Chapter VI · — THE TRIAL.

Much alarm was created, through the county of Limerick, by the attack upon Mr. Shelton of Rossmore. The neighbouring gentry argued from it, and not without cause, that if a gentleman whose advanced years and bodily ailments had kept him aloof from the actual exercise of his magisterial functions, were thus singled out, there was little hope for escape for those who had made themselves marked men, by determined and acknowledged resistance to and denunciation of the Whiteboys Accordingly, zeal being now quickened by fear for personal safety, it was resolved that neither trouble nor expense be spared to discover the persons implicated in this last affair. Many circumstances tended to establish a conviction that the leader of the Whiteboys must be some one greatly superior to those whom he commanded. The brief conversation which had been held with the officer at Churchtown, and Miss Shelton at Rossmore, almost proved that one and the same person had commanded on both occasions,—that he was a man of education and gentle bearing,—and that it was necessary, above all, if the insurrectionary conspiracy was to be put down, to strike at him, its life and soul.

Weeks passed by, and though many were suspected, and several taken into custody by the police, no clue to the discovery of the veritable Captain Rock was yet discovered. At last, one of the persons apprehended on suspicion—faint-hearted as a weak woman, and far less faithful—let fall some words which first excited suspicion against John Cussen. No notice appeared to be taken of them at the time, but the prisoner, who was kept in solitary confinement for some time, was gradually worked upon by promises of large payment in the event of the conviction of the actual leader of the Whiteboys. He vacillated between cupidity and fear of his own personal safety. At last, he stagged—that is, he gave some information, on the solemn promise that his having done so should never transpire, that he should not be required to give any evidence in public, and that he should immediately be conveyed out of the country for safety.

At first, the magistrates hesitated to believe that John Cussen could be concerned in the outrages which had spread alarm far and near, and directed particular inquiries to be made respecting his habits, way of living, haunts, occupation, and companions. They ascertained, from this scrutiny and espial, the fact of his frequent absences from home at night; they obtained proof of his having been seen, within the prohibited hours, in remote places where outrages had been committed; and the conviction came upon their minds that Cussen, and none other, was the much-dreaded and long-concealed Captain Rock.

Orders were given to arrest him, and also to search his house. Among his papers were found some documents which could scarcely have been in possession of any but a leader of the disaffected. They were insufficient of themselves, however, to fix him as such.

The police and the military, charged with the warrant to arrest Cussen, received strict injunctions to avoid unnecessary violence. It was anticipated, from his determined character and great personal strength, that he would resist any attempt to make him a prisoner. Contrary to expectation, he surrendered himself without struggle or hesitation. He was found sitting tête-à-tête with old Frank Drew, at Drew's Court,—the same to whom he had spoken so freely about the particulars of the attack on Churchtown Barracks,—and when he heard the measured tread of the military, as they came up the avenue, he paused in his conversation, and exclaimed, "They have come for me."

In custody his deportment, equally devoid of effrontery and fear, was apparently that of an innocent man, and impressed very many with the idea that he was unjustly suspected. The magistrates, who knew better, but were compelled to conceal the source of their information, even incurred some blame, from public opinion, for having apprehended and detained him.

The difficulty was—how to prove that John Cussen was identical with Captain Rock. In accordance with his compact with the authorities, the craven who had given the clue had been quietly shipped off to England. The most liberal offers were secretly made, on the part of the Government, to induce some of the other prisoners to turn king's evidence, but without avail. They knew, one and all, what share Cussen's had been in the Whiteboy movements; but they were fully aware, also, that to appear in evidence against him would, in effect, be equivalent to the signing of their own death-warrant. They continued faithful to him—and from higher motives, perhaps, than that of personal fear. For he was a man who possessed the power of winning hearts, and there were many—very many of his followers, who had become so warmly attached to him that they would have laid down their own lives to protect his from harm.

It was believed that Miss Shelton, if she was so minded, could have recognized his figure, his features, and the very tone of his voice. She was strongly urged to do so, in order "to promote the ends of justice;" but, grateful for the service which he had rendered to her brother, and remembering his personal courtesy to herself, she invariably declined doing so, and, to avoid all compulsion or persuasion in the matter, was secretly preparing to pay a visit to her elder sister, who had married an English gentleman, and resided at Bath. On her repeated refusal to assist the Crown, it was determined that, by means of a stratagem, she should be trepanned into identifying him.

Accordingly, Major Eeles, Captain Johnstone, and another officer of the Rifle Brigade, made a morning-call at Rossmore, and, as if by accident, asked Miss Shelton and her sister whether they would not like to see the barrack at Ballingarry, which they had repeatedly promised to visit. A party of six or seven was made up on the instant. The horses were ordered out, and very soon the party reached the barrack, in which Cussen was detained until his final removal to the county-prison of Limerick. That such a person was there, was unknown to all the visitors. Accompanied by some of the officers' wives, whom they knew, the ladies from Rossmore entered the room occupied by Cussen, heavily ironed and closely guarded. As they were passing through it, Cussen was purposely provoked, by one of his guards, to speak loudly—angrily, indeed—to some taunting remark. Alicia Shelton, recognizing the peculiar and unforgotten tone, seized her sister's arm, with a sudden impulse, and exclaimed—"It is the very man!" and would have fallen, but for support immediately rendered.

Cussen started at her exclamation, looked at her, "more in sorrow than in anger," rose from his chair, raised his hat, and courteously saluted the party. Miss Shelton, who avoided a second glance at him, restrained her feelings, and did not again open her lips; but what she had involuntarily said, slight as it was, sealed his fate—and he knew it. So did the officers who had planned the trick.

Government had directed that Cussen's trial should immediately take place. This was before Alicia Shelton had been betrayed into a recognition of the prisoner. She considered herself bound in honour not to give evidence to the detriment of one who had conferred a signal favour on herself. But, on the night of the attack, Cussen had also been seen and heard by her younger sister, whose bed-room window overlooked the back-yard, and who had witnessed the occurrence between them. Not considering herself bound by any personal ties of gratitude, and somewhat selfishly recollecting her own alarm rather than her brother's secured safety, Susanna Shelton declared that, for her part, she had no scruples in performing what she believed to be an act of justice to society. In addition, two of Cussen's followers, to save their own necks from the halter, promised, almost at the last moment, to turn king's evidence—but as there was no certainty of their remaining in the same mind, when put into the witness-box (or, rather, as it actually was, upon the table in the Court), not much reliance was placed upon them.

