddle, pointed out to Sarsfield the Rap- 
 parecs, headed by Edmund M’Donnell, following at a distance 
 in their track. Evelyn, also turning, saw, upon the side of a 
 mighty hill, a small, dark mass, scarcely in observable motion, 
 and looking rather like a flock of birds, than a body of men. 
 Yet, on Hogan’s assurances, he beheld a body not inferior in 
 number to Sarsfielcl’s dragoons. 
 
 On he winded, with his companions, through valleys, black, 
 barren, and silent, into one of which, particularized by Hogan, 
 it was asserted that the stars or moon scarce ever sent a ray to 
 break the utter blackness of night in its pent-up recesses. On, 
 over mountain-stream and river, sometimes crossing, twice or 
 thrice, different wild windings of the same foamy water. On, 
 over rugged defiles and torn gullies; now along the bottom of 
 a glen, where not a breath of air was felt, and now by the ridge 
 of a hill where the wind was high and gusty. Some hours after 
 noon they halted, and sat down in the shadow of their solitude, 
 to eat food with which the Rapparees had supplied them, and to 
 slake their thirst at the mountain-stream. To horse again. And 
 again through a continuation, little varied, of the same kind of 
 scenery. Until, towards evening, when beginning to descend to 
 their left, in order to ford a considerable stream, they at last got, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 505 
 
 through a vista in the mountains, a cheery, though distant 
 glimpse of the open country, bathed in the rich evening sun¬ 
 light that could scarce steal one blessed ray into the wilds they 
 had been travelling, and which still partially encompassed them. 
 
 “We are near upon a halt, general,” said Hogan, at this 
 point. “ Under us winds the Belbow River, which we have 
 twice crossed to-day. And on the top of the ascent, at its 
 other side, is the gap that will lead you down into the flat coun¬ 
 try, and so on to Ballyneedy. More betoken, you can get a 
 good observation across to that point, from the gap, if, as 1 take 
 to be the case, you have come provided with your glass.” 
 
 The river was soon crossed. At the bottom of the acclivity 
 which Hogan described as rising from it to the gap, Sarsfield 
 ordered his people to halt. 
 
 “ Let every man dismount,” he said, “ and ease the bit and 
 the saddle of his horse, and get him such provender as the hill¬ 
 side affords, with all other possible refreshment, for some hours. 
 After the nightfall there will be work in hand. But now, Cap¬ 
 tain Rapparee,” taking him aside, “ where is the messenger you 
 promised from the Cashel road ?” 
 
 “ He ought to have met us here, general ; and had we sent 
 one of our own reglars, doubtless there could not be a disap¬ 
 pointment, even for a moment. But, as I informed you, the 
 enemy has of late grown so wary of us, and so possessed of our 
 feints and subtle practices, that we feared to dispatch any but a 
 poor wandering blind man, whose simplicity none mi^ht suspect, 
 but who is still a real friend of our general.” 
 
 “A blind man to look out, sir 1” said Sarsfield. 
 
 “Marvel not, sir,” replied Hogan, “he has a leader that will 
 help him—an own son of Quartermaster Rory-na-choppel. And, 
 though rather behindhand, here they come, together.” 
 
 Evelyn, quickly turning his eyes up to the top of the ascent, 
 saw, just issuing over its line, his old friend Carolan, led by the 
 imp whom we have first beheld trotting after the heels of the 
 Whisperer, upon the memorable morning when Edmund McDon¬ 
 nell purchased his own colt from one of the agents of that re¬ 
 spectable dealer. 
 
 “ Let us meet him on the rise,” continued Sarsfield. Then 
 turning to his people : “ No man shall mount this hill after us, 
 nor in any way expose himself to observation from the open 
 country. Come, Captain Hogan. Choose you to enjoy a 
 pleasing prospect, Mr. Evelyn ?” 
 
510 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Very anxious to have speech of the harper, Evelyn readily as- 
 sented. Sarsfield, Hogan, and he met Carolan a little under 
 the top of the gap. 
 
 “ God save ye,” cried the blind man, as they came up. 
 
 “ God save you, kindly,” answered Hogan. 
 
 “ That will do,” resumed Carolan, “ I know you.” 
 
 “ Well, any tidings from the road ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; approaching them for food and alms, I spoke with 
 them, last night, on their way to Cullen. They will halt, as we 
 suspected, over against you, at Ballyneedy, this night.” 
 
 “ How many of ’em ?” 
 
 “ A good number of horse. But, have a care. Though they 
 have no wind of your intentions, I will not say as much for some 
 in the camp at Limerick. If the great Sarsfield is here, tell 
 him so.” 
 
 “ Say you so ?” asked the person alluded to. 
 
 “I do, sir ; and my humble duty to you, noble general,” an¬ 
 swered the harper, his face glowing. 
 
 Sarsfield paused a moment, then resumed : 
 
 “Well ; think you they will soon come up, good Carolan? 
 ’Tis now past six of the clock, and, on such a service, they should 
 be near their halt for the night.” 
 
 “ They cannot be far off, sir.” 
 
 “ Let us look out for them, theiv Come, Mr. Evelyn.” 
 
 As they left him, Carolan sat down on the shelving hill; his 
 guide creeping down to the dragoons. 
 
 “We should be cautious here, gentlemen,” continued Sars¬ 
 field, ere they had quite gained the opening into the distant 
 country. “ I pray you do as I do ; the slanting sun shines 
 brightly, and his beams flashing from steel-cap or breast-piece, 
 may be caught and interpreted, by experienced eyes, at a fair 
 distance.” He doffed the warlike articles of which he had made 
 mention ; hid them in the heather, and, advancing up the ascent 
 in a bent posture, lay on his breast, as soon as his eyes came on 
 a level with the line of the gap ; Evelyn and Hogan, as they had 
 been commanded, imitating his actions. 
 
 They had scarce cast their eyes abroad, when Sarsfield mut¬ 
 tered, “The harper is right; I see them.” 
 
 It was the last brilliant half-hour of a rich August evening. 
 They looked westward, over a gradually falling country, bounded 
 by the distant Galteigh mountains, at whose back the sun was 
 about to set, amid a glorious confusion of gold and scarlet clouds, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 511 
 
 go that every picturesque peak and curve of the imposing group, 
 cut sharply against so vivid a background. Almost immediately 
 opposite to the Galteighs, and rather to the left of our friends, 
 ran the nearer Llieve Iellum hills, rising and receding, one above 
 another, the Keeper still prominent at the western extremity of 
 his line, and a hill next to him in magnitude, and called Maugher- 
 na-Llayd , or the “ Mother of the Mountains,” rising about the 
 middle of the range. Thence, towards the west, the land gradu¬ 
 ally fell, broken by little inequalities, and relieved by some near 
 hills. Directly facing the gap (which has been called from Sars- 
 field’s coming exploit, Lac/cen-na-choppel, or “ the hill of the 
 horses”) stood, upon an abrupt eminence, at about the distance 
 of five miles in a straight line, the ruined castle of Ballyneedy, 
 backed by the Galteighs. Towards this castle, regardless ot 
 every other feature of the scene, the general’s anxious glances 
 were directed. 
 
 “ I see them,” he repeated, “ even with the naked eye. Mark 
 how plainly their caps and swords gleam in the sunshine (proving 
 our precaution here a good one), as they wind over yonder ascent, 
 towards the castle.” 
 
 “ That ascent is called the Hill of Cullen,” observed Hogan, 
 “lying between Cullen village and Ballyneedy. Now for a 
 closer observation,” taking out, as Sarsfield also used his glass, a 
 telescope that Evelyn recognized as having once been his own 
 property. “ Ay, there they are ; some troops of Yillier’s horse, 
 sure enough; their gun-carriages, ammunition wagons, and pro¬ 
 vision carts covering the whole height, and going off behind it. 
 They halt now, to encamp. No. It’s only the rear has halted 
 to post a sentinel, I think. Yes, now the man is left alone, and 
 they move down the hill to Ballyneedy.” 
 
 “ There will be another sentinel at the ford of Bally vsenouge, 
 outside Cullen,” continued Hogan, after a pause, “ and another, 
 if not a regular picket, in the village itself.” 
 
 A considerable silence ensued, Sarsfield not uttering a word ; 
 but—his brows knitted into an earnest frown—keeping the dis¬ 
 tant foe covered with his glass, measuring and dwelling on them, 
 as the wild beast might glare, unseen, upon the prey he devotes to 
 destruction. 
 
 At length, without removing his glass, “ Ay,” he said, abruptly, 
 as if only speaking to himself, “ yonder are the guns with which 
 William reckons to batter down the old walls of Limerick about 
 our ears. But stone of Limerick wall they shall never splinter.” 
 
512 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Another long pause, which Hogan broke. “ They now wind 
 along the side of Bally needy Hill, I believe, general,” he said ; 
 “ yes, and now they collect their heavy train, some little distance 
 under the castle, and like a prudent escort, settle themselves 
 round it. While a few—their officers, I reckon—walk up to 
 rest, for the night, in the ould ruin.” 
 
 “ Ay, for the night and the day, too, good Captain Rapparee,” 
 coolly muttered Sarsfield, still only thinking out, although he 
 seemed to address himself to Hogan. “ But my glass serves 
 no longer. The sun is down behind Galteigh-More ; and it 
 darkens rather much for an observation of five miles across. And 
 yet not dark enough to be doing. Hark ! this bustle below an¬ 
 nounces, I suppose, the coming up of your commander.” 
 
 Hogan assented, and went down the steep to greet his gen¬ 
 eral. Sarsfield sat up, where he had hitherto lain prostrate, and 
 still kept his eyes fixed on Ballyneedy. Evelyn could see him 
 sometimes frown with impatience, sometimes smile sternly, as, 
 doubtless, the picture of anticipated triumph rose vividly to his 
 imagination. 
 
 “ How tediously the night comes on!” he said ; “ we wanted 
 not so dainty an evening. Tempest-clouds that would, before 
 this hour, have blotted out the gaudy sun, were better for our 
 purpose.” 
 
 Just then, the little encampment on Ballyneedy began to light 
 their watch-fires. And as, one by one, the red beams twinkled 
 over the bosom of the distant ascent, and at the base of the old 
 castle—fixing, by contrast, the character of night around them 
 —Sarsfield seemed more content. 
 
 Soon, and he started to his feet. Hogan reapproached him. 
 He called to the Rapparee for his cap and breast-piece. He 
 donned them rapidly. Evelyn could see him pale with the anx¬ 
 iety and depth of his purpose. 
 
 “ Lead up my dragoons,” he cried. They surrounded him in 
 a few minutes, ready mounted. He vaulted into his own saddle. 
 
 “ I rely on your general to move down, and cover my retreat, 
 at the proper signal,” he continued. 
 
 “ He faithfully promises,” answered Hogan. 
 
 “ Well, you guide us, still.” 
 
 “ Himself, an’ another, that’s handy, accordin’ to the little 
 janious the Lord gave him,” answered the Whisperer, advancing, 
 most awkwardly seated on a tall garrou, to Hogan’s side. 
 
 “ Lead on then the two Rapparees rode out of the gap. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 513 
 
 44 Lucan men, forward ! Forward, to an action of some pith. 
 Prove me your mettle, now, and Ireland shall speak of us ! 
 Ride—for our king and our couutry ! But hush ! no shouting 
 yet—follow me, in silence.” 
 
 He led them through the gap towards the open country, and 
 Evelyn was left alone on the top of the ascent. After some 
 time, a man approached him, slowly and cautiously. In the al¬ 
 most matured shadows of night, Evelyn could only distinguish 
 a human figure. It labored up the ascent, pausing at every step. 
 Arrived at the gap, it stood erect and still ; and then a well- 
 known voice spoke. 
 
 44 Ay, they are gone to their work. How lonesome the silence 
 is I Ah,” sighing deeply, 44 eyes would be the greatest of God’s 
 blessings, now, to see the terrible ending of it. Is there any one 
 here, with me ?” 
 
 44 Carolan—dear Carolan !” cried Evelyn, approaching. 
 
 44 Sir ! sir 1” exclaimed the blind man, in mingled surprise and 
 coldness— 44 1 did not think to hear you answer : and now, the 
 sooner we part, the better.” 
 
 44 Why ?” asked Evelyn ; 44 how have 1 lost your friendship ?” 
 
 44 Shame upon the question, sir ; ask your heart.” 
 
 “ Heavens 1 what can be the import of all this ? You, at 
 least, Carolan, are not whimsical, and, without a reason, cruel— 
 answer me, then 1 In what way do you suppose I have been 
 unworthy ? 
 
 44 Oh, Mr. Evelyn, can I believe my ears to hear you speak 
 these words, that only make you guilty, over and over, of a 
 double treachery ?” 
 
 44 Mau!” cried Evelyn, “have a care what you say—yet, no— 
 you must be sincere in whatever you say. Forgive my warmth, 
 and only answer in pity and mercy, the question I have put. 
 Tell me, in a word, how have I fallen in your good opinion ?” 
 
 44 Oh, sir, how, but by leaving to sorrow and ruin the friends 
 of my heart—by bringing down the last desolation on her who”— 
 he clasped his hands, and his eyes turned upward— 44 who is the 
 best angel out of heaven’s house, this night.” 
 
 44 Monstrous 1”—retorted Evelyn— 44 explain this, Carolan— 
 here is some mistake inconceivable to me—what! I injure—I 
 distress her !—Carolan, hearken to me. It is they have wronged 
 me, and plunged themselves into ruin. It is they have made me 
 the most sorrowful and desolate man that walks the earth. Dear 
 Carolan, I am belied and abused together 1” 
 
 22 * 
 
514 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Master Evelyn, do not say it—for you cannot impose it <m 
 me—I have heard the proof—•” 
 
 “Of what ?—what proof?—speak out!” 
 
 “ And mean you, indeed, to deny, sir,” continued Carolan, 
 something affected by Evelyn’s impetuosity—■“ mean you to 
 deny—” 
 
 “ Peace, Carolan,” interrupted Edmund M’Donnell, who, for 
 4ome time, had listened, unseen, to the conversation. The tones 
 of his voice were deep but tranquil, mild though commanding— 
 “1 learned you were near Master Evelyn—I feared you might 
 meet him, and that your soft nature would condescend to an 
 explanation, one word, one breath of which, were wrong and 
 insult to me. Therefore, I am here to request your further 
 silence. Nay, your company down the hill—take my arm.” 
 
 " M’Donnell 1” Evelyn cried, as they moved; Edmund 
 slightly started ; but, recovering himself, continued to walk away. 
 A second time his old friend pronounced the name he had been 
 warned not to sound ; still no notice was taken ; a third time— 
 11 M’Donnell, M’Donnell 1” he repeated loudly. At last Edmund 
 stopped; parted from Carolan ; again faced towards the gap; 
 and advancing on Evelyn with a heavy step— 
 
 “ Sir,” he began, in a low, measured voice that half hissed 
 through his teeth—“ I come back, not in answer to the name 
 you call me by, but the rather to warn you what I will believe 
 you do not know. That its utterance, among these hills—the 
 utterance of a name now lost—taken from me by—no matter 
 by what—is—death, sir 1” and he again turned his back on 
 Evelyn. 
 
