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Available with prior consent of the CELT programme for purposes of academic research and teaching only. CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts The present text covers the appendix, on pages 346–385 of the volume. Text proofread twice at CELT. The electronic text represents the edited text. Direct speech is tagged Soft hyphens are silently removed. When a hyphenated word (hard or soft) crosses a page-break or line-break, this break is marked after the completion of the hyphenated word. Dates are standardized in the ISO form yyyy-mm-dd. Place-names, personal names, and terms are not tagged. Words and phrases from other languages are tagged. The following Narrative was written without any view to publication, and was transmitted to me by its amiable writer, to whom my thanks are due for the kind and friendly manner in which she granted me permission to insert it in this work. My dear friend, I fear we are in a most alarming situation. We have just had dreadful accounts from Naas—the rebels have defeated and killed Captain Swayne, of Youghall. Nancy Owen, in a letter of this day, says, that there are hundreds giving up fire-arms and pikes; but notwithstanding the country wears a most alarming appearance. My father laughs at the idea of danger; but I strongly suspect we are surrounded by rebels and spies. Yesterday, rather a genteel looking man came up the lawn to me, and said he wished much to have the pleasure of instructing a few young ladies in geography, and begged I would allow him to teach my family. I told him my daughters were too young, and that I did not think he was likely to get any pupils in the neighbourhood. This day, as I was walking in the shrubbery near the road, I looked out, on hearing a number of horses, and saw the same young man under an escort going to jail, from information sent to Mr. Boyd by government. There was found upon him a plan of all our houses, the names and number of the inhabitants, and a copy of
When my poor father returned, he seemed quite subdued: I told him my plan, that the boat was ready, and that we had a chance of getting on board ship, as several vessels were lying-to. He consented, and we got into a boat, many of the peasantry forcing their way to come with us. When we got off a little, we found it impossible to gain a ship, and were advised by our gardener who rowed us, with another of our servants, (neither of whom had ever rowed before,) to make for an island a few miles distant, and remain there till we could get some further intelligence of affairs in Wexford. Whilst debating on this subject we saw a boat full of men, with green boughs in their hats, and a white handkerchief displayed as a rebel flag. They soon got up to us, and said, if you will go home and turn Christians, you will be safe enough.
This speech conveyed a great deal; I thought I should have fainted; but was soon roused by their vociferations, to put back—to return directly—that all was peace and liberty—that they had chaired Dr. Jacobhe was
I begged, however, to prefer the don't be frightened, Madam! it is I—happy am I that you are here; it was scarcely night when a party of rebels came to Summerseat, insisted on admittance, fired several shots over the hall door, went up to all the bed-rooms in search of arms, and said, if I concealed an Orangeman they would have my life; they then swore me into their gang, broke open the cellar, took away all the wine, and five bacon pigs; such a wreck as they have made of the place, madam! they had six carts with them; I could scarcely prevail on them to let me remain after them.
You may think how happy I felt at this temporary escape, though almost the moment before I had reproached myself when looking at my dear father asleep on the ground. I begged of our faithful Hayes to return, and try to save what he could, and to come for us in the morning, as I saw the impossibility of remaining where there was no shelter of any kind. I will, Madam, but
—But what, Hayes? speak out!
Why, Madam, they did say, they would come in the morning and burn the house!
He then pointed out to me many distant fires. I really felt as if my head would burst in considering
All chance of getting a vessel to take us to Wales was over: some of the unfortunate persons who thought themselves happy in making their escape, were brought back to Wexford, and delivered up to the rebels! The large and respectable family of Killeen Castle escaped being put into the common jail only because there was no room for them; but they were put into an old empty house, and a guard placed over them. The first sight that presented itself to them was the Bull-ring (a square in Wexford so called) filled with kitchen tables and carpenters at work making pike handles. Mrs. Cliffe has since told me that the captain's wife came up to her on deck, a little after they had got on board, and said,
But to return to our own distress.—My father bore my intelligence astonishingly, and agreed to return the moment Hayes came for us. The poor fellow lost no time, when the tide answered; and he brought us word the house was safe, and that no one had returned to it.
We got once more into the boat. When we reached the shore near enough to discern objects, we discovered hundreds of rebels, and, on a closer view, saw that they were all armed. I besought Hayes to turn back to the island; and here I must acknowledge it was my impious hope, that the boat might upset, and end all our cares together. But I had soon reason to adore that Providence I had dared for a moment to distrust. The rebels called out to us to land: almost petrified with horror, I looked at my poor father and children, expecting that the moment we landed we should be put to death. Hayes, with a countenance as full of horror as my own, endeavoured to quiet my fears: but what was my surprize, when, the moment I got out of the boat, a man came up and shook hands with me,
I know you very well; I was coachman to Mrs. Percival, and you were very kind to me the last day she went to see you; it was a wet day, and you ordered me a warm drink.