The Assizes being several months distant, it was resolved not to wait, and a special Commission was sent down for the immediate trial of all persons in custody under the Insurrection Act. At the same time, a messenger from the Castle of Dublin arrived at Rossmore with a subpœna to enforce the attendance of Miss Shelton and her sister, as witnesses on Cussen's trial, and they were taken away to Limerick, in a post-chaise, escorted by a troop of dragoons. Apartments and all suitable accommodation had been provided for them at Swinburne's—then the principal hotel in "the fair city of the Violated Treaty."

The trial is not forgotten by those who were present. The court-house of Limerick was crowded to the very roof. I am proud to say, as an Irishman, that among that large audience, there was not even one female. Irish propriety, by a conventional arrangement rather understood than expressed, very properly prohibits the appearance of any of the fair sex in a Court of Justice, except where necessarily present as a party, or called upon as a witness. I write of what was the rule some thirty years ago—matters may have changed since. On arraignment, Cussen pleaded "Not Guilty." After a long, fatiguing, and nearly inaudible speech—from Mr. Sergeant Goold—who had been eloquent, but, in his old age, had become the greatest proser, for a small man, at the Irish Bar—the evidence was gone into. The case had been skilfully got up, but, though no moral doubt could exist as to the prisoner's participation, if not leadership, in many Whiteboy offences, it may be doubted whether the proofs would have sufficed for a conviction in ordinary times. The two informers, on whose evidence much reliance had been placed, told their story volubly enough, but when the usher's wand was handed to them, that they might point at the prisoner in identification, each shook his head and affected never before to have seen him.

Cussen's equanimity was undisturbed throughout the early part of the trial. When Mr. Sergeant Goold, in stating the case, alluded to the attack on Churchtown, the prisoner said that, in the copy of the indictment with which he had been served, there was no charge against him save for certain transactions alleged to have taken place at Rossmore, and he desired to know whether it was purposed, or indeed whether it was legal, to state a case or give evidence out of the record? There was considerable sensation at this inquiry. The Judge replied that Counsel ought to confine himself to the charge in the indictment, and admitted that the prisoner had exercised no more than his undoubted right in checking the introduction of irrelevant matter. The Crown Counsel had only to bow and submit to the opinion and reproof of the Judge. The prisoner appearing disposed to speak again, the Judge asked whether he had any more to say? "Only this, my lord," said he, "that if it be my right, as prisoner, to check the introduction of irrelevant topics, having a tendency to prejudice me with the jury, it surely was your duty, as Judge, to have done so—particularly as mine is a case of life and death."

This was a well-merited reproof, given with a certain degree of dignity, and (for the Judge was a man of enlarged mind) did no injury to Cussen.

When Miss Shelton appeared on the table, Cussen appeared startled, for he had been given to understand that she had positively refused to appear against him—indeed, it had been reported that she had even gone to England to avoid it. Compelled to give her testimony, she detailed, in the plain and forcible language of truth, under what circumstances she had seen Cussen at Rossmore—what peril her brother had been threatened with—what supplications she had made in his behalf—how promptly the favour she had solicited had been granted—how kind the prisoner's words and demeanour to herself had been. She took occasion to add that her appearance as a witness was against her own desire. She was then asked to turn round and say whether she then saw the person who had acted as she had described. Not without great delay and hesitation—urged, indeed, by an intimation of the personal consequences of her contumacy—did she obey, but, at last, she did identify the prisoner, saying, "That is the man who saved my brother's life, at my entreaty, and stood between myself and outrage worse than death." Cussen respectfully acknowledged her evident feeling in his favour by making her a low bow as she went down.

Her sister, who was cast in a coarser mould of mind and body, exhibited no scruples, but gave her evidence with an undisguised antipathy towards the accused. The missing links, supplied by her testimony, made up a strong chain of evidence which, every one felt, it would be difficult for Cussen to beat down, in any manner. It was expected, almost as a matter of course, that he would trust to proving, by an alibi, the impossibility of his having been the person who was present on the occasion referred to by the witness. Every one who saw him in the dock, where his bearing was equally free from bravado and fear, anticipated some very ingenious, if not successful defence. He very slightly cross-examined the witnesses for the prosecution, and then only on points which bore on his personal conduct. He declined availing himself of the open assistance of counsel—though he had consulted eminent legal authorities on various technical points, while in prison. But for the place in which he stood, fenced in with iron spikes, and surrounded by the police, one might have thought him merely interested, as a spectator, in the circumstances evoked by the evidence, rather than one whose life depended on the issue. Cool, deliberate, and self-possessed, he entered on his defence.

It was of the briefest;—only a simple negation of the charge—a denial that, even with all probability of its being true, there was legal evidence of such a breach of the law as involved conviction and punishment—a regret that his identity should have been mistaken by the younger Miss Shelton, who, had he really been the person at Rossmore, had never, even on her own showing, been so close to him as for her to distinguish his features—an expression of gratitude to Alicia Shelton for her evident disinclination to injure one who she believed had treated her with kindness—a strong disclaimer of imputing wilful error to her, though he considered her sister not free from censure for her undisguised avidity in seizing upon every circumstance to convict him—a reckless assertion that, come what might, he had outlived the desire of existence, and was prepared for any fortune. Such was the substance of his address, delivered in a manner equally free from bravado and dread. He concluded by declaring that, already prejudged by public opinion (the newspapers, from the first, having roundly proclaimed that he, and none other, was or could be the true Captain Rock), and with the undue weight given to slight and evidently prejudiced evidence, he felt that his prospect of acquittal was small.

Mr. Sergeant Goold then arose to speak to the evidence for the Crown, and was interrupted by Cussen, who asked the Judge whether, when no evidence was called for the defence, the prisoner was not entitled, by himself or counsel, to the last word to the jury? Mr. Sergeant Goold answered that the Crown, in all cases, was entitled to the last speech, and appealed to the Judge for confirmation of the assertion. Cussen again addressed the Judge, and said that, in civil suits, the practice was certainly not to allow the plaintiff the last speech when the defendant did not call witnesses, for he had himself been a juryman, in the other court, when such a circumstance had occurred. The Judge's decision was that, if he pleased to insist upon it, the counsel for the Crown might desire and exercise the right of speaking to the evidence, even when, as in the present instance, the accused had called no witnesses, nor even made a defence. But, his Lordship added, perhaps under the circumstances, Mr. Sergeant Goold would not exercise the right. Goold grumbled, and fidgeted, and muttered unintelligible sentences about his duty, and finally, gathering up his papers, quitted the Court in a huff, with the air of a person mightily offended.

