370 Narrative of some Events [Apri4, 
was shovelling oats, and my father went to the field to look at him. 
When he saw my father drawing near, he laid down his shovel, and, 
looking earnestly and sorrowfully at him, he said, “ Master, if you would 
promise me not to betray me, I would tell you something that might 
serve you and yours.” My father answered, “ You ought to know me 
well enough by this time, Martin, to be certain that I would not betray 
any one, much less you.”—“ But, master,” rejoined he, “ I’m sworn 
never to tell any one that won't take the same oath that I did to be true 
to the cause.”—“ You unfortunate man,” said my father, “I had rather 
see all belonging to me dead, and die myself with them, than prove 
false to the government that has sheltered me.” On this, Martin, with 
a heavy sigh, resumed his shovel, and continued his work. My father 
had but little time to think on this, for he was obliged to leave two cart- 
loads of oats at the mill of Moinart, to be ground into meal for the use 
of the family. Moinart is about two miles from Clevass, and Mr. 
Grimes, the miller, was a Protestant, and much respected in the county. 
As soon as my father cast his eyes on him, he saw that he too knew of 
something bad going on; yet he hardly exchanged a word with him 
but on business, for his heart, as he told us, was too full; and, leaving 
the oats to be ground, he turned back with the empty cars, anxious to 
rejoin us as soon as possible. When he had gone nearly half the road, 
he saw imperfectly (for it was now almost dusk) a great dust on the road 
before him, and heard a confused murmur of voices—a moment after he 
thought a body of troops were advancing, for he fancied he saw their 
bayonets ; but the next instant he was surrounded by a party of more 
than two hundred rebels, armed with pikes, who stopped him, and drag- 
ged him off the car he was sitting on. My father was no coward, as he 
fully shewed two days afterwards ; but he said, that, at that moment, 
the thoughts of all he had left at home rushed into his mind, his knees 
failed him, and if he had not clung to the head of his horse, he would 
have fallen to the earth. They asked all together who he was, and 
where he came from, and he was unable to answer; but one of them 
happening to know him, cried out, “Oh, let him go, that is Sam Bar- 
bour, of Clevass, he is an honest man ;” and they did set him at liberty. 
He came home, and, turning the horses over to Martin’s care, he 
walked in amongst us, and his face told us the ruin that was coming upon 
us, before we learned it from his words. 
We cared little for eating the supper we had prepared for him and 
ourselves ; and after hearing his story, we stepped to the door to listen 
whether any of the armed ruffians were coming towards us; we heard 
nothing, but we saw in the distance eleven distinct blazes, every one 
from its situation marking out to us where the house and the property 
of each friend and neighbour were consuming. In immediate expec- 
tation of a similar fate, we instantly began to load our cars with what- 
ever furniture and provisions were portable, that as early as possible the 
next day we might fly with them to Enniscorthy ; what we could not 
pack up we carried out to the fields, and concealed in.the ridges of 
standing corn ; and it was but little of it we ever saw again. 
We passed the whole night thus ; but the poor children, hungry and 
sleepy, lay down in the nearest corner, for we had placed the beds on 
the cars. On Whit-Sunday morning we set off for Enniscorthy, with 
heavy hearts, just about the same hour we thought to have gone to its 
church. My mother, yet weak, leaned on my father, I carried the 