He then turned round to select our guard from the hundreds that surrounded him. They were all contending for rank, wielding their guns, blunderbusses, and swords, in the most frightful manner. I expected every moment the contents would be fatal to us, from accident if not design; they were all drunk. At length they fixed on the guard to attend us home; one calling himself captain; another saying he was
With some difficulty we again embarked, and were rowed towards the island, but the tide was not sufficiently in for us to land; and while we were watching with impatience the covering of every rock or pebble, as we lay on our oars, we discovered a boat making fast towards us: as it approached we perceived the men were all armed. Dearest Susan, unconscious of danger, entertained us all by her droll remarks on them;—never was such a child; she really appeared more delightful than ever, and, I am certain, exerted herself to rouse us all from the stupor we were thrown into. At length the boat came near, the men called to us to know what we were doing there. Hayes answered, that we were going to the island, as soon as we could land. They called out, in one voice, go back, go back; if you don't we will sink you: we want the island to put cattle on for our camp.
Remonstrance was in vain,—go home
(said they) or to jail—take your choice.
We were obliged to obey; and we arrived at Summerseat in about four hours; there we found every thing in the utmost confusion; all the servants had departed, except one faithful creature, who welcomed us with tears of joy. She had determined to stay till the last moment, and lamented that she had been of so little use. She told me the beds had been taken, the feathers thrown about the yard, and the ticking used as bags to carry off the clothes, curtains, &c. with the greater
I wish you had nothing else to be sorry for: they have taken your guitar, and thumped Miss Susan's piano so violently, I was afraid they would break it to pieces; they desired I would get a rope to tie it on a car, but every strap and rope had been taken: to this I owe the safety of the dear child's piano.
—What to do for beds I knew not; but so soon as it was known that we were returned, one of the rebels, who had lived near Summerseat, came to me, and said, Madam, I have four of your beds; God forbid you should sleep without one; I will bring them to you when it's dark: I took them off a cart at the cross-road, and swore I would let no one take them, till I heard you were entirely gone.
Poor honest creature! he brought them as he promised. In constant dread did we live, with parties riding up at all hours, coming and taking their seat in the drawing-room, What's the matter, Alley?
Oh, my dear mistress, I wish I had died the first day I saw you.
She continued sobbing and clasping me to her, and was a length of time before she could bring herself to tell me there was a party coming to take us to jail. I dropped on the floor, and the first recollection I had of any thing, for some time, was seeing my father and children hanging over me, and hearing them thank God my colour was returning. I jumped up, with a confused idea of what Alley had told me; said I was a little sick, and would go into the air. In a few minutes I saw a large party ride into the lawn: I hurried into the house, to prepare my dear father for what he would too soon hear from these people. I assumed as much composure as I was capable of, and told my father the party coming were to take him to jail, but that no power should separate us; I would go with him, and take my children. He calmly said, was it that made you faint, my dear?
Then standing up, he put his hand upon his throat, and said, I am ready for them: I am surprized the army has not been sent to our relief; but God's will be done.
I walked about the house in a state of distraction; but my children behaved with much good sense; when they did speak, endeavouring to comfort me, assisting me as much as they were able, and hiding their own fears to keep up my spirits, which were
Mr. Owen has been favoured more than any gentleman in the barony: you should have sent for the priest long ago.
He wickedly added, that our Saviour's prophecy was now fulfilling, when he said, the first shall be last, and the last shall be first;
that you had better not repeat that, for we might do it if we chose; there is no one would bring us to account for it. Come, come,
they continued, there is no use in delaying, take him we will.
I asked them how; as his carriage-horses had been seized, and there was no possible conveyance. They answered, we'll get a cart for him, and you are young enough to walk.
Another of them objected to taking me; but I said, with some warmth, I hope if any of you have a father or children, you cannot have the heart to separate me from mine
. This seemed to make some impression; and while a few of them went in search of a cart, the rest took my darling Susan into all the rooms, desiring her to be a good child, and ah! my dear mistress, if you had allowed yourself, my master, and the young ladies to be christened, it would not have come to this.
She was the only person amongst us who felt the relief of tears; she sobbed aloud; and when they brought the cart to the door for my poor dear father, she insisted on being
Well, Sir, the poor Pope had not the comfort of a child and grandchildren to travel with him to prison.
You have no right, as prisoners, to wear these green boughs; take them out of your hats.
I forgot to mention that, previous to our leaving Summerseat, they ornamented our heads with green boughs. So, after taking from us this badge of you must not go in.
Not go in?—not go in with my father!—no one shall prevent me:
in an instant they put their pikes before me: I implored them not to separate me from my father: one of them gave me a push, and said, there is no room for women.
I turned round, almost distracted, and seeing a person amongst the crowd who had the appearance of a gentleman, I implored him not to suffer those fellows to prevent my going with my father into the jail, that he was extremely ill, and I had never been separated from him:—I would not leave him for worlds—my children too!—do, dear Sir, let me share his fate—let us at least be together.