The Judge then summed up the evidence, and charged the jury very minutely—dwelling, more than was anticipated, on the remote probability that the younger Miss Shelton might have been mistaken as to the identity of the accused. But, said he, even if she were so situated that recognition of his person were even impossible, there is the evidence of her sister, given with a reluctance which was creditable to her humanity, gratitude, and womanly feeling, which undoubtedly declared that the prisoner in the dock, and none but he, was the leader in the attack upon her father's house on the night named in the indictment.

The jury retired, and after a long deliberation, returned a verdict of "Guilty." Perhaps, of all persons in the court, the prisoner was apparently the least moved by this announcement. His cheek did not blench, his lips quiver, nor his limbs tremble. He was called upon to declare whether he had anything to say why the sentence of the law should not be passed?

Cussen, drawing himself up to his full height, declared, in a sonorous voice, which filled the Court, and in the same collected manner which had characterized him during the whole trial, that nothing which he could say was likely to mitigate the sharp sentence of the law. "I have had a fair trial," said he, "as from the excited state of the country, and the fears and feelings of the jury, I could reasonably expect. It is evident, from the time they have spent in deliberating on their verdict, that some of the jury, at least, had doubts in my favour. But," he added, "I make no calculation upon that, for I am aware that you, my lord, even while you comply with the formula of asking me whether I have anything to say against my sentence, have no alternative but to pronounce it. For my own part, I have faced death on the battle-field, too often and too boldly, to dread it in any shape. And for the ignominy, I hold with the French philosopher, whose writings your lordship is familiar with, that it is the crime, and not the punishment, which makes the shame. My lord, I stand, as it were, on the threshold of another world. My path is already darkened by the fast-advancing shadows of the grave. Hear me declare, then, that even if I were the Captain Rock whom your jury declare me to be, my death, nor the death of hundreds such as I am, cannot and will not put an end to disaffection arising from laws oppressive in themselves, and rendered even more so by being harshly and partially administered. The spirit of the people is all but broken by long-continued and strong oppression. Between middlemen and proctors they have been driven almost into despair. Exactions, for rent and tithes, press increasingly upon them. Whatever little property they may have possessed has gradually melted away. Their cattle, under distraint for rent, crowd the pounds. Their miserable cabins are destitute of fuel and food. They feel their wrongs, and have united with the energy of despair to avenge them. Cease to oppress these men, and the King will have no better subjects. So much for them. A concluding word for myself. My lord, I have not called evidence, which I might have done, to show that my general character is that of a man indisposed towards bloodshed and cruelty. It may be too late to hear them now—but for the sake of others I would stand before the world as one who is not the blood-stained ruffian which the learned counsel for the Crown has proclaimed me to be. I would tell him, were he here, that whatever else I have done, I have never been publicly branded by the Legislature as a liar. My lord, I have done."

This bold attack on Mr. Sergeant Goold, who, three years before, had been publicly reprimanded by the House of Commons for having prevaricated, when giving evidence before the Limerick Election Committee, was received with applause.

The Judge intimated that he was ready to hear evidence as to Cussen's character, on which several gentlemen of high standing in the county came forward and bore testimony greatly in his favour. The sentence of death was then pronounced, with the usual formalities.

But Cussen's hour was not at hand. A memorial to the Government, from Alicia Shelton, strongly setting forth the humanity which the convict had manifested towards herself, was immediately forwarded. With it went a petition, signed by several who had been interested with Cussen's conduct on the trial, and believed that to execute their leader was the least likely way of conciliating the Whiteboys. In due course, the Judge who had presided at the trial was called upon to state his opinion. It was said that, viewing the case as it came out in the evidence, and without touching on the suspicion or presumption that Cussen had been guilty of other breaches of the law, the report of the Judge was strongly in his favour. At all events, the Government complied with the urgent solicitations in Cussen's behalf, and commuted the sentence of death into transportation for life.

As Cussen had heard his death-doom without any apparent emotion, his reception of the mitigation of punishment was wholly devoid of exultation. He requested that the prison authorities would convey his thanks to Alicia Shelton and the others who had interested themselves in his favour.

It was said that an intimation was made to him, on the part of the Executive, promising him a full pardon if he would give them a clue to the Whiteboy organization, which they greatly desired to put down. It was reported, also, that, in his reply, he declared himself incapable of betraying any confidence which had been reposed in him,—that family circumstances must prevent his desiring to remain in Ireland, on any terms,—and he trusted there was a Future for every man who desired to atone for the Past. This was the nearest approach he ever made to an admission that he had been involved in the Whiteboy movements. The "family circumstances" to which he alluded consisted of his having been privately married to a Miss Fitzgibbon, with whom he lived so unhappily, that even an enforced residence in New South Wales appeared a lesser evil than to remain with her in Ireland.7

This, however, did not transpire until some time after he had quitted the country.

He was transmitted to the convict-ship at Cove, on board of which the narrator of this story, then a lad, had the curiosity to visit him. Of course, no conversation arose as to the question of his guilt or innocence. When Cussen learned that his youthful visitor was related to Miss Shelton, he manifested some interest, inquired after her health, begged she would accept his thanks for the favourable manner in which she had given her evidence, and said that she had strongly reminded him of a lady whom he had formerly known, and whose death had led to the circumstances which had brought him to his present position.

The impression which remains on my mind, after the lapse of so many years, is very much in favour both of Cussen's appearance and manners. He was neatly dressed, and looked very unlike what might have been anticipated—considering that he was the veritable Captain Rock. His voice was low—"an excellent thing" in man as well as in woman. There was no appearance of bravado in his manner. The two turnkeys from Limerick jail, who were in charge of him, spoke very highly of his gentle disposition and uniform civility. They declared, such was their conviction of his truth, that if, at any time, he had desired to leave them for a week, with a promise to return by a particular day and hour, they were certain he would not break his parole.

On reaching Spike Island, he was attired in the convict costume,—and the humiliating livery of crime appeared a great annoyance to him for a day or two. After that, he showed no feeling upon the matter. The "authorities" at Spike Island, who were much prejudiced against him, at first, speedily came to treat him with as much kindness as their rough nature and scanty opportunities permitted them to show.

