On his entering, there was a slight low murmur of approbation, but the appearance of his mother caused it to die away.  This, however, was almost immediately succeeded by another of a very different character—­one in which there was a blending of many feelings—­compassion, rage, revenge.  The first thing the young man did was to take a candle in his hand, and hold it first close to his mother, so as that she might be distinctly seen, and afterward, near to his own face, in order that she might have a clear and equally distinct view of him.  “Mother,” said he, then, in a full voice, “do you know your son?” Her eye was upon him as he spoke, but it was vacant; there appeared no trace of recognition or meaning in it.

“You all see that miserable sight,” said he—­“there my mother stands, and doesn’t know who it is that is spaking to her.  There she stands, blasted and destroyed by the oppressor.  You all see this heart-breaking sight with your own eyes, and you all know who did it.”

’Tis singular how closely virtue and crime are allied!  The very sympathy excited by this touching and melancholy spectacle—­the very tenderness of the compassion that was felt for the mother and son, hardened the heart in a different sense, and stimulated them to vengeance.

“Now,” said the young man, whose name was Owen, “let them that have been oppressed and harassed by this Vulture, state their grievances, one at a time.”

An old man near sixty rose up, and after two or three attempts to speak, was overpowered by his feelings, and burst into tears.  “Poor Jemmy Devlin!” they exclaimed, “may God pity you!”

“Spake for Jemmy, some of you, as the poor man isn’t able to spake for himself.”

“Why, the case was this,” said a neighbor of the poor man’s.  “Jemmy’s son, Peter, was abused by Phil, the boy, because he didn’t pay him duty-work, and neglect his own harvest.  He told Peter that he was a Popish rebel and would be hanged.  Peter told him to his teeth that he was a liar, and that he couldn’t be good, havin’ the father’s bastard dhrop in him.  That was very well, but one night in about a month afterwards, the house was surrounded by the bloodhounds, poor Peter’s clo’es searched, and some Ribbon papers found in them; they also got, or pretended to get, other papers in the thatch of the house.  The boy was dragged out of his bed, sent to goal, tried, found guilty on the evidence of the bloodhounds, and sentenced to be flogged three times; but never was flogged a third time, for he died on the fourth day after the second flogging; and so, bein’ an only son—­indeed all the child the poor couple had—­the old man is now childless and distracted, God help him!”

“Very well,” exclaimed Owen bitterly—­“very well—­who next?”

A man named M’Mahon rose up,—­“The curse of the Almighty God may for ever rest upon him!” he exclaimed.  “He transported my two brave sons, because they were White-boys; and if they were, who made them Whiteboys but himself and his cruelty?  I will never see my darling sons’ faces again, but if I die without settlin’ accounts wid him, may I never know happiness here or hereafter!”