 “ 1 fear not your threat—I fear the threat of none—I fear 
 nothing,” resumed his friend. “ And I still call upon you to 
 explain your ungenerous—your cruel, unjust conduct—I call on 
 you—” 
 
 “ Master Evelyn,” interrupted M’Donnell, a second time 
 checking his steps, “let us part in peace. Offer no further insult 
 to me. I cannot resent it now, or in future, no more than I 
 could your former outrage. There is a cause ; you know there 
 is a cause ;” and his voice half faltered. 
 
 “By my hopes of heaven, Edmund—by the soul and memory 
 of her, to whom your allusion points—” 
 
 “ Peace, sir; we have witnessed this before.” 
 
 “ You shall hear me, Edmund ; and, if you are a man, answer. 
 Let me try to shape properly the questions that must lead to the 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 515 
 
 #hole clearing up of this black mystery—one moment, I entreat 
 four pause—only one moment. How did you escape from Kirke, 
 at Glenarriff ?” 
 
 M’Donnell sneeringly laughed, “ And do you begin by asking 
 that, Master Evelyn ?” he demanded. 
 
 “ Why should I not ? Was there a re-enforcement of you. 
 friends, after Kirke’s came up, and—” 
 
 “ Pshaw, sir, for what a fool do you take me ? know you not, 
 as well as I, there was ? Tush, tush, to what a man am I talk¬ 
 ing V* 
 
 “ Then Eva fell not, indeed, into his—” 
 
 “ His hands !” interrupted Edmund, surprised, in a degree, out 
 of his stern calmness, “ the tainted villain ! Not while a brother, 
 at the least, stood by to hinder it. His hands ! I tore her 
 from the blasted wretch upon the threshold ; for, when in a few 
 minutes I was enabled to return with a good force, he had not 
 left my father’s roof. My point pressed him beyond the thresh¬ 
 old ; he fled from me down the glen, after his scattered plun¬ 
 derers. I had no horse at hand, but I followed him on foot and 
 alone, to the turn on the shore, and thrice was my highland blade 
 within a thrust of his heart, until I slipped, and—but shame upon 
 me, I say, to forget the very caution I would have taught yon 
 poor blind man—shame upon my truant tongue and my fickle 
 spirit—I am again dishonored.” 
 
 Evelyn deeming it better to pursue his purpose than turn aside 
 from it to challenge words like these, resumed, in an agitated 
 and impressive manner: “Then, Edmund, I have for your present 
 humor, but one further question. However you wrongfully 
 regard me, whatever may be the cause of your error, tell me, in 
 the name of old times, and old recollections, what you propose 
 for Eva ?” 
 
 M’Donnell again started ; again checked himself; and a third 
 time turned away. 
 
 “ Tell me, I conjure you,” continued Evelyn, “ how soon and 
 in what manner—” 
 
 “ And dare you,” still interrupted M’Donnell, speaking slowly, 
 “ dare you now make one inquiry concerning her —one allusion ? 
 Do you not, especially in your present situation, dread to do so ? 
 Has she not long ceased to be aught to you, man ?” 
 
 “ Alas ! why will you force me to admit it ? She has, Ed¬ 
 mund—and yet, is it not my place and duty to urge my former 
 question ? When, oh ! when, M’Donnell, will you separate her 
 
516 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 from the present courses—snatch her from the fate that ought, 
 indeed, to afflict—shame us all ?” 
 
 “Tempt me not too far, Master Evelyn. Still I try to 
 recollect that my hand should not be against you ; but press 
 me not so hard. Traitor and false knave, you have been 
 enough —” 
 
 “ False knave ! beware M’Donnell, how, in my despair and 
 affliction, you cause me to forget—the words you give me are 
 falser than I—” 
 
 “ That is too presumptuous—the echoing of that name, and 
 all”— replied Edmund, still rather in determination than impa¬ 
 tience. “ Begone, knave and liar !—off—or I must strike you to 
 my feet !” 
 
 He drew his sword. Evelyn, following his example, instantly 
 closed on him. As their weapons clashed, a figure that, for 
 some minutes, had been watching them, came forward and sep¬ 
 arated the unhappy youths. Carolan, also, drew near. 
 
 “ What ! by you, wretched creature ?” cried M’Donnell. 
 
 “ By me,” replied Onagh, still evincing, to Evelyn, the same 
 composed manner she had shown in the island hut ; “by me, 
 who have brought sorrow enough on you both, to make me now 
 try to keep off more, that ye would madly bring on yourselves. 
 For mad ye are. As mad as I have been ; though now that 
 curse is taken away, and I am free and able to befriend those it 
 was my doom to cross with early affliction. Hearken to me!” 
 she cried, as Edmund hastened to interrupt her. 
 
 “You have not seen me since we met in the black north ; but 
 I have long followed you, with your wild women, to make 
 amends for that day. I knew you were imposed on by a false 
 friend ; not by him that stands before you, and who never de¬ 
 served the name, but by one who brought you the stories, 
 that made you think he did. Ay, look at me—but ’tis truth. 
 Knowing this, I came in her way, made her think well of me, 
 tell me, with her own lips, her plottings,and her lies .to you 
 both—” 
 
 “Both 1 her !” cried Evelyn ; “ it was a woman, then ? and 
 that woman—Moya Laherty ?” 
 
 “ It was,” answered Onagh. 
 
 “ Pshaw !” said M’Donnell, “ I want not to hear this. But 
 you, woman, hither ; and speak with me.” 
 
 “ And I am on the right ground to tell you the story you 
 want to know,” answered Onagh, getting agitated. “ For this 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 517 
 
 country, Edmund M’Donnell, is my country; these hills, my 
 hills ; and it was here that, in early maidenhood, I met your 
 brother Donald.” 
 
 M’Donnell drew back and stared upon her. 
 
 “ Look on,” she resumed. “ And it was here you lost him. 
 Look on, I say, and look closer ; and then you may know me 
 better.” 
 
 “Woman,” cried Edmund, disturbed, “I know you not, but 
 for the mad wretch I ever knew you.” 
 
 “ You saw me, then, once, and more than once, when you 
 used to come, a growing boy, to shoot the hill-birds here, with 
 him that’s gone. Did you never hear him tell of Grace—” 
 
 “ Grace Nowlan ?” interrupted M’Donnell, slowly advancing 
 on her—“ stand, woman !—Master Evelyn, forget our quarrel 
 but a moment, and help me to secure this unhappy creature— 
 the murderess of my elder brother 1” 
 
 “Grace Nowlan, but no murderess!” she exclaimed, rushing, 
 in spite of their efforts, through the gap, and again relapsing 
 into her real or affected insanity of manner—“ but we cau settle 
 that another time—it and your own affairs together—I will see 
 ye again plunging from the gap. “ Now, ye have other things 
 to mind!” clapping her hands. “See that ! hear that !” 
 
 A sudden glare of fiercest light that seemed to set the firma¬ 
 ment in a blaze, burst all over the distant country ; and, in a 
 few seconds, was followed by an explosion so tremendous, that 
 Evelyn thought that the mountain upon which he stood quivered 
 to its shock. 
 
 “ She speaks true, by Heaven!” exclaimed M’Donnell, u the 
 good deed is done, and I must to my duty.” He blew his horn ; 
 his wild troop, long in expectation of a summons, and previously 
 roused by the shock, were in a few minutes around him. 
 
 “ Bear the harper down, and keep him from all speech with 
 the stranger !” he only waited to say, to some few who were to 
 remain, when he headed the Rapparees through the gap. On- 
 vard they rushed after him, like a whirlwind, to the plain ; leav¬ 
 ing Evelyn once more alone, struck to the soul, from various 
 causes, with utter consternation. 
 
 The incidents that produced some portion of his feeling, are 
 to be accounted for. 
 
 Continuing for some time, rather parallel with the range of the 
 Llieve Iellum mountains, at his left, when he first swept through 
 Lacken-na-choppel, Sarsfield then wheeled to his right, turning 
 
518 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 his back on them, and his face to the Galteighs. Held on, for 
 some miles, over partly high and partly low ground ; again 
 wheeled to his right, to approach the village of Cullen ; gained 
 a view of the little ford of Ballyvsenougue ; there observed the 
 sentinel Hogan had foretold ; and paused to consider how he 
 should prudently overcome this obstacle. 
 
 “ Let Rory go ax him for the word—that’s the way to man¬ 
 age it,” observed Hogan. Rory smiled hideously. 
 
 “ Will you venture, good-fellow ?” inquired Sarsfield. 
 
 “ Musha, yes, wid the Lord’s help, gineral, honey.” 
 
 “ Away, then.” 
 
 “Avoch, ay, afther a fashion of our own, an’ accordin’ to 
 the little janious God gives us.” 
 
 He dismounted ; drew a nail from his pocket ; deliberately 
 drove it, with a large stone, into his garron’s hoof—Sarsfield 
 turning away his face—walked him a step or two, to see if he 
 was lame enough ; patted him, and said that would do ; pricked 
 his own arm, and stained himself with the blood ; and then 
 limped on, with his horse, towards the ford, adding, “ There, 
 now. Sure we’re jest a poor loyal man an’ horse, sarved this way 
 by the Rapparees, bad end to ’em.” 
 
 He disappeared. There was a pause. All listened for a 
 dying groan—none reached them ; but Rory quickly came run¬ 
 ning back, rubbing his hands, and simpering exceedingly. He 
 whispered Sarsfield. 
 
 “ My own name ?” asked the general—“ they need not have 
 chosen one more ominous—forward!” 
 
 All passed the ford. The sentinel lay lifeless at its edge. 
 Rory-na-Chopple seemed to have whispered the poor fellow to 
 death, so silent had been his horrid process, whatever it was. 
 They cleared the village of Cullen without suspicion, giving the 
 word of the night, thus gained, and reporting themselves a de¬ 
 tachment from the camp of Limerick. They swept up an ascent 
 from it; found, on the top (called Longstone, because the road 
 there ran over a rock), another sentinel—the same Sarsfield had 
 seen posted from the gap. Him, too, they passed without hin¬ 
 drance. Soon they came in sight of the little square castle of 
 Ballyneedy, perched on a barren level of a few yards, upon the 
 height that gave it its name, while all over the road that ran half¬ 
 way along the side of the hill, lay the train of guns, wagons, and 
 carriages of various kinds, surrounded by their numerous escort, 
 now—for it was near midnight—sleeping away the fatigues of a 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 519 
 
 ong march ; their watch-fires flickering out, and a few to attend 
 to their replenishing. 
 
 When his prey appeared so near, Sarsfield rode his last half- 
 mile with some caution, and a mustering of breath and purpose. 
 Scarce any but the sentinel, at hand, heard his approach. As 
 he came up, the first of his party, the soldier challenged him in 
 alarm—“ The word ?” 
 
 “Sarsfield is the Word, and Sarsfield is the Man !” he 
 was answered. And upon the unprepared escort, Sarsfield and 
 his Lucan horse instantly plunged, with deafening shouts. In a 
 few moments they had not an enemy to contend with ; those who 
 attempted resistance, or who would not yield themselves prisoners, 
 were cut to pieces. So much done, Sarsfield, not pausing an 
 instant, caused to be filled with powder to the brim the whole 
 of the battering cannon ; then stuck them in the earth, muzzle 
 downward ; surrounded them with the remainder of two or 
 three hundred barrels of powder ; heaped over and around them 
 their carriages, the baggage, and provision carts, and without 
 knowing it, several chests of treasure ; laid a train to a conven¬ 
 ient distance ; retired, with his people and prisoners ; fired the 
 train ; and blew the whole, in fragments, into the air. 
 
 This was the explosion, that, five miles off, in a direct line, 
 reached Evelyn, and seemed to shake the solid mass beneath his 
 feet. The Llieve Iellum hills glared in the reflected flash, and 
 reverberated the roar through their deepest recesses. Even 
 their Foil-dhuiv (black glen) was, for once, illuminated at mid¬ 
 night. The Galteighs, remotely opposite, seemed to start at 
 the blaze. The wild deer, in the glen of Aharla, at their feet, 
 bounded from their dewy heather-beds, deeming naught less than 
 that the noonday sun had burst through the noon at night. The 
 old castle of Ballyneedy toppled from its foundation-stone, and 
 rolled in fragments down the slope. And what is, perhaps, of 
 more importance, Sir John Lanier, on his way, at the head of 
 five hundred horse, to join the escort (after tidings of Sarsfield’s 
 sortie had, too late, reached William), was still far distant when 
 he felt the ground quiver to the explosion, and saw the red glare 
 in the sky. Nay, it is asserted that William himself, seated ir 
 his Limerick camp, some thirteen miles off, heard and under 
 stood the earthquake shot. 
 
620 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 For more than an hour, Evelyn stood, confounded and alone, 
 on the gap of Lacken-na-choppel. After the terrific, and, to 
 him, unexplained commotion and glare, he heard, for some time, 
 the receding gallop of M’Donnell’s wild troop into the low coun¬ 
 try. Then, all was silence. He looked towards Bally needy: 
 the blank of deepest night alone met his view. The explosion 
 had scattered and put out every glimmer of the watch-fires 
 around it. Scarce master of his thoughts and feelings, Evelyn 
 was not aware of the considerable time he thus spent in solitude, 
 W'hen the distant rushing of horsemen again caught his ear from 
 the plain below. The sound increased*; it approached him. 
 Finally, Sarsfield galloped up, followed by his people, and calling 
 out, “ Master Evelyn !” 
 
 Evelyn answered. “We have done it, sir!’’ continued Sars¬ 
 field ; “you saw it—did you not ? But now, to horse, aud with 
 us ! Home, sir, by the road we came—no other lies open. We 
 are set upon, or will be ; but once again in the heart of the black 
 hills, and a fair good-night to them 1” 
 
 Evelyn, gaining his horse, accompanied him about a mile, into 
 the first recesses of the mountains. The whole party, together 
 with their Rapparee guides, here bivouacked in a narrow glen, 
 unapproachable at such an hour by any, save those well acquaint¬ 
 ed with its dangerous passes. After some sleep, they proceeded, 
 in the morning light, to the island camp ; and refreshments and 
 a longer rest were now afforded to men and horses. Again, all 
 got into motion. As Evelyn was about to mount, a man laid 
 his hand on his shoulder. It was Carolan. 
 
 “ Step aside, sir,” he whispered ; “ I believe, after all, you are 
 wronged. Your words to me, and to your old friend, and the 
 sayings of that poor woman, force me to think so. But hold a 
 good heart. Believing this, it becomes my duty—the greatest 
 duty of my life—to see you righted—to see you happy—to make 
 you so. And why ? Because”—his voice trembled—“ because, 
 Mr. Evelyn, the happiness of her, whose humblest servant I am, 
 is to be promoted along with yours. Say nothing now,” as Eve¬ 
 lyn offered to speak ; “ we have no time ; but, depend on me, I 
 will seek out poor Ouagh, and the other woman she told of; I 
 will get the truth from both, and—” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 521 
 
 u Carolan 1” iuterrupted an imperious and shrill voice. Evelyn 
 turned, and saw, approaching with Sarsfield, from the edge of 
 the little lough, the apparition that, for months, had scared away 
 his peace, wherever he moved. But as the harper stepped back, 
 pressing his hand, and as this individual hastily drew nearer, 
 what were his sensations to believe, for the first time, in the now 
 full view he was afforded, that he did not look upon Eva 
 M’Donnell 1 Astonishment, confusion, but, most of all, joy 
 attended the discovery. 
 