Within three weeks of his conviction, John Cussen was en route for Botany Bay. During the voyage, a dangerous epidemic broke out among the convicts and the crew. The surgeon of the ship was one of the first victims. The commander, who had heard the report of the trial at Limerick, recollected that one of the witnesses had stated how gallantly Cussen had fought at Waterloo, when an army-surgeon, and asked his prisoner whether he thought himself capable, in the existing emergency, of taking medical charge of the ship. Cussen replied in the affirmative, but positively declined doing anything so long as he wore the convict-dress. His desire being complied with, he was released from his irons, intrusted with the care of the sick, and succeeded in mitigating their sufferings by the remedies he applied. The disease was checked, so that the mortality was much less than was expected, and this favourable result was mainly attributable to Cussen's skill. On arriving in New South Wales, this was so favourably represented to the authorities, that a ticket of leave was immediately given to him. Proceeding up the country, he took a small sheepwalk, and was getting on prosperously, when a party of bush-rangers attacked and devastated his little place. He immediately devoted himself to a contest with this predatory band—long the terror of the colony—and did not rest until he had so completely routed them, that the leaders were apprehended and executed, while the rest, one by one, came in and delivered themselves up to justice.

The result was that, for this public service, Cussen received a pardon (the only condition being that he must not return to Ireland), within two years after his arrival in the Colony. He practiced for some time, as a surgeon, at Sydney, and having realized about five thousand pounds, proceeded to the United States. One of his first acts, after arriving in New York, was to send to Ireland for the son of John Sheehan (the man who had been shot on suspicion of Whiteboyism), now doubly orphaned by his mother's death. He adopted him, in fulfilment of his promise at the Wake, as related in the first chapter. His own wife and daughter, whom he had liberally supplied with funds from New South Wales, declined rejoining him there or in America, and were actually residing in Limerick a few years ago. Cussen eventually settled in one of the Western States, where his capital at once enabled him to purchase and cultivate a large tract of land. He has been heard of, more than once, by those who knew his identity, as a thriving and influential citizen, under a slightly changed name.

The fact that Cussen had led the attack upon Churchtown Barracks was not positively ascertained for several years after his departure from Ireland. In a death-bed confession, one of the party avowed it. To this day, however, very many of the people in the County of Limerick, who were well acquainted with Cussen, will not believe that he ever could have participated in such a cold-blooded massacre. They appeal, in proof of the gentleness of his nature, to the kind feelings which he exhibited during the attack on Rossmore.

It is clear, at all events, that by the conviction of Cussen, the Whiteboys lost a leader. The confederation was speedily broken up, for want of its Captain Rock. Nor, since that time, have the disaffected in Ireland been able to obtain the assistance of any one so competent for command as was John Cussen. His successors, from time to time, have been bold, ignorant men, at the highest not more than one degree above the peasantry whom they contrived to band together as United Irishmen, Ribbonmen, or Whiteboys. The peasantry were taught, too, that the redress of grievances is not likely to be brought about by illegal confederations—that agitation within the law, may virtually place them above the law,—and that he who commits a crime gives an advantage to the antagonist. This was the great principle which O'Connell always endeavoured to enforce. We have seen the last of the Whiteboys, and I have told the story of the undoubted Captain Rock, the will-o'-the-wisp of Irish agrarian disturbances.

A NIGHT WITH THE WHITEBOYS.

In connection with the leadership of John Cussen, an incident occurred which may be related here, as a sort of appendix to his own adventures. It is only a trifle in its way, but illustrates the manner in which, even after he had quitted the country, he was regarded by his former adherents.

About twelve months after the conviction and transportation of Captain Rock, which eventually led to the breaking up of the Whiteboy organization—though, here and there, a few branch Ribbon lodges remained—I was on a visit to my uncle, the self-same owner of Rossmore, mentioned in the previous story, and father of its heroine. Rossmore House is situated within a short distance of Castletown Conyers, and, by taking a short cut across the fields, this distance might be reduced to a mile. Having spent the day at Castletown, I was returning to Rossmore by the short cut, late in the evening—too late, indeed, as I had been warned, from the chance of meeting some of the prowlers who haunted the by-roads towards the small town. I had no fear, however, and though it was after twelve o'clock, there was a beautiful full moon, which, as the old song says, "did shine as bright as day." I had got on a narrow by-road which ran between two bogs, and was speeding home with as little delay as possible. All at once, I heard the dull heavy tramp of feet, in a measured tread, and thought that it probably was the police-patrol taking its rounds. As some of the police were quartered at my uncle's, I entertained no apprehension on account of being found out of doors at an untimely hour, as my person was known to these peace-preservers. I walked on, therefore, at my ease, loitering a little to allow myself to be overtaken, in order that I might have an escort home.

The party came up, and when I turned round to recognize and speak to them, I was considerably alarmed to find that I was in the midst of a large assemblage of rough-and-ready countrymen, wrapped up in large blue coateens, every man of them with a huge bludgeon in his hand. Knowing that the best plan was to put as bold a front on it as I could, I accosted them with the usual "Good evening, boys." They did not condescend to return the greeting, but gathered together in groups, conversing in Irish, which I did not understand—the acquisition of that ancient and sonorous language having been a neglected branch of my education. From their vehement action, their constant references to myself by gesture, and the repetition of my name, I perceived that they knew who I was, and were speaking about me. Under such circumstances, I thought, with Falstaff, that the better part of valour was discretion, and I prepared to effect my escape from such unpleasant companionship, by slipping off as quietly as I could.

The intention, however excellent, was not to be borne out in execution. Before I had taken fifty steps, I felt two or three large, rough, hairy, sinewy hands on the collar of my coat, and the cold muzzle of a pistol under my left ear, with a threat, strengthened by a tremendous oath, that, if I dared move one inch farther, the contents of the pistol should be lodged in my brain. I did not move, having a strong idea that the threat would be carried into execution,—not a remarkably pleasant anticipation for any one, far less for a lad of fourteen.

After some delay, a man, who appeared to be a kind of leader, asked me my name, and whether I was not a nephew of "the old fellow at Rossmore." I said that I was. "Then," said he, "you are the cousin of that fine young lady whose swearing was the means of our Captain being sent across the sea?" I answered that he was quite correct, and that I certainly was the lady's cousin. "Then," said he, "as we cannot lay hands on her, for she cut away to England when the trial was over, for fear of our just revenge, I think we must have your blood instead." As I had a very strong objection to suffering, vicariously, even for a woman and a cousin, I remonstrated against the design, alleging, truly enough, that it was hard I should answer for any one's sins but my own; that the lady, as was well known, had given evidence against Captain Rock, under compulsion; and that, after he was sentenced to death, she never rested until she had obtained a remission of the sentence of death passed upon him.

