Cruikshank's Water Colours

by William Harrison Ainsworth; Charles Dickens; W. H. Maxwell

THE MISER’S DAUGHTER

A Tale

By William Harrison Ainsworth

Author Of ‘The Tower Of London’

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‘The delineation of such characters as these I consider as very moral instruction to mankind, and a lesson more demonstrative of the perfect vanity of unused wealth, than has lately been presented to the public.’—Topham’s Life of Elwes.

Other and lighter portions of the Tale refer to the adventures of a young man on his first introduction to town life about the middle of the eighteenth century, when Ranelagh was in its zenith, and Vauxhall and Marylebone Gardens in vogue; when the Thames boasted its Folly; and when coffee-houses filled the place of clubs. The descriptions I believe to be tolerably accurate; and they are at all events carefully done, with the view of giving a correct idea of the manners, habits, and pursuits of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Temptations to pleasurable excess were no doubt sufficiently abundant then.

RANDULPH CREW—THE MISER’S DWELLING IN THE LITTLE SANCTUARY

In a large, crazy, old-fashioned house at the corner of the Little Sanctuary in Westminster, and facing the abbey, dwelt, in the year 1744, a person named Scarve. From his extraordinary penurious habits, he received the appellation of Starve, and was generally denominated by his neighbours ‘Miser Starve.’ Few, if any, of those who thus designated him, knew much about him, none of them being allowed to cross his threshold; but there was an air, even externally, about his dwelling, strongly indicative of his parsimonious character. Most of the windows in the upper stories, which, as is usual with habitations of that date, far overhung the lower, were boarded up; and those not thus closed were so covered with dust and dirt that it was impossible to discern any object through them. Many parts of the building were in a ruinous condition, and, where the dilapidations were not dangerous, were left in that state; but wherever some repairs were absolutely necessary to keep the structure together, they were made in the readiest and cheapest manner. The porch alone preserved its original character. It projected far beyond the door-way, and was ornamented with the arms of a former occupant of the habitation, carved in bold relief in oak, and supported by two mermaids sculptured in the same wood. All the lower windows were strongly grated, and darkened like the upper with long-accumulated dust. The door was kept constantly bolted and barred, even in the daytime; and the whole building had a dingy, dismal, and dungeon-like aspect.

RANDULPH CREW DELIVERING THE PACKET TO MR. SCARVE—THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER—-RANDULPH DELIVERS THE PACKET TO THE FORMER

Following his conductor along the passage, the boards of which, being totally destitute of carpet or cloth, sounded hollowly beneath their feet, Randulph Crew glanced at the bare walls, the dusty and cobweb-festooned ceiling, and the staircase, as devoid of covering as the passage, and could not but admit that the account given him by the barber of Mr. Scarve’s miserly habits was not exaggerated. Little time, however, was allowed him for reflection. Jacob marched quickly on, and pushing open a door on the right, ushered him into his master’s presence.

Mr. Scarve was an old man, and looked much older than he really was—being only sixty-five, whereas he appeared like eighty. His frame was pinched as if by self-denial, and preternaturally withered and shrivelled; and there was a thin, haggard, and almost hungry look about his face, extremely painful to contemplate. His features were strongly marked, and sharp, and his eye, grey, keen, and piercing. He was dressed in a thread-bare cloth robe, trimmed with sable, and wore a velvet nightcap, lined with cotton, on his head. The rest of his habiliments were darned and patched in an unseemly manner. Beside him was a small table, on which was laid a ragged and dirty cloth, covered with the remains of his scanty meal, which Randulph’s arrival had interrupted. Part of a stale loaf, a slice of cheese, and a little salt constituted the repast.

Everything in the room bespoke the avaricious character of its owner. The panelled walls were without hangings or decoration of any kind. The room itself, it was evident, had known better days and richer garniture. It was plain, but handsome in its character, and boasted a large and well-carved chimney-piece, and a window filled with stained glass displaying the armorial bearings of the former possessor of the house, though now patched in many places with paper, and stopped up in others with rags. This window was strongly grated, and the bars were secured in their turn by a large padlock, placed inside the room. Over the chimney-piece were placed a couple of large blue and white china bottles, with dried everlasting flowers stuck in the necks. There were only two chairs in the room and a stool. The best chair was appropriated by the miser himself. It was an old-fashioned affair, with great wooden arms, and a hard leathern back, polished like a well-blacked shoe by frequent use. A few coals, carefully piled into a little pyramid, burnt within the bars, as if to show the emptiness of the grate, and diffused a slight gleam, like a mocking laugh, but no sort of heat. Beside it sat Mrs. Clinton, an elderly maiden lady, almost as wintry-looking and pinched as her brother-in-law. This antiquated lady had a long thin neck and a skin as yellow as parchment; but the expression of her countenance, though rather sharp and frosty, was kindly. She wore a close-fitting gown of dark camlet, with short tight sleeves, that by no means concealed the angularities of her figure. Her hair, which was still dark as in her youth, was gathered up closely behind, and surmounted by the small muslin cap then in vogue.

The object, however, that chiefly riveted Randulph’s attention on his entrance was neither the miser himself nor his sister-in-law—it was his daughter. Her beauty was so extraordinary that it acted like a surprise upon him, occasioning a thrill of delight, mingled with a feeling of embarrassment. Rising as he entered the room, she gracefully, and with much natural dignity, returned his salutation, which, through inadvertence, he addressed almost exclusively to her. Hilda Scarve’s age might be guessed at nineteen. She was tall, exquisitely proportioned, with a pale clear complexion, set off by her rich raven tresses, which, totally unrestrained, showered down in a thick cloud over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and dark, luminous, but steady, and indicated firmness of character. Her look was grave and sedate, and there was great determination in her beautifully formed but closely compressed lips. Her aspect and deportment exhibited the most perfect self-command, and whatever effect might be produced upon her by the sudden entrance of the handsome visitor, not a glance was suffered to reveal it, while he, on the contrary, could not repress the admiration excited by her beauty. He was, however, speedily recalled to himself by the miser, who, rapping the table impatiently, exclaimed, in a querulous tone—

‘Your business, sir?—your business?’

‘I have come to deliver this to you, sir,’ replied Randulph, producing a small packet, and handing it to the miser. ‘I should tell you, sir,’ he added, in a voice of emotion, ‘that it was my father’s wish that this packet should be given to you a year after his death—but not before.’

‘And your father’s name,’ cried the miser, bending eagerly forward, and shading his eyes so as to enable him to see the young man more distinctly, ‘was—was——’

‘The same as my own, Randulph Crew,’ was the reply. ‘Gracious heaven!’ exclaimed the miser, falling back in his chair, ‘and is he dead?—my friend—my old friend!’ and he pressed his hand to his face, as if to hide his emotion.

Hilda bent anxiously over him, and tried to soothe him, but he pushed her gently away.

‘Having discharged my mission, I will now take my leave,’ said Randulph, after a slight pause, during which he looked on in silent astonishment. ‘I will call at some other time, Miss Scarve, to speak to your father respecting the packet.’

‘No, stay!’ cried Hilda hastily. ‘Some old and secret spring of affection has been touched. I entreat you to wait till he recovers. He will be better presently.’

‘He is better now,’ replied the miser, uncovering his face; ‘the fit is past; but it was sharp while it lasted. Randulph Crew,’ he added faintly, and stretching out his thin hand to him, ‘I am glad to see you. Years ago, I knew your father well. But unhappy circumstances separated us, and since then I have seen nothing of him. I fancied him alive, and well, and happy, and your sudden announcement of his death gave me a great shock. Your father was a good man, Randulph—a good man, and a kind one.’

‘He was, indeed, sir,’ rejoined the young man, in a broken voice, the tears starting to his eyes.

‘But somewhat careless in money matters, Randulph—thoughtless and extravagant,’ pursued the miser. ‘Nay, I mean nothing disrespectful to his memory,’ he added, seeing the young man’s colour heighten. ‘His faults were those of an over-generous nature. He was no man’s enemy but his own. He once had a fine property, but I fear he dissipated it.’

‘At all events, he greatly embarrassed it, sir,’ replied Randulph; ‘and I lament to say that the situation of his affairs preyed upon his spirits, and no doubt hastened his end.’

‘I feared it would be so,’ said the miser, shaking his head. ‘But the estates were entailed. They are yours now, and unembarrassed.’

‘They might have been so, sir,’ replied the young man; ‘but I have foregone the advantage I could have taken of my father’s creditors, and have placed the estates in their hands, and for their benefit.’

‘You don’t mean to say you have been guilty of such incredible folly, for I can call it nothing else?’ cried the miser in a sharp and angry tone, and starting to his feet. What! give the estates to the very men who ruined your father! Have you been rash and unadvised enough to break down the barriers the law had built around you for your protection, and let in the enemy into the very heart of the citadel? It is the height of folly—of madness!’

‘Folly or not, sir,’ returned the young man haughtily, ‘I do not repent the step I have taken. Mv first consideration was to preserve the memory of my father unblemished.’

‘Unblemished!—pshaw!’ cried the miser. ‘You would have cleared the spots from your father’s name much more effectually if you had kept fast hold of the estates, instead of reducing yourself to the condition of a beggar.’

‘Father!’ exclaimed Hilda uneasily—‘father, you speak too strongly—much too strongly.’

‘I am no beggar, sir,’ replied Randulph, with difficulty repressing his anger, ‘nor will I allow such a term to be applied to me by you or any man. Farewell, sir.’ And he would have left the room, if he had not been detained by the imploring looks of Hilda.

RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL—ST. JAMES’S PARK

Randulph and his two uncles sallied forth, and, crossing Westminster Bridge, shaped their course towards Saint James’s Park. As they passed the Little Sanctuary, Randulph could not help gazing towards the dungeon-like dwelling which enshrined her who had made so deep an impression upon him. Uncle Abel noticed his look, and partly divining the cause of it, said,

‘Remember what I told you. Disobey me, and you will rue it.’

Randulph would have made some reply, but he was checked by a significant glance from uncle Trussell.

Passing through the Gate House, they entered the park by a small doorway at the end of Prince’s Court. It was now noon, and a warm and genial day. The avenues of trees then extending between this point and Rosamond’s Pond were crowded with persons of both sexes, and of all ranks, summoned forth by the fineness of the weather.

Amused by the scene, Randulph gazed with much curiosity at all presented to his view. Passing by the Decoy, the party skirted the great canal, and leaving Rosamond’s Pond on the left, proceeded towards Buckingham House.

Just at this juncture, uncle Trussell caught sight of a gay party approaching, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, to his nephew, ‘As I live, we are most fortunate! There is the leader of fashion, Beau Villiers, coming towards us. You shall know him, nephew—you shall know him. The ladies he is walking with are Lady Brabazon and the Honourable Clementina Brabazon—a fine girl, Clementina—a remarkably fine girl; perfect in style and manners—quite a toast among the sparks. The old fellow at her side, Sir Singleton Spinke, was a great beau in his time, though never equal to Villiers, who far surpasses even his prototype, Beau Fielding, in style and taste. You shall know them all.’

‘And nice acquaintances you will make!’ remarked uncle Abel sneeringly.

‘Never mind him, Randulph,’ whispered uncle Trussell. ‘If you know this set, and they like you, you may know whom you please. Beau Villiers commands all society, from the highest down to—to———’

RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL—ST. JAMES’S PARK

‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft,’ replied uncle Abel.

‘Well, down to me, if you please,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, ‘and that shows it does not extend too low. But, Randulph, I beg you to look at the beau. Did you ever see a finer man?’

‘He is very handsome, certainly,’ replied Randulph, ‘and remarkably well dressed.’

‘He is a great coxcomb, a great rake, and a great gamester, Randulph,’ said uncle Abel; ‘beware of him.’

‘Tush, never mind what he says,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, who really wished to have the éclat of introducing his handsome nephew to the beau. ‘Come along!’

So saying, he took his nephew’s arm and hurried him forward. Pushing their way through the throng, they soon approached the sentry-box opposite Buckingham House, near which they encountered the party in question.

Beau Villiers, who was, indeed, a remarkably handsome man, and dressed in the extremity of the mode, wore an embossed velvet coat, embroidered with silver, with broad cuffs similarly ornamented; a white waistcoat of the richest silk, likewise heed with silver; and tawny velvet breeches, partly covered with pearl-coloured silk hose, drawn above the knee, and secured with silver garters. His dress was completed by shoes of black Spanish leather, fastened by large diamond buckles, and a superb Ramillies periwig of the lightest flaxen hair, which set off his brilliant complexion and fine eyes to admiration. He carried a three-cornered hat, fringed with feathers, and a clouded cane, mounted with a valuable pebble.

Near the beau walked Lady Brabazon, a gorgeous dame of about five-and-forty, and still possessed of great personal attractions, which she omitted no means of displaying. She wore a hoop, and a blue and silver satin sack. Struck by Randulph’s figure at a distance, she had pointed him out to the beau, who thereupon vouchsafed to look towards him.

Behind Lady Brabazon came her daughter, Clementina, a very pretty and very affected blonde of two-and-twenty, with an excessively delicate complexion, fair hair, summer blue eyes, and a very mincing gait. She was exquisitely dressed in the last new mode, with a small escalloped lace cap, her hair crisply curled at the sides, a triple row of pearls round her neck, and a diamond cross attached to the chain; and though she pretended to be interested in the discourse of the old knight, it was evident her regards were attracted by the handsome young stranger.

As to the old beau, he was, indeed, supremely ridiculous. He was attired in a richly embroidered cinnamon-coloured velvet coat, with fur cuffs of a preposterous size, each as large as a modern muff. His pantaloon legs were covered with pink silk hose; his wrinkled features were rouged and bepatched; and his wig was tied with a large bow, and had such an immense queue to it, that it looked as if a Patagonian dragon-fly had perched on the back of his neck. Lady Brabazon was attended by a little black page, in a turban and eastern dress, who had charge of her favourite lap-nile. Uncle Abel drew on one side to allow the introduction to take place, and to witness it, uncle Trussell stepped forward, and bowing obsequiously to Beau Villiers, pointed to Randulph, ‘Permit me,’ he said, ‘to introduce my nephew, Mr. Randulph Crew, to you, Mr. Villiers. He is fresh from the country. But even there, your reputation has reached him.’

‘I am happy to make his acquaintance,’ replied the beau, courteously returning Randulph’s bow, and eyeing him curiously at the same time. ‘On my faith, your ladyship,’ he added aloud to Lady Brabazon, ‘the young man is not amiss, but destroyed by his wretched equipments and rustic air.’

‘I really think something may be made of him,’ returned Lady Brabazon, in the same loud and confidential tone. ‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft, introduce your nephew.’

‘With the greatest pleasure, your ladyship,’ replied Trussell, obeying her behest.

‘Come with us,’ said Lady Brabazon to Randulph, after the ceremony had been gone through. ‘My daughter—Mr. Crew,’ she added, as they passed along. ‘By the bye, who was that strange old man I saw walking with you just now?’

‘Who?’ rejoined Randulph evasively, for he felt ashamed, he knew not why, of acknowledging his uncle.

‘There he is,’ said Lady Brabazon, pointing her fan backwards; ‘he is staring hard at us, and looks exactly like a—

‘It is my uncle Abel,’ replied Randulph, in some confusion. ‘Your uncle Abel!’ cried Lady Brabazon, with a scream of who stood on his right. ‘Then the sooner you get rid of uncle Abel the better.’

Abel could not hear the words, but he heard the laugh, saw the gesture, as well as his nephew’s confusion, and knew that he was the object of it. He turned away in the opposite direction, muttering to himself as he went, ‘So, he has taken the first step.’

SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE—THE PAYMENT OF THE MORTGAGE MONEY

Nearly an hour having elapsed, Mr. Scarve arose, and called to Jacob, who had retired to the cellar. The summons not being answered as expeditiously as he desired, he called again, and Jacob made his appearance brushing the moisture from his lips, and trying to swallow down a huge morsel that stuck in his throat.

‘You have been eating, rascal!’ cried the miser, ‘and drinking too! Faugh! how the knave smells of beer!’

‘If I have been eatin’ and drinkin’,’ said Jacob, clearing his throat by a violent effort, ‘it hasn’t been at your expense.’

‘Well, go and see what’s o’clock,’ said the miser, who did not appear particularly angry.

‘What’s o’clock!’ exclaimed Jacob, with surprise. ‘Why, I’ve lived with you these twenty years, and never was sent on such a message before. What do you want to know what’s o’clock for?’

‘What’s that to you, sirrah?’ rejoined the miser, with more anger in his words than in his tones or looks. ‘But I’ll tell you thus much, I never in my life wished a day to be passed so much as I do this.’

‘You excite my curiosity, father,’ said Hilda. ‘Why do you wish it passed?’

‘Because, if a certain sum of money is not paid to me before six o’clock, I shall be the possessor of one of the finest estates in Wales,’ replied the miser. ‘It must now be five; in another hour I shall be safe—safe, Hilda!—the mortgage will be foreclosed—the estate, mine! Mr. Diggs will be here at six. If I obtain this prize, Jacob, you shall drink my health in the glass of wine I put back in the bottle.’

‘Then it’ll be the first time I ever so drunk it,’ replied Jacob.

‘Take care it isn’t the last, you thankless varlet,’ rejoined the miser. ‘Don’t stand chattering there! Go and see what’s o’clock.’ As Jacob departed to obey his injunction, Mr. Scarve paced to and fro within the room, rubbing his hands and chuckling to himself. Five minutes nearly elapsed before Jacob returned; and when he did so, it was with a countenance of very peculiar significance. ‘Well, is it five?’ cried the miser.

‘No, it’s fourteen,’ replied Jacob.

‘Fourteen!’ exclaimed the miser. ‘What do you mean? You’re drunk, sirrah—drunk on the promise of a glass of wine.’

‘No, I’m not,’ replied Jacob. ‘I mean that there is a troop of fourteen horsemen at the door. There!—don’t you hear’em? They make noise enough, I should think.’

And as he spoke, a loud knocking, mixed with shouts and laughter, came sounding down the passage.

‘It is the mortgage money, father,’ said Hilda.

‘It is—damnation!’ cried the miser, stamping on the ground.

‘At first I took the troop for a gang of highwaymen,’ said Jacob, ‘when their leader, a fat, bloated old fellow, calls out to me, in an imperious tone, “Tell your master, the miser,” says he, “that Sir Bulkeley Price has brought him his money. He is not yet owner of an estate in Flintshire.” And then all his followers burst out a laughin’; and I don’t think they’ve done yet.’

