outcast, in my own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well known sound of kindness. "Never, never," I said, as I madly sought to enter the gates which were closed against me.—O'Kelly passed me:—I knelt to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every thing, every thing was refused me. . . .
It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my Clare, and tore him from my bosom. . . . Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains! by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you do this cruel deed. "It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon." I heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp of