What I said evidently made an impression on my audience—on such, at least, as knew English. To the rest it was duly interpreted; after which, still leaving me in charge of the hirsute giant with the great pistol, the party retired a little way to hold consultation respecting me. This I knew, because the rough gentleman, who held the pistol to my ear, grew a little communicative, telling me that they had all been to the fair of Bruree, where they had indulged pretty freely in strong liquors, and that he thought it likely, as they had made up their mind to take my life, that they were then only deliberating in what manner to carry out their intention. "It is an easy death enough," said this Job's comforter, "to be strangled by a handkerchief, squeezed round the throat to a proper tightness; it is as good a way as any other to put a man into a deep bog-hole like that on the side of the road there; but," he added, "for doing the thing genteelly, and making sure of quick work and little pain, I certainly would prefer a pistol like this, with a decent charge of canister powder, and a brace of bullets or a couple of slugs at the top to make all right."

The conference by the way-side lasted so long, that I grew heart-sick with anxiety. I could see, by their unrestrained movements, that some of the party were disposed to wreak upon my person their revenge against my cousin, and that some were recommending a milder process. Presently, the decision appeared to be made, whatever it might be. The same man who had already spoken to me, came up again, and with him the rest of that precious conclave. "My lad," said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "Do you know what we have made up our minds to do?" I answered, that I did not know. "Some of us," said he, "think that, as you have met us to night, and may know some of us again, the best thing we could do would be to put you out of the way at once. And some of us thinks that if we took your word, (though you're only a bit of a boy,) not to mention that you have seen us, we might do worse than let you go home, though that home is the nest which she came out of."

I fancied, from his manner, that I had not much cause to apprehend the more deadly alternative; and, therefore, I answered, as boldly as I could, that I was quite willing to give my word not to mention that I had seen any of them, nor, at any time or place, attempt to recognize them. "While you are deciding," I added, "recollect that this suspense between life and death is not the most pleasant thing in the world. And, for God's sake," said I, "rather put this hairy gentleman's brace of bullets through my head at once, than leave me shivering another half an hour in the cold." There was a laugh at what I said; those who did not speak English eagerly required it to be translated for them, and then the laugh grew louder, for all enjoyed it. "Faith," said the leader, "You're a bold lad to jest in that way, with the muzzle of a pistol against your ear. Make your mind easy; we would not hurt a hair of your head now. Go your way, and keep your promise. No matter when you meet any of us, don't let on that you have ever seen us before. And if you should ever fall in with bad company, in a by-way, on a night like this, just whisper 'Barry More' into the ear of any of the party, and you may pass through them as safely as if you were walking in a drawing-room." This said, I had to shake hands, one by one, with each of the party; and they further insisted, with a pertinacity which would not brook denial, that half-a-dozen of them should escort me within a stone's throw of my uncle's house.

A few weeks after this rencontre, I saw a man at work in one of my uncle's fields, who seemed not quite a stranger to me. I took care that the recognition, if any, should come from him. Accordingly, though I made the usual remark that it was a fine day, and asked some questions as to the prospects of the crops, I did not seem as if I had ever seen him before. However, he had less discretion, for he said, "That was a narrow escape you had, down by the bog, that night, sir." I asked what he meant? "Oh!" said he, "I do not mind talking to you about it now, for we have your word not to tell on us, and I know very well—for we have friends in every house, who tell us what passes—that not even to your uncle did you say a word about what happened that night. We tried to frighten you a bit, sir, but you stood up better than we expected. I had made up my mind, from the first, that not a hair of your head should be touched; but it was not quite so easy to get the rest of the boys to my way of thinking. They had not the cause that I had for wishing you well."

I told him, what was the plain truth, that I had no recollection of any particular cause why he, more than any of the rest, should have protected me. "Ah, sir," said he, "people who do a kindness forget it, if the true vein be in them, sooner than those they do the kindness to. You may remember, sir, that about ten years ago, when you were a child, the Master here was very angry with me for having neglected my work, by which the Mistress's garden was quite spoilt, and turned me off, when I had not the chance of getting work anywhere else, and owed a quarter's rent for the little cabin and potatoe garden, and was entirely broke, hand and foot,—aye, and almost heart, too. At that time, sir, you were to the fore, with the kind word, which you ever had, to turn away the Master's anger, and you got the Mistress to interfere; and when the Master took me on to work again, it was yourself, sir, that ran down to my little cabin and told me the good news, and sat down at the table, with the children, without any pride, and eat the roasted potato and the salt, and drank the butter-milk out of the same piggin with them. From that hour, sir, if laying down the lives of me and mine would prevent injury to one hair of your head, we would have done it. And that's the reason why your life was safe the other night, and they all granted it when I told them the ins and outs of the story."

I saw little more of my champion, for I left that part of the country soon after, and have not been there since.

BUCK ENGLISH.

Some eighty years ago, there appeared, in that city of Ireland which is called "the beautiful,"8 a remarkable character, generally known as Buck English. This name—to which he answered—had been given him, it was said, on account of his fashionable appearance, manners and pursuits, and because his accent clearly indicated that he came from England. At all events, in the year 1770, Buck English was a principal in the fashionable society of Cork—its observed of all observers, its glass of fashion, if not its very mould of form.

Buck English had abundance of money, that great test and framer of respectability, and spent it freely. No man knew whence it came. Inquiries had been cautiously ventured upon by inquisitive people, but the only result arrived at was that rarely, if ever, did any remittance reach him through a banker. He frequently performed actions which might be called generous; but the real objects for benevolence, he used to say, were those who struggled to maintain appearances—who bore the arrow in their breast, and did not complain—who would rather die than ask for help; for, as there is no energy like that of despair, there is no pride like that of poverty. Gratitude sometimes would speak out; for parties whom his timely, unsought aid had rescued from ruin, meeting him accidentally in public, could not be restrained from breathing blessings on the benefactor whose name they knew not; and the occasional occurrence of such things—which really were not got up for display—seemed to authorize the conjecture that Buck English was bountiful in many other instances which were not known. This belief, generally received, operated so much in his favour, that many who would have probably disdained intimacy with one whose personal history was unknown, and who, therefore, might be an adventurer, did not hesitate to receive him at their houses—a concession which others, of more unquestioned station and means, vainly endeavoured to obtain. When stamped "sterling" by the select, no fear of his readily passing into currency with all the rest.