‘Curses on them!’ cried the miser furiously, ‘and on him too! They shan’t enter my dwelling. I won’t receive the money. Send them away! Tell them I’m not at home, Jacob.’ ‘It won’t do, sir,’ replied Jacob; ‘they know you’re at home, for I told’em so. And as to refusing the money, why should you do that? They have brought it in great bags—bags of gold, of five hundred pounds each.’

‘Five hundred devils!’ cried the miser, foaming with rage. ‘What! bring such a sum as that in broad day! I shall be exposed to all my prying neighbours.’

‘That you will,’ rejoined Jacob; ‘they’re all at the windows looking on. There’s Mr. Deacle, the mercer, over the way, and his wife and daughter; and the inquisitive little barber next door; and the ironmonger’s wife and family at the Blackamoor’s Head; and the vintner’s at the Man-in-the-Moon, and——’

‘Hold your peace,’ cried the miser furiously, ‘or I’ll strangle you! I’ll not be insulted thus by any man! Fetch me my sword!’

‘Father!’ exclaimed Hilda, ‘why do you excite yourself thus? Sir Bulkeley Price has but done what was right; he has brought you back your money.’

SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE

‘What is it o’clock, Jacob?—did you ascertain that?’ cried the miser.

‘Not five, sir,—not five,’ replied Jacob.

‘Oh! perdition seize him! he is in time,’ cried the miser. ‘But I’ll be revenged. I’ll have his blood if I can’t have the estate. My sword, Jacob! What! you won’t move? Nay, then, I’ll fetch it myself.’ And opening a side door, he rushed up a small flight of steps leading to his bedroom.

‘Some mischief will happen, Jacob,’ cried Hilda, with a terrified look. ‘I never saw my father so agitated before. I’ll go forth myself, and entreat Sir Bulkeley to depart.’

‘Don’t expose yourself to the insults of his servants, miss,’ rejoined Jacob. ‘I did not tell master a quarter what they said of him.’ But despite his entreaties, and those of her aunt, who also endeavoured to detain her, she rushed forth, followed by Jacob.

On gaining the street, Hilda found Jacob’s statement perfectly correct. A troop of fourteen horsemen, with Sir Bulkeley Price at their head, were drawn up in front of the house. Most of them were well mounted, though a few of the number rode stout Welsh ponies. All had swords at their sides, and pistols in their holsters, as was needful from the amount of money they carried; every man having been provided with two bags, each containing five hundred pounds in gold, slung over his saddle-bow. A pile of these precious sacks lay at the door, and some of the men were now adding to the heap, while others were unslinging bags from their comrades’ saddles. The whole company were in high glee, and laughing loudly. The leader of the troop, Sir Bulkeley Price, was a stout portly gentleman, whose swollen, inflamed cheeks and mulberry nose showed he was by no means indifferent to the pleasures of the table. A claret-coloured velvet riding-coat, buttoned to the throat, displayed his full chest and rather commanding figure to advantage; while a well-powdered, full-bottomed periwig contrasted strongly with his rubicund and fiery visage. Hilda’s appearance created a great sensation among the lookers-on, and especially attracted the attention of the barber, who was chattering with Mr. Deacle about the occurrence, and of the fair Thomasine, who was leaning out of an upper window, just above her father’s sign of the Three Pigeons.

‘There’s Miss Scarve!’ cried Peter, calling to Thomasine.

‘I see her,’ replied the mercer’s daughter. ‘Poor thing, how I pity her—to be exposed to such insults! I long to fly to her assistance.’

‘Do, do!’ cried Peter. ‘I’ll fly with you.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Mr. Deacle; ‘you had better not interfere. Lord bless me! I wonder what it all means?’

Heedless of what was passing around her, for she heard her father’s furious voice in the passage, Hilda rushed toward Sir Bulkeley Price, and, in a tone of the most earnest entreaty, cried, ‘Oh, sir, I implore you to go away! My father is fearfully incensed—some mischief will happen!’

‘You are Mr. Scarve’s daughter, I presume?’ returned Sir Bulkeley, politely taking off his hat. ‘I should never have suspected him of owning aught so beautiful. But why should I go away, Miss Scarve? I am merely come to pay your father a sum of money which I borrowed from him.’

‘But it is the manner of paying it, sir,—the public manner—the exposure that incenses him,’ cried Hilda. ‘I would not for twice the amount, that this had happened.’

‘I daresay not,’ replied Sir Bulkeley; ‘but your father has forced me into the measure. My estate would have been forfeited if I had not repaid the money by six o’clock. It is as unpleasant to me as it can be to him; but I had no alternative.’

At this moment a loud angry cry was heard at the door, and the miser appeared, brandishing his drawn sword at it. His mad career was opposed by Jacob, whose wig was knocked off in his endeavours to push him backwards.

‘Villain!’ cried the miser, shaking his hand at Sir Bulkeley, ‘villain, you shall repent your insolence! Release me, Jacob! Let me get at him!’

‘No, you shan’t!’ replied Jacob, who had to exert all his strength, such was the miser’s fury, to keep him back.

Mr. Scarve’s vociferations of rage were now drowned by the hootings and jeers of the Welsh baronet’s attendants, who did all in their power to incense him further. Terrified by the cries, Hilda clasped her hands in agony, and again addressed herself to Sir Bulkeley.

‘As you are a gentleman, sir, I beseech you to withdraw,’ she said.

‘Such an appeal, and from such lips, is irresistible,’ replied Sir Bulkeley, again raising his hat.

‘He is no gentleman, Hilda!’ shrieked her father, who overheard what was said. ‘Come away, girl, I command you—leave him to me!’

‘Well crowed, old cock!’ cried one of the attendants, in mockery. And all laughed jeeringly, as before.

‘Hold your tongues, you saucy knaves!’ cried Jacob, fiercely regarding them; ‘or as soon as I’m at liberty, I’ll break some of your addle pates.’

‘For pity’s sake—go, go!’ cried Hilda to the baronet, ‘and take the money with you. Another time will do for payment.’

‘Pardon me, Miss Scarve,’ replied Sir Bulkeley; ‘another time will not do. I mustn’t jeopardise my estate. Mr. Scarve,’ he shouted to the miser, ‘here is your money—fourteen thousand pounds, in gold. Friends,’ he added, looking round at the crowd of spectators in the street, and at the windows, ‘I call you all to witness that this money is paid before six o’clock. I will take your word, Miss Scarve, for a receipt, and for the delivering up of the mortgage deeds.’

‘Take hence your money, villain!’ vociferated the miser, ‘I want none of it.’

This exclamation was followed by a roar of derisive laughter from the baronet’s attendants.

‘Silence them—oh! silence them, sir!’ cried Hilda imploringly.

Sir Bulkeley looked majestically round, and his attendants became instantly mute. At the same time, Jacob forced Mr. Scarve into the house; and Hilda, hastily expressing her thanks to the baronet, withdrew. In a few seconds, the whole of the bags of money were collected, and placed on the threshold. Sir Bulkeley would not, however, depart till Jacob returned, when he committed the heap to his custody.

‘What have you done with your master?’ he asked.

‘He has fainted, and his daughter is tending him,’ replied Jacob.

‘Well, take him that restorative,’ rejoined Sir Bulkeley, pointing to the money-bags; ‘it will speedily revive him.’

So saying, he rode off with his followers, amid the acclamation of the spectators. The same persons next began to hoot Jacob, and even seemed disposed to assail him; but being now provided with his crab-stick, he presented such a menacing and formidable appearance, that those nearest him slunk off.

HILDA’S VISIT TO ABEL BEECHCROFT

Hilda yielded at length to her aunt’s entreaties, and having put on her walking attire, quitted the house with Jacob. Instead of going over Westminster Bridge, they proceeded to Parliament Stairs, where Jacob said he had a friend a waterman, who would lend him a boat, in which they could cross the river. Nor did he assert more than the truth. On reaching the stairs, the first person he encountered was the friendly waterman in question, who, on learning his wishes, immediately ran down and got his skiff ready. Having placed Hilda within it, Jacob took off his coat, and plying the oars with as much skill as the best rower on the Thames could have done, speedily landed her at Lambeth, and secured the boat, where he inquired the way to Mr. Beechcroft’s house. A walk of a few seconds brought them to it. Hilda’s heart trembled as she knocked at the door; but she was reassured by the kindly aspect of Mr. Jukes, who answered the summons. She stated her errand to the butler, who appeared not a little surprised, and, indeed, confounded, at the announcement of her name. After a short debate with himself, Mr. Jukes said his master was at home, and she should see him; and, without more ado, he led the way to the library, and entered it, followed by the others.

Abel was seated beside an old-fashioned bookcase, the door of which was open, disclosing a collection of goodly tomes, and had placed the book-stand, supporting the volume he was reading, in such a position as to receive the full light of the window. So much was he engaged in his studies that he did not hear their approach. In the hasty glance cast by Hilda at the pictures on the wall, the most noticeable of which was a copy of Rembrandt’s ‘Good Samaritan,’ and a fine painting on the subject of ‘Timon of Athens,’ she thought she could read somewhat of the character of the owner of the house. Little time, however, was allowed her for reflection, for Mr. Jukes, advancing towards his master’s chair, leaned over it, and whispered a few words in his ear.

‘What!—who!—who did you say?’ exclaimed Abel, half-closing the book he was reading, and looking sharply and anxiously round. ‘Who did you say, Jukes?’

‘Miss Scarve, sir,’ replied the butler; ‘she has brought you a letter.’

‘Tell her I won’t receive it—won’t open it!’ cried Abel. ‘Why did you not send her away? What brings her here?’

‘You had better put that question to her yourself, sir,’ replied Mr. Jukes, ‘for she is in this room.’

‘Here!’ exclaimed Abel, starting to his feet. ‘Ah! I see—I see. O God! she is very like her mother.’

‘Calm yourself, I entreat, sir,’ said Mr. Jukes; ‘I would not have admitted her,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘but that she told me the letter was written by her mother, and left to be delivered to you under peculiar circumstances, which have now arisen. I couldn’t resist a plea like that—nor could you, sir, I’m sure.’

‘A letter written to me by her mother! cried Abel, shivering, as if smitten by an ague. ‘Leave us, Jukes, and take that man with you.’

‘Come, friend,’ said Mr. Jukes to Jacob, who, with his crab-stick under his arm, stood gazing curiously on, ‘you had better adjourn with me to the butler’s pantry.’

‘Thank’ee kindly, sir,’ replied Jacob, in tones a little less gruff than usual, for he was somewhat awestricken; ‘I would rather stay with my young missis.’

‘But don’t you see you’re in the way, my good man?’ rejoined Mr. Jukes impatiently; ‘they can’t talk before us. Come along.’ And despite his resistance, he pushed Jacob out of the room, and closed the door after him.

‘You have a letter for me, young lady, I believe,’ faltered Abel in a voice hollow and broken by emotion.

‘I have, sir,’ she replied, giving it to him.

Abel looked at the address, and another sharp convulsion passed over his frame. He, however, controlled himself by a powerful effort, and broke the seal. The perusal of the letter seemed to affect him deeply, for, staggering to his chair, he sank into it, and covering his face with his hands, wept aloud. It was some minutes before he arose. Hilda, who had watched him with much concern, was surprised to see how calm he looked. He had, indeed, regained the mastery he usually held over his feelings. ‘Pray be seated, young lady,’ he said, handing her a chair. ‘I would have shunned this interview if it had been in my power, but as it has been brought about, I will not shrink from it. How can I serve you?’

Hilda then proceeded to explain the object of her visit. Abel listened to her recital with a quivering lip and flashing eye, and at its close got up, and took a quick turn round the room.

‘This is only what might be expected from him—scoundrel!’ he ejaculated. ‘Sell his daughter!—but that is nothing—he would sell his soul for gold! I beg your pardon, young lady,’ he added, checking himself, as he saw the pain his exclamations occasioned her, ‘but if you knew the deep and irremediable injury inflicted on me by your father, you would pardon this outbreak of passion. He has sacrificed others without scruple, but he shall not sacrifice you. You may count on my assistance, my protection, if you choose to confide in me.’

‘I have my mother’s injunction to confide in you, sir,’ she replied.

‘Your mother!’ exclaimed Abel, in a voice of agony. ‘Oh, Hilda! what a fearful spell is there in that word!—what a host of feelings does it not summon up! I see your mother again as I remember her in her youth—beautiful as you are, more beautiful, if possible—certainly more blooming. I hear the music of her voice as I listen to yours; I feel again the charm inspired by her presence. You shall learn my history one of these days, and you will then know why your mother addressed this letter to me—why it affects me thus.’

‘I can partly guess the cause,’ returned Hilda mournfully; ‘but be it what it may, it is plain she felt she had a strong hold on your affections, and that she thought she could rely on you, when she could rely on no one else.’

‘If she thought so, she judged rightly,’ replied Abel. ‘I consider her request as a sacred injunction, and will strive to comply with it. And now,’ he added, changing his tone, ‘I must tell you that your name has been brought before me of late. My nephew, Randulph Crew, who visited your father the other night, has spoken of you.’ Hilda slightly coloured. ‘He will much regret not being at home this morning,’ pursued Abel, ‘as he might have had an opportunity of further cultivating his acquaintance with you. But he is gone out with my brother.’

‘I hope it will not offend you to say I am glad of it,’ replied Hilda; ‘I would not willingly have met him.’

‘Why so?’ asked Abel, who, however, looked somewhat relieved.

‘Because, sir, I will be frank with you,’ she replied, ‘and own that my father attributes my increased dislike of my cousin to a predilection for your nephew.’

‘And may I expect equal frankness in the reply, if I ask whether there is any truth in your father’s suppositions?’ rejoined Abel.

‘You may,’ she answered. ‘Your nephew appears a very amiable and pleasing young man, but having seen him only for a few minutes, I cannot possibly feel an interest in him beyond such as might be inspired by any stranger of equally prepossessing appearance and manners. My aversion to my cousin arises from various causes. I half suspect him of acting a very base part towards my father, who resolutely shuts his eyes to the deception.’

‘I will not affect to deny that I am pleased with what you say of your indifference to my nephew, Hilda,’ returned Abel, ‘because I have other views in reference to him. As to your cousin, Philip Frewin, I will make strict inquiries about him, and if your suspicions prove correct, I will myself unmask him to your father, which may perhaps put an end to the matter. He lives in Fen-church Street, you say. It so happens that an old friend of mine, a widow lady, Mrs. Verrai—a friend of your mother’s, by the bye—resides in that street. She is an excellent woman, but a little of a busy-body and a gossip, and makes it her business to know her neighbours’ concerns better than her own. I’ll venture to say she is acquainted with your cousin’s affairs. I haven’t seen the old lady of late, because, as you may perhaps have heard, I have little intercourse with your sex—my habits, and indeed feelings, unfitting me for their society—but I happen to know from my brother Trussell that she is well. You had better go to her yourself. I will give you a note of introduction—though, indeed, it is not needed, for, as I have told you, she is an old friend of your mother’s. In addition to gaining all the information you may require respecting your cousin, you will make a friend with whom you may take refuge, if matters—which we will not anticipate—should unhappily render such a step necessary.’

‘I will do as you suggest, sir,’ replied Hilda; ‘but suppose I should encounter my cousin?’

‘Tell him where you are going,’ replied Abel; ‘and depend upon it, if he is not what he represents himself, he will be the first to take the alarm. I will myself institute inquiries about him in another quarter.’ With this, he proceeded to a table on which writing materials were placed, and hastily penned a note, and gave it to Hilda. ‘And now, God bless you, my dear child!’ he said affectionately. ‘If called upon by circumstances, you shall never want a father or protector in me!’ He then rang the bell, and Mr. Jukes presently appeared, who informed him that Jacob had just sat down to dinner with the other servants.

‘I think, sir,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘it is the first good meal he has had for many a day, and it would be a pity to disturb him, if Miss Scarve is not in a very great hurry.’

Abel appealed to Hilda, and as she raised no objection, he proposed to her to take a turn in the garden till Jacob had finished his meal; and accordingly opened the window and led her forth. By this time Hilda had become more composed, and being quite easy with the old man, for whom indeed she felt a growing regard, she entered readily into conversation with him; and thus more than half an hour flew by, almost without their being aware of its flight. At the end of that time, Mr. Jukes made his appearance, and informed them that Jacob was ready. Abel attended his fair visitor to the door.

‘If you do not find Mrs. Verrai at home,’ he said, ‘or if anything should occur to make you wish to see me again, do not hesitate to come back. But, in any event, you shall hear from me—perhaps see me, to-morrow. God bless you, my child!’ And taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips; and when Hilda withdrew it, she found it wet with tears.

While this was passing, Jacob shook the hospitable butler warmly by the hand, and then strode on before his young mistress, towards the stairs where he had left the boat. Having placed her within it, and divested himself of his coat and hat, as before, he inquired where she meant to go, and being told to London Bridge, pulled off vigorously in that direction.

‘THE FOLLY’—A FLOATING TAVERN ON THE THAMES—KITTY CONWAY—RANDULPH PLACED IN AN AWKWARD SITUATION BY PHILIP FREWIN

The Folly on the Thames, whither Beau Villiers and his party were steering their course, was a large floating house of entertainment, moored in the centre of the stream, immediately opposite old Somerset House. It was constructed in the latter part of the reign of Charles the Second; and thither the merry monarch, who was excessively fond of aquatic amusements of all kinds, would frequently repair with his courtiers and frolic dames. Thither also Queen Mary, the consort of William the Third, went on the occasion of a grand musical entertainment; and the place continued in vogue for many years, until at length, degenerating in its character, it became the haunt of a very disreputable part of the community. The Folly resembled a large one-storied house, very long in proportion to its width, built upon an immense barge. There was a platform at the top, defended by a strong wooden balustrade, and flanked at each corner by a little turret with a pointed top, surmounted by a small streamer. These turrets constituted small drinking and smoking rooms, and were fitted up with seats and tables. In the centre of the structure was a sort of open belvidere, covering the main staircase leading to the roof. On this a large flag was planted. The Folly was approached from the water by steps on three sides. It was lighted by a range of large and handsome windows, and entered by two doors, one at the end, and the other at the side. Within, it contained a long music-hall with a frescoed ceiling, gilded and painted walls, an orchestra, and the necessary complement of benches, chairs, and small tables. There was, moreover, a bar, where all sorts of liquors, materials for smoking, and other tavern luxuries were dispensed. The rest of the structure was divided into a number of small apartments for private parties, and, in short, boasted every sort of accommodation afforded by a similar place of entertainment on shore. In summer it was delightful—the view of the Thames from its summit being enchanting. The coolness and freshness, combined with the enlivening influences of beauty, wine, and music, made it, on its first establishment, a charming place of recreation; and it cannot be wondered that the merry monarch, and his merrier court, found it so much to their taste.

