Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman. Caldwell Willie Walker

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СКАЧАТЬ was nothing, save hunting, I liked so well as my grandmother's stories; so I drew my chair in front of her and held my arms as still as I could, while she wound dexterously, and told me the origin of Ellen O'Niel.

      To-day I can shut my eyes and call up the picture of the "big room" in the comfortable log house where I was born and raised. Its walls of hewn logs, brown from smoke and age, and chinked with yellow plastering, were almost covered with wild skins, and stag antlers; these last used as rests for muskets, and powder horns. Over its small paned, deep silled windows hung speckless muslin curtains; upon its floor was spread a gayly striped rag carpet; and the wooden rocking-chairs were made soft with skins or feather cushions. The high mantel-shelf was ornamented, at either end, with squat wide-lipped blue pitchers, and between them two shining brass candle-sticks, having trays and snuffers to match. In winter these pitchers were filled with dried grasses and "everlastings;" in summer with flowers of the marigold, poppy, heartsease or love-in-mist, and the great fireplace below with feathery asparagus branches. At all times it was a homely, comfortable room, but cosier perhaps on winter evenings, when great logs blazed high above the dog-irons; when between the candles on either end of the long table against the wall, sat plates of ginger bread, and pitchers of persimmon beer; when apples sputtered on the stone hearth, filling the room with spicy fragrance, and roasting chestnuts popped in the hot ashes. Especially were we merry on such winter evenings as guests joined the hearth circle around the blazing logs. Nor were they so infrequent as you may suppose, for my father, being justice of the county and a man of substance, kept open house for travelers of all degrees, and, since they brought us all our news from the outside world, they were always welcome. On such evenings I was bid to hurry with my lessons, that I might play a tune for our guests on my fiddle – for music was so rare a treat in our settlement that even my poor, self-taught efforts were appreciated.

      But I am wandering, as garrulous old age is apt to do, and meantime my reader waits for my grandmother's story.

      "The O'Niels, lad," she began, "lang syne, were a great family in Ireland, the Earls O'Niel, or the Earls O'Tyrone, as they were called, being hereditary chiefs o' a powerful clan, in the northern part o' Ireland. But always they were a turbulent people, an' as was the custom with mony o' the Scotch an' Irish lads in those days, lived for the maist part by pillaging their neighbors. Continually, too, they were the leaders in insurrection against the English power, and as far back as the reign of King James part o' their lands were forfeited to the croon, an' were granted or sold to English an' Scotch Protestants, with the hope that a loyal an' peaceful settlement in the heart o' brawling Ireland micht help to civilize the people, an' keep them quiet, or at warst, help to subdue them. 'Twas then our ancestor came to Ulster frae Scotland, though your father's people not until half a century later. Our people were sheep graziers an' wool manufacturers, and always thrifty and prosperous. The Irish, for the maist part, e'en the great lairds, were idle and shiftless, and lived in a sort of squalid splendor within their castles, surrounded by bands of clansmen and swarms o' unpayed retainers.

      "Our lands were close to the castles o' Sir Phelim O'Neil, an' I hae heard my grandmaither say that mony's the time my great grandmaither wad send welcome gifts o' cheese, an' meat to the maither o' Sir Phelim, when he would be absent on one of his lang maraudin' expeditions.

      "Twas in the year 1641, that the massacre of Protestants took place, and the besotted, cruel Sir Phelim was thought to be at the head of the dreadful plot. At first Protestants were only driven from their homes to wander, starving an' shiverin', aboot the country, refused shelter or food everywhere, till mony a woman and her bairns perished from hunger and exposure, and all suffered cruelly.

      "Presently the killing began, an' no Protestant in a' that part o' Ireland escaped save the verra few who found refuge with Catholic friends. My great grandmaither an' her two young children were amangst those few fortunate ones, though my great grandfaither was killed. She lay concealed for weeks in a disused wing o' the O'Niel castle itself, an' was carefully guarded, an' provided for by old lady O'Niel.

