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28 OWNEY SULLIVAN. OWNEY SULLIVAN.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade. Moore.

In a remote part of the south of Ireland, the union of three valleys forms the bed of an extensive and magnificent lake, from one side of which issues a small river navigable by boats, and communicating with the mighty expanse of the northern Atlantic; the sides of the mountain nearest the lake are in the extreme precipitous, and among their towering heath clad cliffs and solitary caverns afforded many a secure retreat for those who outlawed themselves by a public adherence to the insurgents of 1798. The side of one of the hills was a beautiful verdant slope, and the decline of an opposing hill was -wooded to its summit; the lovely green of the herbage, contrasted with the various tints of the trees as they appeared at different heights and in different groups, produced a delightful effect, and gave an air of gladness to this otherwise apparent solitude; but how much more was it enhanced, when the wearied traveller happened to espy the blue turf smoke curling gracefully upwards, amid the embowering trees, giving evidence of a human habitation. It once presented a sheltering spot, where a night's rest for the weary might with certainty be obtained when warm hearts were sure to give cheerful welcome, and think their hospitality well repaid to see their guest happy. This lonely sheeling had stood here in humbleness for ages, and was now tenanted by the lonely descendants of the builder. They had one lovely daughter; she was their only comfort, and principal assistant. The father, although the hoariness of age was his, retained all the alertness and vigour of a mountaineer he tended his scanty flock, and tilled his few acres “for his family's support while the mother with her daughter, kept every thing within doors in the most perfect rural order and neatness.

Mary had the imprint of health upon her face, her eyes sparkled with good nature; and, though naturally vivacious, her innate modesty threw a veil of reservation over her every action, which charmed not less than the perfect symmetry of her form. Such a rustic beauty could not be long without a train of admirers, but one more especially won his way to her affections, and his ardency in the cause for which all then strained their very heartstrings, was additional recommendation in Mary's eyes.

Charley Driscol was esteemed by all who knew him he was industrious and prudent, and, though not wealthy, he was independent. He tilled his little farm with care, and lived comfortably upon its produce; but he suffered himself to be seduced into the practices of those who indulged in wild schemes of national redress. He was already celebrated as an expert hurler, and renowned for athletic exploits; and Mary fondly thought one known to local fame required only a more enlarged field of action to deserve and acquire still greater notoriety. The course of their 'true love' ran on sweetly enough for some time; and, on the first agitation of the country, by the moral volcano of Ninety eight, every thing wore a favourable aspect; but the reverse was sudden, and, with the downfall of their hopes, came fears and anxieties which their inexperience did not dream of.

During the eventful contest, Charley performed the part of a daring insurgent; he was foremost wherever danger tempted valour, and when 'the day was lost,' he returned home wan and faint, but fearless still.' He was an outlaw, but was not without companions in his peril; and, amongst others, Owney Sullivan sought with him the security of the hill and the dale, the wood and the recesses of the shore. A common danger reconciles slight differences; Owney had been Charley's rival, and had formerly drawn upon himself Mary's anger; but all cause of anger or resentment was soon forgotten, and he was hospitably received, along with others, by her, whenever the absence of their pursuers rendered it safe to venture from their places of concealment. Here they found some alleviation of their sufferings; and Charley, still sanguine, cheered the mind of the mountain nymph with prognostics of happier days, and undisturbed, quiet, domestic enjoyment. The times, however, were fearful; the progress of martial law had left its revolting traces in almost every village, and the gallows, like a pestilence, remorselessly prepared its victims for the chilly grave. Under these circumstances even the national gaiety of the Irish character had but little room to display itself; their conversations were necessarily gloomy; and, at length, weary of a life of anxiety and hardship, the outlaws resolved to solicit the interposition of their landlord, a nobleman of great political influence. Owney Sullivan undertook the mission, and as he had some distance to travel, he set out, properly disguised, early in the morning. His comrades waited with anxiety for his return; the day passed away, and Owney did not make his appearance; but there was no apprehension of treachery; he might have fallen into the hands of the enemy, but no one dreamed of deceit.

The evening was now fast falling, and Mary, at the request of her father, went out to see if she could discover the approach of friend or foe; Charley followed her; and both of them took their station on the ruins of an old abbey, which had stood for ages on a beetling rock, towering over the lake, “Mossed and grey, A desolate and time worn pile, With ivy wreaths and wall flowers." They strained their eyes over the heath clad hill, but no human being appeared; all was silent;