Hence, the conclusion may be arrived at, that Buck English was what a facetious friend calls a "populous character." He might have turned the sharp corner of five-and-thirty, and did not look older, even at his worst. Now, whatever five-and-thirty may be for a lady,—forcing on her, I fear, the brevet-rank of "a certain age," with Byron's interpretation,—it is the very prime of manhood. Thus, in this respect, Buck English was as fortunate as others. There was a drawback, it must be confessed—for who can be perfection? This was the circumstance of his possessing features which, except under particular excitement, might be pronounced very ordinary. One might have excused the compressed lips, the sallow cheek, and the sharp face; but the expression of the eyes was not always favourable. It appeared as if they were almost always anxiously on the watch. At times, when strongly excited, while the cheeks remained colourless, and no word breathed from the lips, the passion which created a heart-quake in the man did not allow its presence to be seen, except that it made the eyes flash—conveying the impression that their possessor must be rather dangerous under the influence of strong and deep emotions. It was not often that such manifestations were allowed to become apparent, for Buck English had powerful self-command.

Notwithstanding the absence of what is called "good looks," he had succeeded in gaining the favourable opinion of Mary Penrose, a young lady who had recently succeeded to a very considerable property in the vicinity of Cork. Indeed, it was somewhat more than merely her favourable opinion. I will even admit—on the understanding, of course, that it remain an inviolable secret—that Buck English had made a strong impression on the young lady's mind; so much so, that, at the especial period at which this narrative introduces her, she was deliberating whether she should frankly admit to him, or deny for a little time longer, that he was master of the heart which fluttered—ah, how anxiously—within the soft citadel of her bosom.

She had met him that evening at a rout (so they called their fashionable parties in those days), and he had ventured to insinuate, rather more boldly than on any previous occasion, how much his happiness depended upon her. On the point of making a very gentle confession, (have you any idea how admirably blushes can convey what language dare not breathe?) a movement towards the retired part of the saloon in which they sat, apart from the dancers, startled the lady, while the exclamation, "Mary Penrose!—where can she be?" informed her that inquiries were being made for her. So, withdrawing her hand from that of her suitor, and making an effort to appear calm and unembarrassed, she awaited the advent of the lady who had spoken. Presently came up her chaperon, a woman of high birth and scanty means, who condescended to reside with her. This personage—a mixture of black velvet and bugles, pearl-powder and pretence—gravely regarding Buck English, whom she did not like (because she thought it probable that he might succeed with Miss Penrose, and thereby make her own occupation "gone," like Othello's), said, with a low courtesy, "I am sure, sir, that, had you known what a pleasure you have been depriving Miss Penrose of, you would scarcely have detained her here. Mary, my dear, only think who has arrived!—who but your cousin Frank! He has been in the rooms half an hour, and has been anxiously looking for you everywhere."

Before a reply was made the cousin made his appearance, and was received rather formally by Mary. However, Frank Penrose was an Irishman and a lawyer, and therefore not very likely to be put down or taken aback by a cold reception. He was introduced to Buck English, but the greeting between the gentlemen was by no means cordial. Buck English saw a rival; one, too, whom it was said Mary Penrose's father had been desirous to have as a husband for his only child; while cousin Frank, to whom the chaperon had previously communicated the intimacy between the young lady and the dashing stranger, saw at a glance that it would have been quite as well, perhaps, if he had not left her so much in the way of becoming heart-stricken.

"Shall I lead you down to supper?" he said. "You know, Mary, that you and I have a hundred things to talk about."

"I am sorry, Frank," she answered, "that I cannot take the arm which you offer me gallantly. I had promised my partner, before you came, to avail myself of the advantage of his escort. Madame, I have no doubt, will be happy under your protection, and you can unburthen your mind to her."

Thus it happened that Mary Penrose retained the arm of Buck English, while Frank was handed over to the dowager.

"Confound the fellow!" said he, sotto voce, glancing at his rival. "On what a very familiar footing he has established himself with Mary. Can it be that she, who used to be so hard to please, is smitten with such a face?"

"Very likely," said the chaperon. "It was not the countenance, but the mind of Othello, that the bright Venetian was enamoured of. When the manners are agreeable and the intellect quick, the accident of a homely face speedily becomes of no importance. Perhaps it may even help to throw a woman off her guard."

"It is a pity," continued Frank, "that I have delayed my return so long. I thought that your letters had exaggerated, if not invented, the danger. Assist me in deposing this gentleman, and my gratitude shall be more than a name. I have always made so certain that Mary was to be my wife, that this over-security had led me to neglect her. At all events, I can tell you that this Mr. English shall not snatch such a prize from me without a struggle. I confess I do not like him."

"Naturally enough. He is a rival, and apparently on the way to become a successful one."

By this time they had reached the supper-table. Frank Penrose behaved with distant politeness to Buck English, who, as usual, was the centre of conversation. As the hour advanced, Mary said to her cousin, "Can you tell me what o'clock it is, Frank? I have been so careless as to let my watch run down."

Frank, with a smile, answered, "Two months ago I could have done so; but one of the knights of the road met me in a lonely part of Kilworth Mountain, when last I was going from Cork to Dublin, and relieved me of all care of purse or watch."

There was a smile at the cool manner in which the young lawyer related his loss, and then followed inquiry into the circumstances.

"A very commonplace highway robbery, I do assure you," said Frank. " All I have to say is, that I was encountered, as I rode on a lonely part of the road, by a gentleman who, taking me quite unprepared, put a pistol to my heart, demanding my cash and other portable property. As I had a foolish desire not to part with it quite so easily, I threw myself off my horse, and closed with my antagonist. His pistol went off in the struggle, without doing me any injury, and I drew my sword. My enemy, who proved himself a better master of that weapon than I was, succeeded in disarming me; forced me to surrender money, watch, and a few rings; mounted on my horse, and rode off, but speedily returned, with the polite assurance that as he never saw a gentleman in distress without wishing to relieve him, he trusted I would accept a few pieces from him, as he presumed I did not intend remaining on the bleak mountain all night, and he knew, from experience, how disagreeable it was to be in a strange inn without money. He handed me five guineas, kindly adding that, if I wanted more, his purse—alas! it had been mine—was entirely at my service."

"Would you know the man again?"

"No. His face was partly covered with crape."