As the party approached the aquatic hotel, they perceived a number of persons, of both sexes, seated on the roof, and in the little turret parlours, smoking, drinking, or otherwise amusing themselves; while lively strains of music proceeded from within. Several small craft were landing their passengers, and from one, a tilt boat, there issued a very pretty young woman, though of rather bold appearance, who, as she took the hand of a young man in her ascent of the steps, displayed a remarkably neat foot and ankle. On reaching the deck, she turned for a moment to survey the scene, and her eye alighting on Randulph, his good looks appeared to rivet her regards.

This fascinating creature seemed to be about twenty; had very regular features, auburn hair, a brilliant complexion—whether wholly unindebted to art might be questioned—but there could be no question as to the natural brilliancy of her hazel eyes; and wore a pink silk hooped gown, made very low in front, so as to display her beautifully formed and radiantly white neck and shoulders. Her sleeves were very short, probably so contrived with the view of exhibiting her rounded arms, and edged with lace. A white silk apron embroidered with silver, a pretty fly-cap, and a necklace of precious stones, from which depended a diamond cross, completed her attire. The young man, by whom she was attended, had a slight thin figure, and sharp, disagreeable features, with rather an apish expression. He was dressed with much smartness, but had by no means the air of a gentleman, and seemed to be regarded with indifference, almost amounting to contempt, by his female companion.

‘Who is that young lady?’ asked Randulph of Sir Singleton, who happened to sit next him.

‘Let me see!’ exclaimed the old beau, placing his glass to his eye. ‘Ah! gadzooks! ’tis the delicious creature I mentioned to you—the little Haymarket actress, Kitty Conway!’

‘Kitty Conway! where is she?’ cried Trussell, who heard the remark, but whose back was towards the object of their admiration.

Sir Singleton pointed her out, and upon the instant every eye was directed towards her. Whether unable to stand so fierce a fire, or whether, as is more probable, dragged away by her companion, who did not appear to relish the notice she attracted, it is needless to inquire, but pretty Kitty suddenly vanished from their sight.

‘Well, isn’t she delicious?’ cried Trussell to Randulph. ‘Egad! you have made a conquest of pretty Kitty, my boy. I saw the parting glance she gave you over her shoulder as she whisked through the door. Don’t lose sight of her. You can soon put the City beau, by whom she is attended, hors de combat.’

Further remarks were interrupted by the arrival of the boat at the steps. A strange black-muzzled fellow, in a Guernsey shirt, with bare arms and bare legs, and who was a regular attendant at the Folly, helped them to disembark; and his request to ‘be remembered’ by the beau being met with a very munificent rejoinder, he well-nigh lost his balance in his glee, and got a tumble into the water.

The party then entered the music-hall, and just as they passed through the door, Randulph, chancing to look behind him, perceived that the stranger had likewise landed, and was mounting the steps. The novel scene, however, before him, so completely engrossed his attention, that he could think of little else. Upwards of a hundred persons of both sexes thronged the room; many of the ladies were masked, and a good deal of freedom marked their conduct. They talked and laughed loudly and recklessly. At one end of the hall, the benches were taken aside to allow Kitty Conway and her companion, with some other couples, to perform the cushion dance. At the upper end of the room stood the musicians. The party made their way towards the dancers, and the beau and Sir Singleton praised Kitty’s beauty in tones so loud, and in terms of admiration so strong, as would have occasioned confusion to any young lady troubled with a more oppressive sense of bashfulness than she was. Her partner did not know whether to look pleased or annoyed. He was evidently overpowered by the presence of Beau Villiers, whom he regarded with a species of awe; and as these applauses of Kitty gave a fancied consequence to himself, he was weak enough to be gratified by them. Towards the close of the figure, a particular step, executed by the pretty actress, elicited more than usual rapture from Sir Singleton, and he called to Randulph—‘Look at her, Mr. Randulph Crew. Is it not delicious?’

At the sound of this name, Kitty’s partner started, and stared so hard at Randulph, that he could scarcely finish the dance.

‘Upon my word, Philip Frewin, you are a very stupid partner,’ said the actress to him. ‘If you do not exert yourself more, I shall ask that handsome young fellow, who is ogling me there, to take my hand in the next set.’

‘I am quite fatigued, Kitty,’ replied Philip confusedly; ‘let us have some refreshment—a little rack punch, or a glass of champagne.’

Kitty Conway assented, and they moved off to one of the side tables, where a waiter speedily placed glasses before them, and opened a bottle of champagne. It must be confessed—unwilling as we are to admit it—that Randulph was not altogether proof against the undisguised admiration of the pretty actress, and that he could not help returning the tender glances she shot towards him.

Meanwhile the performances went forward; an Irish jig followed, in which Randulph and Sir Singleton joined; this was succeeded by some comic songs; and Mr. Villiers, who did not altogether relish the entertainment, walked forth, and was soon after followed by the others. As they all stood leaning over the sides of the bark, laughing at what had occurred, and admiring the gaiety of the scene, a skiff, impelled by a vigorous rower, as was evident by the progress it made, and containing a young female, wrapped in a black silk scarf, and with raven tresses, scarcely covered by a small bonnet, floating in the breeze, rapidly neared them. Various speculations were put forth as to whether this young female would prove as pretty on a nearer inspection as she looked at a distance; but in these Randulph took little part. To speak truth, his thoughts were running upon the fair syren within, and happening to cast his eyes towards the platform above, he perceived, leaning over the balustrade, and gazing at him, the stranger!

At this juncture, Philip Frewin came forth, to see whether his boat was in readiness, and admonished the watermen, one of whom was philandering with a buxom damsel, who was leaning over the side of the deck, that he should start immediately. He had scarcely, however, issued the order, than his eye fell upon the skiff containing the young female before mentioned, and which was now close at hand. He started as if an apparition had met his gaze, ducked down, and would have made his escape into the music-hall, if Kitty Conway had not placed herself in his way. Retreat was now impossible, and Philip’s distress was heightened by the fair actress, who exclaimed, somewhat pettishly, ‘Why do you leave me here, sir? Why don’t you hand me to the boat?’

Philip was almost at his wits’ end. The skiff containing Hilda and Jacob—both of whom he had too clearly recognised, though he could not account for their appearance, unless it were a trick of the fiend to convict him—was so near, that if he complied with Kitty’s request, discovery would be inevitable. A plan suddenly occurred to him, by which he hoped to free himself from risk, and place Randulph, whom he had reason to regard as a rival, in an awkward dilemma. Without apprising Kitty of his intention, he drew her forward, and bending down as low as he could to elude observation, said to Randulph—‘Will you have the kindness, sir, to hand this lady into her boat? You will do me an infinite favour; I have dropped a pocket-book in the music-hall, and must go back to search for it.’

Randulph was a good deal surprised by the proposal, but he unhesitatingly consented; and, taking Kitty’s hand, which she very graciously accorded, rewarding his attention by a slight squeeze, led her down the steps. All this occurred to the infinite amusement of Trussell, who stood a little back near the door, ogling a rather pretty damsel, and to the no slight chagrin of Sir Singleton, who, guessing the intention of Philip Frewin, had pushed forward to offer his services, but found himself supplanted. But these were not the only witnesses of the scene. By this time, the skiff-, containing Hilda, had come up, and with a pang of jealous feeling, neither to be accounted for nor controlled, she beheld Randulph handing the pretty actress, whose character she could scarcely mistake, down the steps. Jacob saw what was passing as well as herself, but, having no jealousy to divert his attention from other matters, he detected Philip Frewin even in his disguise, and, resting on his oars, exclaimed, ‘Look! miss, look!—there is your cousin Philip. Is that the dress he wore yesterday? I told master he wasn’t what he seemed. Look at him, I say!’

But Hilda was too much agitated to heed these exclamations. She could see nothing but Randulph and the pretty actress. Nor was she without embarrassment on her own account; for Mr. Cripps, having recognised her, pointed her out to his master, and the beau, being much struck with her beauty, favoured her with a very insolent stare. But if Randulph had been guilty of disloyalty towards the object of his affections, his punishment was not long delayed; for, as he handed Kitty into the boat, which was steadied by the black-muzzled Jack before mentioned, his gaze encountered that of Hilda, and he was instantly filled with confusion. He tried to disengage himself from the actress, who, however, sportively detained him, and, unable to retreat, he cut a most ridiculous figure. Indeed, he was a little relieved, though he felt how much he should sink in her esteem, when he saw Hilda bend forward, and order Jacob, who continued resting on his oars, to pass on. He continued gazing after the skiff till it was out of sight; but Hilda did not look back.

Meanwhile, as Philip Frewin did not make his appearance, Kitty Conway became very impatient, and turning a deaf ear to all the high-flown compliments showered upon her by Sir Singleton Spinke, entreated Randulph to go and see what her friend was doing. The young man could not very well refuse compliance with the request, and he accordingly entered the music-hall, and returned in a few minutes with Philip, who, finding the coast clear, recovered his composure, and tendering his thanks, in a very abject manner, to Randulph, got into the boat with Kitty, and ordered the men to row to Savoy Stairs. Randulph was too angry with himself, and now too indifferent to the fascinations of the pretty actress, to return the tender glance with which she favoured him on her departure.

The incident, however, afforded abundant merriment to his companions, who were greatly diverted by his looks, which they attributed to jealousy, and they endeavoured to remove the feeling by assuring him that Kitty had exhibited a decided preference for him. His uneasiness was not relieved by the admiration expressed of the miser’s daughter by Beau Villiers, nor was Trussell altogether pleased to find the beau so much captivated. That Hilda should have passed at the precise juncture seemed to surprise everybody.

RANDULPH’S INTERVIEW WITH CARDWELL FIREBRAS IN THE CLOISTERS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Shortly after this, the party entered their boat and returned to Whitehall Stairs. Randulph had been so much engrossed by his own feelings, that he forgot the stranger, and only called him to mind a few minutes after he had landed, and when it was too late to look for him. He did not, however, forget his appointment with the writer of the mysterious letter, and, regardless of the construction that might be put upon it, told his uncle he had a particular engagement, which he must keep, at six o’clock. Trussell smiled significantly at the announcement, but made no remark, and proposed that they should all dine at one of the French ordinaries in Suffolk Street. Beau Villiers pleaded an engagement, but Sir Singleton acquiesced, and the trio repaired to the ordinary, where an excellent dinner was set before them.

Mindful of his appointment, Randulph, in spite of the jokes of his companions, who strove to detain him, got up from table at five o’clock, and took his way past Charing Cross and Whitehall towards the Abbey. He could not resist the impulse that prompted him to pass through the Little Sanctuary, and felt half-disposed to call at the miser’s and offer some explanation of his conduct to Hilda. Though the absurdity of the notion caused him to abandon it almost as soon as formed, he lingered before the house for a few minutes, in the hope of discerning some of its inmates, but was disappointed. He then entered Peter Pokerich’s shop, to inquire the way to the Abbey cloisters.

It chanced that the little barber was about to take an evening stroll with the fair Thomasine, who was waiting for him, and he offered to show Randulph the way; but this the young man, who had his own reasons for not desiring the attendance of the inquisitive barber, declined, though in such a way as to excite Peter’s curiosity, who secretly determined to follow him. As soon as Randulph was gone, he mentioned his design to the fair Thomasine, who was nothing loth to accompany him, and they set out together, taking special care to keep out of Randulph’s view. The young man shaped his course towards the Abbey, and, skirting its western extremity, passed under the archway leading to the playground of Westminster School. Here he paused, and, addressing a porter, was directed towards another archway, through which he passed, and entered the cloisters. On seeing this, Peter, still accompanied by his fair companion, ran forward, and finding that Randulph was walking in the south ambulatory, they struck into the west, being still able to watch him through the open columns.

Randulph, meanwhile, unconscious that he was the object of such scrutiny, slowly traversed the ambulatory, and, charmed with the exquisite groined arches of its roof, hoary with age, and the view afforded through the shafted windows looking into the quadrangle, of the reverend buttresses and of the Abbey, almost forgot the object that brought him thither. He was arrested at the eastern extremity by the ancient inscriptions and brasses, pointing out the resting-places of the old abbots, Laurentius Gislesbertus, and Vitalis, when a heavy footstep sounded on his ear, and looking up he beheld the stranger. Before he could recover his surprise at this unexpected apparition, the new-comer advanced towards him, and with a slight inclination of the head, and a singularly significant smile, said, ‘So you have kept your appointment with me, Mr. Randulph Crew.’

‘Are you, then, Mr. Cardwell Firebras?’ exclaimed Randulph in surprise.

‘I am so called,’ replied the other.

‘I was little aware, sir, when I saw you this morning at the barber’s, how soon and how strangely we should be brought together again,’ rejoined Randulph; ‘but this in some measure accounts for the manner in which you have haunted me throughout the day. Perhaps you will now explain your motive for doing so, as well as for summoning me hither.’

‘All in good time, young gentleman,’ replied Cardwell Fire-bras gravely. ‘Before I advert to my own concerns, let me say a word on yours. Answer me truly—have you not conceived an affection for Hilda Scarve? Nay, you need not answer. Your hesitation convinces me you have. Circumstances led you into acting very injudiciously this morning at the Folly, and I fear your conduct may have produced an unfavourable impression on Hilda’s mind,—for I watched her closely. But heed not this. I will set all to rights. I have much influence with her father. He designs her for another—the apish gallant of the pretty actress who fascinated you this morning. But you shall have her nevertheless,—on one condition.’

‘Despite the singularity of your address, there is an earnestness in your manner that inspires me with confidence in you, sir,’ rejoined Randulph; ‘the rather, that you told me this morning you were an old friend of my father’s. I will freely confess to you that I am captivated by the miser’s daughter, and that I would hazard much to obtain her. Now, on what condition do you propose to make her mine?’

‘You shall learn presently,’ replied Firebras evasively. ‘Let us take a turn along the cloisters,’ he added, moving slowly forward. They marched on together in silence until they reached the eastern angle of the ambulatory, when Firebras, suddenly halting, laid his heavy hand upon Randulph’s arm, and fixed a searching look upon him. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I will tell you what you must do to gain the miser’s daughter.’

‘What, what?’ demanded Randulph.

‘You must join the Jacobite party,’ replied Firebras; ‘to which her father belongs—to which your father belonged—and to which your mother also belongs.’

Surprise kept Randulph silent. But neither he nor his companion were aware that this treasonable proposition had been overheard by Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, who, having stolen upon them unperceived, were ensconced behind the shafts of the adjoining arches.

THE MISER DISCOVERING THE LOSS OF THE MORTGAGE MONEY

The miser, meanwhile, having obtained access to his chamber, threw his hat upon the bed, passed on, and unlocked the door of the closet. Marching up to the large chest in which he had deposited the bags of gold on the previous night, he sat down upon it, and was for some time lost in deep and painful reflection. He then rose, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, applied one of them to the lock of the chest. It would not turn; and imagining that he must have made some mistake, he drew it out and tried another. This, however, did not fit at all; and returning the first, he perceived, on examination, that it was the right one. Again applying it, and proceeding more carefully, he found, to his surprise and dismay, that the chest was not locked. Well knowing he had not left it in this state, he felt convinced that something must be wrong, and it was long before he could prevail upon himself to raise the lid.

When he did so, he started back with a cry of anguish and despair. The chest was empty! For some minutes he remained as if transfixed, with his hands stretched out, his mouth wide open, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, and fixed upon the void where his treasure should have been. At length he shrieked in accents of despair, ‘I have been robbed—robbed of my gold!—robbed—robbed! It is a wicked thing—a cruel thing to rob me! Others do not love gold as I love it. I love it better than wife, child, mistress,—better than life itself! Would that they had killed me, rather than take my gold! Oh! those fair shining pieces—so broad, so bright, so beautiful!—what has become of them?’

After a pause, during which he experienced the acutest mental anguish, he looked around to see how the robbery could have been effected. A moment’s examination showed him that the iron bars in front of the little window opposite the chest had been removed.

‘The villains must have found entrance here!’ he cried, rushing towards the window. And clambering up an old oaken bureau that stood near it, he pushed it wide open, and stretching his long, scraggy neck through it, gazed into the little garden beneath.

Unable to discover anything, he drew back, and casting his eyes over the bureau, perceived that the dust with which it was covered had been slightly brushed away; but whether by himself or the depredators, it was now, of course, impossible to determine.

A bottle standing on one corner of the bureau had not been removed. It was clear that the plunderers had gone direct to the chest, of which they must have possessed a key, for the lock, though strained, had not been forced. Maddened by these reflections, and unable to account for the occurrence, he again vented his fury in words. ‘I have it!’ he shrieked, ‘it is that accursed Welsh baronet who has robbed me. He paid me the money in this public way only to delude me. I’ll charge him with the robbery—I’ll prove it against him—I’ll hang him! Oh! it would delight me to hang him! I would give a thousand pounds to see it done! A thousand pounds! What is that to the fourteen thousand I have lost? I shall go mad, and it were happy for me to do so. Philip Frewin will refuse to marry my daughter. Her portion is gone—gone! Why was I tempted forth with Firebras? I ought to have taken my seat on that chest—to have eaten my meals upon it—to have slept upon it! Night nor day should I have quitted it! Fool that I have been!

I have been rightly served—rightly served! And yet it is hard upon me, an old man, to lose all I held dear—very hard!’ And falling upon his knees, with his hands clasped together, beside the vacant chest, he wept aloud.

This paroxysm of rage and grief having subsided, he again rose and descended to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Clinton anxiously waiting his reappearance. She instantly divined what had happened, and retreated before him as he advanced, almost fearing from his looks that he would do her a violence. Shaking his clenched hand, and foaming at the mouth, he attempted to discharge a volley of imprecations against her; but rage took away the power of speech, and he stood gesticulating and shaking before her—a frightful and pitiable spectacle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, sir, compose yourself,’ she cried, ‘or you will have a fit of some dangerous illness. You terrify me to death.’

‘I am glad of it,’ he shrieked. ‘I have been robbed—the mortgage money is gone—the fourteen thousand pounds. D’ye hear, woman? I’ve been robbed, I say—robbed!’

‘I feared as much,’ replied Mrs. Clinton; ‘but the robbery cannot have been long effected, for just before you knocked at the door, I heard a window creak, as I thought, in your room.’

‘You did!’ screamed the miser. ‘And why did you not tell me this before? I might have caught them—might have got back the spoil.’

‘If you hadn’t frightened me so much about Hilda, I should have told you,’ replied Mrs. Clinton, in a deprecatory tone; ‘but your violence put it out of my head.’

‘Hell and fiends!’ ejaculated the miser; ‘what is Hilda—what are fifty daughters, compared with my gold? If you had enabled me to recover it I would have forgiven you all the rest. Don’t stand trembling there, fool! but come with me, and let us see whether we can discover any traces of the robbers!’ So saying, he hurried towards a small back door in the passage, the bolts of which were so rusty that he had considerable difficulty in removing them; and this effected, he passed into the garden.