 “ Great God ! who are you ?” he cried, as the young person 
 confronted him, still looking very like Eva, yet still showing, at 
 a close observation, minute details of feature that proclaimed not 
 only a distinct identity, but a different sex. 
 
 “ That you should know, sir, and that you shall know,” an¬ 
 swered the youth, angrily. “ My brother, Edmund, may imagine 
 causes for his forbearance, but—” 
 
 “ Your brother !” interrupted Evelyn, calling to mind the 
 younger brother, of whom Eva had often spoken, as residing in 
 Spain, but, during their last allusions to him, at the Gray Man’s 
 Path, whom she had reported dead. 
 
 u He,” continued James M’Donnell, “ may, if he like, spare 
 you the questioning he owes you, but you shall stand it from me. 
 It is but lately I was allowed the information that gives me a 
 right to address myself to you thus, Master Evelyn—it is but 
 since last night I know even your person. Now, however—” 
 
 As he advanced very close, Carolan broke in with some words 
 that exhorted him to be cautious. While many scowling Rap- 
 parees, left along with the stripling to occupy the island, gath¬ 
 ered around, Sarsfield also spoke, effectually putting an end to 
 the matter. 
 
 “ Mount, Mr. Evelyn, and ride with me 1 Men 1” to his own 
 troop, “guard your prisoner! Excuse us, Master James 
 M’Donnell; but the king’s service allows no such delay as your 
 private business would propose—forward !” 
 
 The Lucan horse surrounded Evelyn, and, with Sarsfield, all 
 moved for the banks of the Shannon. 
 
 “We speak again, sir!” shouted the youth, in a rage, as 
 Evelyn was thus ravished from him. 
 
 “ When you wish,” replied Evelyn : “ would that we could 
 now speak it out! You will find me in Limerick—farewell!” 
 
 Had James M’Donnell held at his disposal the force with which 
 his brother was absent, covering Sarsfield’s retreat, King James’s 
 
522 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 soldiers would scarce have baffled him. But, as it was, he durst 
 offer no resistance. Unobstructed, therefore, and now not re¬ 
 quiring a Rapparee guide, Sarsfield soon repassed the Shannon. 
 Precisely by the same road he had come, he regained, in a few 
 hours, the walls of Limerick, where joyous shouts, well under¬ 
 stood in the hostile camp, greeted the tidings of his brilliant ad¬ 
 venture. 
 
 But William was not to be turned from his purpose even by 
 a loss and a disappointment so considerable as that which Sars 
 field’s adventure entailed upon him. To the surprise and alarm 
 of the famishing garrison, he still kept his encampment on Sing- 
 lands ; received, in a short time, a second battering train from 
 Waterford ; and planted it on a height called Penny-well. 
 While the soldiers and citizens of Limerick sparingly shared 
 their raw beans—the only food they had—it seemed that a for¬ 
 midable breach would soon be made in the bulwarks of Ireland’s 
 strongest citadel. 
 
 While, day after day, the battering at this one point con¬ 
 tinued, the garrison made a desperate midnight sortie upon the 
 besiegers. Taken by surprise, and thrown into such confu¬ 
 sion as to be unable to discern friend from foe, they attacked each 
 other ; and (the Irish having retreated unperceived) so contin¬ 
 ued, until the morning light showed them their mistake, and the 
 shocking havoc that resulted from it. 
 
 At last, from the Penny-well battery, a breach about twenty 
 feet wide was indeed made. Evelyn, standing along with Sars¬ 
 field upon the walls, almost over it, saw all the grenadiers in 
 William’s army form in a dense and threatening mass on the side 
 of the descent from Cromwell’s fort, evidently preparing to storm 
 the city. The whole Danish force, and some English, moved to 
 support them, at the left: an equal number of Dutch, Branden- 
 bergiaus, and other English regiments, slowly, and with the sol¬ 
 dier’s regular movement, took their right, or appeared as a re¬ 
 serve. The bellowing of the cannon at Penny-well ceased,— 
 there was a moment’s pause. As Evelyn stood, Penny-well 
 faced him, at about the distance of half a mile, and William’s 
 camp, with Cromwell’s fort in front, lay to his right. 
 
 There was a moment’s pause, during which Evelyn glanced 
 along the walls, and behind him, into the city, to note the 
 preparations made for the welcoming of this formidable array. 
 To his astonishment, no soldiers manned the breach ; al¬ 
 though, at either side of it, ranks of horse and foot pressed 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 523 
 
 tlose, in silence and inaction. Immediately facing the yawn 
 in the wall, some guns had been mounted, on a hastily- 
 constructed battery of stones, woolsacks, earth, and timber. 
 Beyond this battery, in the street that turned towards Ball’s 
 Bridge, was a crowd of citizens, men and women, some 
 rudely armed, some defenceless ; but all determined, and, like 
 the soldiers, all silent. Sarsfield, alone, seemed the waking ge¬ 
 nius of the scene. Evelyn saw him pacing, from point to point, 
 earnestly impressing his commands. He would stop, and some¬ 
 times rest his sword across his arm, sometimes move it round his 
 head, as if triumph had already resulted from his measures. 
 Ever aud anon he sprang to the wall, took a view of the ap¬ 
 proaching enemy, and then hastened down to complete his ar¬ 
 rangements. Such were the only visible dispositions to receive 
 the assault, within the city. Without, bodies of men filled the 
 trenches between the counterscarp and the breach, mostly invisi¬ 
 ble to the enemy. 
 
 As Evelyn’s eye recurred to the scene abroad, he saw that the 
 grenadiers had advanced to the last angle of their own trenches, 
 supported on the right and on the left, and by a reserve, as be¬ 
 fore described. Three field-pieces were discharged at Cromwell’s 
 fort : this was the signal they awaited. They leaped their 
 trenches, and ran on cheering gallantly to the counterscarp ; 
 their right, left, and reserve, keeping up with them. Ere they 
 reached the counterscarp, a tremendous fire of great and small 
 shot was poured upon them, from the curtain of wall at either 
 side of Evelyn, and hundreds fell ; the cannon making lanes 
 through the dense bodies of grenadiers. But all this range of 
 battery, being in a direct line with Cromwell’s fort, was instantly 
 enfiladed from it: such showers of balls swept along the top of 
 the wall, as soon promised to clear it of its garrison. For some 
 time, however, the Irish returned on the enemy under them the 
 salutes received from their right. And while the united roar of 
 hostile cannons rent the sunny autumn sky, the walls were en¬ 
 cumbered, and the approach to the breach strewed with the dead 
 and the dying. 
 
 The mighty interest of the contest had, till this moment, 
 kept Evelyn insensible to the peril of his situation. With his 
 eye fixed on the approaching grenadiers, as, each moment, the 
 cloud from which death was belched, wafted aside and left them 
 visible ; with his ears dinned, and his senses confused by the 
 uear bellowing of the guns ; with his young and ardent spirit 
 
524 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 mixing, too, in the-conflict; he had no time to reflect that, 
 standing where he did, he was only a spectator. But a group 
 of those who worked the battery, close by him, were now tumbled 
 from the walls into the ditch below, and he awoke to the sense 
 of his danger. At the same moment the voice of Sarsfield sound¬ 
 ed through the uproar : 
 
 “ Give them the walls, comrades ; give them the walls ! De¬ 
 scend, and follow me where we can fairly meet them 1” 
 
 Doubly warned, Evelyn hastened down, along with the men 
 thus exhorted, whom Sarsfield instantly added to the crouching 
 force already stationed at either side of the breach. All grew 
 silent on the walls. William simultaneously suspended his en¬ 
 filading fire from Cromwell’s fort. Even abroad, before the breach 
 and among the trenches, there ensued a silence which seemed to 
 argue that the assailants had paused to muster breath for a sec¬ 
 ond effort, now unmolested by shot from the city. The dead 
 and voiceless inaction grew horrible. The clouds of smoke that 
 the double cannonading had congregated over the town, rolled 
 from it towards a hill some miles off. An unblotted and scorch¬ 
 ing sky once more expanded above the scene of havoc. 
 
 “ Moxtha musha, thaun galore ” (full time) “ for honest bodies 
 to have a guard o’ themsefs. One o’ them balls has no more re¬ 
 gard for a poor simple boy, sich as me, nor for a roarin’ mad 
 sodger,” said a voice close by Evelyn. He turned, and knew the 
 Whisperer ; the words were, indeed, addressed to him with the 
 familiarity of an old acquaintance. Rory continued : “ Though 
 I’m no great things to brag of, makin’ a noise wid your guns, or 
 shkiverin’ wid your soords, aften’s the time we can do a sarvice. 
 afther a manner of our own, an’ accordin’ to the little janioui 
 God gave us. Keep an eye upon poor Rory, avich ; an’ if h« 
 doesn’t show you some spuddoch ”*— simpering with his usuaj 
 graciousness, till a score of cunning wrinkles diverged from the 
 corners of his eyes downward, and met as many branching up¬ 
 wards, from the corners of his spacious mouth ; “ if he doesn’t 
 show you a flock of Sassenachs nearer to heaven’s gate nor they 
 think we wish to send ’em, you may jest call me muddhaun 
 more ,f ’till the tongue swells in your cheek.” And he shuffled 
 off, among the crowd behind the masked battery, rubbing his 
 hands in ecstasy over his embryo project, and hanging his head 
 more than usual towards the side to which it curved. 
 
 * Sport. 
 
 f Big fool 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 525 
 
 Renewed cheers broke from the assaulters ; the explosions of 
 their hand-grenades were heard ; and then the dropping fire 
 from the Irish who lay in the trenches, answered by volleys from 
 William’s right. Field-pieces, at some distance to the left of 
 the town, also joined the roar ; and Evelyn heard Sarsfield say to 
 Grace, as they stood close by the breach, mustering, along with 
 their men, full effort for a planned purpose : “ Our little battery, 
 from King’s Island, plays merrily on their right, John.” 
 
 Shouts, groans, trampling, the discharge of musketry, and the 
 explosion of hand-grenades, all formed a confused din without, 
 but Evelyn could see nothing of what passed until the Irish foot, 
 posted in the trenches, jumped, covered with blood, in confusion 
 upon the breach— 
 
 u Where now, cowards ?” asked Sarsfield, in a vehement 
 whisper. 
 
 “ The counterscarp is carried,” answered one, who seemed an 
 officer ; “ half our men killed in the trenches, and—” 
 
 “In then, in!” continued Sarsfield. The defeated trenchmen 
 jumped into the street of the town, and looked round, in panic, 
 to continue their retreat. The pikes and bayonets at either side 
 of the breach opposed them ; while opposite, the groans and re- 
 vilings of men and women kept them stationary. Under Sars- 
 field’s command, they rallied, and joined their seemingly inactive 
 brethren. While in the very act of doing so, the shouts of the 
 brave English grenadiers burst just outside. In came a shower 
 of their hand-grenades ; and, almost simultaneously they them¬ 
 selves sprang into the breach. A murderous volley of grape in¬ 
 stantly saluted them from the masked battery, inside the walls. 
 Another ; and those who did not fall dead or wounded, jumped 
 back. Still, Sarsfield and his reserve remained quiet. 
 
 Evelyn stood to the right of the breach, in the rear of the 
 portion of the reserve there posted, a crowd of citizens around 
 him Mois than once, while the contest raged without, the 
 Whisperer passed and repassed him, adroitly piercing through 
 the throng ; looking the very fiend of the strife ; chuckling over 
 his intended mischief; and ever saying, in a low bland tone, as 
 he came near his old friend : 
 
 “ You’ll soon see the spuddoch, a-chorra machree ; you’ll soon 
 see the spuddoch .” In his latest transits he was followed by a 
 female in a flowing mantle, who seemed a confidant in his plans, 
 whatever they might be. Evelyn once heard him whisper her, 
 as he clapped her on the shoulder : “ Have a care upon you, 
 
520 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 a-lanna. Don’t let sich a fine spurt as God is sendin’ us, be for 
 little good. Let ’em be perched as thick as swarmin’ bees, afore 
 you beckon.” Immediately upon the repulse of the grenadiers, 
 he again passed to some distance, with a lighted match, and 
 seemed to make certain preparation, of which Evelyn could not 
 discern the meaning, or even the process. Once more, as he 
 sidled through the crowd, in increasing glee—“ The spuddoch ’ill 
 soon be now, a-vich,” he said ; “ mind the pechauns* that ’ill 
 come getherin’ in the shky, afther awhile.” 
 
 There was another short pause in the conflict. Then another 
 re-enforced assault from the grenadiers ; another discharge from 
 the battery into their faces ; and though many again fell, none 
 flinched. Down from the breach they scrambled and jumped, in 
 hundreds, into the town. Ran on, seized and silenced the 
 masked battery—cheered in the reserve. But, now, their fate, 
 and the fate of Limerick, drew near. 
 
 “ Charge! for Limerick ! for Ireland !” roared Sarsfield. The 
 ambushed soldiers, at either side, instantly filled the breach. 
 They met the reserve with the shock of torrent against torrent. 
 Madly shouting, half their force repelled them beyond the 
 trenches, abroad, half turned upon the foe cut off in the streets 
 of the town. Extermination of these gallant fellows followed. 
 To a man, they refused to give or take quarter—to a man they 
 were slain. Assailed by the soldiers in front, and by the people 
 in rear, their destruction was the work of but a few minutes. 
 Even the women of Limerick mixed in the deadly struggle. 
 Many a beautiful girl and staid matron rolled among the dead ; 
 others seized the arms of the slaughtered grenadiers, or, supplied 
 with sharp stones from the breach, or with whatever missile 
 chance afforded, set an example of desperate courage to their 
 brothers, lovers, or husbands. And while a furious sortie, head¬ 
 ed by Sarsfield, and supported by a gallant Scotsman, Wauhup, 
 was made after the assailants, the crowd of women swam bled to 
 the breach, their attire rent and blood-stained, their hair flow¬ 
 ing, and there brandishing their chance weapons, sent a frantic 
 scream of triumph and defiance after their discomfited foe. 
 
 In the midst of this scene of uproar, slaughter, and horror, 
 Evelyn’s eye was attracted by a woman in the window of a house 
 next to him. His regards fixed on her face, for he thought he 
 recognized Onagh of Red Bay. She held in her hand a stick, 
 
 * Crows. 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 527 
 
 to which was attached a torn fragment of a red handkerchief; 
 her look was fastened on a certain part of the walls. Evelyn 
 glanced in the same direction. He saw a regiment, which lie 
 knew, by the uniform, to be Brandenbergians, gallantly scaling 
 the Black battery, one of the defences near the breach. At 
 this instant, Sarsfield, his face and person stained with blood and 
 dust, sprang back into the town, crying out— 
 
 “ Limerick is safe ! They fly at every point! To the walls, 
 Irishmen, and give them a farewell greeting. But, hah ! there 
 be some saucy fellows before us,” his eyes catching the Branden¬ 
 bergians. 
 
