The Land of Bondage. John Bloundelle-Burton

not be disputed. But, as I say, I regarded him as my worst enemy, and, when I saw him come reeling down the street jovial with drink, or, on other occasions, morose and sour from ungratified desire for it, I fled from him.

      Then I, by great good chance, fell in with Quin, who was but a journeyman butcher earning poor wages and much dissatisfied with his lot, and who, coming from Wexford to Dublin to better that lot, had recognised me at once as the boy who was always styled the Honourable Gerald St. Amande in the county, and, out of the goodness of his heart, succoured me. But what could he do? He himself dwelt near the shambles, earning but eleven shillings a week, which had to suffice for all his wants, so that, if sometimes as I passed his master's shop he could toss me a scrag of mutton or a mouthful of beef-which I found means to cook by some outcast's fire-it was as much assistance as he could render. And from Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, himself but a poor sizar, and, as he stated, also from my neighbourhood and consequently willing to assist me, I could ask nothing. Beyond his "size," which was an allowance of a farthing's worth of bread and beer daily, he had but ten pounds a year from his father wherewithal to clothe himself and find such necessaries as he required, above that which he was entitled to as a servitor. Yet was he ever tender to me, and would say when I crept into the college to see him:

      "Here, Gerald, is the beer and here the bread. Drink and eat thy fill to such extent as it will go, which is not much. However, for myself I can get more. But I wish I could do more for thee than give thee these poor victuals and cast-off garments. Yet, tunica pallio propior, and, as I cannot give thee my skin, I will give thee the best coat I can spare." Which he did, though, poor youth, it was little enough he had for himself, let alone to give away.

      From my mother I had, alas! long been parted, for though when I was in my father's keeping, after she had fled from him, she had made many attempts to wrest me from him and to get me away to England, she, too, had come to believe that I had either died in the hands of, or been killed by, the villain O'Rourke, so that of her I had now heard nothing for more than two years. But as Mr. Kinchella had written her informing her of her husband's impending death, of my safety for the time being, and also of the probable usurpation by my uncle, we were looking for some news of her by every English packet that came in. "If her ladyship can compass it," this good and pious young man said on the night after my father's burial, and when he and Oliver and I sat in his room over the fire, "she should come to Dublin at once. There is much to be done at which alone she can help, and it will want all the assistance of her family to outwit thy uncle. Unfortunately my lord did go about the city saying that you were dead and that, therefore, he and his brother were at liberty to dispose of the property, and, thus, there is a terrible amount of evidence to contend against."

      "With submission, sir," Oliver said, "surely all that should make in the young lord's favour. For who shall doubt that his mother can swear to him as their child? Then there are the peasants with whom he was placed as an infant at New Ross, and, again, the tutors he was with, both there and here and in England, to say nothing of many servants. While, to add to all, his uncle has made himself a criminal by seconding his father in the false reports of his death and obtaining money thereby. With my lady's evidence and yours and mine alone, to say nothing of aught else, we should surely be able to move the King-at-Arms to enregister him as his father's heir."

      Yet, oh, untoward fate! my mother could not come, but in her place sent a letter which, being of much importance as affecting all that afterwards occurred, I here set down, fairly copied.

      From the Viscountess St. Amande, at 5 Denzil Street, Clare Market, ye 29th of November, 1727.

      To Mr. Jonathan Kinchella, Student, Trinity College, Dublin.

      Honoured Sir,

      My deepest gratitude is due to you for the pains you have been at to write to me under the care of my late uncle's bankers, which communication has safely reached me. Sir, I do most grievously note that my lord and husband, the Viscount St. Amande lyeth sick unto death-(Mr. Kinchella had written when Quin had learned from the woman my father lodged with that there was no hope for him) – and also in dire poverty; and, ill as he hath treated me, I do pray that his end may be peace. Moreover, if you or any friend of yours should see him and he should be able to comprehend your words, I do beseech you to tell him that I forgive him all he has done to me and that, in another and a better world, to which I believe myself to be also hastening, I hope to meet him once more, though, whether he live or die, we can never meet again upon this earth.

      But, sir, if the news which you give me of the grievous state in which my lord lies is enough to wring my heart, what comfort and joy shall not that heart also receive in learning that my beloved child, whom I thought dead and slain by his father's cruelty, is still alive, and that he, whom I have mourned as gone from me for ever, should live to be restored to his mother's arms? Yet, alas! I cannot come to him as I fain would and fold him in my arms, for I am sorely stricken with the palsy which creepeth ever on me, though, strange to relate, there are moments, nay hours, when I am free from it, so that sometimes my physician doth prophesy a recovery, which, however, I cannot bring myself to hope or believe. And, moreover, honoured sir, I am without the means to travel to Dublin. My uncle, when he rescued me from my unhappy husband's hands, provided me with one hundred guineas a year, which, at his death last year, he also willed, should be continued to me while parted from my husband. But if he dies that ceases also, since my uncle, the Duke, did naturally suppose that I by settlement shall be well provided for, tho' now I doubt if such is likely to prove the case.

      Yet, though well I know my brother-in-law to be a most uncommon bad man and one who will halt at nothing to further his own gains, I cannot believe that the law will allow him to falsely possess himself either of my child's rank and title, or of aught else that may be his inheritance, though I fear there is but little property left, short of his succession to the Marquisate of Amesbury. But, honoured sir, since it is not possible that I can come to my boy, could he not come to me? He would assuredly be as safe in London, if not safer, under the protection of his mother, as in Dublin where, you say, he lurketh, and where, I cannot doubt, his uncle will take steps to bring about harm to him. Here he would be with me and, since my uncle is now dead, it may be that the Marquis will be more kindly disposed towards him and, even at the worst, he cannot refuse to recognise him. Therefore, sir, if the wherewithal could be found for bringing or sending him to London, I would see the cost defrayed out of my small means, on which you may rely.

      So, honoured sir, I now conclude, begging you to believe that I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for my child, and that also I thank the honest man, Mr. Quin, of whom you speak, and I do most earnestly pray that the God of the fatherless and the orphan may reward you for all. And, sir, with my greatest consideration to you, and a mother's fondest love to my child, whom I pray to see ere long, I remain your much obliged and grateful,

Louise St. Amande.

      "Gerald," said Mr. Kinchella, when he had concluded reading this letter to me, over which, boy-like, I shed many tears, "her ladyship speaks well. Dublin is no place for thee. If in his lordship's lifetime you were not safe, how shall you be so when now you alone stand between your uncle and two peerages?"

      "Yet," I exclaimed, while in my heart there had arisen a wild desire to once more see the dear mother from whom I had been so ruthlessly torn, "yet how could it be accomplished? Surely the cost of a journey to London would be great!"

      "I have still a guinea or two in my locker," said Mr. Kinchella, "if that would avail-though I misdoubt it."

      "I have a better plan, sir," exclaimed Quin, who was also of the party again on this occasion. "If his young lordship would not object to voyaging to London entirely by sea, there are many cattle-ships pass between that port and this by which he might proceed. Or, again, he might pass from here to Chester, there being many boats to Park Gate, or he might proceed to Milford."

      "Yet he is over-young for such a journey," said kind Mr. Kinchella; he being, as ever, thoughtful for me. But I replied:

      "Sir, have I not had to endure worse when I was even younger? The deck of a cattle-boat is of a certainty no worse than O'Rourke's cellar, and, however long the passage, of a surety there will be as much provision as was ever to be found in wandering about these streets ere I fell in with you and Oliver. I pray you, therefore, assist me to reach