Supper ended, Miss Penrose and the rest of the ladies retired, escorted to their carriages by the gentlemen, who then returned (it was the evil fashion of the time) to drink their healths in a brimming bumper. One glass led to another, with the usual result—the libations were not to the Goddess of Concord. By accident, the name of Mary Penrose was mentioned, with a congratulatory allusion to the good terms on which Buck English evidently was with her. Frank Penrose started from his chair, and angrily declared that his cousin's name should not be bandied about at a public table, and in conjunction, too, with that of a person of whom no one knew anything, and who, he could assert, was not acceptable to her family. He was about speaking further, when he was pulled down by his friends, who strenuously urged him to keep silent.

Buck English remained so quiet under the intentionally offensive allusion to himself, that some of the company began to think him deficient in courage. The Irish way of answering an insult, in those days, was to throw a glass full of wine in the offender's face, and follow that up by flinging the decanter at his head. After a pause, Frank Penrose, whom nobody could restrain, repeated the insult in other and harsher words. This broke up the party. As they were leaving the table, Buck English leant across, and said, very quietly, "Mr. Penrose, for the lady's sake, I would not mix up her name with a midnight brawl in a tavern, but you are aware that your words must be withdrawn or atoned for?"

"Take them as you please," said Penrose. "I stand by them."

"Then," answered the other, "I name Captain Cooper as my friend. Whom shall he meet on your part, and where?"

Pausing for a minute, during which he considered his course of action, Penrose said that in two days he expected a friend whose services he could command on such a business, and hoped the delay would not be inconvenient. His antagonist intimated his assent by a distant bow, and thus, in far less time than I have been writing about it, was appointed a meeting for life or death. The outward show of civility was maintained during the short time that they remained in the room, though feelings of deadliest enmity rankled beneath that smooth surface.

As they were retiring, Penrose and English again were together, and the latter took advantage of this contiguity to ask at what time his friend should call upon Mr. Penrose's second?

"At ten on Thursday morning, at Daly's club-house."

"Very well, and for whom shall he inquire?"

"Let him ask for Mr. D'Arcy Mahon, the barrister."

At that name, English shrunk or swerved as from a blow.

"D'Arcy Mahon!" he repeated.

"Yes," said Penrose. "Have you any objection to the gentleman?"

"None."

On that they separated.

That evening, on returning home, Mary Penrose applied herself, in the solitude of her chamber—the young heart's confessional—to serious thought upon that beleaguered and endangered Sebastopol, the state of her affections. It was evident that her cousin was piqued at the idea of her having a preference for English, and that his arrival was likely to bring the affair to an issue. Mary paused for some time in doubt as to the course she should pursue. She had a regard for her cousin Frank; but she confessed to herself, with conscious blush and sigh, that she had other and more cherished feelings for English. It is proverbial how a woman's deliberations, in an affair of the heart, invariably end; and so, having made up her mind in favour of Buck English, by far the most delightful companion—although not quite the handsomest—fate had thrown in her way, she retired to rest.

As she was unloosing the golden beauty of her luxuriant tresses, glancing now and then at a flower given to her by him, and carefully put into a watervase on her dressing-room table, Mary Penrose heard a faint tap at the window. Withdrawing the curtain, she saw, in the pale moonlight, the face of him who, even then, was occupying her thoughts. He held up a note in his hand, which he placed upon the window-sill, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come before her.

Opening the casement, she took the billet, and eagerly read it. In the strongest and most beseeching words, it urged her to speak with the writer for a few minutes;—hinted that this would be the last time they would ever meet;—and plainly declared that it related to an affair of life-and-death emergency. The urgency of this appeal, as well as her natural desire to see one in whom, now more than ever, she felt a deep interest, prevailed, and Mary Penrose, throwing a large shawl over her hastily-adjusted attire, quitted her chamber, silently proceeded down stairs, and opened the hall-door, at which she found English waiting. Light of body and active of limb, he had found little difficulty in ascending to Mary's window, by means of the thick ivy which luxuriantly covered the front of the house, and his descent had been yet more easily accomplished.

When alone with Mary in one of the apartments in which she had frequently received him as a visitor, Buck English appeared overwhelmed by emotion. Quickly recovering himself, he addressed her in this manner:—"I have to thank your kindness, Miss Penrose, for thus giving me the opportunity of taking leave of you. I am a dishonoured man, or shall be, and most publicly, too, if to-morrow sees me near this place. After you had retired this evening, your cousin Frank fixed a personal quarrel upon me, which I endeavoured to avoid by acting and speaking with the greatest forbearance. I named the friend who would act for me in a matter so unpleasant, and your cousin asked for a slight delay until the arrival of the gentleman who would perform the like offices for him. The person whom he named is D'Arcy Mahon,—one of the few men in this country, under existing circumstances, who must not see me, because I have the very strongest motives for avoiding him. Our meeting was fixed for Thursday, but I have just heard of Mr. Mahon's arrival, not an hour ago, which is two days earlier than Frank expected him."

"I need not assure you," said Mary, "how very much grieved I am that there should be any difference between two persons whom I esteem so much—between yourself and Frank. But I know that Mr. Mahon is a most honourable man, and more likely to pacify than irritate any parties who are placed in his hands with hostile feelings to each other."

"There lives not the man," replied English, somewhat haughtily, "who can say that I have at any time shrunk from giving or seeking the satisfaction which, in our strangely-constituted state of society, gentlemen must sometimes require or grant. But it is impossible that I can meet D'Arcy Mahon—whose high character I appreciate and esteem—on any terms, or under any circumstances, without his instantly and fatally recognizing me as one whom he has met before, under a darker and different aspect of affairs."

"You astonish and alarm me!" said Mary. "Will you not remove the veil from this mystery?"

"Yes," said he, after some deliberation. "It is a sad confidence, but you are entitled to it. You have heard of a person who is generally known as Captain Spranger?"

Mary said that she certainly had heard of the terror of travellers, the head of a band of highwaymen, who had infested the South of Ireland for the previous two years.