 “ Lave them to me, gineral honey,” said the Whisperer, from 
 the rathe rremote station where he had previously been making 
 some arrangements. “ An’ stop a bit, just where you are, for 
 your own darlin’ sake. Gossip,” elevating his voice to Onagh, 
 who still held her place in the window, “is it time to fly my 
 flock, yet, I wondher ?” 
 
 There was a cry from Onagh—she dropped her flag—the 
 whole regiment had now ascended the Black battery. Rory 
 touched the ground near him with a lighted match. A train 
 fizzed towards the wall, under and along it, till it reached the 
 tower of the battery, which was full of gunpowder, and, with a 
 horrid explosion, up went the tower in fragments, and with it 
 the fragments of hundreds of men. And this Evelyn now com¬ 
 prehended to be the “ spuddoch” which Master Rory-na-chopple 
 had promised him. 
 
 Amid deafening shouts, the walls were again manned. With 
 the roar of triumph, volleys of grape, still destructive, reached 
 the flying army. Dalrymple authorizes the statement that Wil¬ 
 liam lost, this day, two thousand of the flower of his soldiers. 
 It may be added that, under all the circumstances, unequal in 
 numbers, undisciplined, unsupported by regular allies, starving, 
 and against the terror of the name of a great general—Limerick 
 made a struggle, and accomplished a triumph, not unlike or in¬ 
 ferior to the struggle and triumph which has since immortalized 
 the walls of Saragossa. 
 
 “ And now, sirs,” said King William, who, like James at the 
 Boyne, and a greater man than either at Waterloo, had watched 
 the chances of the day from the height of Cromwell’s fort, and 
 who, immediately after' the defeat, collected arouncf him his 
 drooping generals and followers—“ Now, sirs, I am for EnglanI ; 
 perhaps, for the Low Countries. Affairs go on as ill there aa 
 
528 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 here. I leave you, Solmes, in full command of my Irish army ; 
 Ginkle to succeed you, whenever it may be needful ; with my 
 commands to both to finish this Irish war on any terms.” 
 
 “ My liege 1” cried many voices, amongst which were those of 
 Colonel Lloyd, of the Enniskilleners, and Dr. Dopping, Bishop 
 of Meath. “ Your gracious majesty cannot ask us to consider 
 a foe so contemptible and pernicious,” added Colonel Lloyd. 
 
 “ I came into Ireland, too much depending on such views, sir,” 
 answered William, sullenly and bitterly, “for the which I was 
 indebted to you and those of your mind. But it were well we 
 all brought ourselves to regard, more calmly and truly, the ene¬ 
 my we seek to understand, as well as subdue. Listen, then. 
 Upon the first attempt for my crown, in Ireland, this contempt¬ 
 ible foe beat you—you, the Protestant strength of Ireland— 
 in a few weeks, out of eight northern counties. Beat you, in 
 four battles, one at Droughmore, one at Hillsborough, one or 
 the banks of the Bann, and one at Clady Ford. Reduced yoi 
 to a confused remnant, and shut you up between the four walk 
 of Derry. There you starved truly ; more because you dreaded 
 the consequences, than dared the principle of a surrender. Un¬ 
 til, at last, upon the very threshold of a treaty with Hamilton, 
 you were saved—not by yourself, or aught you could do—but 
 by a few English regiments. Against this contemptible foe I 
 then sent twenty thousand English and foreigners, headed by a 
 great general ; you gave them and him your help. I will say 
 little of his gratitude for your alliance, or his testimony of your 
 character. Enough, that between you all, you were out-ma¬ 
 noeuvred, cowed, and consigned to destruction by this contemptible 
 foe ; and that your campaign terminated without a battle, yet 
 with the loss of half my army. Mark, still—I came among 
 you, in person, to retrieve the disgraces of my cause and my 
 arms. The first battle with this insignificant foe was twice 
 nearly lost. Once, Colonel Enniskillener, by your corps desert 
 ing me, in the second charge at Sheephouse, and running, mer¬ 
 rily, though with your king at your head, from the face of this 
 insignificant foe. Immediately after, a handful of them repulsed, 
 with some loss, ten thousand of my troops at Athlone. This 
 day, they have repulsed my whole army, headed by myself, and 
 greatly seconded by the native zeal of the Enniskilleners. “ Sirs,” 
 he continued, more than usually roused, “ you witness the first 
 real defeat, except one in my youth, at Maestrieht, which I have 
 aver suffered. As I am a soldier and a king, Limerick has been 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 529 
 
 bravely defended. And yet you hear it stdd, that men who cm* 
 so demean themselves, merit not the consideration due to a fair 
 enemy. Hearken to my parting ordern. Finish, I repeat, this 
 Irish war upon any terms. Should the future give you a prom¬ 
 ising advantage, propose then, as well as now, full protection 
 in property, and civil privileges with religious freedom. If the 
 Irish enemy at last fall, offer, to all who will willingly comply, 
 place and rank in my British armies. I should care for such 
 soldiers as they would make. I have done. Farewell !” 
 
 “ My gracious liege,” said the Bishop of Meath, as William 
 turned away, “ remember the creed of the rebels you would thus 
 propose to patronize. Deign, sire, tenderly to remember our 
 loyalty, our sufferings, and our lawful expectations of redress. 
 Deign—” 
 
 “ Bishop of Meath, attend. While holding up my right hand, 
 in the face of heaven and of men, to repeat and swear my corona¬ 
 tion oath, a clause was proposed to me that I should ‘root 
 out heretics.’ At these words, I stopped my Lord of Argyle, 
 who administered the oath, and declared I did not mean to 
 oblige myself to become a persecutor. The commissioner ex¬ 
 plained that such, surely, was not the meaning of the oath ; and 
 then I bid them note that in such a sense only I took it. The 
 same, Bishop of Meath, do I now desire you to note. And so, 
 an end. Let the siege be raised, and the army retire on Clon¬ 
 mel. Solmes and Hinkle, remember my orders, and give them 
 all effect.” 
 
 “We promise to do so,” they answered, equally indifferent, 
 with William, to the petty Irish divisions, upon which alone 
 Irishmen could contemplate a great struggle. 
 
 “ Be it so,” whispered Dr. Dopping to Colonel Lloyd, who 
 smiled at the allusion that followed ; “we may yet have our own 
 audience, and our own day for it.” 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Evelyn remained in Limerick, after the retreat of William’s 
 army, most anxious for the interview with James M’Donnell, 
 which their last rencounter led him every moment to expect. But 
 
 n 
 
530 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 weeks and months passed on without any appearance of thffl 
 young man. Becoming impatient, Evelyn applied to Sarsfield for 
 permission to go seek him or Carolan, pledging his parole for a 
 punctual return to the city. He was informed by the general 
 that such a step would, in all probability, now prove useless. 
 Inasmuch as Edmund M’Donnell, or Yamen-ac-knuck, was known 
 to have changed his ground of operation, from Munster and 
 Connaught, into Leinster, in consequence of the deadly hostility 
 directed against him by the whole of the invading army, of which 
 the greater portion were now formed into imitative bands of 
 freebooters, hunting down their prototypes, or plundering, in 
 common with them, the unprotected and miserable population. 
 
 Edmund’s brother must necessarily have followed the wander¬ 
 ings of his senior and commander, into whatever unknown dis¬ 
 trict was, at present, the scene of their exertions or concealment. 
 Sarsfield added that, apart from the difficulty of discovering their 
 retreat, extreme peril would be incurred even in the attempt ; 
 because, of all Irish Rapparees then abroad, none had given so 
 much cause as Yamen-ac-knuck for the determined warfare di¬ 
 rected against him. Influenced by the whole of this reasoning, 
 Evelyn gave up his intention of leaving Limerick. 
 
 Time wore away. Another campaign was opened against the 
 Irish army ; Ginkle being now head general of the force of their 
 enemies. Before the affair of Limerick, Lauzen had accom¬ 
 plished his plan of re-embarking for France, himself and his men. 
 Tyrconnel, previously assuming, in his stead, the chief command 
 of James’s Irish soldiers, sailed with him, in order to negotiate, 
 at St. Germains, a supply of arms, clothes, provisions, and, if 
 possible, money. While he was yet in France, a deputation 
 from the Irish army, composed of some gallant officers, reached 
 James, conveyed the first intelligence of the siege of Limerick, 
 and of Sarsfield’s previous exploit ; remonstrating against being 
 commanded by a man so old and undistinguished as Tyrconnel ; 
 praying the appointment of a native Irish general of character 
 and experience in the field ; and strongly, though indirectly, 
 manifesting their willingness that Sarsfield should be that general. 
 James wavered, and was about to concede to their wishes, when 
 Tyrconnel, now aware of the object of the deputation, wrote to 
 him from the coast, whither he had advanced on his way home, 
 a letter that, in pique and dotage, inveighed against the Irish 
 officers, sneered at Sarsfield, and altogether urged his master to 
 pay no attention to the remonstrance. The exiled king, unable 
 
TBE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 531 
 
 to resist the appeal of his oldest servant, but worst enemy, be 
 came, as was usual with him in cases of difficulty, fretted and un¬ 
 decided ; and at last took a middle course, that he thought would 
 calm, if it did not satisfy, all parties of his Irish friends ; but 
 that proved, in fact, the ruin of his last hope of empire. Uu- 
 ciAight by the disastrous effects he had himself seen flow from 
 the natural jealousy of brave and devoted men to be commanded 
 in their native land by a foreigner, and regardless of their present 
 lively wish, as expressed in their remonstrance, he named St. 
 Ruth to be their general, leaving Sarsfield and Tyrconnel, about 
 equal in rank and authority, under him. To the former Irish 
 officer he forwarded, through the hands of the latter, a patent of 
 nobility, creating him Earl of Lucan, which he deemed would 
 go a good way in soothing the disappointment of Sarsfield’s 
 friends, and Sarsfield’s self, at his rejection of their prayer, and 
 the again subjecting them to the arrogance of a French com¬ 
 mander. But, though the patent was accepted, it failed in its 
 expected good effects. The national jealousy, kept up with, it 
 would seem, a studious care, deprived King James of the 
 energies and services of his Irish army, and now his only 
 one ; deprived him of his throne; and deprived them of a 
 country. 
 
 Under the baneful influence of this jealousy, the battle of 
 Aughrim was fought between Ginkle and the Irish army, who 
 had advanced from Limerick to meet him. St. Ruth and Sars¬ 
 field quarrelled on the field, the very night before the struggle ; 
 the overweening hauteur of the one justly provoking the sturdy 
 manliness of the other. Although now acting as confidential 
 colleagues, the rash and insolent, yet brave and experienced 
 Frenchman, carried to such a criminal pitch his petty dudgeon, 
 as to withhold from Sarsfield all advice of his plans for the en¬ 
 gagement, his disposition of the forces, or, in case of his own 
 fall, what was to be done, consistently with previous movements 
 and final calculations to insure a victory. 
 
 To the battle he went in sullen mystery. Yet he took up his 
 ground well, and like a good general ; and, directed by his skill, 
 his Irish soldiers well seconded him. All historians acknow¬ 
 ledge this. Agaiu and again they repulsed with great loss the 
 brave veterans who attacked them, remaining unshaken in their 
 own positions. Evening drew on, and Ginkle was about to re¬ 
 tire. Yet would he try a last effort ; and he was again beaten 
 back ; his whole army shook. St. Ruth, well able to watch his 
 
632 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 time, was about to head the charge that must have decided, for 
 the present, the fate of three kingdoms. 
 
 “ Now,” he cried, “ will I drive them to the walls of Dublin.” 
 But even as he spoke, a cannon shot struck him dead : his 
 troops paused, first in consternation, then in uncertainty ; Sars- 
 field was called on to take his place, and carry into effect the 
 movements he had intended. But here burst the thunderbolt of 
 divided councils. The Irish general, unaware, as has been shown, 
 of the plans of St. Ruth, required some minutes to cast his eye 
 abroad, and arrange, according to his unexpected situation, a 
 plan of his own. While he paused, his soldiers, checked in the 
 ardor of a charge, and affected by the sudden loss of their first 
 general, cooled, doubted, wavered. Grinkle took instant advan¬ 
 tage of their confusion : the field of Aughrim was lost—lost in 
 the very moment it had been won. The fall of a brave man, no 
 matter what may be his faults, must ever be a subject of regret. 
 But those most interested in the event we glance at, may be ex¬ 
 cused for having felt, at the moment, how slightly did the fate 
 of St. Ruth expiate the vast misfortune into which his silly self- 
 conceit thus plunged thousands of men as brave as he. 
 
 It was not necessary for Evelyn to ask any question of the 
 fortune of the battle, when, soon after its close, Sarsfield, dis¬ 
 pirited and dejected, re-entered Limerick, at the head of his still 
 formidable army. But in a few hours the general cheered up ; 
 resumed his self-possession and energies, and gave orders to pre¬ 
 pare for a second siege. He was cheerfully seconded. No heart 
 but the impetuous and unenduring one of Tyrconnel, refused to 
 respond to his yet lively hopes. And that heart broke in pue¬ 
 rile despair ; the victim of its own reacting impatience, and of 
 the uncalculating violence of temperament that always grasped 
 at much, but could never take one sedate step to accomplish even 
 a little. 
 
 Sarsfield felt himself entitled to just grounds of hope for ulti¬ 
 mate success. His army was still formidable, and, at last under 
 his command, more effective than ever. They prepared to meet 
 in Limerick the same foe they had before driven from its walls. 
 William's affairs went on but indifferently on the Continent. He 
 had gone over to direct them, in person, but returned to Eng¬ 
 land without fresh laurels. His domestic enemies, in England, 
 were still watchful and inveterate. He could not spare another 
 regiment to Ireland. French fleets rode triumphantly in the 
 British seas. Lastly, Louis, rejecting the statements of Lau- 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 533 
 
 ■an, and judging for himself, by the late instances of native Irish 
 character, had promised to send a considerable number of ships, 
 bearing money, provisions, arms, and men, to the very walls of 
 Limerick. With these views and prospects to stand upon, Sars- 
 field did not fear the approach of Ginkle. Nor, perhaps, from 
 similar calculations, did that general seem very sanguine of suc¬ 
 cess. At all events, acting upon the last instructions of his mas¬ 
 ter, he now offered to the Irish garrison the most honorable and 
 advantageous terms of surrender. They were refused. He sat 
 down before Limerick, and carried on, without effect, a vigorous 
 siege. The city was, in all directions, fired by his shells or bat¬ 
 tered by his cannon. The people fled from their ruined houses 
 into a part of King’s Island, on which no buildings stood. He 
 made a breach near Ball’s Bridge : still without good results. 
 His batteries grew silent. He turned away from the breach he 
 had effected ; removed his train and army ; invested the town 
 from another point, at the county Clare side ; crossed the Shan¬ 
 non ; surprised an Irish outpost, who retired in confusion over 
 Thomond Bridge, their Trench major shutting hundreds of them 
 out to the mercy of the pursuers, from whom they got noue 
 But, even yet, Limerick and its garrison were safe, and, as much 
 as ever, beyond his reach. Feeling this, Ginkle again proposed 
 the same favorable terms he had before more than once sent in. 
 He dreaded the approach of the promised French fleet. 
 