He appeared much affected, and said, certainly, Madam, you shall go in;
and, after taking my poor father and children out of the cart, handed me in, and, with the utmost concern of countenance, lamented the shocking place he was conducting us to. It was a small front room, and so crowded that there was not room even for a chair. I begged permission to get the feather bed that was in the cart; my request was complied with, and just as I had put it into a corner, and laid my poor father on it, a gentleman came up to me, and lamented very much seeing us in such a situation.—This gentleman was priest of our parish: he apologized for never having
Mrs. Harvey had a pass similar to ours, and had only been just released from imprisonment. When we got a short way from Wexford we met, I
oh! would it not be more charitable to put us at once to death than starve us?
In an instant, one of the rebels broke from the ranks, and threw a large piece of bread and cheese into my lap, and, with the utmost compassion of countenance, begged I would take it. I endeavoured to slip some money into his hand, when he darted from me, with a significant look, seeming frightened lest he had been observed. He rejected the money. I had not time to ask his name, nor have I ever since seen this noble creature. How unlike Dr. Jacob's conduct! by whose activity for the rebel camp we lost a valuable carriage horse, which, a very few months before, cost my father above forty guineas. When we returned home we met our faithful Alley at the lawn gate; her joy was, indeed, unfeigned. She did every thing possible to keep up my spirits; and when I expressed my fears that we should be all starved, she reminded me that we had a good garden, plenty of vegetables and fruit, and abundance of milk, eggs, and some young pigs; and that God Almighty would send me and her master enough, and never let us want. Thanks to his infinite mercy, he never did let us want!
As we passed on to the house, I met a most respectable farmer with a pike in his hand; on asking him the reason, he looked fearfully about, and, finding that our guard had left us, he told me that he was endeavouring to escape, but was seized, and It is owing to my infirmity,
said he my not being sent farther; I am appointed to guard this place, and see that you don't escape: they found me too feeble for any thing else.
When I parted from Mr. Parkes, I went into a little garden that Hayes had made for dear Susan, in the shrubbery. There I sat embracing and rejecting hope by turns, till I was roused from reflection by a number of persons walking quickly past. I stood on a garden-seat, and saw them reach the hall-door. I instantly followed, trembling at every step; but before I gained the door, I distinctly
I
I begged, most
it was I that took your big fiddle, or Jar,Next day a large party rode up to the door, at a very early hour, and called for me: I sickened almost to fainting, thinking it was this man that had encouraged them to come and take me to the camp. Poor faithful Alley intreated them not to disturb her master, who was asleep; and begged of them to go, but they would not be dissuaded from their purpose, and insisted on having me out. When IGuitar. as the maid called it: we cannot make musicin it , but we will come for you soon to play for us; we want music greatly in the camp; but we are going a great way off to-morrow.
well, give us the whiskey, till we drink success!Upon my producing a bottle of what we had brought from the island with us, one of the men advanced, and desired I would drink some myself; that they had got an order not to take any thing from
the gentlewoman was above anyIt instantly occurred to me, that should this man or any of the party get sick, the rest might come and revenge it on me; I therefore called for a glass of water and put some whiskey in it, took some myself, and made each of the children do so; they were then satisfied, and, after finishing the bottle, rode off. I now began to consider what I could do for my poor father's breakfast; a bit of bread or flour I had not, nor could I get any to buy. I sent to Mrs. Woodcock, to beg she would give me a little of either for him. She told the servant she had none; but begged I would contrive to go over to her. Her house was within two fields of us—I went directly—and, on her seeing me, she, with an air of mystery, beckoned me into her house closet, from a loft over which she pulled down a small bag of flour, telling me, that she had hid all she had in different places; that she did not like to acknowledge, even to my servant, she had any, lest her house might again be searched. Delighted with my prize of a few pounds of flour, I hurried home, and made it into biscuits for my poor father. My children and I breakfasted on potatoes, previous to his breakfast time, fearing he should know to what we were reduced. As to myself, I never knew what hunger was the whole time of the rebellion. I was continually sipping milk and water to cool my lips, which were actually parched: I believe I was in a fever the whole time.such works .
My father's usual habit was, immediately after breakfast, to inquire into the state of the larder. On this day he said, I suppose, my dear, we have nothing for dinner!—What can we have?
I was shocked, and said I would consult with Alley. She told me she knew of nothing but a roasting pig, if she had any one to kill it. After some difficulty we were able to get Hayes, to whom I told our distress: he was a handy creature, and said that he would kill and prepare it as well as he could for
faith, we ought to take care of it, for we don't know to whose
My father continued very low and ill: I had not a drop of wine, or any proper nourishment for him. Poor Hayes, who saw my distress, mentioned it to one of the rebels, and next evening he came to me with a bottle of excellent claret—never was I more overjoyed. I do believe it saved his life; it was at least a comfort he had not had since our escape to the island. All this time we were very uneasy about my brother and his large family. His living was near have you heard any thing of my brother or Mrs. Owen?
One night I was obliged to repeat the question, and, on looking at Hayes, I evidently saw his countenance marked with visible concern, and he appeared not to like to answer my question. I felt terrified, and desired he would not keep me in suspense—I guessed all—they are murdered, I suppose.