"The same. That man, outlawed as he is, with a price upon his head, I have reason to know is the younger son of one of the first commoners in England. Evil example and youthful impatience of control alienated him from his friends early in life, and sent him abroad upon the world, in different countries and among many grades of society, but not always in companionship with those by whom he could profit, in mind, body, or estate. At the close of many wanderings he found himself in Ireland, and accidentally became the companion or guest of a party of smugglers, who were banded together in the county of Waterford, and who, by their audacity and success, had challenged the notice of the Executive. Unfortunately, at the very period when the Englishman's love of wild adventure had thrown him into the society of these smugglers—as it had often led him to spend a night in a gipsy encampment—at that very time treachery had betrayed the band, who were surrounded by a strong military force before they knew they were in danger. To fight their way through this armed array, was what the smugglers determined on at the moment. Unwilling to remain and be captured, the chance-visitor of the night joined in the sortie, and made a dash for freedom. Some effected their escape without hurt, a few were wounded, some were captured. The Englishman was among the prisoners. The Assizes were at hand, and as it was thought fit to make an example, as it is called, the trial of the smugglers was hurried on. The evidence against the Englishman was conclusive. He was found in armed array against the military, and in company with notorious law-breakers. What could he do? Pride made him conceal his name, he was indicted under that of Spranger (which he had never borne), was tried and convicted. When brought up to receive sentence in the assize court of Clonmel (where, for some reason, the trial took place), he thought he saw the opportunity for a bold effort. Light, active and strong, he vaulted out of the dock. The crowd instantly opened to conceal him, for there is a strong sympathy for persons accused of such breaches against the revenue law as he was believed to have committed. Even while he was crouching down in the midst of the crowd, a great-coat, such as the peasantry wear, was thrown around him by one; another bestowed upon him a cap made of fox-skin; and a third whispered him to keep quiet, as, if he did not betray himself, his disguise was sufficient to defy suspicion and detection.9

"Incredible as it may appear—but I perceive that you have already heard something of this affair—Spranger remained in the court-house during the whole day, while a strict out-of-doors' search was made for him, and finally walked into the street, unchallenged, with the rest of the crowd, when the trials ended. He was literally alone, unfriended, penniless, in a strange country. The men who had supplied him, on the impulse of the moment, with the means of baffling detection, kept their eyes upon, and speedily came in his way, giving him the further aid of shelter and food. What need I more say than that those men, who lived against the law, succeeded in enrolling their guest among them. Recklessness and utter want, in the first instance, and the fear of being given up to the Government in the other, were his motives. Coupled with this, too, was a strong sense of injury at having been convicted, without crime, upon appearances. Not then, but many times afterwards, did he feel convinced that the Executive had brought him to trial only upon obvious and palpable facts. But, long before he came to take this view of the question, he had become leader of the band—now avowedly associated for plunder, smuggling having been broken up, and the name and the daring of Captain Spranger are sufficiently notorious throughout the country now.

"When he had completely identified himself with them, so as to obtain their unquestioning obedience, Spranger availed himself of the privilege of sometimes leaving them for a short time—continuing, however, to regulate their movements, and participate in their gains—one of them always remaining with him to act as his servant, but actually as an unsuspected channel of communication with the band. Thus this captain of men beyond the pale of the law, has resided, at different times, in the principal cities in the South of Ireland. His last resting-place was here in Cork, where, under a name rather given to him by common consent than assumed by him, and with ample pecuniary means at his command, he contrived to be received into the best society. But he had tired, long since, of the ruffianly association which he headed. One hope remained—that of offering his sword to one of the foreign States with whom he had formerly performed military service, and thus resuming the condition to which he was born. But, while taking measures to do this, he met, and became deeply enamoured of the loveliest and most engaging of her sex, and delayed his departure—his exile—from a reluctance to quit the heaven of her smiles. Perhaps he even presumed to hope—to trust—that, under better circumstances, he might even have ventured to hope that his suit would not have failed."

Here he paused, to mark how Mary had borne this relation. Her face was covered with her hands—but he could hear that she was sobbing. He continued:—

"You know, Mary, I perceive, that he who relates this story is the same Spranger whose name has made many a cheek pale, many a bold heart tremble. D'Arcy Mahon was one of the counsel employed against me at Clonmel, and he knows every feature of mine so well that he could not fail to recognize me. He would identify me, also, as Captain Spranger. If I remain, he meets me to-morrow. Shame, disgrace, perhaps even death would follow. 'Tis true that circumstances have made me what I am, but there is a Future, in action, for all who are willing to atone for past misconduct. I go forth to try and regain the position I have forfeited. Not in this country, nor yet in my own, can I hope to do this. But there other lands where Reputation and Fortune may be won, and in one of them I shall make the effort. To have known you—to find this wasted heart capable, even yet, of appreciating the beauty and purity of your mind, will console me in my long and distant exile. Farewell!"

He bent on his knee to take and kiss that delicate hand. Did it really linger in his? He looked upon that face of beauty. Did those violet eyes smile upon him through the dew which diamonded their long, dark fringes? He heard a low, earnest whisper. Did it tell him to retrieve the past, nor doubt, while doing so, of the due reward a loving heart will bestow? Did it softly say that he, and none but he, should hold that hand in marriage? Did it entreat him to write often—always hopingly? A long, long kiss on those ripe lips, on that damasked cheek, on that fair brow, and Buck English was away, as suddenly as he had come.

How improbable! How unfeminine! How utterly at variance with all the conventionalities of society! No doubt. But it is true.

As for Mary's avowed love for such a person as—even on his own showing—English was, why seek to put it to the test of every-day thought?

The morning after the interview between Mary and her lover, considerable anxiety was caused in the minds of his acquaintance by the fact of his disappearance, and the report that he had met with some fatal accident. His horse had returned home riderless, and a hat and glove, known to have been worn by him, were found on the banks of the Lee, about two miles from Cork, a place where he was fond of riding at all hours. It was believed that he had been drowned. The authorities took possession of and examined his effects, which were never claimed. There was not one line of writing among them, giving the slightest clue to his station in life, family, or identity. In a short time, he passed out of the memory of most of those who had known him.

It was noticed that Mary Penrose appeared very much unconcerned at the loss of one for whom she was believed to have felt some partiality. She was abused, of course, by her own sex, (and the more so, as she was very handsome,) for being a heartless coquette." A few months later, when she had attained her legal majority, and with it full possession of her property, she unequivocally astonished her cousin Frank, by declining his proffered hand. Ere the year was ended, her estates were in the market, and their purchase-money invested in foreign securities. This done, Mary bade a long farewell to the land of her nativity and the friends of her youth. Nor did any definite account of her subsequent life ever reach Ireland.

In the fulness of time, there came rumours (which were credited) that somebody very like Buck English had obtained rank and reputation in the German service, and that, eventually retiring to a distant province of the Empire, he had turned his sword into a ploughshare, and cultivated, with much success, a large estate which he had purchased there. It was added that a lady, whose personal description tallied with Mary Penrose's appearance, was the wife of this person; that they lived very happily with their numerous children around them; that their retainers and dependents almost adored them for their constant and considerate kindness; and that, though they ever condemned crime, they united in questioning whether he who committed it might not have been led into it by Circumstance rather than Desire.