 But while he dreaded, his enemies despaired of its approach. 
 Months had passed away since the time they had been led to ex¬ 
 pect it ; but it came not. James’s Irish subjects despaired of 
 his zeal, sympathy, and exertions in their behalf. They argued 
 that he had at last wholly deserted his own cause and them. 
 They were in much want of all that the fleet was to have brought 
 them. They began to turn an eye to Ginkle’s proposals. They 
 said, since we are thus left to ourselves, we will make terms for 
 ourselves ; and here, apart from the claim of James, here are 
 terms fully as favorable as those we could have expected, even 
 from him. Sarsfield heard them with impatience, and urged per¬ 
 severance to the last. They were still willing to listen to him ; 
 still willing to persevere. But now comes in a rather important 
 fact, for which James himself, and his reverend amanuensis, are 
 authority. The clergy (as their predecessors before had done in 
 earlier periods of Irish history, when Fitzstephens was before 
 Wexford, and Henry II. before Dublin, for instance) interfered, 
 recommending a treaty with Ginkle. This advice could not be 
 
534 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 resisted. Even Sarsfield gave up opposition to the general im* 
 pression it at once made ; and, after some preliminaries, went 
 out to G inkle’s camp, accompanied by an eminent Irish lawyer, 
 Sir Tobias Butler, Viscount Galmoy, and three colonels, to dine 
 with their new friend, and, at the leisure of all, discuss and sign 
 a treaty. 
 
 After their departure from the city, Evelyn stood on a part of 
 the walls that faced the country uninvested by G inkle’s army. 
 Mis thoughts and his heart were as dreary as the October day, 
 through whose drizzling mist he looked vacantly over the desert 
 landscape. Three figures on horseback caught his eye advan¬ 
 cing rapidly to John’s Gate. At a first glance, he perceived that 
 one was a female, riding between two men. They drew nearer ; 
 the lady appeared to be youthful; her companions, a young man, 
 sitting very erect and stiff in his saddle, and an old man, bent 
 almost double to his horse’s neck. The steeds of all seemed 
 jaded and soiled, as if after a long and painful journey. Eve¬ 
 lyn’s bosom beat quick ; imagination already identified the three 
 travellers ; although they were yet too distant, and the misty 
 medium too thick, to warrant him in making any certain conclu¬ 
 sions. 
 
 While he still gazed on them, a hasty step approached the 
 place where he stood ; and, turning round, Evelyn saw James 
 M’Donnell by his side. At the same moment, two women, 
 wrapped close in the common Irish mantle, emerged, at some 
 distance from the steps that led to the top of the wall, and 
 there stopped, as if stealthily observing him and Evelyn. 
 
 “ You are found at last, sir?” said the young man angrily. 
 
 “ Say, rather, you are come at last,” replied Evelyn ; “ I 
 awaited you here, since our meeting in the hills.” 
 
 “ Well ; perchance that, at least, is true. But you will 
 excuse my absence, sir; the chances of the service in which I am 
 engaged, deprived me of all opportunity, with due regard to the 
 safety of a beloved brother, to enter Limerick sooner than this 
 morning. Now we are met, however; and—” 
 
 “ Pardon me in turn. Before we speak further, how is that 
 brother ?” 
 
 “ Oh, sir,” with a scoffing tone, “ well; and, for the first time 
 during this campaign, near us, in Clare, yonder. Near those, 
 too, who, as we speak, perhaps, have again felt the hand they 
 often felt before.” 
 
 “ Does he know of your business in Limerick ?” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 535 
 
 “No, sir. And your own knowledge of the cause of his 
 personal forbearance towards you, might have spared that 
 question ; might have informed you that I would uot, by making 
 my elder brother aware of my business, run the risk of his 
 commands against it.” 
 
 “ Well, sir, I have done questioning. Proceed, and briefly 
 for I am called hence,” resumed Evelyn, looking off the walls, 
 and assuring himself, just as a turn in the road hid them from 
 his view, that the three travellers were Eva, Carolan, and Priest 
 M’Donnell. 
 
 “ You have basely wronged my sister,” cried the youth. 
 
 “ Never; in act, word, or thought.” 
 
 “ Have a care, master Evelyn ; and add not renewed falsity 
 to great wrong.” 
 
 ‘‘The warning is as vain as it is idle. But, no; there cannot 
 —shall not be a quarrel between us. Tell me why you charge 
 me thus, and listen to my disproof. That must be the only 
 course at present.” 
 
 “ First, then”—scarce able to curb his impatience—“ when 
 she was assailed by the blackest villain alive, amid the ruins of 
 her father’s house, in Glenarriff, you abandoned her, like a cow¬ 
 ard and a recreant, leaving an insolent message to be delivered 
 to her by your miuion of the hour.” 
 
 Evelyn smiled bitterly, and asked : “ Who told you this ?” 
 
 The two women, who had been slowly advancing, were Onagh 
 and Moya ; they now stood close to the disputants. Onagh, 
 holding Moya’s hand in one of hers, and pointing at her with 
 the other, anticipated James M’DonneH’s answer, by saying : 
 
 “ This colleen told him.” 
 
 The youth started, turned round, and exclaimed : 
 
 “ Yes, by Heaven ! that is our informant. Come hither, I 
 care not how, at a needful moment. Speak, woman! was not 
 such your story ?” 
 
 “ Such was her lying story,” interposed Onagh, “ which she 
 is now here to gainsay.” 
 
 “ What!” cried James M’Donnell; “ have we been practised 
 on, indeed, by a creature like you? Were they false tales you 
 told us ?” 
 
 “ Answer, Moya Laherty,” resumed Onagh, while the Rap- 
 paree girl hung her head, in silence, the hood of her cloak half 
 hiding her features, but not disguising the mortified or repentant 
 tears that wetted her altered cheek; “ answer, I say,” Onagh 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 went on—“ speak up, as you spoke to me, and for the reasons 
 that made you promise to tell the truth to others. Remember 
 your hopes of him are past ; remember the woe and heartbreak 
 your stories have brought on all; remember your sorrow for the 
 sin : and, above all, remember the punishment and the troubles 
 I have shown you I could bring down on your young head, if 
 you go back from the truth, and rebel against me. Say it out 
 boldly, Moya Laherty. Did you tell lies of this Sassenach 
 gentleman ?” 
 
 “ I did,” at last replied Moya, chiefly wrought upon, perhaps, 
 by the threat of supernatural horrors, with which Onagh had 
 principally won her to her present humor. 
 
 “ He did not fly, then, from the Strip of Burne, nor bid you 
 tell Eva M’Donnell that he was weary of the love between 
 them ?” 
 
 “ Nien. But while the house was clear, an’ the last o’ the 
 Rapparees huntin’ the red-coats down the glin, an’, one way or 
 another, no one left on the flure but mysef an’ the wounded 
 Sassenach, I pulled him out o’ sight, over the thatch an’ stones, 
 into the corner. An’ when Yamen M’Daniel come back, I tould 
 him what ye know.” 
 
 “ And when I recovered from my wound you also gave me 
 false accounts of them ?” asked Evelyn. 
 
 “ Ochown, Sassenach! I did, I did,” said Moya, sobbing and 
 weeping plentifully. 
 
 “Wretched creature!” exclaimed James M’Donnell. “The 
 second message you brought to my brother and sister from 
 Schomberg’s camp, was that false too ?” 
 
 Moya yielded an afflicted assent. 
 
 “ But how came you by the ring and other tokens, which you 
 said Master Evelyn had sent back by you ?” 
 
 “ I think I can answer that,” said Evelyn. “ She came dis- 
 honestly by them, while attending me in the disguise of an En- 
 niskihener—in the same way that enabled her to pin the letter 
 from Eva in the cover of my travelling valise.” 
 
 “ Och, yes, yes !” sobbed Moya. “ But you never knew me, 
 Sassenach, a-chorra ?” 
 
 “ No, nor scarce suspected you until the last night we met in 
 O’Haggerty’s camp. Then, however, your voice, undisguised in 
 passion, fully discovered you, and also showed me your motive, 
 Moya, for the part you were playing. But, another question. 
 Was the appearance of Master James M’Donnell in the hut, 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 537 
 
 after the men brought in lights, a matter arranged between you 
 aud him ?” 
 
 While the youth seemed impatient to answer, Moya hastily 
 said—“ I never thought, till the present moment I hear you say 
 it, that you saw him there. I only knew that, while I slipped 
 out, an’ your back to the door, some one stepped in against me.” 
 
 “ Of her or you, Master Evelyn, I then had heard nothing,” 
 added James M’Donnell. “ I was, by chance, a sojourner for 
 the night in the little encampment, on my way from England, to 
 seek the surviving members of my family. I heard this woman’s 
 screams in your hut, and stepped in to ascertain the cause. 
 That is all.” 
 
 “ You visited Kensington Palace during your travel through 
 Eugland from Spain, sir ?” observed Evelyn. 
 
 The young man started, stared, and frowned. 
 
 “ Pear me not,” drawing him aside, “ although I saw you sit¬ 
 ting in the lonely seat, when you took out and kissed your dag¬ 
 ger ; and twice after—once, when you would have pushed 
 through the Dutch guards into the court, where William was 
 mounting for the hunt; and again, in the audience chamber 
 where—” 
 
 “ Hush, sir 1 Enough. Did you—or rather, how did you 
 know me ?” 
 
 “ I knew you not, though, in agony and despair, I thought I 
 did. Your great likeness to your sister—assisted by accounts 
 of her conduct, which yon girl told me, but which, along with all 
 her other stories, I am, thank Heaven, now able to disbelieve— 
 led me into a horrible mistake of your person then and after¬ 
 wards. At Essex-gate, when the tidings of William’s landing 
 reached Dublin ; in the battle of the Boyne ; aud lastly, in your 
 island bower in Tipperary.” 
 
 Scarcely attending to Evelyn’s last words, the young man bent 
 his eyes a moment on the ground ; then hastily resumed, with a 
 flashing glance— 
 
 “ You guessed my business, too ?” 
 
 “ Perchance I did,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ If not, learn it now, sir,” the youth continued fiercely. 
 “ Chance tidings of the ruin of my family reached me abroad, 
 where I was supposed to have died, but where I only awaited the 
 end of a bad illness to return to my native country. My blood 
 could not choose but boil with rage and revenge. I looked 
 round for a victim. My eye fixed on him who was the head and 
 
538 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 cause of all. I sailed for England, devised plans to reach him, 
 sought him out, had him almost within arm’s length, and— 
 curses !—missed him. Make your own account of the story. 
 
 “ You surely cannot suppose me inclined to turn it to any ac¬ 
 count injurious to you,” said Evelyn, “ especially after the ex¬ 
 planation that has here fallen out between us ? Are we not 
 friends ? Are you not assured I never harbored a thought of 
 wronging your sister? Nay, let me add, that Eva could not 
 have suffered as I did ; that the deepest misery was mine. And 
 that no earthly prospect is so bright with happiness to me as the 
 hope, after one other question, of again placing on her finger 
 this little bond of our love and eternal union.” He drew 
 from his bosom the marriage ring that Eva had returned, and 
 that, ever since, he had worn suspended round his neck. 
 
 “ Another question !” echoed James M’Donnell. “ What is 
 it, ? Does it shape a doubt of my sister ?” 
 
 “ No ; but its answer—if possible from her own lips—would 
 make me the happiest of living men.” 
 
 “ Your method of solution proposes an impossibility,” said the 
 youth. “ My sister has been in France since the retreat of James 
 from Dublin—she sailed with him.” 
 
 “ But she is not in France, now,” said Onagh. 
 
 “Where then ?” asked James M’Donnell. 
 
 “ On the road to meet us all, in this place,” replied Onagh. 
 “ So came the word this morning to me ; the word that made 
 me come to Limerick with Moya Laherty by the hand.” 
 
 “Who sent it ?” 
 
 “ The friend of her and you—Carolan.” 
 
 “ But / know she is not on the road,” cried Evelyn, “ because 
 Bhe is this moment within the walls we stand on—I heard the 
 gate open to let her in.” 
 
 “ He speaks true,” said Onagh ; “ look there.” 
 
 Eva, supported by Carolan and old Father M’Donnell, ap¬ 
 peared coming up the steps of the wall. With a cry of joy, 
 James M’Donnell sprang to his sister. Evelyn was following, 
 when Onagh caught him back, saying, “Not yet.’? The distant 
 group conversed rapidly and energetically together ; Eva holding 
 her eyes down, as she attentively listened to Carolan and her 
 brother. At last she lifted them up. They fixed, floating in 
 tears, on Evelyn ; she stretched out her arms ; and, in a mo¬ 
 ment, was clasped to hio heart. 
 
 “I hear your murmuiings of joy,” said Carolan, standing 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 539 
 
 eroct and proud, while tears ran down his own cheeks, “ and ’tis 
 joy to me, because I have made it. I told you it was my duty 
 to see you righted, Mr. Evelyn ; I gave you a promise that I 
 would. I gathered, as I said I would, the true story from Onagh, 
 and the wicked Moya herself. I bore it over the wide sea ; I 
 walked with it, alone, over the face of a wide and strange coun¬ 
 try, God and an honest heart giving me help and guidance on 
 the road.. I found out her whose happiness it concerned. I told 
 it to her ; and she is here, at home, happy again.” 
 
 “ Noble Carolan 1” said Eva. “ All is, indeed, as you hear, 
 dear Evelyn ; many hundreds of miles, through France, did the 
 poor harper walk to see me. He who guides the peace-herald¬ 
 ing dove on her airy course, who feeds the raven in the desert, 
 and smooths the path for the pilgrim, can alone say how. Never 
 appeared vision of sleep more doubtful to my waking senses, 
 than the vision of his face at my convent grate. And well may 
 he stand erect there witnessing the happiness he has conferred ; 
 for there be reasons, which you do not guess, that make his act 
 a virtue truly.” 
 
 “ Eva, Eva,” said Carolan, “I am proud, indeed ; but you will 
 praise me too much. I have done what I have done, to make 
 myself blessed, as well as you.” 
 
 “ Much sooner should my reverend guardian and myself have 
 obeyed his summons home, Evelyn, but that we waited safe con¬ 
 voy across the seas, which at length we found—but more of that 
 anon. Now let me ask one necessary question”—advancing to 
 Onagh and Moya—“ let me demand what could have been the 
 cause of the wicked and cruel practices which have so long 
 brought misery on us all. Tell me, poor maiden, what could have 
 set you on ?” 
 
 “ Tell me what has brought you over say an’ land, to get one 
 fond glance from his eye, one kiss from his mouth !” answered 
 Moya, fiercely, her impetuous nature aroused into madness, not¬ 
 withstanding her late penitence, at the sight of the true love she 
 had so often tried to cross. “ He was my heart’s wish—I doated 
 on the villain Sassenach. Sowl an’ body, here and to come, I’d 
 have laid down—as, more than onst, I ventured life—to make 
 him love poor Moya.” 
 