No, Madam, not so bad; but Mr. Owen has been taken prisoner, at the head of 500 of his parishioners. He was brought into the rebel camp, and from thence marched into the jail of Gorey; and indeed, Madam, I am afraid he is a little
At once it flashed across me that the strong sense of his situation, his wife, (who was near being confined,) and that of his eight children, had deprived him of his senses. This so completely overpowered me, I fell against a table, and was for some time insensible. When I recovered a little, all that I had suffered felt light compared to his malady. I charged Hayes to keep this melancholy intelligence a secret from my poor father and children. How often did I thank Heaven that my dear mother had not lived to come to the county of Wexford, where she had planned so much happiness for herself and family.—What blind creatures are we! How often did I wish my dear father laid quietly by her, so much did I dread his being murdered. Oh, how impious it is to despair! But to return to my poor brother. Hayes begged of me not to suffer his master to go out on the road, as they were so exasperated against Mr. Owen for avowing himself an Orangeman, that he heard them talk of coming again to send his master back to jail. I asked where my brother was, and what had become of his family. He assured me he did not know. My fears that he had been put to death were soon relieved: in about an hour after Hayes's information, I received an open note written in his hand, but in such an agitated manner I could scarcely
My dear Jenny, I never was merrier or happier in my life—Nancy, the children and money are gone off I know not where—come and see me—bring me some vegetables and cucumbers—Wexford Jail.
It was eight in the evening when I received this note. I called for Hayes, to consult about what was to be done; he was gone to the camp; it was too late to think of going that night, but I determined on going early next morning. How to frame an excuse for my absence to my poor father I knew not; and to tell him I dared not venture; indeed my fears were, that I should be seized on, and put into jail, with this intended victim, of their ferocity. It is impossible to give an idea of the ills I foreboded for my poor father, myself, and children, but all was overcome by the hope of saving my brother; and humbly trusting in the protection of Heaven I was on the point of setting out, when Hayes returned from the camp. I told him where I was going: he started, and said, I beg, Madam, you'll not be so mad—it is but five o'clock—the roads are crowded with the rebels relieving guard, and if they found out you were taking part with Mr. Owen you will bring troubles on yourself and my master; and, madam, if you won't be too much troubled at hearing it, he is quite out of his senses: it was that that saved his life, for he was dancing through the streets of Wexford, singing out that he was an Orangeman, and feared no one.—They were taking him to jail, and indeed he was every way in a bad condition; I would have put my own coat and hat on him but for fear of my life, for there were above two hundred guarding him.
Instead of poor Hayes's zeal for me awakening my fears, it more strongly determined me to risk every thing to get my brother to Summerseat, and I told him nothing could dissuade me from my purpose. He again entreated me not to go, as Mr. Owen was to be tried by the Committee at twelve o'clock. This only added wings to my impatience; I lost not a moment, and thought every pebble impeded my speed. My dearest Susan cried so violently at my leaving her I turned back and brought her with me; my poor Letitia (who, you know, is nine years older) I left to take care of my father, and I own when I kissed her at the door I thought it was for the last time. When I got to Wexford (a distance of three miles, which I was obliged to walk, having neither coachman or horses left me) I knew not to whom I could apply to get me into the jail. The streets exhibited the most frightful appearance—the
She is a spy!
—Who the devil is she?
a third said, she would make a good wife for the camp.
Had I seen one amongst the hundreds who passed me, that had the slightest appearance of a gentleman, I would have implored his protection for myself and child; but they were all drunken ill-looking fellows. In this distress I saw with joy, at the opposite side of the street, our friendly priest who had got us liberated from jail; I called to him to cross over to me, being afraid to break through the multitude that were marching; but, to my utter amazement, he turned from me, though he evidently saw me, and walked faster than the rebels marched, to avoid me. In this dilemma it occurred to me, if I walked up and down before the jail I possibly might see my brother, as the room we had been put into looked towards the street; I soon found this impossible, the crowds of pikemen passing and repassing prevented my getting near; and they looked so horridly at me, and pushed me about so savagely, I was afraid to speak, or make any inquiry. Seeing the impossibility of effecting my purpose, I returned to Summerseat.
At home I found my poor father very ill and unable to get up. Such were the scenes that pressed on my imagination, I should have rejoiced at seeing him sinking into a quiet Yes, madam, but don't be angry.
I assured her I believed her perfectly in my interest, and could not be angry with any thing so faithful a creature might say. Well, Madam—if you would allow Father O'Connor to christen my master, the young ladies, and yourself, it might be the saving of you all.
I quickly answered, he may do any thing if he will
When I got to Wexford, I was as much at a loss as ever to whom to apply for admittance to the jail. I saw a great crowd of rebels running in confusion, and saying, make haste to parade, General Keogh is gone.
It immediately occurred to me to follow at a distance, and that this general might be of a superior order to those common, ill-dressed men, who passed in such numbers I thought they would never cease. At length they all got into an immense field, where General Keogh paraded them for above an hour; during which time I stood at a distance, under the most parching sun I ever felt; yet my blood ran cold when I saw their numerous pikes, and understood their murderous purpose. When the parade broke up, I took the opportunity of addressing General Keogh. He was dressed in full uniform, green and gold, with a cocked hat trimmed with gold lace; he strove to avoid me, but I courageously called to him to stop for one moment. I told him in as few words as possible the situation of my brother, and presented him a letter, which he refused to take. He added,
Innocent creature! you are happily ignorant of the state your father is in and the scene around you.