RANDULPH REFUSING TO DRINK ‘THE KING’S HEALTH OVER THE WATER’—A MEETING OF THE JACOBITE CLUB

In about a quarter of an hour the landlord entered the room, and, bowing to the company, said, ‘I believe, gentlemen, you are all assembled; the room upstairs is ready, if you are disposed to adjourn to it.’ The proposition being assented to, the landlord threw open the door, and a slight contest occurred between the two baronets as to which should offer the other precedence.

‘I præ, Sir Bulkeley,’ said Sir Norfolk; ‘I will scale the staircase after you.’

Thus exhorted, Sir Bulkeley, who thought it good breeding not to dispute a point of needless ceremony, went on. Sir Norfolk marched after him with majestic steps, and the rest of the party followed. The landlord ushered them into a large room, lighted by a chandelier suspended from the ceiling, in the centre of which was a circular table covered with bottles and glasses. Having hung up their hats against the wall, the company sat down, and a few bumpers went briskly round. While they were thus carousing, a tap was heard at the door, and the landlord, opening a reconnoitring hole within it, spoke to some one without. He next proceeded to convey the information he had received in a low tone, to Cardwell Firebras, who immediately said aloud, ‘Oh, yes, admit him by all means. Gentlemen, a new brother!’ The door was then opened, and Randulph recognised in the gaily attired, self-possessed coxcomb who was admitted, Mr. Crackenthorpe Cripps.

‘Take a glass of wine, Mr. Cripps,’ said Firebras, filling a bumper, and handing it to the new-comer. ‘It is Beau Villiers’s chief valet,’ he added, in an undertone, to Sir Norfolk, who had made a polite though formal bow to the stranger.

‘What!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk, almost shuddering at the inadvertence he had committed; ‘a waiting-man in such costly and nitid attire. Why, his master, the Pretonius Arbiter of the day, can scarcely be more studiously refined in the taste and style of the vestments wherewith he adorneth his person.’

‘Not a whit so,’ laughed Firebras; ‘the only difference between them is, that Beau Cripps wears in May the coat which Beau Villiers has worn in April.’

‘Mehercle!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk. ‘Such prodigality almost exceedeth belief.’

‘Landlord, it is time!’ cried Father Verselyn, who performed the part of chairman, and occupied the principal seat.

‘I am ready, your reverence,’ replied the landlord. And he forthwith proceeded to a cupboard, from which he produced a large china bowl, apparently filled with punch, and placed it with great care and solemnity in the centre of the table.

‘Why, it is water,’ exclaimed Randulph, gazing at the clear lymph, with which, on nearer inspection, he perceived the bowl was filled.

‘To be sure!’ cried Firebras; ‘and we are about to drink the king’s health—over the water. And now, gentlemen,’ he continued, filling Randulph’s glass and his own, ‘fill, I pray you, to the brim.’

‘I have filled, even to the summit of the vase,’ said Sir Norfolk, rising and holding up his glass.

‘And I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, likewise rising.

‘And I,’ added the landlord, who stood next to the last-named baronet, and was allowed to join in the ceremony.

‘And I—and I,’ chimed Mr. Travers and the valet.

‘Then give the word, my son,’ said Verselyn, addressing Firebras.

‘With the greatest pleasure, father,’ replied Cardwell. And he held his glass over the bowl, while his example was imitated by all the others except Randulph. ‘Here is the king’s health “over the water.” Why don’t you do as we do?’ he added, turning to Randulph.

‘Ay, stretch forth your arm over the scyphus, young gentleman,’ cried Sir Norfolk, pointing to the bowl.

‘You must drink the toast—it’s the rule of the club,’ added Sir Bulkeley.

‘It is a rule I cannot subscribe to,’ replied Randulph.

‘How!—am I mistaken in you, young man?’ said Firebras, regarding him menacingly.

‘Do as they bid you, or you’ll have your throat cut, ‘pon rep!’ whispered Mr. Cripps, popping his head over Firebras’s shoulder.

‘Will you drink the toast, or not?’ demanded Firebras fiercely.

‘I will not!’ replied Randulph firmly. ‘It is treasonable, and I refuse it.’

Randulph’s bold declaration had well-nigh cost him dear. Cries of ‘spy!’ ‘traitor!’ ‘Hanoverian!’ ‘down with him!’ resounded on all sides; the landlord rushed to the door, and placed his back against it, to prevent any attempt at egress in that way; while Sir Norfolk Salusbury, plucking his long blade from its sheath, and making it whistle over his head, kicked a chair that stood between him and the young man out of the way, and bade him, in a stern tone, defend himself. The confusion was increased by the vociferations of Mr. Cripps, and by an accident caused by Sir Bulkeley Price, who, in hurrying round the table, contrived to entangle himself in the cover, and dragging it off, precipitated the bottles and glasses to the ground, drenching the lower limbs of his brother baronet in the contents of the fractured bowl. The only two persons apparently unmoved in the midst of this uproar were its author and Cardwell Firebras. The latter made no hostile display, and did not even alter his position, but kept his eye steadily fixed upon Randulph, as if anxious to observe the effect of the incident upon him. The young man maintained his firmness throughout. He retreated a few steps towards the wall, and put himself in a posture of defence. The nearest of his antagonists was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; but seeing the others press forward, the chivalrous Welsh baronet declined commencing the attack.

‘Singulatim!—one at a time, Mr. Travers,’ he cried. ‘Ne Hercules contra duos. It shall never be said that any man, however unworthy of fair treatment, fought against odds in the presence of a descendant of Adam de Salzburg. Stand aside, therefore, sir—and you, Father Verselyn—and leave him to me, or I must relinquish the right of combat, which I have in some measure acquired, as being the first to claim it, to you.’

‘Let the young man swear to keep silence touching all he has seen and heard, or he shall not quit this room alive,’ rejoined Travers.

‘Trust him not—trust him not!’ cried Father Verselyn: ‘his oath will not bind him. Fall upon him altogether and slay him! That is the only way to ensure his silence and our safety. I will absolve you of his blood. The imminence of the danger justifies the deed.’

‘Proh pudor!’ cried Sir Norfolk sternly. ‘That would be trucidation dedecorous and ignave; neither can I stand by and see it done.’

‘Nor I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, who had by this time recovered from the embarrassment occasioned by the accident. ‘I disapprove of Father Verselyn’s counsel entirely. Let us hear what the young man has to say. I will question him.’

‘Haudquàquam, Sir Bulkeley,’ replied the other gravely, ‘I gave you precedence on a recent occasion, but I cannot do so on the present. I claim this young man as my own—to interrogate, to fight, and, perchance, to slay him.’

‘Fight him as much as you please, Sir Norfolk, and slay him if you think proper—or can,’ rejoined Sir Bulkeley angrily; ‘but you shall not prevent my speaking to him.’

‘Sir Bulkeley Price,’ returned Sir Norfolk, raising his crane neck to its utmost height, ‘I pray you not to interfere between me and Mr. Crew, otherwise——’

‘Well, Sir Norfolk, and what then?’ cried the other, his hot Welsh blood mounting to his cheeks, and empurpling them more deeply than usual. ‘What then, Sir Norfolk?’

‘I shall be compelled to make you render me reason for it,’ replied the other sternly.

Cardwell Firebras now thought it time to interfere. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, advancing towards them, ‘we have plenty of other quarrels to settle without disputing among ourselves. I brought Mr. Randulph Crew here, and will be responsible for his silence.’

‘What saith the young man?’ demanded Sir Norfolk. ‘If he will oppignerate his word for taciturnity, I will take it.’

‘So will I,’ added Sir Bulkeley.

‘I thank you for your good opinion of me, gentlemen,’ returned Randulph. ‘I have been, almost unwittingly, a party to your counsels, and ought perhaps to have declared my sentiments sooner; but I hoped the meeting would pass off without rendering any such avowal necessary, in which case, though I certainly should never have joined your club again, the secret of its existence would have rested in my own bosom—as it will now, if I am suffered to depart. I could not avoid expressing my disapproval of a toast which, in common with every loyal subject of King George the Second, I hold to be treasonable.’

‘You cannot be the subject of a usurper, young man,’ said Firebras. ‘Your allegiance to King James the Third is unalienable.’

‘Compel him to avow allegiance to his rightful sovereign, Mr. Firebras,’ interposed Father Verselyn.

‘I will sooner lay down my life than comply,’ cried Randulph resolutely.

Firebras looked slightly disconcerted; and Sir Norfolk, who had lowered the point of his sword, again raised it.

‘It is vain to reason with him, my son,’ whispered Verselyn. ‘Our safety demands his destruction. If he goes hence we are denounced; and an irreparable injury will be done to the good cause.’

‘I have promised him safe conduct, father,’ rejoined Firebras; ‘and, at all risks, I will keep my word. Mr. Randulph Crew, you are at liberty to depart. You give up all hopes of the miser’s daughter?’ he added, in a deep whisper.

‘I must, if she is only to be purchased in this way,’ replied Randulph, in the same tone.

‘Take time to consider of it,’ rejoined Firebras. ‘I will find means of communicating with you to-morrow. Landlord, attend Mr. Crew to the door.’

‘You are wrong in letting him go,’ cried Verselyn. ‘You will repent this blind confidence. Sir Norfolk, I entreat you to interfere—Sir Bulkeley, I appeal to you.’ But they both turned from him, and sheathed their swords; while the landlord, having received a sign from Firebras, obeyed his instructions.

As soon as Randulph was gone, Firebras addressed himself to the two baronets: ‘I hope no unkindly feeling—none, at least, that cannot easily be set to rights—subsists between you, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘I shall never quarrel with my good friend, Sir Norfolk, except about a matter of punctilio,’ replied Sir Bulkeley, who was as easily appeased as roused to anger.

‘And I ought never to quarrel with one who knows how to make so handsome a concession as Sir Bulkeley Price,’ replied Sir Norfolk, with a gracious bow.

‘Then the storm has blown over,’ laughed Firebras. ‘I feared this more than the other.’

A long discussion then took place among the members of the club as to Randulph’s introduction to it, and Firebras was severely censured by Father Verselyn for admitting the young man without testing his political principles.

‘I do not repent what I have done, father,’ returned Firebras, ‘because I am satisfied no harm will come of it; and it was an attempt to gain a very useful ally to our cause. He is a brave lad, as his firmness during this affair proved, and it would be a great point to win him over. Nor do I yet despair of doing so.’

‘I hope we have seen the last of him,’ muttered Father Verselyn; ‘and I beg it may be borne in mind that it was against my advice that he was suffered to depart.’

Cardwell Firebras darted an angry look at the priest, but he made no reply; and the cloth having been replaced by the landlord and Mr. Cripps, the former proceeded to fetch a fresh supply of flasks and glasses; after which the company once more gathered round the table, and began to discuss anew their projects.

THE JACOBITE CLUB PURSUED BY THE GUARDS—THE JACOBITE CLUB SURPRISED BY THE GUARD—THE FLIGHT—AND PURSUIT—MR. CRIPPS’s TREACHERY

Midnight arrived, and found the party still in deep debate. Suddenly, a quick and continuous knocking was heard at the door. All instantly started to their feet, gazing at each other in alarm.

‘We are betrayed,’ said Firebras, in a deep whisper.

‘We are,’ replied Father Verselyn; ‘and by the spy you introduced among us.’

‘It is false!’ cried Firebras angrily. ‘But this is no time for dispute. We must provide for our safety. Who is it, landlord?’ he cried to the host, who, on the first alarm, had rushed to the door, and opened the reconnoitring hole within it.

‘O lud! we’re all lost!’ rejoined the landlord, closing the trap-door, and returning to them with scared looks and on tiptoe, as if afraid’ of the sound of his own footsteps.

‘Who is it?—what is it?’ demanded Firebras.

‘A dozen grenadier guards, headed by their captain and lieutenant, come to search the house,’ replied the landlord. ‘They’re mounting the stairs now.’

‘Zounds!’ exclaimed Sir Bulkeley, ‘this is awkward!’

‘There is nothing to fear,’ said Firebras calmly. ‘We have plenty of time for flight.’

‘Yes, you can fly, gentlemen, but I am ruined,’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘I can never return to my own dwelling!’

‘Pshaw! you shall never be the worse for it,’ replied Firebras.

‘But what will become of me, if I am taken?’ cried Mr. Cripps, feigning a look of despair. ‘I am sure to be the worse for it.’

‘Silence!’ cried Firebras authoritatively. ‘Don’t you hear them?—they are at the door. Be quick, gentlemen. Not a moment is to be lost.’

While this was passing, Father Verselyn hurried to the lower end of the room, and, mounting a ladder placed against the wall, passed through a trap-door in the ceiling above it. The landlord, Mr. Cripps, and Mr. Travers next ascended; then Sir Bulkeley followed; then Sir Norfolk, whose equanimity not even the present danger could disturb; while Firebras brought up the rear.

‘’Sdeath, Sir Norfolk!’ cried the latter, as the baronet slowly scaled the steps before him—‘move on a little more quickly, or we shall certainly be captured. They’re breaking open the door. Don’t you hear them?’

‘Perfecté,’ replied Sir Norfolk coolly. But he did not on that account accelerate his movements.

Knowing it was in vain to remonstrate, Cardwell Firebras waited till Sir Norfolk had worked his long frame through the trap-door, which he did with the utmost deliberation, and then ran up the steps himself, with much more activity than might have been expected from a person so weighty. Just as he was quitting the ladder, the door was burst open with a tremendous crash, and two officers of the guard rushed into the room, sword in hand, followed by a dozen grenadiers armed with muskets, on which bayonets were fixed. Firebras’s first object, on securing a footing on the floor of the garret above, was to try to draw up the ladder, and he was assisted in the endeavour by Sir Norfolk; but their design was frustrated by the foremost officer and a tall grenadier bearing a halberd, both of whom sprang upon the ladder, and kept it down by their joint weight, and all that those above could do was to shut down the trap-door, before it could be reached by their foes. A dormer window opened from the garret upon the roof of the house; but an unexpected difficulty had been experienced by the first detachment of fugitives in unfastening it. All ought to have been in readiness for an emergency like the present, and Sir Bulkeley and Mr. Travers bitterly reproached the landlord for his negligence. The poor fellow declared that the mischance was not his fault—that he had taken every possible precaution—and, in fact, had examined the window that very morning, and found it all right.

At length it was forced back, and all but Sir Norfolk and Firebras got through it. They were detained by the necessity that existed of guarding the trap-door. Unfortunately, there was no bolt on the upper side of it, so that they had to stand upon it to keep it down, and this plan being discovered by the officer below, he ordered two of his men to thrust their bayonets through the boards, while the tall grenadier tried to prize open the door with his halberd. The manoeuvre compelled Firebras and Salus-bury slightly to alter their position, to avoid being wounded by the bayonets, and in doing so, they necessarily gave admittance to the point of the halberd. The efforts of the assailing party were redoubled, and the trap slightly yielded.

‘Lose not a moment! fly, Sir Norfolk!’ cried Firebras, apprehensive lest the baronet’s deliberation, which he well knew nothing could shake, should prevent his escape.

But true to his principles, Sir Norfolk would not move an inch.

‘I cannot leave you in angusto,’ he said.

‘But I am the stronger of the two, as well as the more active,’ rejoined Firebras. ‘My weight will suffice to keep down the trap-door till you have got through the window, and then I can make good my retreat. Fly! fly!’

But Sir Norfolk continued immovable. ‘I shall be the last to quit this place,’ he said, in a tone of unalterable determination. ‘But do not, I pray you, tarry with me. The trifurciferous myrmidons of the Hanoverian usurper shall never take me with life.’

‘I must leave the punctilious old fool to his fate,’ muttered Firebras, observing that the greater part of the head of the halberd was forced through the side of the trap. ‘God protect you, Sir Norfolk,’ he cried, rushing to the window.

The brave old Welsh baronet essayed to hew off the head of the halberd from the staff—but in vain; and finding that the enemy must gain admittance in another moment, and that Firebras had cleared the window, he turned away and strode majestically towards it. His retreat was so suddenly made, that the grenadier who held the pike, and was prizing with all his force, lost his balance, and tumbled off the ladder, causing such confusion among his comrades, that Sir Norfolk had time to get through the window unmolested.

It was a beautfully bright night—the moon being at the full, and the sky filled with fleecy clouds. On the left lay ridges of pointed-roofed houses, covered with the warm-looking and mellow-tinted tile, so preferable to the cold blue slate—broken with stacks of chimneys of every size and form—dormer windows, gables, overhanging storeys and other picturesque and fantastic projections; and the view being terminated, at some quarter of a mile’s distance, by the tall towers and part of the roof of Westminster Abbey.

Viewed thus, the whole picture looked exquisitely tranquil and beautiful. The fires in the houses were almost all extinguished, and little or no smoke issued from the chimneys to pollute the clear atmosphere. Above the venerable and majestic fane hung the queen of night, flooding its towers—seen at such an hour to the greatest advantage—with silvery light, and throwing some of the nearer buildings and projections into deep shadow, and so adding to the beauty of the scene. On the right, the view extended over other house-tops to the gardens and fields of Pimlico. Behind was Saint James’s Park, with its stately avenues of trees, its long canal, and Rosamond’s Pond glimmering in the moonlight; while in front lay the New Artillery Ground, and the open and marshy grounds constituting Totnill Fields. But it will be readily imagined that neither Firebras nor his companions looked to the right or to the left. They were only conscious of the danger by which they were menaced, and were further discouraged by Father Verselyn, who at that moment scrambled over the roof they were about to cross, to inform them that the door by which they hoped to escape could not be got open.

‘Everything seems to have gone wrong! cried Verselyn in an ecstasy of terror. ‘What will become of us?’

‘Jacta est alea,’ replied Sir Norfolk composedly. ‘We must fight for it, father.’

‘Heaven and all its saints protect us,’ cried the priest, crossing himself.

‘Be composed, father,’ rejoined Firebras sternly. ‘You ought to be equal to any circumstances in which you may be placed.