 “For life, indeed, I have twice been Moya’s debtor,” said 
 Evelyn to Eva, “ and never shall forget it, however selfish might 
 have been—” 
 
 “ Yes, grand colleen,” broke in Moya—“ for him I done more 
 
540 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 —dared more—than you ever did—than you can ever do. For 
 him I gave up kith an’ kin—cause an’ couathry—kind words for 
 the voices o’ sthrangers—my woman’s mantle for a man’s battle- 
 coat. I watched him—followed him—I laid my head on the 
 could earth, at his feet—look here !”—tearing open her bosom, 
 upon which was the mark of the scar she had received at the 
 Strip of Burne—“ the pike that entered here was aimed at his 
 heart. An’ now—an’ now he laves me alone forever. Cead 
 mille #urses !” clasping her hands, and looking up—“may all— 
 But no”—suddenly changed by one of the gusts of better feel¬ 
 ing that alternated with her uncurbed passions and unprincipled 
 habits—“ no, grand colleen, Moya will never pray a curse on 
 his head—nor on yours—since he loves and likes you ; she has 
 no right. ’Twas all a wild dhrame she was in, and maybe, as 
 ye say, a wicked one. You desarve the Sassenach-dhass, an’ 
 she does not ; she, the poor Rapparee’s child, that hasn’t a home 
 or a couuthry even in the counthry they call their own. An’ so 
 love him, an’ keep by his side. Only love him as well as Moya 
 Laherty—be as willin’ to do as much for him—to give up all— 
 to see the heart’s blood run loose for him—to die contented for 
 him—love him, that way, an’ Moya will thry to pray good, in¬ 
 stead of bad, for you, the last black day she lives—God be wid 
 ye.” 
 
 She turned down the steps. 
 
 “ Truly,” said Eva, recovering from much astonishment, “ my 
 poor rival but tells me my duty, Evelyn. Her faults, and the 
 pain she has given us, must be forgotten now, and her future 
 comfort attended to. I have but one other explanation to seek. 
 Onagh, look upon me. I am not ignorant of the late good ser¬ 
 vices you have done me and mine ; but I cannot forget your 
 former unprovoked hostility. Nay, its recollection only makes 
 as unaccountable as itself that late kindness. You owe me a 
 faithful account of the reasons that urged you to cross the hap¬ 
 piness of my brother. Give it, faithfully and plainly ; for I am 
 told you can now speak more plainly than you used to do.” 
 
 “ I can, Eva M’Donnell. But you ask me for reasons—and 
 reasons I cannot give. As well may you ask the sea why it crushes 
 the ribs of the strong ship against the rock ; or the wind why it 
 tears up the stately tree ; or the fire why it burns ; or the water 
 why it drowns. My mind was then without a reason for any 
 thing, most of all for that; it dashed like the sea ; roared like 
 the wind ; burned like the fire ; all with that upon it. Why I 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 541 
 
 have brought sorrow to you, I don’t know. Or if I told you 
 how I thought I had a right to do it, you would not know my 
 meaning. I do not know it myself now, in the calm hours that 
 are restored to me. Yet, listen to all I can tell. 
 
 “ You had a brother Donald, comely as the day, light of 
 heart as the breeze ; but as false, too. He came to this south¬ 
 ern country in his youth, to take care of some grounds belonging 
 to your family. He was formed to make women love him ; and 
 to make all that loved him rue it sorely. From the highest to 
 the lowest, among those equal to him and below him, he smiled, 
 and had smiles in return. With the rest, he courted young 
 Grace Nowlan—you heard of her ?” 
 
 “ I did,” answered Eva. “ I heard she was the handsomest 
 maiden in her country, of his own rank in life ; and Donald’s 
 father was glad when it was thought he would wed her.” 
 
 “ Well. Grace Nowlan loved him better than her own life— 
 better than her own honor. The hour of her shame drew on ; 
 she came weeping to Donald M’Donnell, to ask him to do her 
 justice: he only laughed, kissed, and left her. Grace had 
 brothers. They suspected her state ; they gathered round her, 
 and asked her, with terrible threats, to tell them the truth. She 
 was obliged to confess all. They went away, whispering to¬ 
 gether. In a little time, she was a mother. Soon after she re¬ 
 ceived a message from Donald, inviting her to give him another 
 sinful meeting. Her brothers came and told her they knew of 
 the message, and commanded her to comply with it so far as to 
 make the signal at Donald’s window, and meet him as he came 
 out. She feared in her heart to do as they bid her ; but they 
 frightened her into it So she went ; alone, as she thought. 
 
 “ That night, light-hearted Donald M’Donnell had a brave 
 company of youngsters, like himself, drinking and singing in his 
 house. In the middle of the night, Grace’s signal was heard by 
 him and them, at the window. It was the throwing of three 
 pebbles at the glass. He said he should leave them for a space. 
 They laughed and bantered him ; bidding him go, and that they 
 would stay to drink him success. 
 
 “ He went down stairs. They heard him open and shut the 
 door. They drank bumpers to his success, as they said they 
 would. They waited an hour or so, patiently, for his return. 
 Then another, not so patiently. Then another and another, unti. 
 the dawn of the winter’s morning. But no Donald M’Donnell 
 tame back to them.” 
 
542 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 “ Nor has ever since been heard of,” said Eva : “ from that 
 hour my poor brother was lost to us.” 
 
 “ From that hour!” echoed Onagh. “ Did you never hear of 
 any little things afterwards that might give you a guess as to 
 his fate ?” 
 
 “Never,” answered Eva; “although every possible inquiry 
 and search were made in the country.” 
 
 “But I did,” continued Onagh. “In a little time, some 
 people began to whisper that a great clamp of turf had been seen 
 blazing, the same night, in a black bog near his house. And 
 when the curious neighbors went to scrape among the ashes of 
 the turf, they found two buttons of a man’s coat, half melted 
 away. That was all.” 
 
 “ Woman!” cried Eva, “ what horrid thing would you insinu¬ 
 ate ? Who are you ?” 
 
 “ Woman, yourself !” retorted Onagh, bursting, in returning 
 insanity, from her calm, “ what right have you to speak thus to 
 me ? But I—I—didu’t I see it all ? When he met me at the 
 window, and walked me, a field or two, away—when my dark 
 brothers came up to us, one carrying the child in his arms, and 
 asked him to do it and their sister justice—when I went on my 
 knees, begging the same thing, for now I feared the worst— 
 what think you he answered ? in cruelty and hardness of heart, 
 what think you ? That he would rather die than wed—these 
 were Donald M’Donneirs words—than wed his own strumpet— 
 the mother of his base bastard ! When all this was done and 
 spoken, didn’t I first see them trample him down, till the sense 
 left him—and then tie him and his and my child together—and 
 when the clamp was roaring, pitch them like a fagot into it ? 
 Didn’t they tie me, too, to the stake, near it, and leave me alone 
 by the great blaze, while, over all its roaring, I heard the little 
 cries of my child, the hissing of flesh, and the crackling of bones, 
 until my hoarse shrieks died away in madness? Hell—real and 
 eternal hell was round me, and I thought it was my doom and 
 punishment to see, and hear, and suffer, without a tear or groan. 
 What know I of the rest—of all that followed, until the mad¬ 
 ness sent me, alone and by stealth, to the north, and made me 
 believe I was bid to cross, to my life’s ending, the first love of 
 any brother of his blood, whose hardheartedness had withered 
 up my heart, like the blasted meadow of ripe corn, when the 
 reapers come down to cut the standing crop, but find it alrea iy 
 low ? Reasons I give you none ; I have none to give. But 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 543 
 
 often, when, in terrible shapes came the biddings of unnatural 
 revenge—when I started from my lone bed—a knife in my hand 
 —to seek my dark brothers—often I thought a good and great 
 voice plainly whispered me to a better and less sinful one—whis¬ 
 pered me to save, from the blight that came over me through 
 the M’Donnell’s false blood, whatever maiden any brother of 
 their house might try to undo—to save her, even by her life’s 
 death, from her honor’s death. And along with such whispers 
 was a promise of gifts, above mere human gifts and power, to 
 guide me in my course, and lead me to my end ; the gift to fore¬ 
 see, foretell, and prevent. And had I not the gift and the 
 power, proud Eva M’Donnell? Did I not foresee and foretell ? 
 Did I not—but hush, hush—let me not go on in this boasting 
 now. There is a good God, who will give me rest and quiet, 
 and a clearer view of the past. Forgive me, Eva ; forgive me, 
 and pray for my peace, and the soul of your eldest brother.” 
 
 With such words, Onagh left them. 
 
 After a sorrowful pause— 
 
 “Dearest Eva,” said Evelyn, “ what misery you prepared for 
 me upon the day when, sitting over the Gray Man’s Path, you 
 committed the unhappy mistake of reporting as dead, this youth, 
 your younger brother, James !” 
 
 “ He has told me of some of the strange results, to your 
 mind, of that story,” said Eva. “ But how could words, or even 
 appearances, no matter how convincing, make you believe me 
 capable of any act unworthy of you, Evelyn? Need I account 
 for my situation, from the moment we were parted at Glenar- 
 riff ? If so, here is my gray-headed guardian to tell you, that 
 then, separating from poor Edmund also, I became immediately 
 attached to my Lady Tyrconnel’s court, up to the hour of King 
 James’s retiriug to France—” 
 
 “ When my child Eva, and I, left Ireland with him,” added 
 the old priest. 
 
 “ No, dear Eva, this explanation was not necessary ; at least 
 not for my present assurance, however it might have been after¬ 
 wards sought. Alas !” he continued, “ it was upon the day al¬ 
 ready spoken of you also mentioned to me, for the first time, the 
 name of the elder brother, whose sad fate we have just heard ac¬ 
 counted for.” 
 
 “It was,” said Eva. “And upon that very day, too, and 
 while we held the discourse you so well remember, our poor Ed¬ 
 mund first was invited to joiu the wild and desperate people hi? 
 
544 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 subsequent mortifications and despair drove him to associate 
 with. You remember the appearance of the man, in the mist, 
 down the path, and Edmund’s leaving us to follow him ?” 
 
 “ I do. When we afterwards got on board the smuggling 
 galliot, I suspected whom he might have been.” 
 
 “ Doubtless. A scattered band of Rapparees at that moment 
 were in the vessel ; discontented, I believe, with their nominal 
 leader, Hogan. They had heard of Edmund’s difficulties, as 
 brought on by the persecution of our noble cousin, and were on 
 the lookout for him, round the coast, at the very moment he 
 thus met, by chance, one of their emissaries. Edmund has since 
 informed me, by letter, of these facts. And he has written me 
 more pleasing advice, dear Evelyn. For a long time, his calmed 
 and reflective spirit has spurned the courses and habits upon 
 which his despair and impetuosity served to throw him, and our 
 brother but looks for an opportunity to reassume the rank and 
 bearing more worthy of his nature and name—of him and us. 
 These times tempt a man to much error and madness, but at 
 last teach him much experience. James can vouch all this to 
 you.” 
 
 “ I can,” replied the youth, anxiously looking from the walls ; 
 11 but here is something important to us or him—a rider who has 
 just got under shelter of the walls, and whom I know well, 
 makes impatient and troubled signs to me. Hark 1 he enters at 
 the gate.” 
 
 In a few seconds, the Rapparee ran up the steps of the wall, 
 and whispered the young man. 
 
 “ Say you so, by heaven ! Get our men, who are in the town, 
 ready, then. Haste, and then let us have a trial for it. Sister, 
 farewell ! I go to free our brother. He is in the hands of this 
 Ginkle, who, a hundred times, has sworn his ruin—farewell, fare* 
 well !” 
 
 He disappeared ; Eva, shrieking in terror, and Evelyn, fore¬ 
 seeing the uselessness, or worse, of violence, in such a case, 
 vainly urging him to remain. 
 
 “ No, let him go—and let us follow!” cried Eva. “ Have we 
 no friends near, to intercede with this merciless man ? Where 
 is Sarsfield ?” 
 
 “In the camp, With Ginkle,” answered Evelyn. 
 
 “ In the camp ! what camp ? What does he there ?” 
 
 “ He has gone out to sign a treaty for the surrender of Lim< 
 erick.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 545 
 
 u Surrender !” screamed Eva, starting up ; “ misery upon mis¬ 
 ery I private and public ruin together ! Come, Evelyn, protect 
 me to this camp ; now there is a double cause why we should 
 be there—to save a brother, and a country 1 Come, I have ar 
 guments to try for both. Surrender ? Why ?” 
 
 “ The disappointment of the fleet from France—” 
 
 “ Disappointment of the fleet ? Come away. Disappoint 
 ment 1 I have news to match that—your arm, Evelyn. Oh, 
 dearest Evelyn 1 God grant there arise here no new and eter¬ 
 nal cause for our separation, indeed. But should injury come on 
 Edmund—injury in life and prospects—what can a wretched sis¬ 
 ter do but forever mourn over it, or dedicate herself forever to 
 soothe it 1 Be a friend to us, heaven 1” she cried, as, with Eve¬ 
 lyn, she hastened down the wall, waving her hand to old Priest 
 M’Dounell to stay by Carolan’s side, whose troubled features 
 told the torture with which he heard the announcement of the 
 new misfortune. 
 
 While the conversation we have detailed occurred on the walls 
 of Limerick, Sarsfield and his colleagues sat down in Ginkle’s 
 tent, to a dinner as dainty as the situation and all circumstances 
 would allow. He found, in the Dutch general, a pleasing speci¬ 
 men of his country ; blunt and matter-of-fact, indeed, but more 
 courteous and animated than any of the same nation he had be¬ 
 fore seen. A portly, full-breasted, middle-aged man, holding him¬ 
 self very erect and bluff,, and his broad face, and wide, though 
 not disagreeable features, wearing a constant smile, that almost 
 approached to a smirk. At his side were other Dutch, English, 
 and French officers, and William’s justices ; together with Dr 
 Dopping and Colonel Lloyd. 
 
 The repast proceeded in good-humor, and mutual and a sin¬ 
 cere show of that respect and good-will which fair foes always 
 entertain for each other. It was done ; bumpers were filled, 
 healths toasted, and hands clasped in fellowship, whose duty it 
 had a moment before been to point the sword at one another’s 
 hearts. Then, General Ginkle proceeded to business. He led 
 the whole party from his tent to a spot at the county Clare side 
 of Thomond Bridge, almost, it might be said, in sight of both 
 armies. There, pausing near a huge stone, he drew out a fair 
 copy of the treaty of surrender, which had before been discussed 
 and agreed to. Having conned it over, he handed it to the jus¬ 
 tices, and when they had done reading it, to Sarsfield, saying, 
 that he believed Lord Lucan would find it sufficient for honor- 
 
546 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 able men at any time to accept, and especially calculated to give 
 security in property, immunity for the past, freedom in religion, 
 eligibility to political place and rank. In a word, quiet and liberty 
 to the Catholics of Ireland. 
 
 Sarsfield, having attentively perused the document, said that 
 its provisions appeared to him so calculated ; and he passed it to 
 his legal adviser, Sir Toby Butler. The barrister gave it a re¬ 
 newed approval, and handed it round. 
 