(I believe at this time they were fearful of not succeeding.) He turned to me with tears rolling down his face, and said, My wife was obliged to fly in the revolution from France, it will be hard if the same fate attends her here.
I scarcely listened to him, I was so impatient to see my brother; but he went on talking, and said, I suppose you know the park near Dublin, it is full of
This unexpected intelligence was a new source of wretchedness—if my dear friends in Dublin were in such danger, I cared little for my own safety, though I hoped the account was exaggerated. I endeavoured to interest him about my brother, and promised most solemnly if he could get him out of prison, even for a few days. I would myself watch him, and be answerable with Don't be afraid, Jenny! I have sent an express to Lord Castlereagh, and to the Bishop of Ferns, and I shall desire one of them to buy a harp for dear Susan. How is my friend Jemmy Boyd?
(Mr. Boyd was an active magistrate, and had a corps, with which he was obliged to fly the day the rebels entered Wexford.) The moment they heard my brother inquire for Mr. Boyd, I had twenty pikes raised over my head, I believe with the intention to put me to death; but one less savage than the rest restrained them. I assured them most solemnly I was not acquainted with Mr. Boyd, nor had I seen him since I came to Summerseat. My brother, not knowing what they were saying, called aloud to me, Jenny, Jenny, my dear, have you seen my friend Haydon?
Haydon, Haydon,
—his face became quite convulsed, and when he could utter, he said, excellent man! these villains have murdered him.
Then clasping his hands together, he looked up and said, Oh my God, the dead bodies of thy servants have they given to the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the land! Oh let the vengeance of thy servants' blood that is shed be openly
He was agitated beyond description—he said he must go and read prayers for the poor people up stairs. I could bear his madness no longer; I endeavoured to restrain my feelings before him, but finding it no longer possible, I walked from the window and went into the first house I found open; there I burst into the most frightful fit of screaming, which I had not power to restrain, and it so agitated me I was wholly deprived of
not to fear.
One of the men knew me, though I had not the most remote knowledge of him. They all advised me not to venture so far from home lest I might meet strangers. I trembled so violently I could scarcely walk, and was obliged to take an arm of one of the men to enable me to proceed, which the man perceiving, desired me to be of good heart, he would take care of me; no one shall harm you, madam. If you wish we will try to sleep about at Summerseat.
There was an honesty of manner in those poor deluded creatures that precluded a possibility of doubting the sincerity of their intentions; I thanked them, and gratefully accepted a service offered with such humane warmth. They left me safe at home, and promised to return at night. How to tell
I know you'll be glad of that for Mr. Owen.
But how inconsistent! the same persons were quite abusive to my faithful Alley for smoothing some muslin handkerchiefs of mine, and asked her did she still think herself my servant? that she ought to make me change places with her,—she had the
As soon as I was a little recovered from this scene of terror and confusion, I prepared for my third walk to Wexford. Alley offered to walk there with me, and said she never was afraid to let me go before. I forgot to mention that, when the priest called on me, I told him that Alley had expressed the greatest anxiety that we should all be christened by him; he answered, Madam, that is between you and your God; I should be sorry to influence
I said I was sure he would have but a bad opinion of any one who could so suddenly, and through fear, change their religion. I gave him great credit for his answer to me. I was, however, afraid to take my faithful servant, as I should have been miserable about my father and Letitia, without her protection, and at six o'clock in the morning again set out with my dear little companion Susan to brave all danger: the hope of getting my brother to Summerseat, and this interesting creature's sensible conversation, cheered me till I arrived at Mr. Kearney's house. What was my disappointment, when Mr. Kearney told me he could give me no answer till the next day! But when this humane man saw my extreme agitation, he kindly said he would go out for a little and see to a
Matthew gave me a pass which he had received to protect him, and I inclose it to you, as it may be considered curious hereafter:—
Let Rev. Mr. Owen pass to Summerseat, & remain there a prisoner.—
Will. Kearney
On the back it was directed, To all United Men.
He could give no account of Mrs. Owen or his children; but that they had got off, he knew not where. While we were sitting at dinner, I was called out of the room, and on looking towards the yard, I saw a large party of pikemen, and Alley, almost in a state of distraction, talking to them. I went into the yard and asked the occasion of it. Oh my dear mistress! I knew what trouble you would bring on yourself and my master: my mother has just told me they say, unless you give up Mr. Owen to them, the house will be burned this night.
All this time the rebels were consulting at the coach-house door. I implored her to be calm—she was in fits of tears and quite hysterical—I went over to the men—they called out, Produce Mr. Owen, or we will tear the house down.
I endeavoured to excite their compassion by assuring them he was quite out of his senses; that if he was with me a few days it would calm him, and he would be the better able to stand his trial; they said, he had owned himself an Orangeman, and have him they would. I then took Mr. Kearney's pass out of my pocket, and read it to them; after which I said, (with a resolution I am at this moment amazed at,)
never can I forget their look of astonishment; while, as if with one consent, they marched out of the yard, muttering, this night the house shall be burned.