The latter exclamation was occasioned by a joyous shout, announcing that their friends had succeeded in opening the door; and the next moment the good news was confirmed by Sir Bulkeley Price, who clambered over the roof to acquaint them with it. On hearing this the party instantly beat a retreat; and their flight was accelerated by the officer and the tall grenadier, who at that moment sprung out of the window. Even Sir Norfolk was urged to a little more expedition than usual; and two or three of his mighty strides brought him to the top of the roof. Cardwell Firebras would not have been much behind him, if Father Verselyn had not caught hold of his coat-tails to help himself up the ascent, which he felt wholly unable to accomplish without assistance. By this time the officer was well-nigh upon them; and, finding his summons to surrender wholly disregarded, he made a pass at the priest, which took effect in the fleshy part of his leg, restoring him at once to more than his former agility. Uttering a loud yell, and clapping his hand to the wounded limb to stanch the blood, Father Verselyn bounded over the roof, and made to the door through which the landlord and Mr. Travers had already disappeared, and through which Mr. Cripps was now darting. Between the two roofs lay a small flat space, used by its former proprietor as a place for drying clothes, as was evident from the four tall posts at the corners.

Here Firebras and Sir Norfolk came to a stand, resolved to dispute the passage with their pursuers. Sword in hand, and calling to them to surrender, the foremost officer dashed down the roof; but his precipitation placed him at the mercy of Fire-bras; for his foot slipping, the latter struck his sword from his grasp. Sir Norfolk, in the interim, had encountered another foeman with equal success. This was the tall grenadier, who, as he descended, made a thrust at the baronet with his halberd, which the latter very adroitly parried, and, lunging in return, disabled his adversary by a wound in the arm. At the same moment, too, the tiles gave way under the weight of the grenadier, and he sank above the knees in the roof. Other foes were now at hand. The second officer, carrying a lantern in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, appeared on the roof; while the tall caps and bayonets of the rest of the grenadiers were seen above it. Though Sir Norfolk, whose blood was up, would have willingly awaited the advance of these new opponents, he yielded to the entreaties of Firebras, and followed him through the door, which was instantly secured behind them by a couple of strong bolts.

The house in which the Jacobites had taken refuge was expressly hired by them for an occasion like the present, and kept wholly uninhabited. The mode of communication between it and the Rose and Crown will, it is hoped, be sufficiently understood from the foregoing description. That so many unforeseen accidents should have occurred at a time when, if ever, things ought to have been in readiness, almost drove the poor landlord distracted; but if he could have watched Mr. Cripps’s manoeuvres, he would have speedily found out the cause of the delays. In the first instance, a penknife, dexterously slipped by the valet into the groove of the window, prevented it from moving, and had well-nigh, as has been seen, occasioned the capture of the fugitives. This difficulty having been overcome by the strenuous efforts of Sir Bulkeley and Mr. Travers, Mr. Cripps was the first to scramble through the window.

‘Which way?’ he cried to the landlord, who was following.

‘Over the roof, and to the door opposite,’ was the reply.

Nimbly as a cat the agile valet bounded over the roof, and instantly perceiving the door, made towards it. A key was in the lock; he turned it, took it out, and dropped it into the street below. He then began to shake the door violently, and shouted to the landlord, who at that moment came in sight.

‘Unlock it—unlock it!’ cried the host.

‘I can’t,’ cried Mr. Cripps; ‘there is no key. ‘Pon rep! we shall be all taken.’

‘No key!’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘Impossible! I saw it there this morning myself. It must have dropped down. Look about for it.’

Mr. Cripps feigned compliance, and the landlord coming up, poured forth a torrent of imprecations on finding his statement correct. Father Verselyn, as has been related, crept back to Firebras, while the others used their efforts to open the door. Nor were they long in effecting their purpose. Finding all other attempts fail, the landlord stepped back on the leads, and running to give additional impetus to the blow, dashed his foot against the door, and the lock yielded with a loud crash.

MR. CRIPPS ENCOUNTERING HIS MASTER IN MARYLEBONE GARDENS

Marylebone Gardens, it is well known, lay on the eastern side of the upper end of the lane bearing the same name—the whole of the country beyond Harley Street, which was not more than a third of its present extent, being open fields. They were of considerable size, and were originally laid out and planted at the beginning of the last century, at which time the public were gratuitously admitted to them. In one part of the grounds there was an excellent bowling-green, which drew many lovers of that most agreeable recreation to it. By degrees the gardens, being very conveniently situated, rose in repute; and in 1737, their proprietor, Mr. Gough, began to demand a shilling for admittance—this sum entitling the visitor to its value in refreshments. But still further improvements were effected. Orchestras, boxes, and a theatre for musical entertainments were erected within them. Besides the main walks, semicircular rows of trees were planted, and hedges contrived so as to form pleasing labyrinths for those who preferred privacy. Bowers and alcoves were built in different places; lamps were fastened to the trees, and at night, on the occasion of a fête, every part of the garden was illuminated with myriads of lamps of various colours. The company began to improve, and the price of admission was raised to five shillings. Fêtes of every kind were held here; and the place continued in vogue until nearly the end of the century with which its rise commenced. Malcolm mentions that a few trees, once forming part of Marylebone Gardens, were standing at the north end of Harley Street in 1808. But we fear not even a stump of one of them is now left. Carriages, coaches, and chairs were setting down their occupants at the entrance to the gardens as Mr. Cripps and his companion drew near. Never had Mrs. Nettle-ship seen a gayer throng—the dresses she thought magnificent. There was Lady Ancaster, whom Mr. Cripps pointed out to her, in a brocaded lutestring sack, with ruby-coloured ground and white tobine stripes trimmed with floss—the Countess of Pomfret, in a black satin sack flowered with red and white—Lady Almeria Vane, in a scarlet unwatered tabby sack—Lady Ilchester, in a white tissue flowered sack. All these ladies wore hoops; but none of them, Mr. Cripps assured his companion, managed this equipment with half so much grace as herself.

Throughout this stage of the business, Mr. Cripps had some difficulty in playing his part, and it required all his effrontery to enable him to go through with it. Having affirmed to his companion that he was an intimate acquaintance of all the ladies of rank he encountered, and in the habit of attending their routs and parties, he was under the necessity of sustaining the character, and kept constantly bowing and kissing his hand to them. In most cases he succeeded; for the ladies he addressed, deceived by his showy attire, which seemed to mark him as somebody, returned his salutations. Mrs. Nettleship was enchanted. To be attended by so fashionable a person, who knew all the beau monde, was supreme felicity. She would have given the world to be introduced to some of the fashionable ladies, and intimated as much to her companion; but he was too shrewd to attend to the suggestion, contenting himself with saying, with a very impassioned look, ‘I hope, my angel, that one of these days I shall have the honour of introducing you to my fair friends under another name.‘Twould make me the happiest of men—‘pon rep!’

‘Odd’s bodikins! Mr. Willars, how you do confuse me!’ exclaimed the lady, spreading her large fan before her face.

By this time they had gained the principal avenue leading towards the orchestra, and at each step he took, Mr. Cripps kissed his hand to some elegantly dressed person.

‘There’s my friend Lord Effingham, and his countess,’ he said; ‘glad to see you, my lord. That’s the pretty Mrs. Rackham—a bride, sweetheart, a bride,’ with tender emphasis—‘that’s the rich Mrs. Draper—I daren’t look at her, for she’s determined to have me, whether I will or no, and I can’t make up my mind to it, though she’s promised to settle sixty thousand pounds upon me, and to die in six months.’

‘La! Mr. Willars, you wouldn’t sell yourself to such an ojus creature as that!’ cried Mrs. Nettleship—‘why, she’s a perfect fright, and so dressed!’

‘Precisely what you describe her, ‘pon rep!’ replied Mr. Cripps. ‘But do listen to the music. Isn’t it inspiring?’ And they paused for a moment to listen to the lively strains proceeding from the orchestra, which was placed at one end of a large building facing the principal walk. By this time the company had almost entirely assembled. The main walk was completely thronged, and presented the appearance of the Mall at high tide, while all the boxes and alcoves were filled with persons discussing bowls of punch, plates of ham, chickens, salads, and other good things. The band in the orchestra was excellent, and the lively airs and symphonies added to the excitement and spirit of the scene. Mr. Cripps created a great sensation. Many persons thought they had seen him before, but no one could tell who he was. Meanwhile, the object of this attention continued to dispense his bows and smiles, flourished his clouded cane, tapped his magnificent snuff-box, and after astonishing all the beholders with his coxcombry, glided off with his companion into one of the side walks. He had scarcely disappeared, when Lady Brabazon and her party entered the main walk. Her ladyship led her little spaniel by its string, and was attended on one side by the beau, and on the other by Trussell. Behind them walked Clementina, who had contrived to allure Randulph from her mother, and to attach him to her, while on the young man’s left walked Sir Singleton Spinke. Everybody whom Mr. Villiers encountered told him of the prodigious beau who had just been seen on the walk—Lord Effingham, Major Burrowes, Lord Dyneover, Sir John Fagg—all described him.

‘Who the devil is he?’ cried Villiers.

‘Haven’t the least idea,’ replied Sir John Fagg. ‘But I’ll speak to him, if I meet him again. He’s your very double, Villiers. I’ll swear he has employed Desmartins to make him a suit precisely like your own.’

‘Has he?’ cried the beau indignantly—‘Then I’ll never employ a rascally Frenchman again! and what is more, I won’t pay him his bill.’ The same thing was told him by twenty other persons, and the beau looked anxiously round for his personator, but was for some time unable to discern him.

Meanwhile, Mr. Cripps had sought this secluded walk to give him an opportunity of making a declaration to the widow, and though he was not positively accepted he was not decidedly refused,—the lady only asking time to consider over the proposal. The audacious valet was on his knees, and rapturously kissing her hand, vowing he would never rise till he received a favourable answer to his suit, when two persons were seen approaching, whom, to his infinite mortification and surprise, he recognised as Abel Beechcroft and his uncle, Mr. Jukes.

‘We are interrupted, my charmer!’ he cried, getting up, with a countenance of angry dismay. ‘Let us return to the public promenade. You won’t refuse me? I shall kill myself, ‘pon rep, if you do.’

‘I’ll think of it, Mr. Willars,’ said Mrs. Nettleship, twirling her fan. ‘But it would be a dreadful thing if I was to break my engagement to Mr. Rathbone!’

‘Oh! curse Mr. Rathbone! I’ll cut his throat!’ cried Mr. Cripps, glancing anxiously down the walk. But unfortunately there was no outlet at the lower end, and he was compelled to turn and face the intruders. He looked also to the right and left, but on neither side was there an alcove into which he could retreat. Nothing was left for it but impudence, and luckily for him, this quality seldom deserted him at a pinch. Putting on his boldest manner, he strutted gaily, and with affected nonchalance, towards Abel and his uncle, who, as he advanced, stepped a little aside to look at him.

‘Why, as I live!’ cried Abel, ‘that’s Mr. Villiers’s valet—your nephew, Jukes.’

‘Lord save us! so it is,’ cried Mr. Jukes, lifting up his hands in astonishment. ‘Why, Crackenthorpe, what are you doing here—and in your master’s clothes?’

‘Truce to your jests, old fellow,’ said Mr. Cripps, waving him off, ‘and let me pass.’

‘What! disown your uncle!’ cried Mr. Jukes angrily, ‘and in the presence of his worthy master! The rascal would deny his own father. Pay me the ten crowns you borrowed yesterday.’

‘La! Mr. Willars, what’s the meaning of all this?’ asked Mrs. Nettleship.

‘Pon my soul, my angel, I don’t know, unless the old hunks has been drinking,’ replied Mr. Cripps. ‘The ‘rack punch has evidently got into his head, and made him mistake one person for another.’

‘’Rack punch!’ cried Mr. Jukes furiously. ‘I haven’t tasted a drop! You call him Mr. Willars, ma’am,’ he added to Mrs. Nettleship. ‘He’s deceiving you, ma’am. He’s not Mr. Willars—he’s Mr. Willars’s gentleman—his valet.’

‘A truce to this folly, you superannuated old dolt!’ cried Mr. Cripps, raising his cane, ‘or I’ll chastise you.’

‘Chastise me!’ exclaimed the butler angrily. ‘Touch me, if you dare, rascal; Crackenthorpe, Crackenthorpe—you’ll certainly be hanged.’

‘Let him alone, Jukes,’ interposed Abel. ‘He’ll meet his master at the corner of the walk, and I should like to see how he’ll carry it off.’

Taking advantage of the interference, Mr. Cripps passed on with his inamorata, who was as anxious to escape from the scene as himself; while Abel and Mr. Jukes followed them at a short distance. It fell out as Abel had foreseen. As Mr. Cripps issued into the broad walk, right before him, and not many yards off, were his master and Lady Brabazon, together with the rest of the party. If the valet ever had need of assurance, it was now. But though ready to sink into the earth, he was true to himself, and exhibited no outward signs of discomposure. On the contrary, he drew forth his snuff-box, took a pinch in his airiest manner, and said to Mrs. Nettleship—‘There’s Lady Brabazon—accounted one of the finest women of the day, but upon my soul, she’s not to be compared with you.’ With this he made a profound salutation to Lady Brabazon, who looked petrified with astonishment, and kissed his hand to Trussell, who was ready to die with laughing. As to the beau, he grasped his cane in a manner that plainly betokened his intention of laying it across his valet’s shoulders. But the latter, divining his intention, and seeing that nothing but a bold manoeuvre could now save him, strutted up to him, and said in a loud voice—‘Ah! my dear fellow—how d’ye do?—glad to see you—plenty of company’—adding, in a lower tone—‘for Heaven’s sake, sir, don’t mar my fortune. I’m about to be married to that lady, sir—large fortune, sir—to-day will decide it—‘pon rep!’

Mr. Villiers regarded him in astonishment, mixed with some little admiration; and at length his good-nature got the better of his anger. ‘Well, get you gone instantly,’ he said; ‘if I find you in the gardens in ten minutes from this time, you shall have the caning you merit.’

‘Good day, sir,’ replied Mr. Cripps—‘I’ll not forget the favour.’ And with a profound bow, he moved away with the widow.

‘And so you have let him off?’ cried Lady Brabazon, in amazement.

‘Upon my soul, I couldn’t help it,’ replied the beau. ‘I’ve a fellow-feeling for the rascal—and, egad, all things considered, he has played his part so uncommonly well, that I hope he may be successful.’

DAY MASQUERADE IN RANELAGH GARDENS

And now, before entering Ranelagh, it may be proper to offer a word as to its history. Alas for the changes and caprices of fashion! This charming place of entertainment, the delight of our grandfathers and grandmothers, the boast of the metropolis, the envy of foreigners, the renowned in song and story, the paradise of hoops and wigs, is vanished,—numbered with the things that were!—and we fear there is little hope of its revival.

Ranelagh, it is well known, derived its designation from a nobleman of the same name, by whom the house was erected, and the gardens, esteemed the most beautiful in the kingdom, originally laid out. Its situation adjoined the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, and the date of its erection was 1690-1.

Ranelagh House, on the death of the earl in 1712, passed into the possession of his daughter, Lady Catherine Jones; but was let, about twenty years afterwards, to two eminent builders, who relet it to Lacy, afterwards patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, and commonly called Gentleman Lacy, by whom it was taken with the intention of giving concerts and breakfasts within it, on a scale far superior, in point of splendour and attraction, to any that had been hitherto attempted.

In 1741 the premises were sold by Lacy to Messrs. Crispe and Meyonnet for £4000, and the rotunda was erected in the same year by subscription. From this date the true history of Ranelagh may be said to commence. It at once burst into fashion, and its entertainments being attended by persons of the first quality, crowds flocked in their train, shortly after its opening, Mr. Crispe became the sole lessee; and in spite of the brilliant success of the enterprise, shared the fate of most lessees of places of public amusement, being declared bankrupt in 1744. The property was then divided into thirty shares, and so continued until Ranelagh was closed.

The earliest entertainments of Ranelagh were morning concerts, consisting chiefly of oratorios, produced under the direction of Michael Festing, the leader of the band; but evening concerts were speedily introduced, the latter, it may be mentioned, to show the difference of former fashionable hours from the present, commencing at half-past five, and concluding at nine.

Thus it began, but towards its close, the gayest visitors to Ranelagh went at midnight, just as the concerts were finishing, and remained there till three or four in the morning. In 1754 the fashionable world were drawn to Ranelagh by a series of amusements called Comus’s Court; and notwithstanding their somewhat questionable title, the revels were conducted with great propriety and decorum. A procession which was introduced was managed with great effect, and several mock Italian duets were sung with remarkable spirit. Almost to its close, Ranelagh retained its character of being the finest place of public entertainment in Europe, and to the last the rotunda was the wonder and delight of every beholder.

The coup-d’oeil of the interior of this structure was extraordinarily striking, and impressed all who beheld it for the first time with surprise. It was circular in form, and exactly one hundred and fifty feet in diameter. Round the lower part of the building ran a beautiful arcade, the intervals between each arch being filled up by alcoves. Over this was a gallery with a balustrade, having entrances from the exterior, and forming a sort of upper boxes. Above the gallery was a range of round-headed windows, between each of which was a carved figure supporting the roof, and forming the terminus of the column beneath. At first, the orchestra was placed in the centre of the amphitheatre, but being found exceedingly inconvenient, as well as destructive of the symmetry of the building in that situation, it was removed to the side.

It contained a stage capable of accommodating thirty or forty chorus singers. The original site of the orchestra was occupied by a large chimney, having four faces enclosed in a beautifully proportioned, hollow, hexagonal column, with arched openings at the sides, and a balustrade at the base. Richly moulded, and otherwise ornamented with appropriate designs, this enormous column had a charming effect, and gave a peculiar character to the whole amphitheatre. A double range of large chandeliers descended from the ceiling; others were placed within the column above mentioned, and every alcove had its lamp. When all these chandeliers and lamps were lighted, the effect was wonderfully brilliant.

The external diameter of the rotunda was one hundred and eighty-five feet. It was surrounded on the outside by an arcade similar to that within, above which ran a gallery with a roof supported by pillars, and defended by a balustrade. The main entrance was a handsome piece of architecture, with a wide, round, arched gate in the centre, and a lesser entrance at either side.

On the left of the rotunda stood the Earl of Ranelagh’s old mansion, a structure of some magnitude, but with little pretensions to beauty, being built in the formal Dutch taste of the time of William of Orange. On the right, opposite the mansion, was a magnificent conservatory, with great pots of aloes in front. In a line with the conservatory, and the side entrance of the rotunda, stretched out a long and beautiful canal, in the midst of which stood a Chinese fishing temple, approached by a bridge. On either side of the canal were broad gravel walks, and alleys shaded by lines of trees, and separated by trimly clipped hedges. The gardens were exquisitely arranged with groves, bowers, statues, temples, wildernesses, and shady retreats.

Though Lady Brabazon’s carriage was within a hundred yards of the entrance of Ranelagh when Mr. Cripps and his party passed it, owing to the crowd and confusion it was nearly a quarter of an hour in setting down. Before getting out, the whole party put on their masks; and Lady Brabazon wrapped herself in a yellow silk domino. Trussell took charge of Clementina, and her ladyship fell to Randulph’s care.