 “We cannot be certain,” added Sir Toby, “ that with such 
 unusual dispatch, and amid so much warm discussion, we shall 
 be able to frame, to the very letter, an instrument in which some 
 ingenious knave may not pick a hole. But we understand that 
 the spirit of this treaty shall be kept with us.” 
 
 “ And so should all understand,” replied Ginkle. “ The 
 paper but keeps the promises I before held out, and for which I 
 have often received the commands of my royal master.” 
 
 “ And you, General Ginkle, engage for King William, that 
 he will speedily ratify it ?” resumed the lawyer. 
 
 “ His majesty empowers me to do so,” answered Ginkle. 
 
 “ Come, then,” cried Sarsfield, checking a stifled sigh ; “ let 
 us sign, in the name of God and of our country—in the name of 
 honesty and good faith.” 
 
 “ I sign, in that pledge,” said Ginkle, laying the paper on the 
 adjacent stone, and, as he knelt, the better to speed his task, at¬ 
 taching his signature thereto. As he motioned his other gener¬ 
 als to draw near for the same purpose, a great uproar was heard 
 towards the camp. They severally took the pen, however ; and 
 Sarsfield at last rose, while the tumult increased, also approached 
 the stone, and knelt ; remarking it was, by accident, a good 
 position for the act. He was beginning to write, when Eva 
 M’Donnell, haggard and agitated, ran up, crying, “ Hold your 
 hand, my lord of Lucan, and hark a word from me.” 
 
 “ A mad woman,” said Dr. Dopping ; “ let her be put aside 
 though, while he spoke, he looked, in significant alarm, at Col¬ 
 onel Lloyd. Sarsfield had glanced up ; but resumed his writ 
 ing, and hastily finished his signature. 
 
 “ Not so mad, either, as he who will not forbear, at my re 
 quest,” cried Eva. 
 
 “ What now ?” asked Sarsfield, advancing to her, as the othef 
 Irish officers subscribed their names. 
 
 Perhaps you do not know me, my lord ; yet might you have 
 seen Eva M’Donnell in the Castle of Dublin.” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 547 
 
 11 Miss M’Donnell 1 I do, indeed, remember. Can I do you 
 a service ?” 
 
 li My lord, you can; but first—although a brother’s life 
 nearly hangs on it—serve your country, my lord of Lucan! 
 Suffer not the full signatures to be put to this treaty, for,” she 
 added, in a close and hissing whisper, “ Chateau Renault this 
 moment sails with a brave fleet from Dingle Bay to Limerick. 
 I crossed to Ireland with him, and my private need not brook¬ 
 ing delay when he touched on the coast, rode hither since yester¬ 
 day.” 
 
 “Let no other man sign !” cried Sarsfield, turning round to 
 the officers. 
 
 “ Praises to the Lord!” said Dr. Dopping, clapping his hand 
 on the document, “ the last name is written hereon.” 
 
 “ Mighty God !” exclaimed Sarsfield, stamping, as he instinct¬ 
 ively grasped his sword, “ is all lost, then, and the game in our 
 very hand ? Hither, gentlemen 1 hither I” 
 
 The Irish officers gathered round him ; and, in vehement whis¬ 
 pers, he told the news. 
 
 “ Let us back to the town,” said John Grace. 
 
 “Yes,” said another, “the gates are still shut, and we can 
 hold them so, as we have done.” 
 
 Ginkle and his officers also drew aside, and whispered with 
 each other. 
 
 “ You would break this treaty, even in the same hour you 
 sign it, my Lord Lucan,” said Colonel Lloyd. 
 
 “ As perfidious Papists ever did,” added the Bishop of Meath. 
 
 The Irish officers returned angry and ominous scowls for these 
 home charges—all but Sarsfield. He stood aloof from them, 
 his eyes buried in the earth. He looked around, as if to take 
 an inspiring view of that country, the question of whose sub¬ 
 jection or independence tugged at the foundations of his sense of 
 private honor. He panted ; he sighed quickly and laboriously ; 
 his forehead grew moist; his cheek alternately red and pale ; 
 while, with the point of his scabbard, he unconsciously dug at 
 the sod on which he stood. The remarks of Ginkle’s party 
 growing louder, he started, suddenly ; listened a moment; held 
 himself more erect j smiled bitterly ; and turning on his heel to 
 them, said— 
 
 “ Nay, gentlemen, be not so quick, nor so hard with us. You, 
 Coloucl Lloyd, be merciful, in particular ; for though your city 
 of Derry sent a shot in Ring James’s face, when it was expected 
 
548 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 to keep a treaty with him, yet shall this treaty stand. Though 
 an ally’s fleet, bearing us help enough to hold all Ireland in our 
 hands, be now entering the mouth of the Shannon, yet shall it 
 stand. Though our country be lost to us—though we bid fare¬ 
 well to her forever—though she exist for us but in our recol¬ 
 lections and our sorrows,”—a manly tear glazed his eye —“ yet 
 shall it stand. And so, fare you well, gentlemen. We cannot 
 save even our country at the price of our honor, which, along 
 with our love and efforts for her, alone makes us worthy of being 
 called her children. Farewell, I say. Keep ye your part of 
 this covenant as well as we keep ours, and there needs no ill- 
 blood between us. Come, brother soldiers—yet, forgive me, if 
 I stumble on a doubt. They who suspect much of others, can 
 scarce ever promise much for themselves. Come, Miss M’Don- 
 uell—General Ginkle, I mean not you, whose fair-dealing is evi¬ 
 dent through all this matter—but Ireland is governed at home, 
 sir, when her masters turn their backs. Adieu, sir—follow, 
 gentlemen—Miss M’Donnell with you. God of nations I God 
 of freedom !” he added, as he turned away, “ what a sore chance 
 is this !” and he wept convulsively. 
 
 “ General Sarsfield,” cried Eva, as the tumult, before heard, 
 and afterwards gone off, was renewed—“ since you can no longer 
 raise an arm for your country, aid me, oh, aid me, to save my 
 brother 1 my brothers I” Sarsfield started in much interest. 
 Eva rapidly explained that Edmund, having fallen into the hands 
 of Ginkle’s soldiers, had been ordered to be shot ; that James 
 M’Donnell, rashly and madly trying to rescue him, had of course 
 but shared his fate ; that Evelyn, passing with her from Lim¬ 
 erick, had flown on to the outpost, to gain, if possible, a moment’s 
 delay, while she, recognizing Sarsfield, remained to crave his 
 intercession with Ginkle. Sarsfield, having heard her story, 
 darted back to Ginkle—Eva onward. 
 
 She gained, wild with terror, yet not bereft of hope, the spot 
 on which her brothers stood. Edmund and James M’Donnell, 
 the former supported by Evelyn, were in motion towards a clear 
 space of ground—a rank of soldiers standing behind them. 
 Evelyn, as he passed his hand round Edmund’s waist, smote his 
 forehead with the other, and often looked back. Eva, unchecked 
 by the officer, ran in through the soldiers, and clasped her arms 
 round her brothers : “ Hope, hope !” she cried—“ you must— 
 you shall be saved 1 this can never be I One moment, officer l 
 onty one moment, till my lord of Lucan—” 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 549 
 
 Wnile she spoke, Ginkle and Sarsfield rode up. The general 
 had pleaded as if for the lives of two sons. They were in¬ 
 stantly pardoned. The ensuing scene must be imagined. 
 
 One condition accompanied, however, the grace to the broth¬ 
 ers, namely, that they should transport themselves out of Ire¬ 
 land. When Eva heard this from the lips of Evelyn, her brow 
 fell towards him—she was silent. Then she brightened up, and 
 vowed, as she had before intimated, to join herself to her broth¬ 
 ers’ wanderings, and own no other care or duty. Evelyn heard 
 her in despair. 
 
 Sarsfield soothed Edmund, promising to take the same vessel 
 with him, and give him a command when his Lucan regiment 
 should be reiucorporated on the Continent. All was now 
 nearly over. Limerick opened its gates to King William ; and 
 the next day the French fleet entered the river—the fleet only 
 doomed to transport the defenders of Ireland to a foreign shore, 
 though it had come to restore them to their country. The 
 whole Irish army was reviewed by William’s generals and jus¬ 
 tices, and solicited to pass into his service, the officers retaining 
 their rank. About a thousand did so : many thousands more 
 marched to embark for France at Cork : the rest sailed from 
 Limerick. It was a sad scene, that strange embarkation. No 
 adieus were exchauged with remaining friends, by the emigrants 
 —with brothers, sisters, or wives. Friends, of every sex and 
 age, exiled themselves, together. They had only to stand on the 
 decks of their vessels, and look a long adieu to their country. 
 
 Our friends experienced the sole trouble that day seen. Sars¬ 
 field, and some brother officers, Edmund and James M’Donnell, 
 Eva, Evelyn, and Carolan, all walked together to the river’s 
 edge. One after the other they stepped into the boat, until it 
 came to Eva’s turn. 
 
 “ And do you, indeed, leave me, with but this mocking sym¬ 
 bol of an eternal fate, once solemnly sworn at the altar ?” asked 
 Evelyn, catching her arm, as, blinded in tears, she also put her 
 foot on the boat, and he showed her marriage ring. 
 
 “ Have you considered well, Eva ?” asked Edmund. “ God 
 knows, your presence would be the only joy of our exile. But 
 if you love your husband, stay by his side ; I should not be a 
 brother or a Christian to say you otherwise. Examine yout 
 heart—call upon your God ; \nd if a great duty prompts—why, 
 then, Eva, ask Him to bless us—and so, fare you well, Eva- 
 sister—orphan sister—fare you well 1” 
 
650 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 For the day before, Eva had evidently been shaken in her 
 stern resolve, as well by the pleadings of Evelyn as by her own 
 reflections. Now she hesitated, her foot still on the boat. The 
 rowers spoke of putting off. Her husband grasped her hand, 
 and replaced, unseen by any, the ring on her finger. Her 
 brothers, not displeased, nor, on her account, sorry, saw which 
 way God and woman’s nature at last swayed her. They 
 embraced their sister; she clung, sobbing, and almost shrieking, 
 to them. The boat was about to move ; her husband caught 
 her in his arms. The boat put off; and now she clung to him. 
 
 “ Farewell, Eva—farewell, Evelyn—farewell, Carolan—fare¬ 
 well, Ireland!” cried the brothers, as the rowers pulled hard. 
 Carolan was on the bank; all hands had before been clasped 
 with his. Now he struck his little harp. It was an extempo¬ 
 raneous and touching air he played. 
 
 “ Farewell, the ashes of my first and only love !” Edmund 
 M’Donnell was heard to add; and they were his last words 
 parting from his country. 
 
 “Farewell, Mr. Evelyn,” said Sarsfield, grasping his hand. 
 “ To you, and such as you, we look for the observance of this 
 treaty of Limerick, which, if observed, will give her exiles the 
 consolation of knowing that Ireland, though not a free, is a 
 peaceful country, and may grow to be a happy one.” 
 
 It was not. 
 
 Years wore away without any direct communication from the 
 exiles to their friends in Ireland, the political distraction between 
 England and the Continent not favoring such. At last came 
 epistles from Edmund to his sister and her husband. Of the 
 latter the following is an extract :— 
 
 “ Evelyn, I am shaken with a sudden and terrible grief; but 
 of that anon. What do I hear, Evelyn ? Is it true what I 
 heard ? That treaty, on the faith of which brave and deter¬ 
 mined men—often victorious, and, at its signing, well supported 
 —cast down their arms, content to spare their country’s blood 
 in giving her peace ; that treaty, upon the faith of which a 
 whole army became aliens from their country, when they might 
 have been conquerors on her bosom—if, indeed, the rumor 
 that has reached us speak truly, answer me, Evelyn—on what 
 stence has it not been kept ? Give me every information. 
 
 Who are they that have failed to keep it ? Has William re¬ 
 fused ? Did he not engage, through Ginkle, to ratify it ? Let 
 me know who are the false knaves, that their names may be 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 551 
 
 accursed in the mouths of the gallant men, by whose side I 
 have been sent to gather, in a strange land, the laurels denied to 
 me in my own. Let us know them, that, though far from Ire¬ 
 land, and from all hope of serving her, we may soothe our tears 
 of wrath and shame by the burning hatred we will swear to 
 keep for Ireland’s betrayers. 
 
 “And not only the treaty has not been kept, as still I hear— 
 not only Irishmen are not continued in the political rights and 
 the security as to religion and lands, which it promised, but 
 additional persecution has been levelled against them—pains, 
 and penalties, and proscriptions, that the blood boils but to 
 think of. Answer me, Evelyn. I will not believe these things 
 till you authorize me so to do. 
 
 “ But, even though you gainsay my fears, what matters it 
 now to me ? Oh, I am torn with a sorrow that makes me indif¬ 
 ferent to your tidings while I ask for them, or only prepares me 
 to meet them with raving execration. Ireland’s noblest sou, 
 Sarsfield, is dead. I was by his side when he fell, victorious, 
 with his Irish brigade, in the midst of a defeated army. ‘ Ire¬ 
 land, this is not for you,’ he said, and died. And the ball that 
 pierced his heart shattered a heart already broken. The ru¬ 
 mors about which I now write to you, had previously struck 
 him down with rage, shame, remorse, and despair. He called 
 himself the destroyer of his country—her destroyer for having, 
 with the sword in his hand, trusted her peace and happiness to 
 that treaty. I have heard him pray that, now she was degraded 
 and wretched, and he unable to assist her, he might no longer 
 live. The night before the battle in which he fell, he asked, 
 with tears and groans, to lie dead upon its field. Answer me, 
 Evelyn. Ed. M’D.” 
 
 Part of Evelyn’s answer ran thus : 
 
 “No, dear Edmund, it has not been kept. It is equally true, 
 that additional wrong has been added to its violation. William 
 was not the faith-breaker. He ratified the treaty, as his gen¬ 
 eral had promised for him, a few months after your departure ; 
 and more he could not do against a Parliament that has ever 
 been wrangling with him,* and against the violence of those 
 
 * A Parliament, whose opposition to every measure recommended 
 by William, is said, even by Smollett, to have “ savored more ol 
 clownish obstinacy than of patriotism.”— Note by A. O’H. 
 