On my return to the dining parlour, I found my father and brother in such deep conversation that they had not missed me. Again Alley made her appearance at the door. She told me the men who left the yard had met her mother and told her to send for
I found it very difficult to keep my brother quiet—he was incessantly talking—told me he never loved Nancy so well as when she dressed the boys in orange ribbons, and sent them to fight those villains; but he did not know where they now were. He also said, the first bed he had lain on was the one I had left for him in jail, and which that good man, Mr. Kearney, had settled for him on the floor. He repeatedly said, I know nothing of the boys, but I sent them to their mother. (The eldest of them was not thirteen.) We could not depend on any thing he said; but he recollected that Mrs. Harvey, his sister-in-law, and Mrs. Cliffe, his wife's mother, lived at Killeen Castle, within a few fields of us, and he insisted on going to see them. In vain I told him I was under a solemn promise not to let him leave the house; but he burst from me, reproaching me for my cowardice, and said he would go. I was obliged to send Matthew and another of the guard after him, who with difficulty overtook and brought him back. I then got Matthew to go and tell Mrs. Harvey and Mrs. Cliffe what had happened, and request they would try and venture to see him. They did come with difficulty. Never was any thing more affecting than Mrs. Cliffe's inquiries about her daughter and grandchildren, to which my brother returned but incoherent answers. They soon left us, and I then tried to prevail on him to go to bed; he did not appear in the least fatigued, and it was near one before I could get him to consent. The guard insisted on staying in the room. He soon fell into a disturbed sleep, quoting different lines from
We were under great uneasiness about our faithful Hayes, who had been four days absent, and we were afraid he had been killed. At ten o'clock at night there came into the house two horrid looking fellows; they told me they were come for Mr. Owen—he must go to jail. Whilst I was remonstrating with them, several rushed in and called the guard that had charge of my brother; I entreated them to leave Matthew with me, but the men who came for them said, we are all too little—the roads must be doubly guarded.
Had I understood from this, want of men, it would have given me some comfort; I have since heard they had received intelligence that the King's army were marching towards the town. My brother providentially escaped for that night—they were in too great a hurry to call for him again.
The next day they brought a written order for him, which I could not dispute; but I detained them as long as I could, much against his will.
that surely they had blood enough for that night.
A Mr. Cox, after receiving the most dreadful pike wounds, made a strong effort to save himself by leaping over the bridge, when they fired at him till he sunk. At this time we were most fortunately ignorant of all that was passing at Wexford, but I determined on going there next day, to try and bring my brother back.
About nine o'clock that night I found the servants in the greatest consternation, messages coming to the house every moment. As soon as it was daylight, I saw a large ship outside the harbour, and rebels riding with great fury back and forward towards the coast. We began to hope this vessel had brought troops to our assistance; but the rebels gave out it was their friends, the French, who were coming to join them. They knew nothing to a certainty till a boat was sent out. I kept watching at the drawing-room window, and plainly saw firing from the vessel, and at last the boat was brought to its side. This was a boat the rebels had sent out to their
I was preparing to go to Wexford when our faithful Hayes made his appearance,
Kill you, my dear child! God forbid I should live to see the day that any one would attempt it—if they did it should be through my heart, while it is in me to protect you.
This honest creature had, I suppose, heard of the intention of putting all the Protestants to death, and was fearful that he might have been ordered to be one of the executioners. You cannot wonder at this angelic child's delight at poor Hayes's return; indeed we were all happy to see him, and anxious to get him what refreshment we could—his clothes were almost torn to pieces—he What could we expect, madam! the generals (that is, the priests who are generals) desired us not to fear, for as fast as the red hot balls were fired,
Though this account was dreadful, yet it gave us an assurance that the army were coming to our relief; my terror however lest the jail should be set fire to, determined me on going to Wexford; but just as I was ready to set out, our friendly priest rode up to the house in great agitation, saying, the King's troops have taken possession of Wexford without firing a shot.
I instantly asked, was the jail safe? he looked shocked at the question—
Pray, for God's sake tell me, do you know any thing of my brother?
He said, I hope he's safe; but there were dreadful doings on the bridge last night.
I ran out of the room, calling for Hayes to follow me; when I reached the hall I heard a horse furiously galloping to the door, and in a moment my dear brother had his arms about me. He was so much agitated, and indeed we were all in such a state of joy and gratitude to Heaven for our deliverance, that we were some time incapable of doing anything but repeating Good God be praised!
Never can I forget the sensations of that moment! In a little time we saw the rebels flying in all directions; at night one of them came to me with his wife and six children, and implored me to give them protection—that he must fly—that his cabin would be burned, and that his wife brought her blankets with her. He was in such distraction I assured him I would take care of them if they could sleep in the coach-house—any place, madam, withinside your walls.