It was yet extremely early, but the crowd was prodigious,—many hundred persons being assembled in the area before the entrance to the rotunda. At least a thousand others were dispersed within the gardens, for the rotunda was not opened till the evening; and it was afterwards computed that more than four thousand persons attended the masquerade.

At the entrance, Lady Brabazon and her daughter were joined by Beau Villiers, Sir Bulkeley Price, and Firebras, Sir Singleton Spinke having disappeared. Randulph had already been more than once at Ranelagh, but it was only to attend the ordinary concerts, and never having seen a masquerade, he was extraordinarily struck with the spectacle presented to him.

Most of the characters were grotesquely dressed, as was the taste of the time, for it was not a period when the niceties of costume were understood or regarded; still, the general effect was admirable. A May-pole, surmounted by a crown, with long ribands dangling from it, was planted in front of the conservatory, and several dancers were chasing each other round it, while lively strains were played by a band of musicians beside them. Other and less melodious sounds were heard. Now a drummer would go by, beating a rub-a-dub enough to deafen every listener. Then came the vile scraping of a fiddle, or the shrill notes of a fife. The shouts, the laughter, the cries of all kinds baffled description, and equally vain would it be to attempt any delineation of the motley assemblage. It consisted of persons of all countries, all periods, and all ranks, for the most part oddly enough jumbled together. A pope in his tiara would be conversing with a Jew; a grave lawyer in his gown and wig had a milk-girl under his arm; a highland chief in his full equipments escorted a nun; a doge in his splendid habiliments was jesting with a common sailor, with a thick stick under his arm.

But frolic and fun everywhere prevailed; and to judge from the noise, everybody seemed to be merry. No one could escape from the tricks and jests of the buffoons with whom the crowd abounded. The humour of the last century was eminently practical; cuffs and kicks were liberally dealt around, and returned in kind; and whenever a sounding blow was heard, it elicited shouts of laughter like those that are heard at the feigned knocks in a pantomime. The clowns, punches, pierrots, doctors, and harlequins, of whom there were several besides our friend, Mr. Cripps, were the chief creators of this kind of merriment.

While Randulph, greatly diverted by all he saw, was gazing around, a few words pronounced by a voice whose tones thrilled to his heart caught his ear. He turned, and saw close behind him, attended by a tall personage, whose stiffness left no doubt as to its being Sir Norfolk Salusbury, a beautiful female mask, whose snowy skin and dark streaming ringlets would have told him, if his heart had not informed him of the fact, that it was Hilda, but before he could summon resolution to address her, she had passed by; and Lady Brabazon, who had likewise heard the voice and recognised the speaker, dragged him in the opposite direction towards the May-pole. He looked eagerly backwards, but the fair mask was lost amid the throng, nor could he even discern the tall figure of Sir Norfolk.

RANDULPH AND HILDA DANCING IN THE ROTUNDA AT RANELAGH GARDENS

Some hours passed on in this way, and Randulph was still held in bondage. At length the rotunda was opened. Of course, the royal party was ceremoniously ushered in, in the first place; but immediately afterwards crowds poured-in, and the whole area of the amphitheatre, together with the boxes and gallery above, were filled with company. What with the innumerable lights, and the extraordinary variety of dresses, the whole scene had a most brilliant effect. There was an excellent band in the orchestra, and a concert was commenced, but little attention was paid to it by the assemblage, who continued promenading round and round the amphitheatre—laughing and talking loudly with each other.

As soon as the concert was over, the loud blowing of a horn attracted general observation to a platform near the central column, on which the quack doctor and his attendant were stationed—the latter of whom began dispensing his medicines, and vaunting their efficacy, in a highly ludicrous manner. This and other entertainments consumed the time till ten o’clock; before which, however, a magnificent supper was served to the royal party in a private refreshment room.

A bell was then rung, to announce that a grand display of fireworks was about to take place, and the company hurried to the outer galleries and to the gardens to witness the exhibition. Much confusion ensued, and amidst it, the fair Thomasine, somehow or other, got separated from her party. The little barber was almost frantic. He rushed hither and thither among the crowd, calling for her by name, and exciting general ridicule. At last, in an agony of despair, he stationed himself near the scaffold where the fireworks were placed; and when the first signal-rocket ascended, he perceived her pretty face turned upwards at a little distance from him. She was standing near the trees with the old beau, whose transports at his enviable situation were somewhat disturbed by the descent of a heavy rocket-stick on his head. At this juncture the little barber reached his truant mistress, and forcing her from Sir Singleton, placed her rounded arm under his own, and held it fast.

‘Oh, dear, how glad I am to see you,’ said the naughty little Thomasine, for ‘fair’ she does not deserve to be called; ‘we’ve been looking for you everywhere’—(here she told a sad story). ‘That odious old beau has been trying to persuade me to run away with him. He offers to settle—I don’t know what—upon me, and to make me Lady Spinke.’

‘And why don’t you accept his offer?’ said the barber, in an ecstasy of jealous rage.

‘Because I’m engaged, and engagements with me are sacred things,’ replied the fair Thomasine theatrically, yet tenderly. ‘But do look at that beautiful wheel.’

The fireworks were really splendid. Flights of rockets soared into the skies; magnificent wheels performed their mutations; star-pieces poured forth their radiant glories; maroon batteries resounded; Chinese fountains filled the air with glittering showers; pots-des-aigrettes, pots-des-brins, and pots-des-saucis-sons discharged their stars, serpents, and crackers; yew-trees burnt with brilliant fire; water-rockets turned the canal to flame; fire-balloons ascended; and a grand car with flaming wheels, drawn by sea-horses snorting fire, and containing a figure of Neptune, which, traversed the whole length of the canal, and encircled the Chinese temple—the bridge being removed to make way for it—and finally exploded, scattering serpents and crackers in every direction, concluded the exhibition, amid the general plaudits of the assemblage. Darkness for a few minutes enveloped the crowd, during which a few cries were heard in timid female tones; but the lamps were as soon as possible lighted, and the majority of the assemblage returned to the rotunda, where they repaired to the alcoves, and many a bowl of punch was emptied, many a bottle of champagne quaffed; after which dancing was resumed with greater spirit than ever.

Mr. Rathbone gave a capital supper to his party, in which the old beau contrived to get himself included. He contrived also to sit near the fair Thomasine, and pledged her so often and so deeply that he fell beneath the table. Here he was left by the others, and a minuet being struck up, Mr. Cripps offered his hand to the widow, and led her forth to dance; while Mr. Rathbone, greatly exhilarated by the punch he had drunk, stood by, laughing at them ready to split his sides; and the little barber took the opportunity of their being left alone together, to reprove the fair Thomasine for her improper conduct towards the old beau during supper.

Liberated by the departure of the Prince of Wales, who quitted the gardens on the conclusion of the fireworks, Randulph immediately returned to the rotunda, in the hope of finding Hilda still there. He had scarcely entered it when he perceived Firebras at supper by himself in one of the alcoves, and instantly joined him.

‘She is still here,’ said Firebras, ‘and as soon as I have finished my supper I will take you to her. There would be no use in going now, for Sir Norfolk has only just ordered supper, and I can merely introduce you as a partner for a dance. Sit down, and take a glass of champagne.’

Randulph declined the latter offer, and was obliged to control his impatience until Firebras thought fit to rise. Crossing the amphitheatre, they proceeded to an alcove, in which Sir Norfolk and Hilda were seated, and Firebras, bowing to the old knight, said—

‘Sir Norfolk, permit me to have the honour of presenting the friend I mentioned some hours ago to your fair charge. Miss Scarve,’ he added, after a significant look at Hilda, ‘this gentleman wishes to have the honour of dancing a minuet with you. I am sorry there is no time for a more ceremonious introduction to yourself, Sir Norfolk, but the musicians are striking up the dance.’

Upon this Hilda arose, and tendered her hand, with some trepidation, to Randulph, who, with a breast thrilling with joyful emotion, led her to the open space cleared for the dancers, and part of which was already occupied, as before related, by Mr. Cripps and the widow. No time was allowed Randulph to hazard a word to his partner. Scarcely were they placed when the minuet commenced. The grace with which they performed this charming, though formal dance, excited the admiration of all the beholders, and contrasted strongly with the exaggerated style in which it was executed by Mr. Cripps and Mrs. Nettleship. Indeed, a better foil—had such been desired—could not have been found than the two latter personages presented. Sir Norfolk planted himself on one side to view the dance, and there was unwonted elation in his countenance as he witnessed the graceful movements of his fair cousin and her partner. Trussell in his Turkish dress was among the spectators; and not far from him stood Cardwell Firebras. There were two other personages, also, who watched the dance, but who regarded it with other sentiments than those of satisfaction. These were Lady Brabazon and Beau Villiers.

‘So you see, Villiers, notwithstanding all your scheming, he has contrived to dance with her,’ said the former.

‘He has,’ replied the beau, partly removing his mask, and displaying a countenance inflamed with passion—‘but he has not exchanged a word with her, and I will take care he shall not exchange one.’

‘You are desperately in love with this girl, Villiers,’ said Lady Brabazon angrily. ‘I thought it was her fortune merely you aimed at.’

‘I have been foiled, and that has piqued me,’ replied Villiers.

‘Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle,’ rejoined Lady Brabazon. ‘After the failure of your attempt to carry her off, I wonder you will persevere.’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed the beau. ‘Some one may overhear us. I would have carried her off to-night, if I had known she would have been here. Your ladyship ought to be obliged to me for the trouble I am taking. I shall remove your rival, and you will then have young Crew entirely to yourself. And now to put Sir Norfolk on his guard.’

With this, he passed on to the Welsh baronet, and addressed him. The latter bowed stiffly in return, and approached nearer the dancers; and while Hilda was curtseying to her partner at the close of the minuet, he took her hand and led her away. The young man would have followed them, but Cardwell Firebras came up, and arrested him.

‘It won’t do,’ he said; ‘Villiers has told the old baronet who you are. I must go after him instantly, and make some excuse for my share in the matter, or I shall have to cross swords with him to-morrow morning. I have done all I can for you. Goodnight.’

Soon after this, Randulph quitted the masquerade with Trussell. With some difficulty a boat was procured to convey them home. Finding his nephew in no mood for conversation, Trussell, who was rather tired, and moreover had drunk a good deal of punch and champagne, disposed himself to slumber, nor did he awake till they reached Lambeth Stairs. Another boat had just landed, and two persons in dominos marched before them in the very direction they were going.

‘Why, who the deuce have we here?’ cried Trussell, running forward to overtake the party in advance. ‘Zounds, brother, is it you? Have you been at the masquerade?’

‘I have,’ replied Abel; ‘and I have seen all that has occurred there.’

THE SUPPER AT VAUXHALL—BEAU VILLIERS’s ATTEMPT TO CARRY OFF HILDA DEFEATED BY RANDULPH

Celebrated throughout Europe, and once esteemed the most delightful place of recreation of the kind, Vauxhall Gardens were in existence considerably more than a century. They were first opened with a ridotto al fresco, about the year 1730, and speedily rising to a high reputation, were enlarged, and laid out in the most superb manner.

A magnificent orchestra, of Gothic form, ornamented with carving and niches, and provided with a fine organ, was erected in the midst of the garden. There was likewise a rotunda, though not of equal dimensions with that of Ranelagh, being only seventy feet in diameter, with a dome-like roof, supported by four handsome Ionic columns, embellished with foliage at the base, while the shafts were wreathed with a Gothic balustrade, representing climbing figures. From the centre depended a magnificent chandelier.

A part of the rotunda, used as a saloon, was decorated with columns, between which were paintings by Hayman. The entrance from the gardens was through a Gothic portal. Moreover, there were pavillions or alcoves, ornamented with paintings, from designs by Hogarth and Hayman, appropriate to the place; each alcove having a table in it capable of accommodating six or eight persons, and leading in an extensive sweep to a magnificent piazza, five hundred feet in length, of Chinese architecture. This semicircle led to a further sweep of pavilions.

A noble gravel walk, nine hundred feet in length, bordered with lofty trees, and terminated by a broad lawn, in which there was a Gothic obelisk, faced the entrance. But the enchantment of the gardens commenced with the moment of their illumination, when upwards of two thousand lamps, lighted almost simultaneously, glimmered through the green leaves of the trees, and shed their radiance on the fairy scene around. This was the grand charm of Vauxhall. One of its minor attractions was a curious piece of machinery representing a miller’s house, a water-wheel, and a cascade, which, at that period of the art, was thought quite marvellous. There were numberless walks and wildernesses in the grounds, and most of the vistas were adorned with statues. In one of them, at a date a little posterior to this history, was a statue of Handel as Orpheus holding a lyre.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Randulph reached the gardens. He proceeded along the grand walk, which was brilliantly illuminated, and filled with company, as far as the obelisk, but he could see nothing of Sir Norfolk or Hilda.

He then turned into one of the side walks, and approached the orchestra, in front of which stood Kitty Conway, preparing to sing. She instantly detected him, and made a slight movement of recognition. As he passed the range of alcoves beneath the orchestra, he perceived Jacob, who instantly came towards him.

‘I’ve found it all out,’ said the porter—‘I knew I should. Mr. Willars is the contriver of the plot. He means to carry off Miss Hilda, and has engaged a coach for that purpose, which is stationed at the back o’ the gardens. Luckily, the coachman is a friend o’ mine, and it’s through him I’ve detected the scheme.’

‘But where is your mistress?’ cried Randulph.

‘There,’ replied Jacob, pointing to a party seated at supper beneath the grove of trees in front of the orchestra.

‘I see,’ replied Randulph. ‘By Heaven!’ he cried, ‘Mr. Villiers is coming this way. Two persons stop him. As I live, one of them is his valet, and the other Captain Culpepper, a fellow whom my uncle Trussell told me was a sort of bravo, and would cut any man’s throat for hire. Doubtless they are planning the abduction.

‘You may take your oath of it,’ replied Jacob. ‘I’ll manage to get near ‘em unobserved. Come back to this place when they separate, and you shall know all.’

So saying, he slouched his hat over his eyes, and mingling with the crowd, got within ear-shot of the beau, who, as has been intimated, was addressing Captain Culpepper and Mr. Cripps.

Randulph, meanwhile, felt irresistibly drawn towards the table where Hilda was seated, and as he kept behind the trees, he was not noticed by the party, though he was noticed by Kitty Conway, from the orchestra, who, guessing his intention, was so much agitated, that, for the first time in her professional career, she made some false notes in her singing. Hilda’s seat was placed against a tree. On her right was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; and on the right of the baronet, Lady Brabazon; next her ladyship was a vacant chair—no doubt just quitted by Beau Villiers; then came Lady Fazakerly; then Sir Bulkeley Price; and lastly, Clementina Brabazon, who occupied the seat on the left of the miser’s daughter.

Partly screened by the tree against which Hilda was seated, Randulph bent forward, and breathed her name in the gentlest accents. Hilda heard the whisper, and looking round, beheld the speaker. How much may be conveyed in a glance! She read the intensity of his passion and the depth of his devotion in his eyes, and for the first time returned his gaze with a look of kindness, almost of tenderness; Randulph was transported; he could not resist the impulse that prompted him to advance and take her hand, which she unresistingly yielded to him. All this was the work of a minute; but the action had not been unobserved, either by Kitty Conway or Lady Brabazon. Both had felt a similar pang of jealousy, but revenge instantly occurred to the latter. While Randulph was in the act of raising Hilda’s hand to his lips, she touched Sir Norfolk’s arm, and, pointing in the direction of the lovers, whispered, ‘Look there!’

Sir Norfolk arose, and in a stern and peremptory voice, said to the young man, ‘Set free that lady’s hand, sir!’

‘Not unless she chooses to withdraw it,’ replied Randulph.

‘I am wholly to blame for this, Sir Norfolk,’ said Hilda, withdrawing her hand, and blushing deeply.

‘You are pleased to say so, Miss Scarve,’ returned Sir Norfolk; ‘but the young man has been guilty of a great indecorum, and I shall call him to a strict account for it.’

‘I shall be ready to answer the call whenever you please, Sir Norfolk,’ rejoined Randulph. ‘But this is not the place for menaces. You will do well to look after your charge.’

‘I shall take care to keep off impertinents like you,’ replied Sir Norfolk.

‘Better guard her against other dangers, which require more penetration than you care to practise,’ retorted Randulph. ‘I have only one answer to make to such insolence,’ said Sir Norfolk, ‘and that shall be given to-morrow. You shall hear from me, Mr. Crew.’

‘As soon as you please, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph.

‘For my sake, Mr. Crew,’ interposed Hilda, ‘let this quarrel go no further. I have been the innocent cause of it. Promise me it shall not.’

‘I would willingly obey you in anything, Miss Scarve,’ replied Randulph; ‘but in this case it is not in my power. Farewell!’ Fixing one passionate look upon her, he then bowed haughtily to Sir Norfolk, who returned his salutation in kind, and withdrew.

As he walked away, he encountered Beau Villiers, who was returning from his conference. Villiers started on seeing him, but instantly recovered himself, and would have addressed him, but Randulph turned abruptly away.

‘What the devil has brought Randulph Crew here?’ said Villiers to Sir Singleton, as he joined the party. ‘I thought he was at Drury Lane.’

‘Devil knows!’ cried the old beau. ‘But he has made a pretty scene.’ And he proceeded to relate what had occurred. Villiers laughed heartily at the recital.

‘I hope old Salusbury will cut his throat,’ he said, in an undertone.

‘Why, it would be desirable to get him out of the way, certainly,’ replied the old beau. ‘The women are all mad about him.’

‘Especially Kitty Conway,’ observed Villiers. ‘Odds life! this accounts for her having feinted in the orchestra. I wondered what could be the matter with her, but now I understand it. All is prepared,’ he added, in a deep whisper to Lady Brabazon.

‘Be careful how you act,’ she replied, in a low tone. ‘You’ll find Sir Norfolk dangerous, and Randulph Crew is on the watch.’

‘Fear nothing,’ he rejoined, ‘I’ve taken my measures securely. Make towards the dark walk, and contrive to lead him and the others away.’

Lady Brabazon nodded. Soon after this she arose, and, without ceremony, took Sir Norfolk’s arm, while Villiers very gallantly offered his to Hilda. The rest of the party paired off in like manner. Leading the way in the direction agreed upon, Lady Brabazon expressed a desire to view the scenic representation of the mill and waterfall before mentioned, which was exhibited in a hollow of the great walk; and they proceeded towards it. Hilda was much displeased by the assiduities of her companion, and she could not help remarking that he contrived, on various pretences, to linger behind the rest of the party, and though she repeatedly urged him to rejoin them, he always made some excuse for not doing so. At last, on pausing longer than usual, they quite lost sight of them, and were hurrying forward at Hilda’s urgent request, when, as they passed one of the side vistas, Mr. Cripps, who was standing at the end of it, advanced towards his master.