      "Afterwards when Cromwell an' his men marched into Ulster to take revenge, my great grandmaither begged successfully for the lives o' Lady O'Niel an' her two grandsons. They were not, tho' I am glad to say, the children o' Sir Phelim, but o' a younger son, who had died before the massacre. My grandmaither, when she grew up, married Owen O'Niel, an' 'tis there that the one strain o' Irish cooms into our bluid. But this Owen died young, an' my grandmaither went back to her ain people, with naithin' to show the Irish in her children, but the name an' accent. My maither, Jeannie, married, as you know, a full blooded Scotchman, William Irvine, an' I anaither, Douglas McIlwaine – yet they tell me the Irish accent has descended as far as me," and my grandmother looked at me with a half merry, half serious question in her eye.

      "Just enough to make your speech roll musically, grandmother. So then I am a cousin of Ellen O'Niel's as well as Thomas Mitchell?"

      "Yes, but verra deestant. She's a direct descendant o' James, a brother of the Owen who was my ancestor, an' who also married a Scotch lass as his brother did, in spite of the law an' the custom. The grandson o' James was amangst the first o' the Scotch Irish settlers who came with the McElroys, an' aithers to Pennsylvania in the year 1729, in the good ship, George and Ann. The Mitchells came a few years later, an' your Uncle Thomas' sister married the youngest son o' this first emigrant, some sixteen years syne."

      "They moved from Pennsylvania to Baltimore?"

      "Yes; James O'Niel was a shrewd man, and whilst made money in the ship traffic; but when Thomas was last on, he brought news that James had lost his ship, and that his business was being taken frae him by richer traders. Thees child Ellen has nae aither heritage, I suppose, than her name, an' mayhap beauty – her race are a comely people."

      "Poor child!" said I, "'Tis a pity she must come here."

      "The purposes o' God in His providences are inscrutable, lad; but that He maun work final good out o' this event you need nae meesdoot. Martha's a pious woman, an' her intentions are good, though without doot she is overly selfrighteous, an' has nae understanding o' the feelings o' the young. But remember, my son, 'twere better to hae o'er mooch religion than not enow, an' what e'er experience life may bring you ne'er lose reverence, lad, for the earnest and beautiful faith of your forefaithers. Because there be some who pervert its solemnity to sternness – do not conclude that Presbyterianism is a hard and narrow faith. There be some, lad, that wad make it appear so, but 'tis in their perverted minds, an' not in those lofty an' consoling doctrines which turn life into a joyful though toilsome pilgrimage to a blissful eternity."

      "Should I ever be inclined to think Presbyterianism a cold, hard faith, grandmother," I answered, "I shall but need to think of you."

      "Aye, laddie, think o' your old grandmaither, an' that she told you thees – that during a pilgrimage o' seventy-five years, – an' my life has known mony vicissitudes, Donald, an' mooch hardship an' danger – nae trouble e'er came to her that her religion dinna gie her strength to endure calmly, and hopefully; and nae joy that her faith dinna make the sweeter an' brighter – as being but a faint foretaste o' that perfect an' eternal happiness to which she felt assured she was journeying."

      As grandmother spoke these words, there grew upon her face a rapt and absent look, and her lips parted in a smile of perfect satisfaction. I like to remember her thus – the silky bands of her white hair shining beneath her soft cap, her wrinkled hands crossed upon the finished ball, her alert brown eyes dreamy and tender, and over all her kind, bright face, that look of pure content – as of faith assured, and Heaven already realized.

      CHAPTER III

      Some weeks later the news came that Uncle Thomas had returned, bringing with him the "Irish lass," and a huge bundle of linens, muslins, laces, tea, spices, and other goods and delicacies such as were difficult to come by in our remote settlement. The horses were saddled as early the next morning as my mother's energetic household management permitted, СКАЧАТЬ