“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 agony, I clasped the boy to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more.... * * * * * “Linden had heard of my disgrace and misery; he had written to me, but he knew not where I was.... “I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St. Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare too; but I never saw Glenarvon.... “From my miserable Lodging, Cork, Thursday Night. “The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I have lost every thing. “Sunday.