‘Fortunately encountered, sir,’ said the valet, bowing; ‘Lady Brabazon sent me to look for you, to tell you that she and the party are gone down a walk on the left to see a fine painting in the Chinese pavilion at the end of it. With your permission, I’ll show you the way.’

‘Oh, yes, let us go to them, by all means,’ said Hilda unsuspectingly.

‘Lead on, then!’ cried the beau, scarcely able to conceal his satisfaction at the success of the scheme.

A few steps brought them to the end of a narrow walk, arched over by trees, the branches of which were so thickly interlaced, that the moonlight could not penetrate through them. Alarmed by its appearance, Hilda drew back. ‘How thoughtless of Sir Norfolk to leave me thus!’ she exclaimed.

‘Why, you are surely not afraid of accompanying me down this walk, Miss Scarve,’ laughed the beau. ‘My valet is with us, and shall protect you. The Chinese pavilion is not more than a hundred yards off; and the walk, though dark, is not solitary.’

Fancying she perceived some persons within it, Hilda suffered herself to be led on; but she had not advanced many steps when all her uneasiness returned, and she bitterly regretted having assented. But it was too late. The beau’s grasp had tightened upon her arm, and he drew her quickly forward, while Mr. Cripps proceeded at the same rapid pace. Once or twice, she thought she heard footsteps behind her, and almost fancied she could distinguish a figure walking near them, but she did not dare to express her terrors.

They had proceeded, so for as she could judge, about a hundred yards, when a sudden turn in the walk disclosed a low hedge; beyond was the open country bathed in moonlight. Coming to a sudden halt, the beau said, in a hurried, but imperative tone—

‘Miss Scarve, I love you to desperation, and am determined to make you mine. You are now in my power, and must accompany me.’

‘Never,’ replied Hilda resolutely. ‘And I command you to release me.’ She would have screamed for help, if Villiers, who grasped her more tightly, had not taken out his handkerchief, and, placing it over her mouth, prevented her cries. While this was passing, Captain Culpepper emerged from the trees, and hastened with Mr. Cripps towards him.

‘Bravo, sir,’ cried the captain. ‘All goes well this time. We’ll have her in the coach in a twinkling.’

‘Not so fast, villains!’ thundered Randulph, rushing forward. ‘I have allowed you to go thus far to see to what lengths your villainy would carry you. But you shall pay dearly for it.’

As he spoke, he rushed to the beau, and snatching Hilda from him, dashed him backwards with such force that he fell upon the ground. Another person likewise came to the rescue. This was Jacob, who, brandishing his cudgel, hurried to the scene of action. On seeing him the valet whipped out his blade, but it was beaten from his grasp, and he only avoided a terrible blow from the cudgel by a nimble leap aside. Without waiting for a second blow, he plunged into the wood, and made his escape.

Captain Culpepper fared no better. Before he could draw his sword, he received a blow on the head that stretched him senseless and bleeding on the ground. Hilda, meantime, had murmured her thanks to her deliverer, who felt, as he pressed her to his bosom, that the whole of his previous anxiety was more than repaid by the unutterable joy of the moment.

‘Hilda!’ he cried passionately, ‘I would risk a thousand lives for you. Forgive me if, at this moment, I dare to ask if I may hope?’

She murmured a faint response in the affirmative.

‘I am the happiest of men!’ cried Randulph, transported with delight.

‘Alas!’ exclaimed Hilda, ‘my avowal can give you little happiness. I can never be yours.’

‘There you speak truth!’ cried Villiers, who by this time had regained his feet, and furiously approached them. ‘You never shall be his.’

‘This is the leader of the gang!’ cried Jacob, who having just disposed of Captain Culpepper, now rushed towards the beau, brandishing his cudgel in a formidable manner. ‘I’ll soon settle him.’

‘Leave him alone, Jacob,’ cried Randulph authoritatively; ‘his punishment belongs to me.’

‘You’re wrong, sir,’ rejoined Jacob, ‘but I shan’t disobey you. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a gen’l’man.’

‘Oblige me by stepping aside for a moment, Mr. Crew!’ said the beau, with forced politeness. And as Randulph complied, added—‘I shall expect satisfaction for the injury you have here done me.’

‘I might well refuse it,’ replied Randulph; ‘but I am too eager for vengeance myself to do so. You shall have the satisfaction you seek as soon as you please.’

‘To-morrow morning, then, at the earliest hour—at five—in Tothill Fields,’ said Villiers.

‘I will be there,’ replied Randulph. And, quitting the beau, he rejoined Hilda, to whom he offered his arm. They walked down the avenue together, Jacob following close beside them. Hilda allowed her hand to remain in his, while he poured the warmest protestations of attachment into her ear. She did not attempt to check him; and perhaps it would be difficult to say which of the two felt the most regret when that brief dream of happiness was ended, as they emerged into the lighted vista.

Almost immediately on entering the great walk, they met Sir Norfolk and Lady Brabazon and the rest of the party. Her ladyship was at first greatly confused at seeing Randulph, but she instantly guessed what had happened, and tried to put a good face on the matter. Advancing to Hilda, she hastily inquired what had happened; but the latter turned coldly from her, and taking the arm of Sir Norfolk Salusbury, desired to be led home.

‘Your ladyship is perfectly aware of the peril in which I have been placed,’ she said. ‘But I have been delivered from it by the courage and address of Mr. Crew.’

‘Before you go, Miss Scarve,’ said Lady Brabazon, ‘I beseech you to give me some explanation of what has happened.’

‘It must suffice, then, to say, that Mr. Villiers has attempted to carry me off,’ replied Hilda—‘but his purpose has been defeated.’

‘What is this I hear?’ cried Sir Norfolk. ‘Mr. Villiers guilty of so base an attempt? I will go in search of him instantly!’

‘I have undertaken the punishment of Mr. Villiers’s offence, sir,’ said Randulph.

‘You have an account to settle with me yourself, sir,’ rejoined Sir Norfolk sternly.

‘I will settle it at five o’clock to-morrow morning, in Tothill Fields,’ replied Randulph, in a low tone, ‘after I have arranged with Mr. Villiers.’

‘Be it so,’ replied Sir Norfolk. And he strode off with Hilda, followed by Jacob; while Randulph, without staying to exchange a word with Lady Brabazon, walked away in the opposite direction.

THE DUEL IN TOTHILL FIELDS, WESTMINSTER

It was a fresh and beautiful morning, though the sun was scarcely risen, and a thin silvery mist hung like a veil over the smooth surface of the water. Two or three watermen were lying asleep in their tilts, and they roused one of them, who speedily rowed them to the opposite bank, near which they found Mr. Hewitt, with two brace of swords under his arm, in addition to the one by his side, accompanied by a tall stout man, with a red face, dressed in a well-powdered wig, and a suit of purple velvet, and carrying a gold-headed cane, who was introduced as Mr. Molson, the surgeon.

‘You look famously,’ said the fencing-master to Randulph.

‘Follow my instructions, and you’re sure to come off victoriously.’

The party then walked along the Horseferry Road, which speedily brought them to Tothill Fields. They were the first on the ground, and Mr. Hewitt, after looking about for a short time, discovered a spot excellently adapted for the encounters. By this time, the sun having risen, the morning’s early promise of beauty was fully confirmed.

The spot selected for the combats commanded a fine view of Westminster Abbey, which reared its massive body and tall towers above a range of mean habitations masking its base. Cawing jackdaws in clouds wheeled in the sunny air above its pinnacles.

A calmer or more beautiful scene could not be imagined. Randulph’s reflections were interrupted by the approach of two persons from the left of the fields, who proved to be Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Cardwell Firebras. Sir Norfolk bowed stiffly to Randulph, and also to Trussell, and seeing that the beau was not arrived, said to the former, ‘As I am first in the field, I am entitled to the first bout.’

‘I am sorry I cannot oblige you, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph; ‘but I must give Mr. Villiers priority.’

‘Well, as you please, sir,’ said the baronet, walking aside.

Cardwell Firebras then advanced to Randulph.

‘I am here as Sir Norfolk’s second,’ he said; ‘but I hope the matter may only serve as a little breathing for you both before breakfast. It is an idle quarrel. We must talk about Villiers’s attempt anon. But here he is.’

As he spoke, two chairs were seen approaching from the lower end of the fields. When they came within a hundred yards of the party they stopped, and from the first issued Mr. Villiers, and from the other Sir Bulkeley Price. Mr. Cripps walked by the side of his master’s chair, bearing a water-bottle and a glass. The new-comers advanced slowly towards the party, and Mr. Villiers, having bowed with much haughtiness to Randulph, gracefully saluted the rest of the company.

‘Have we anything to wait for, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Trussell; ‘we are all ready.’

‘To business, then,’ rejoined the beau.

At a motion from his master, Mr. Cripps advanced towards him, and receiving his clouded cane, proceeded to divest him of his coat, leaving him on a light striped silk waistcoat, with sleeves of the same material. Randulph, meantime, threw off his upper garment, and rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm. Mr. Hewitt then stepped up to him, and gave him the German sword he had promised; while Mr. Villiers received an exquisitely tempered blade from the valet.

These preparations made, the seconds and bystanders fell back a few paces, Trussell, Firebras, and Hewitt standing on one side, and the two baronets on the other, while the surgeon stood at a little distance in the rear with Mr. Cripps. Advancing towards each other, the combatants saluted, and in another moment their blades were crossed, and several rapid passes exchanged.

The spectators watched the conflict with the greatest interest, for both parties appeared admirably matched, and the beau’s superior skill was counterbalanced by Randulph’s extraordinary vigour and quickness. Thrusts were made and parried on both sides, but not a single hit was given, until Randulph, finding his adversary engaged in tierce with a high point, made a firm thrust in carte over the arm, and passed his sword through the fleshy part of the other’s shoulder. At this successful hit, the seconds rushed forward, but before they reached the spot, the beau’s sword fell from his grasp.

‘It is nothing,’ said Villiers, surrendering himself to the surgeon, who likewise hurried towards him; ‘but I acknowledge myself defeated.’

While the beau’s wound was bound up by the surgeon, and he was led to the chair by Mr. Cripps, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, who had been a watchful spectator of the conflict, stepped forward, and said to Randulph—

‘Whatever may be the issue of our encounter, Mr. Crew, I shall declare that in the combat which has just taken place, you have conducted yourself like a man of honour and spirit.’

‘I am glad to receive the acknowledgment from you, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph, bowing.

‘Pray do not hurry yourself on my account,’ said the baronet courteously.

‘I am quite ready for you,’ replied Randulph. ‘What I have gone through has only served to steady my nerves.’

With the assistance of Firebras, who had come over to him, Sir Norfolk then took off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and in this state presented so extraordinary an appearance, that Randulph could scarcely repress a smile. The punctilious old knight’s first step was to deliver his sword to Mr. Hewitt, who, on measuring it with that of Randulph, found that it exceeded the latter in length by two inches. He therefore gave him one of his own swords, and Sir Norfolk, beating an appeal with his right foot, bade his youthful opponent come on. Having gone through their salutes with the greatest formality, they commenced the combat with the utmost caution.

Sir Norfolk acted chiefly upon the defensive, and contented himself almost entirely with parrying the thrusts aimed at him. Randulph soon found that he had a formidable antagonist to deal with, and altering his plan, tried to compel him to attack him. He made several feints with great dexterity, and just touched his adversary’s breast with an inside thrust in carte, causing a slight effusion of blood.

This had the effect of rousing the old baronet into exertion, and in his turn he became the assailant. He attacked Randulph with such force and fury, that he drove him back several paces. The young man returned to the charge, and pressed his adversary in his turn, so that he regained his ground; but while making a pass in carte, his sword was turned near the wrist by a dexterous and sudden lunge on the part of the baronet, whose point entered his side just below the elbow, and inflicted a severe wound. Maddened by the pain, Randulph continued to fight desperately, but the seconds rushed between the combatants, and interposing their blades, declared that the strife must terminate, and that Sir Norfolk was the victor. The baronet immediately dropped his sword, and Randulph, whose strength had been fast failing, fell to the ground insensible.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET—TREATS OF THE MISER’S ILLNESS, AND OF THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET BY HILDA

His mind lightened, apparently, by what had taken place, Mr. Scarve remained perfectly quiet during the rest of the day, and retired early to rest; but he passed another sleepless night, and was seized with a new panic about his money.

The next day, finding himself unable to go downstairs, he ordered Jacob to bring up all his boxes, and to place them near him. His fever increasing, and assuming somewhat the character of an ague, he consented to have a small fire kept up constantly in his bedroom, and set his chair close beside it. In addition to his dressing-gown he wrapped an old blanket over his shoulders, and tried to keep his lower limbs warm by clothing them in a couple of pairs of worsted hose. His bed being totally destitute of hangings, he had a sheet hung up against the lower end of it to keep off the blaze of the fire, which he fancied disturbed him during the night. These slight comforts were all he permitted himself, and he remained as inflexible as ever on the score of medicine and medical advice.

‘A doctor can do no good,’ he said to Jacob, who urged him to send for one; ‘if abstinence won’t cure a man, no physic will.’

‘Well, perhaps you’re right, sir,’ said Jacob; ‘but I wish you’d think less o’ your worldly affairs, and more o’ your sperretual ones. Look at that pictur’ over your chimney-piece, and see how Death is takin’ away the covetous man’s treasures before his very eyes. It might be intended as a warnin’ to you.’

But he grew daily worse and worse, and his faculties became more and more enfeebled. He rambled about the house at night, almost in a state of somnambulism, muttering strange things about his treasure, and frequently visiting the cellar where he had buried the chest, unconscious that it was gone. At such times, Jacob constantly followed, to prevent him from doing himself a mischief, but took care not to be seen. His groans and lamentations were pitiful to hear, for he had begun to fancy himself a ruined man, and not even the sight of his money could assure him to the contrary. It was vain to reason with him. The distressing idea was too strongly impressed upon his mind to be removed. His next whim was to have his boxes opened by Hilda, to whom he had entrusted his keys, and he insisted upon certain deeds and papers being read to him, the meaning of which he only very imperfectly comprehended.

One night, when seated by the fireside wrapped in his blanket, and with his feet on a straw hassock, he desired his daughter to read him some more papers. The fire burnt as cheerily as it could in the starveling grate, and Hilda insisting upon having two candles to read by, there was more light than usual. Having got through several mortgages, leases, and bonds, to the innumerable clauses of which he listened in his usual apathetic manner, he suddenly turned round to her, and pointing to the strong box which formerly stood under his table in the room downstairs, signed to her to open it. Well aware that this box contained his most private papers, Hilda had hitherto avoided meddling with it, but thus enjoined, she no longer hesitated. Placing it on the table, therefore, she took the large bunch of keys, and soon finding the right one, unlocked it.

‘Is there anything in particular you wish me to read, dear father?’ she said, taking out some papers tied together with red tape. ‘Here is a bond for two thousand pounds from George Delahay Villiers, Esquire; another from Lady Brabazon; and another from Sir Bulkeley Price. Shall I read any of them?’

The miser shook his head.

‘Here are several bills,’ she continued, taking up a roll of smaller papers—‘and another bundle of mortgages, will you hear any of them?’

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET

The miser shook his head. The movement was almost mechanical with him.

‘Then I will go on,’ pursued Hilda. ‘Ah! what is this letter with the black seal? Shall I read it?’

The miser made no reply. He was gazing listlessly into the fire, and watching the wreaths of smoke ascend the chimney with childish delight. Hilda, therefore, opened the letter, and found a small memorandum enclosed in it, which she placed upon the table. Trembling with emotion, she then began to read aloud the following lines:—

‘“Old and valued Friend—If this should ever meet your eye, I shall have been a year in my grave, for, in accordance with our agreement, it will not be delivered to you until the expiration of that time after my death. The agreement, I need not remind you, was so formed that in case we should both die within the year, the contract entered into by us respecting the marriage of our children should be null and void.”’

Here Hilda was startled by a sharp cry from her father, and looking up, she saw that he was staring wildly and inquiringly at her.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘The letter delivered to you by Randulph Crew,’ she replied; ‘the letter from his father.’

‘And what business have you to read it?’ he cried. ‘Who gave you leave to do so?’

‘Having gone so far, I shall go on,’ rejoined Hilda; and she resumed her reading, ‘“now call upon you to fulfil your share of the contract, and to give your daughter to my son. When we entered into the engagement, I was supposed to be the richer of the two; but I am now sadly reduced, and if my son fulfils his word, and gives up the estates to pay my creditors, he will have little or nothing.”’

‘He has nothing—he has nothing!’ cried the miser, ‘I will never give my consent—never!’

‘“But under whatever circumstances he may be placed,”’ said Hilda, continuing the letter, ‘“whether he gives up the property or not, I call upon you to fulfil your part of the contract, as I would have fulfilled mine, whatever might have happened to you; and to make, as you have agreed to do, a settlement upon your daughter proportioned to your means.”’

‘I made no such agreement!’ cried the miser; ‘it is false—false!’

“‘I enclose a copy of the memorandum,”’ pursued Hilda, still reading; ‘“the original, as you know, is in the possession of Cardwell Firebras. He will see it executed. God so requite you as you shall fulfil your agreement or neglect it!

“‘Randulph Crew.’”

‘And here is the memorandum,’ she added, taking up the smaller piece of paper. ‘It is signed by Randulph Crew and John Scarve.’

‘It is a forgery!’ shrieked the miser.

‘The original is in the possession of Cardwell Firebras,’ said Hilda. ‘Father, you have dealt unjustly by Randulph Crew. You owe him a great reparation, and I trust you will make it.’

‘I owe him nothing,’ replied the miser; ‘it is all a fabrication. Give me the papers, that I may burn them! Give them to me directly.’

And getting up, he staggered towards her, and snatched the letter and memorandum from her, with the intention of throwing them into the fire. But before he could do so, the door opened, and admitted Abel Beechcroft.

RANDULPH DEFENDING HIMSELF AGAINST PHILIP FREWIN AND HIS MYRMIDONS—RANDULPH AGAIN DINES WITH LADY BRABAZON—HE RECEIVES A NOTE FROM KITTY CONWAY, AND IS ASSAULTED BY PHILIP FREWIN AND HIS MYRMIDONS ON HIS WAY TO SUP WITH HER.

The dinner passed off delightfully. It was a small party, consisting of Sir Bulkeley Price, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, and Lady Fazakerly. Everything was done to please Randulph, and the efforts were perfectly successful. The wine flowed freely after dinner—for it was a hard drinking age—and Randulph, who had been exceedingly temperate since the duel, began to feel the effect of it. As he was about to ascend to the drawing-room with the rest of the gentlemen, a note was handed him by a servant, which he instantly opened.