552 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 persons who, here in Ireland, urged that Parliament to disallow 
 the solemn act of their sovereign. In shame and regret that, 
 as an Irish Protestant, I must naturally feel, it is my duty to 
 answer you more particularly. You had scarce sailed, when 
 the most of your Protestant countrymen cried out against the 
 treaty, as too honorable and favorable to your party. Declar¬ 
 ing that you merited to lose your properties, instead of having 
 them secured to you, and that they, meantime, merited to 
 possess them. Denouncing the toleration of your religion. 
 Slandering your bravery. Denying your successes. Even con¬ 
 descending to censure the arrangement that, at the capitulation, 
 
 allowed vou to march out of Limerick with the honors of war. 
 «/ m 
 
 And I blush particularly to recount, that the spiritual guides 
 amongst us, whose voices, if ever raised on such subjects, ought 
 to be raised for peace, good-will, and good faith, have been the 
 loudest and most effective in promoting the sectarian rancor, 
 dishonorable views, and bad policy, that furnishes you with just 
 ground of complaint. It was my painful, and—I will add— 
 degraded lot, to hear, the other day, a sermon in Christ’s Church, 
 Dublin, preached by Dr. Dopping, Bishop of Meath, against 
 your treaty, and the fulfilment of your treaty. To hear the 
 doctrine plainly laid down, under the assumed and blasphemed 
 authority of God, that faith was not to be kept towards you. 
 Such is the spirit, that operating upon Parliament, has produced 
 a result unjust and perfidious to you, Edmund, and inglorious 
 and afflicting to me. 
 
 il But let us not despair. Other times will naturally create 
 another spirit ; when, if only to redeem the memory of their 
 fathers, the children of my erring friends will repair this fault. 
 From the present hour, Ireland must become a united country, 
 fairly and nobly rivalling Englaud in all that makes England 
 truly great, or remain, for ages, a province of England, poor, 
 shattered, narrow-minded, contemptible, and, party with party 
 as she stands, contemned by the world, aud by England too. 
 A little time will teach this lesson. When it is taught, the 
 union indispensable to avoid the evil will be endeavored by a 
 recantation of old slanders, and a concession of old rights. 
 Man cannot always be unjust to man. Even for his own rel¬ 
 ative character and happiness, he will love and do all befitting 
 and merited honor to his brother. At least I believe and hope 
 the principle is in his nature. 
 
 “ In the great country of England, there must also arise a 
 
THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 553 
 
 feeling to right the present wrong to which it has just lent itself. 
 For, without her affirmation, the wrong could not have been 
 committed. The descendants of the men who have sanctioned, 
 and by that means caused the deliberate breach of their own 
 treaty, made in the field, will awake to vindicate, as far as in 
 them lies, the name of their ancestors. A son, jealous of his 
 father’s honor, pays his father’s debts, even to a common cred¬ 
 itor. Englishmen will yet pay their fathers’ debt of faith to 
 Ireland. The treaty of Limerick will yet be kept. 
 
 “ Farewell, dear Edmund. Eva writes for herself. I try to 
 make her happy ; but she thinks—shall I say too often ?—of 
 you and James, and of the degradation of her country, and I do 
 not always succeed. The death of that brave man has given 
 her a terrible shock; but she will tell you her own feelings. 
 Farewell. A little Edmund Evelyn can already hear us talk 
 about you, his namesake. There is also, dear Edmund, a little 
 Esther, who, poor Eva thinks, is like her you loved so truly. 
 And a little James, who—but I have done, for I have a con¬ 
 science. God bless you. 
 
 “ Robert Evelyn.” 
 
 34 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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 - 
 
 
 
 
 EH Uv S? ?>• > ^V 
 
 
 
 
NOTES TO THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 Note —To Close the Boyne Water. 
 
 This tale of the “ Boyne Water” being from my brother’s pen, and 
 the action being placed, for the most part, on ground with which I am 
 personally unacquainted, the notes are therefore limited; and a few ex- 
 tracts from letters of the writer of the tale, written while it progressed 
 under his hands, may not be uninteresting. They will serve to illustrate 
 the manner in which he and I co-operated on this, as well as on other 
 occasions. The letters from which I quote, refer as well to domestic 
 concerns as to the tale. The portions alluding to the tale I transcribe. 
 
 “ London, 24th August, 1825. 
 
 •* My Dear Michael— .To-morrow morning I leave for 
 
 France, to convey Ellen home to England. I will jog her to Paris 
 to make her laugh and rub her eyes, and, indeed, to get a little rec¬ 
 reation for myself, as I have been absolutely fagged since I saw you. 
 
 “ I, as well as you, have broken the ice with my new venture; and 
 if you make boast of your three chapters, I hereby intimate a volume, 
 of 360 pages entirely written, other two volumes planned out—the 
 tackle in the loom ready for the shuttle. So doing this along with 
 other things, I trust you will not call me an idler. 
 
 “ Do you know I think I shall write one of your volumes after all ? 
 —a thing connected with R. Emmet’s insurrection. A story, and capital 
 characters and situations for it, have come into my noddle. Will you 
 let me ? When do you hope to be done with two vols.? Answer me 
 that question as distinctly as you can. When you get this you will 
 have returned from Limerick, and a letter from you will, I expect, 
 meet me when I come back from France. I am sure you have done 
 all I could wish as well if not better than myself. 
 
 “John Banim.” 
 
 London, November, 6th, 1835 
 
 “My Dear Michael —When you read the letter that Nicholas 
 Buckley takes you, separate from this, you will see I am not really the 
 defaulter you must have long ago supposed me to be. Upon the day 
 of its date he had that letter from me, solemnly assuring me (even 
 Nicholas’s jokes are solemn) he was to leave London the next morning 
 Of course 1 comforted myself with the idea that you had heard from 
 me some time since, when yesterday, to my utter astonishment, I saw 
 the gentleman—where, and how employed think you ?—sitting on the 
 steps of St. Paul’s Church, surrounded by the din and deafening clamor 
 
556 
 
 NOTES TO THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 of perhaps the most clamorous spot in all London, unconscious, appa¬ 
 rently, of the noise and turmoil around him, intent on the perusal of 
 a newspaper of no recent date. 
 
 “ You are not, I suppose, ignorant that our townsman, Nicholas, came 
 to London ostensibly to realize whatever he might be entitled to out 
 of his late brother’s property. Up to this, I believe, his receipts have 
 been very little; whatever they have been, I think they have been 
 spent, not on the dissipations or amusements of London, but in carry 
 ing out a plan most originally conceived, and executed industriously 
 and determinately. He resolved to become intimately acquainted with 
 every inch of this vast city. Not only with the most prominent and 
 most attractive features, but with every court, and lane, and alley, the 
 most out of public view, and with every phase of life, going as high 
 as he could reach, and as low as he could descend. The more effect¬ 
 ually to prosecute this his purpose, he proceeded thus: he tenanted 
 a cheap lodging in one locality, employed a week or more prowling 
 everywhere in the neighborhood, within a day’s leisurely-walking 
 distance of his headquarters ; and when his circuit of examination 
 had been thoroughly examined, he shifted his residence to another 
 neighborhood, and went on as before, not dwelling more than a week 
 in one place. 
 
 “ His small funds have been at length so exhausted, that he assures 
 me he has been subsisting for the last fortnight on some farinaceous 
 preparation he calls ‘ breakfast powder’ and dry bread, his average 
 daily expenditure for food being threepence ! I verily believe lie knows 
 more about London than many born Londoners residing all their lives 
 within the bills of mortality. 
 
 “ It appears that after he had left me, with the conviction on my 
 mind that he was to depart for home the next day, he recollected that 
 his knowledge of some particular locality was not to his satisfaction, 
 so he took lodgings in a central point, and subsisting ascetically on his 
 4 breakfast powder and bread,’ prosecuted his researches; my letter, 
 which I supposed to be in your hands, in his pocket all the while. He 
 now pledges his conscience that he is to be off direct for Kilkenny to¬ 
 morrow, and I again trust him. 
 
 “ I have altered my mind about sending you the novel in its entire 
 state. Herewith you have one volume. I am obliged to be thus in 
 consistent with the resolution expressed in the accompanying letter, 
 because I must go to press a month from this day. So read it imme¬ 
 diately, my dear Michael, and promptly return it. Moreover, do me 
 the favor to make notes on separate slips of paper, paged in reference 
 to the MS. page, and placed loose in the leaves. Whenever you see, 
 or rather feel, an opening, write over a sentence or phrase in your own 
 idiom, or add a touch of your humor, or substitute yours for mine. 
 
 “ In your criticisms be very blunt and plain, but short—a hint ia 
 enough on any point, because we understand each other so perfectly. 
 
 “ Write me back with the volume a letter, in your own character 
 anticipatory of the objections likely to be made by partymenon either 
 side, saying any thing that strikes you; and when this comes to hand 
 I shall work an introduction out of it. All this, my dear Michael, is 
 to be effected within a fortnight after the volume reaches you. You 
 will not fail to tell me candidly your general opinion of this voluma 
 
NOTES TO THE BOYNE WATEB. 
 
 557 
 
 It is only right that I should know myself; and do not you, at least, 
 through a false delicacy, allow me to lead myself astray. 
 
 “And observe, Mr. Abel O’Hara, the letter in answer to this is penned 
 by you two days after you got the MS., and have given to it the first 
 reading. I shall be most anxious for your letter ; ana do not disap¬ 
 point me. 
 
 “John Banm.” 
 
 " London, January 11th. 1826. 
 
 "-, —still go on with your criticisms in the tone hitherto adopted. 
 
 Do not fall to work to give me praise through a brotherly feeling; do 
 act spare me: the more severe, the more friendly will you be. You 
 cannot disguise your sentiments so as to escape detection: and the 
 moment I perceive a want of sincerity, there is an end of our con 
 fidence. No, no, I say again ; do even as you have done ; for my sake, 
 for my dearest interest sake, ever do so with me; otherwise, I cannot 
 again have the advantage of your advice and help, and should go on, 
 not seeing or knowing myself. Proceed now in the name of God, and 
 like a brother and a man act your part. 
 
 “ Thank God you were so happy at Christmas, the father so fatherly, 
 and the poor mother able to sit up and be with you. We, too, drank 
 your healths at home on that day. 
 
 “ John Banim.” 
 
 “ London, March 13, 1826. 
 
 “ • —, —I hope your favorable thoughts of the Third Yolume are 
 not kindly meant as a salvo to make up for your previous hard knocks. 
 However this may be, I am convinced you are wrong in one particular, 
 namely, as to your conception of Sarsfield. Your own words condemn 
 you. You say : ‘ Without veritable grounds for my conception of him, 
 I had imagined him almost a hero of romance, and expected his acts 
 and words to fit that character.’ 
 
 “ This could not be, my dear Michael; he was a plain, matter-of-fact 
 man, devoted, soul and body, and unflinchingly to his cause, brave, en¬ 
 terprising, vigorous ; nothing beyond this. Have you ever seen his 
 portrait ? Very unlike in feature and bearing to a ‘ hero of romance.’ 
 You told me on a former occasion you liked my description of him at 
 Johnstown. In that description I 'wished to give such a person as I 
 afterwards strove to delineate more in detail. I was desirous to give 
 Sarsfield without fictitious or imaginative decoration. 
 
 “ Will you, like a good fellow, work somewhat quicker ? The press 
 is at a standstill, and we must not, unnecessarily, lose a moment. 
 
 “ You mistake about the Third Volume being hastily written. I 
 gave it thrice as much time as any of the others. 
 
 “ John Banim.” 
 
 Note—Introductory Letter, Page 10. 
 
 My brother here alludes to cases of close resemblance, known to both 
 of us. There were, in Kilkenny, when we were lads, two remarkable 
 instances of this, as it may called, separate identity. 
 
 Paris and Louis An—n, twin brothers, were so alike, that during 
 their infancy their own father was unaole to distinguish between them 
 
558 
 
 NOTES TO THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 constantly mistaking the one for the other, and, as their elder brother 
 assured me, occasionally punishing Louis for the misdeeds of Paris, and 
 trouncing Paris for the backslidings of Louis. At night, when the 
 two boys were abed, Roger An—n frequently required his wife’s at¬ 
 tendance, directing her to point out the child called Paris, and then the 
 child called Louis. After stooping anxiously over them, and comparing 
 them and studying them, while they quietly slept, he invariably went 
 away, his doubts still strong on him, pronouncing his wife a witch, and 
 declaring his inability, after the closet scrutiny, to say “ which was 
 which,”—the dissatisfied, testy man making no allowance for the ma¬ 
 ternal instinct that bestowed a supernatural clearsightedness on the 
 matter. 
 
 Paris and Louis grew up, even to their manhood, fac similes of each 
 other, so much so, that if an intimate of theirs met Paris and accosted 
 him, and at some paces further encountered Louis, he would have been 
 as puzzled as was their father. During their period of wooing, it was 
 said that they took a pleasure in perplexing their respective mistresses, 
 and people went so far as to aver, that even after marriage, it was some 
 time before the wives were actually certain as to ownership. 
 
 Contemporaneous with Paris and Louis An—n, were Ned and Billy 
 Gladwell. These were twin brothers, too. Paris and Louis An—n 
 were tall, shapely, remarkably handsome fellows, and one might sup¬ 
 pose that nature, pleased with her handiwork in the one case, had cast 
 the second in the same mould as the first. But no such inducement 
 could be imagined for forming Ned and Billy Gladwell in duplicate. 
 Ned Gladwell did not much exceed five feet in height; and were Billy 
 Gladwell placed back to back with iiis brother Ned, half the breadth 
 of a hair’s difference in stature could not be detected. They were 
 both of them bullet-headed, with almost circular faces and little pug 
 noses: anxious-looking, but manifestly stupid little creatures they were, 
 with the same muddy, leaden look from the eyes of both, and the same 
 droop in the under lip. 
 
 If Ned and Billy Gladwell were dwarfish, they were rotund of shape; 
 and were a measuring tape to circumscribe them at any or every point, 
 at the chest, round their little paunches, or at the hips, the girth of 
 Ned and Billy would be found to agree accurately. The one moved 
 with a peculiar waddling gait, as if infirm of limb ; so did the other. 
 Both squeaked out their words as they spoke, intoned to the same 
 piping pitch, whether in colloquy, or merriment, or vexation. Each 
 of the brothers Gladwell may have been conscious of his own identity, 
 but beyond yea or nay the certainty was confined to themselves, all the 
 rest of the world dubious. 
 
 Ned and Billy Gladwell were noth of them waiters at the same 
 time, and at the same inn—the Sheaf Inn it was called, then the prin¬ 
 cipal place of entertainment in our city ; and they owed the perma¬ 
 nency of their employment to their singular and remarkable identity. 
 I could learn that the guests at the “ Sheaf” were often at fault, from 
 the impossibility of distinguishing Ned from Billy, or Billy from Ned 
 the orders given to Ned ignored by Billy, and the gratuity placed in 
 the palm of Billy ignored by Ned. Billy and Ned were a source ot 
 never-ending amusement, in fact. As such they were an attraction 
 they drew customers to “ The Siieal inn and people came out o. 
 
NOTES TO THE BOYNE WATER. 
 
 559 
 
 their way to look at them, and be puzzled by them ; and so they were 
 retained as waiters there as long as the establishment existed. 
 
 One of the Glad wells, whether Billy or Ned I will not undertake to 
 certify—he might take whichever of the names he pleased without fear 
 of detection as a personator—one of the Gladwells was alive a few 
 years since. At his death he was the inmate of a charitable asylum, 
 where servants passed their labor and their days in peace. 
 
 Note—Chapter V., Page 76. 
 
 As a fact bearing on a disputed question, which has, to some extent, 
 occupied the literary world, I think I am called on to state here, that 
 the Ossianic remnant embodied in the tale is the literal translation of 
 a poem recited in the Irish tongue for my brother, while he travelled 
 through the county Antrim. And the transcriber assured me. that 
 numerous relics of the same character could be obtained in the same 
 locality. 
 
 THE END. 
 

 
 
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