I ordered potatoes and milk for the children (the only food in my possession); the poor fellow was quite overcome; I desired him to stay, but he would not venture, and the poor woman prepared her straw bed with such confidence in me as produced a most pleasurable feeling. Removed so suddenly from the terrors of my own situation, I could scarcely believe it was in my power to give protection to any one. When I left her and turned into the yard, I found it crowded with men, women, and children, who implored me to give them shelter. They were in a state of distraction, being sure they were all to be put to death. I did every thing in my power to quiet them, and assured them I would write to the commanding officer in the morning, and that meantime I would have cards nailed on all the cabins within reach of me, to certify their good conduct to my family, and refer them to Summerseat for a further account of those who had behaved well. This appeased the poor deluded creatures, who were most of them forced into this dreadful business. As night approached, all the offices and yard became crowded with rebels, entreating me to allow them to remain till morning. They besought me to let them lie in the walks of the garden, such as could not find room, any where else. Next day, when the proclamation was issued for their pardon on returning to their allegiance, they thought it was only to seduce them into the town to be shot. Many gave up their pikes and arms to my father. Two days after the army had
This poor young man was in so much pain, that I had placed him in one of the spare rooms. I brought the priest, and they remained together more than an hour. When the priest had concluded his duties, I went to the young man and entreated him to let me send for Dr. Johnston, who would extract the ball, and that he would get well directly; but, great as the agony he suffered was, I could not prevail on him, so strong was his impression that he would be shot if discovered. Whilst I was endeavouring to give him confidence in the King's proclamation, a person desired to speak to me whom I found to be this lad's mother. I desired her to be what signifies your arm, if you suffer death it is in the
I was shocked at her countenance, but assured her he was in no danger, except from his wound, and urged her to let me send for Doctor Johnston, which she refused very bluntly, and desired her son to take her arm and come home, that all was not over with
This horrid woman frightened me so much that I most gladly saw her departure, and pitied extremely the poor young man, whom I offered to keep till he was better. When I found we could again
After dinner my dearest Susan and I sang the Sicilian Hymn to the Virgin, which he said had more power to compose him than he could have imagined. We repeated it twice for him, and you may judge my joy and
I knew not whether to rejoice or lament at this intelligence; for though in apparent safety, yet reports were such as continually to keep alive our fears. With Charles's letter my father received an order from the High Sheriff to have all the pike handles in his possession cut into pieces of a foot long, before an hour. This made me very unhappy about Charles; I fancied him in the field of battle against his countrymen—what a dreadful idea! I did hope he had been in Jersey; but his regiment was ordered over in consequence of the state of Ireland. This was an additional weight upon my mind. The order from the Sheriff made me fear we were not so secure as we at first hoped: and the speech which the woman made when I was trying to give her comfort about her son, nearly confirmed me in this opinion.
So soon as I could venture to send a messenger on the road, I sent most anxiously to inquire after Mrs. Bevan, whose husband had been exerting himself amongst the peasantry and his parishioners previous to the rebellion
On her return to me, she endeavoured to describe the horrid scene she had been witness to in the court-house, but so great was her agitation I could scarcely understand her. There she had seen three of her most intimate friends, without a hope of escaping an ignominious death! She was in an agony of tears when I brought her into the lawn for a little air; we were not there three minutes before she screamed out, Here's Bevan! Here's Bevan!
We saw him almost flying towards us with two of his children in his arms, the other two clinging by the skirt of his coat. The mixture of happiness and gratitude to God his features expressed, I can never forget; the little boy's eyes were fixed on his as if afraid of losing him again did they turn on any other object. Poor Mrs. Bevan could only sob out, Bevan! Bevan! where have you been—how did you escape!
I shook him heartily by the hand and turned from them—I thought such a meeting should be sacred. I partook silently of their happiness. His account was, that on Wednesday morning (the day the rebels took possession of Wexford) he intended, as usual, to ride about his parish and harrangue the peasantry, though they appeared so sulky he despaired of doing any good. Upon riding to his own forge, he saw the smith openly at work making pikes, and a heap of them piled up in a corner of the forge. He galloped off to Wexford to give information, when to his utter astonishment he found the town evacuated by the loyalists, and every one who
The Sunday after his return, he read prayers in our drawing-room; we collected all the protestants living near us, and never did I observe a set of people pray with more real devotion or gratitude; but though there were strong encampments of the King's army all round us, I found amongst the peasantry murmuring at a protestant clergyman again performing his duty.
They did not speak out, but I saw discontent and disappointment very visible; and I believe many were far from thinking that the day (to use their own language) would not yet be their own; some of them openly said so, with the King's pardon in their pocket.
The Sunday following we once more ventured to Mr. Bevan's Church, which is quite in a remote corner of the barony, but not I own without fear and trembling, though he refused accepting a guard of soldiers—his confidence was too strong in that divine power who had so miraculously restored him to his family, and preserved them in the midst of such peril. Poor Mrs. Bevan had suffered a vast deal; but we were too happy to allow ourselves to dwell on the past. I got very unhappy about Charles, as we had constant accounts of marauding parties doing much mischief in the country, which was by no means quiet, though at first I thought all danger was over when our army took possession. After we returned from Church, Mr. Bevan called me out of the room and desired me not to be alarmed, he would Well my lads, won't you drink the King's health?
and almost in one voice they answered, yes faith, and your's too:
then, looking at his uniform, sneered and said, our
Charles knew several of them whom he recollected having seen on Lacken Hill a few nights before, and they remembered him. How were matters changed; a week before I should have trembled to see him amidst so many rebels.
He remained with us but two days, and when he was gone I felt very differently at Summerseat; the reports which continually reached us, kept us in a constant state of alarm; and when the post failed coming in (which was frequently the case) we fancied the worst, and thought all our miseries were to be renewed. I was most anxious to get to Dublin; but it was impossible to travel in safety. I proposed to my father to go by sea; which, after resisting my entreaties for a fortnight, he consented to. Every person who could get room in the wretched traders to Dublin and elsewhere, were hurrying off. We took our passage in one, and were content to remain on deck, there not being any accommodation for passengers. I had a bed placed in the best way I could for my father; and when I looked at him and my dear children, and knew we were on our way to Dublin, I felt happiness I never expected;—but it was soon clouded—the pilot was drunk; he struck us on the bar of Wexford harbour, and it was impossible we could get over till the next tide. We had three officers of the Queen's Regiment, and some passengers on board. The officers proposed to them to go to Wexford till the tide came about—they also proposed it to me, but I was afraid to say a word to my father, lest if he once went on shore I should not be able to get him back, and that the disappointment might determine him to run all risks and go by land—I therefore remained on board.
Soon as the boat was out of sight, and we were left with only the
Mr. Stringer, an Enniscorthy gentleman, declared the pilot should not take in the boat; that he would go back to Wexford, and complain to the commanding officer; and desired him not at his peril to sail till he brought back a Mr. Grey, a protestant pilot. The captain remonstrated—said the man had been drunk, but was now quite sober, and would take us safe; but Mr. Stringer was steady: he and two gentlemen went for the pilot—I begged that one of the gentlemen would remain on board, to protect us from further insult; which Mr. Turner, of the Queen's Regiment, politely offered to do.
To this charming young man (under protecting Heaven) I am certain we owe our lives. In a few hours the gentlemen returned with the pilot they had sought for. We soon got over the bar, and all the dangerous navigation; the pilot then took leave. We had a fine evening, and fair wind; but at the fall of the tide, between one and two in the morning, we struck upon a rock. This threw us all into great consternation; Mr. Stringer, a gentleman who had suffered greatly at Enniscorthy, added to
Dearest mamma, dont be afraid—did not God Almighty save us from the rebels!
Mr. Turner remained a long time rowing round the ship, in hopes of getting her off; he found it in vain till the tide came about, but endeavoured to quiet our fears by assuring us the night was so calm we were in no danger. Every thump the vessel gave filled me with horror; and every noise made me fear the rebels were coming out in boats from the shore. In no period of the rebellion were my fears equal to those of this night. I do think I should have lost my senses but for Mr. Turner. The passengers wanted to have the corn thrown overboard, which Mr. Turner opposed, saying, it might be the ruin of the owner—that it did not belong to the captain; and he convinced them it would be of little consequence towards moving the vessel. It is impossible to say too much of this charming young man, who, in the few hours of my acquaintance with him, displayed steadiness, bravery, activity, and humanity. When my fears were a little abated, I could not help telling him, I envied the mother who had such a son to boast of.
The ship continued violently agitated for several hours; during which
She's off! she goes!
was echoed through the deck. So sudden was this delightful news, that I was really stunned, and yet felt such a confusion of recollection (if I may be allowed the expression) it was a length of time before they could make me understand that the ship was in full sail, and that every thing favoured our speedy and safe passage to Dublin, where we arrived without further obstacle.
We found hackney coaches on the quay, into one of which we joyfully got; indeed, our sensations were not to be described. We looked at each other without being able to utter a word, except dear Susan, who asked me were we really in Dublin and away from the rebels? Going through York Street, I saw my beloved dear Doctor Hartigan's carriage at the door of some patient. I entreated my father to allow me to get into it, and that he and the children would precede us, to our hospitable destination, the Doctor's house; my father consented, and into his carriage I joyfully went. At length the hall door was opened, and in the same moment the footman let down the step for his master—but what was my dear Willy's surprise when I threw my arms about him—Jenny! Jenny! is it possible!
I continued embracing him without uttering a word, till he saw a gentleman nodding and laughing at him, he drew the string and beckoned him to the carriage; till that moment we neither of us recollected the extraordinary exhibition we both made in a public street; he introduced me, and told him I was the dear relation he had so often heard him lament as in the hands of the rebels, and of whose fate he was for such a length of time uncertain. We were soon at his house and were received with joy unutterable by dear Mrs. Hartigan, and many friends. Poor Mr. Adams went to the upper room in the house, actually unable to see us till he could command
I have written every thing that occurred without embellishment, the incidents followed exactly as I have stated them. This is a narrative of facts relating to ourselves, but gives little of the general features of the rebellion. To you my dear friend it will be interesting—you who suffered so much about us when our fate was doubtful.