‘What says your billet, nephew?’ inquired Trussell, who was standing by.

‘Oh! it’s from Kitty Conway,’ said Randulph. ‘She has found out, I know not how, that I am here, and wishes me to sup with her to-night for the last time.’

‘And you will go, won’t you?’ said Trussell.

‘Not I,’ replied Randulph irresolutely.

‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Trussell; ‘and I’ll accompany you on your last visit, as I did on the first.’

And they went upstairs laughingly to the drawing-room.

Time passed by so fleetly in the fascinating society of Lady Brabazon, that Randulph was surprised, on glancing at his watch, to find it nearly eleven o’clock. ‘Jacob will be gone,’ he thought, ‘and will think I have forgotten him.’

Hastily taking leave of Lady Brabazon, who chided him playfully for running away so early, and engaged him to call upon her on the following morning, he went downstairs accompanied by Trussell. They found Jacob at the door, and in no very bland humour at having been kept so long.

‘My time’s more than up,’ said the latter gruffly, ‘and I was just goin’ away. What I want to say is this,—I’ve received a hint that master’s miserly nevy, Philip Frewin, is about to decamp with the money I gave Mr. Diggs t’other day. He’s at the Crown Inn, Ox-yard, King Street. Suppose you pay him a visit.’

‘I’ll readily do so to-morrow, Jacob,’ said Randulph; ‘but tonight I’m engaged. Come along with me. My way lies in the same direction as yours, and I want to talk to you about your master and young mistress.’

Jacob complied, and accompanied Randulph to the corner of Hedge Lane, a narrow thoroughfare running into Cockspur Street, where he took his leave. Randulph and his uncle then tracked the lane above mentioned, until they came to Whitcomb Street, where Kitty Conway then resided, having removed from the Hay-market to an old house in the latter street, erected three years after the Great Fire of London—namely, 1669.

Never having visited the pretty actress in her new abode, but having been told in the note that this date, which was inscribed in large figures on a shield over the door, would guide him to it, Randulph was looking out for the house, when he observed three men at a little distance behind him, who seemed to be dogging him and his uncle. The foremost was a tall thin man; the second a stout, square-set personage, attired in a shabby military garb; and the third a great hulking fellow with an atrociously black muzzle, dressed in a blue jacket, short trousers, and woollen cap.

Randulph could not help fancying he had seen these personages before, though he could not tell where, but he did not concern himself much about them, until just as he had discovered Kitty Conway’s dwelling, and was about to knock at the door, he saw that they were quickening their pace towards him. On a nearer approach, he was at no loss to detect Philip Frewin, and in his companions, Captain Culpepper and the fellow who had officiated as Jack-in-the-water at the Folly on the Thames.

‘Here is your man!’ shouted Philip, pointing out Randulph to the others; ‘upon him! don’t leave an unbroken bone in his body.’

Randulph, however, was prepared for the attack. Grasping the stout cane he held in his hand, he dealt Philip so severe a blow on the head with it that he stretched him on his back on the ground. At the same moment, Trussell received a blow from the cudgel of the athletic sailor, which sent him reeling against the door, to the posts of which he clung for support, while the ruffian turning to assault Randulph, encountered an unexpected adversary in the person of Jacob Post.

‘I thought what you were after, you scoundrels, when I saw you doggin’ these gen’l’men,’ cried Jacob; ‘I’m glad I got up in time. Turn your cudgel this way, you black-muzzled hound! Two can play at your game.’

While Jacob and his antagonist rapped away at each other as hard as they could, making the welkin ring with their blows, Randulph turned upon Culpepper, who attempted to draw his sword to assail him, and belaboured him so lustily with his cane, that the latter was soon fain to cry for quarter.

The sound of the cudgels, and the vociferations of the combatants, had alarmed the watch, who sprang their rattles, and hastened to the scene of strife, while Kitty Conway, hearing the noise, opened a window above, and seeing what was passing in the street, added her shrieks to the general clamour. Before, however, the watch could come up, Jacob had brought his athletic antagonist to the ground, and Culpepper had taken to his heels without being able to strike a single blow.

MR. CRIPPS DETECTED—HOW MR. CRIPPS’S MARRIAGE WITH THE WIDOW WAS INTERRUPTED

It was arranged that the ceremony should take place in the upper chamber, where Randulph first breakfasted with the beau, and the clergyman selected to perform it was Doctor Gaynam. Thus nothing seemed wanting on the valet’s part to complete the matter; and late on Wednesday evening he went to Billiter Square, to inform Mrs. Nettleship that all was ready. After a brief visit, for he was somewhat fatigued, he took a tender adieu of her, saying, as he squeezed her hand at parting—

‘We shall meet to-morrow, to part no more!’

The next morning, betimes, Mr. Cripps placed himself under the hands of Antoine, who proceeded to array him in a magnificent suit, which had never been worn by his master, it having only been sent home the night before by Desmartins.

It consisted of a coat of crimson-embossed velvet, richly laced with gold, breeches of the same material, and a white satin waistcoat flowered with gold. To these were added, pink silk hose rolled above the knee, superb diamond buckles, and point-bee cravat, and his master’s handsomest Ramillies periwig, which had been dressed by Peter Pokerich.

Nearly three hours were expended in thus attiring him; and when all was completed, Antoine declared that his master had never looked half so well—a sentiment in which Mr. Cripps, as he complacently surveyed himself in the cheval-glass, entirely concurred.

A little before twelve, Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine arrived. The lady was dressed in white and silver, with a fly-cap with long lappets, and looked so excessively pretty that Mr. Cripps could not help wishing she had been the bride instead of Mrs. Nettleship.

While he was welcoming them, and passing some high-flown compliments on the fair Thomasine’s charms, Mr. Jukes was shown into the room; but as he was in his butler’s dress, his nephew did not condescend to speak to him.

Shortly after this Antoine announced that the bride had arrived, and Mr. Cripps hurried downstairs to meet her.

Mrs. Nettleship, who had bestowed more than ordinary pains upon her person, wore a yellow satin sack embroidered with little dots of gold. She had large pearl earrings, a garnet necklace, and a diamond solitaire. Her complexion, which was naturally rather high, had been corrected by white French powder, and was further set off with abundance of little patches on her checks, neck, and shoulders. She carried a beautiful Indian fan, the handle of which was ornamented with precious stones.

She had arrived in great state, a gilt chariot lined with pale blue satin, hired for her from a coachmaker, by Mr. Rathbone, having formed her conveyance; and she was attended by a couple of footmen out of place, likewise hired for the occasion, habited in superb liveries of sky-blue cloth trimmed with silver, with silver shoulder-knots, and point d’Espagne hats.

Mr. Rathbone, who accompanied her, was dressed in a suit of purple velvet, laced with gold. Almost bewildered by the grandeur she beheld around, the widow was led upstairs by Mr. Cripps; her wonder increased at every step she took. The two long-eared spaniels and the macaw enchanted her; but she actually screamed with delight on beholding the monkey, in his little scarlet coat and bag-wig.

Coffee, chocolate, and champagne were then handed round by Antoine and the page; and while this was going on, the clergyman and his assistant were announced.

Doctor Gaynam had a much more respectable appearance than when he officiated at Sir Singleton Spinke’s marriage. He was dressed in his full canonicals, and wore a well-powdered full-bottomed wig, which Peter Pokerich would not have disdained.

Meanwhile Mr. Cripps had seated himself by the bride on one of the couches, and was talking very tenderly to her, when he perceived his uncle approach Mr. Rathbone, as if with the intention of addressing him.

He instantly arose, and taking the latter aside, whispered a few words to him, and then, having accomplished his object, which was to prevent any communication between him and Mr. Jukes, told the clergyman to proceed with the ceremony.

Doctor Gaynam was sipping a glass of usquebaugh, but he hastily gulped it down, and declared himself perfectly ready. He then took a prayer-book from the clerk, and stationed himself between the windows, motioning the others to take their places before him.

MR. CRIPPS DETECTED

All was soon arranged. Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine stood near the bride; Mr. Rathbone near the bridegroom; Antoine behind him; while the group was completed by the two Africans, who had mounted a settee in the corner, to obtain a full view of the ceremony. The page was on the floor keeping the dogs quiet, who were quarrelling with the monkey, and biting its tail.

Just as Doctor Gaynam had opened his book, and uttered a preliminary cough, a noise was heard at the door, and Mr. Cripps, turning to see what was the matter, beheld it open, and admit his master.

The valet’s alarm was instantly communicated to the whole assemblage. Antoine shrugged his shoulders, and lifted up his hands in affright. The two Africans exchanged glances of alarm, and all eyes were directed towards the beau, who with angry looks, and grasping his clouded cane, marched towards the valet. He was followed by Lady Brabazon, Sir Bulkeley Price, and Trussell Beechcroft.

Lady Brabazon was attended by her black page, leading her dog by a riband, and this arrival excited the anger of one of the spaniels, whose furious barking set the macaw screaming.

Mr. Cripps presented a very chopfallen appearance. All his assurance deserted him. His hands dropped to his side, and he scarcely dared to meet his master’s angry gaze.

‘Rascal!’ exclaimed Villiers, ‘I have at last fairly detected you. I’ll teach you to put on my clothes—to assume my name——’

‘What!’ screamed Mrs. Nettleship, dropping a bottle of salts which she had placed to her nose—‘isn’t it really himself—isn’t it Mr. Willars?’

‘No, madam,’ replied the beau—‘I am Mr. Villiers; and this rascal is only my valet, Crackenthorpe Cripps.’

‘This looks like the real gentleman, I must say,’ cried Mr. Rathbone, who was thunderstruck with surprise.

‘Oh, the villain!—the base deceiver!—the impostor!’ shrieked Mrs. Nettleship, clenching her hands, and regarding the valet as if she would annihilate him. ‘I’ll tear his eyes out! To deceive and expose me in this way—to—to—to—oh! I shall never survive it. Support me!’ she added, falling into the arms of the fair Thomasine.

‘This is really too bad of you, sir,’ said Mr. Cripps, who began to recover himself a little. ‘You’ve deceived me. I thought you were at Newmarket.’

‘I received information of your practices, rascal,’ replied the beau, ‘and resolving to see to what extent you carried them, I only went to a short distance from town, and then returned with Sir Bulkeley Price, with whom I have remained till now. And a pretty discovery I’ve made, i’faith! My house filled with company—my servants turned into your servants—a dinner, supper, confectionery, wine, fruit, musicians, and the devil knows what, ordered at my expense.’

‘Well, they’re not thrown away, sir,’ replied Mr. Cripps.

‘You can marry the lady yourself, if you think proper. I’ve no doubt she’ll consent to the exchange, and she has fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Oh, the impudence!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, jumping up.

‘I’ll not be taken in a second time. I’ll be revenged on all the sex!’

‘You are not aware, Mr. Willars, of the extensive frauds this rascal has practised upon you,’ said Mr. Rathbone. ‘He has actually signed a bond for five thousand pounds in your name, which I have in my pocket.’

‘The devil he has!’ exclaimed Villiers.

‘But it is of no effect, since the marriage has not taken place,’ said Mr. Cripps; ‘and if Mr. Villiers chooses to take the lady, he will of course pay you himself.’

In spite of himself, the beau could not help laughing.

‘Bad as Mr. Cripps is, he is not worse than the other party,’ said Trussell, stepping forward; ‘while he was duping them, they tried to dupe him. I understand from Mr. Jukes, who has it on unquestionable authority, that Mrs. Nettleship, so far from being a wealthy widow, is greatly in debt, while her friend there, Mr. Rathbone, hoped to pocket the five thousand pounds secured by the bond he has mentioned.’

‘Gadso! then it seems I’ve had an escape!’ cried Mr. Cripps.

‘You have,’ replied Trussell; ‘and your uncle would have told you all this before, if you had not kept him at a distance.’

‘I won’t stay here to be laughed at!’ cried the widow, looking defiance at the jeering countenances around her. ‘Mr. Rathbone, your arm. I’ll make you marry me yourself, or pay the penalty of the contract,’ she added, in a whisper.

‘You’ll not mistake a valet for a gentleman after this, Monsieur Rathbone,’ said Antoine—‘ha! ha!’

‘You had better go away by the back stairs,’ said Trussell, stopping them; ‘for there are a couple of officers in the hall waiting to arrest you!’

‘Curse on it! I sent them myself!’ said Mr. Rathbone, ‘to compel the rascal I supposed to be Mr. Wiliars to pay your debts.’

And hurrying out of the room, he acted upon Trussell’s suggestion.

‘And now, rascal,’ said the beau to the valet, ‘you are no longer in my service—I discharge you. And you may thank your stars that I let you off so easily.’

‘I was about to discharge you. sir,’ rejoined the valet, impertinently. ‘I don’t desire to live with a gentleman who takes his servants by surprise. He’s as bad as a jealous husband.’

‘Stay!’ cried the beau—‘you don’t leave me in that way. Antoine, stand by him. Now, sir, take off that peruke—take it off carefully—now the sword.’

The orders were obeyed, and the wig and sword delivered to the French valet.

‘Now take off the coat.’ Mr. Cripps complied with a sigh.

‘Now the waistcoat.’ The order was obeyed.

‘Now the cravat.’ And it was taken off.

‘Now the diamond buckles.’

‘Anything else?’ inquired Mr. Cripps, as he gave up the buckles. ‘Recollect there are ladies in the room, sir.’

‘Yes; take yourself off,’ rejoined the beau.

Even thus shorn of his splendour, Mr. Cripps maintained his customary assurance. He bowed profoundly and gracefully round, and quitted the room amid the laughter of the company.

ABEL BEECHCROFT DISCOVERING THE MISER IN THE CELLAR—DEATH OF THE MISER

No sooner, however, was one source of dread removed, than another was aroused. His hoards might be gone! Terrified by this idea, he flew to all his hiding-places, and placed their contents on the table. His dim eyes sparkled with unnatural brilliancy as he gloated over them.

While telling over the pieces, and weighing them in his hand, a new recollection crossed him. Snatching up the candle, he hurried to a small cupboard at one side of the room, at the bottom of which lay a heap of old rags and rubbish, apparently put there out of the way. Hastily removing this dusty pile, some half dozen leathern bags were exposed to view.

‘Here they are—here they are!’ he exclaimed, with a cry of childish delight. ‘Oh, my darlings!—my treasures!—-how glad I am to see you. You give me new life. Talk of physic—pshaw! there is none like gold. The sight of it cures me in an instant. I feel well—quite well; no, not quite,’ he added, as a sudden giddiness seized him, and he had to catch at the closet door for support; ‘not quite well; but better—much better. What a memory mine must be to forget these bags—each containing two hundred guineas—that’s twelve hundred! Twelve hundred guineas! and I had forgotten them. I hope I have not forgotten anything else. Let me see—oh! my head!—my head!’ he continued, shaking it mournfully. ‘My memory’s clean gone!—clean gone! But what shall I do with these bags? they’re not safe here. Jacob may find them in clearing the room. I’ll hide them in the cellar with the other treasure.’

Utterly forgetful that the chest had been removed, he immediately set about executing his design.

Listening at the door to hear that all was still, he took up two of the bags with the intention of carrying them downstairs; but finding them too heavy for him, he was obliged to content himself with one, and thus in transporting them all to the cellar, he had to perform six journeys. The last had nearly proved fatal, for as he tottered down the cellar steps, he missed his footing, and rolled to the bottom.

With some difficulty he got up again; but heedless of the bruises he had received, he picked up his candle, which was extinguished in the fall, and returned to his bedchamber to light it at the fire. This done, he procured the shovel, and repairing to the cellar commenced his task.

In his present state of debility and exhaustion, it cost him infinite labour to get up the bricks, and he was frequently obliged to desist from the toil and rest himself; but though he shook in every limb—though thick damps burst from every pore, he still persevered.

Having got out the bricks, he carefully scraped off the surface of the loose sandy soil. Surprised that the spade met with no resistance, his alarm was instantly excited, and he plunged it deeply into the ground.

But no chest was there!

For a few minutes he stood transfixed with despair. It never occurred to him that he had himself removed his treasure, but he concluded he had been robbed of it.

At length his anguish found vent in a piercing cry, and he rushed towards the door with the intention of calling up Jacob; but the recollection that forced itself upon him, that the porter was from home, checked him.

Other imperfect ideas thronged upon his bewildered brain. A glimmering recollection of digging up the chest crossed him, but he fancied he must have taken out its contents and buried them deeper in the ground. Somewhat calmed by the idea, he commenced digging anew with frightful ardour, and soon cleared out the soil to nearly the depth of three feet. But as he found nothing, his apprehensions returned with new force and paralysed his efforts.

Throwing aside the spade, he groped about in the sandy soil with his hands, in the hopes of finding a few pieces of gold. A single piece would have satisfied him; but there was none—nothing but little pebbles mixed with the sand. His moans, while thus employed, were truly piteous.

At this juncture, his candle, which had long been expiring in the socket, went out, leaving him in total darkness. A mortal faintness seized him at the same time. He tried to get out of the hole, but fell back with the effort—his head striking against the bricks. He struggled to get up again, but in vain—his limbs refused their office. He tried to cry out for help, but a hollow rattling sound alone issued from his throat.

At length, by a convulsive effort, he did contrive to lift his head from the ground; but that was all he could do. His hands clutched ineffectually at the sandy soil; his frame was powerless; and a stifled groan broke from his lips. But this condition was too horrible for long endurance. The muscles of the neck relaxed; his head fell heavily backwards; and after a gasp or two, respiration ceased.

Thus died this unhappy man, unattended, in a cellar, half entombed in the hole digged as a hiding-place for a portion of his wealth—wealth for which he had sacrificed all his comforts, all his feelings, all his affections, and for which alone of late he had seemed to live. Thus he perished—a fearful example of the effects of the heart-searing vice of which he was the slave and the victim.

After some little consideration, Abel went up alone to the miser’s room, and knocking two or three times, and receiving no answer, opened the door. Approaching the bed, he found it empty, with the clothes turned down, as left by the miser; and casting a hurried glance into the closet to satisfy himself that no person was there, he hastily ran downstairs to Hilda, to acquaint her with the alarming discovery he had made.

She was greatly terrified; but after a moment’s reflection, suggested that her father might possibly have gone down to the cellar, and related the circumstance which she herself had once witnessed there.

Concurring in the opinion, Abel offered immediately to go in search of him; and dissuading Hilda, who secretly shared his worst apprehensions, from accompanying him, took a candle and descended to the cellar.

As he entered the vault, he indistinctly perceived a ghastly object; and springing forward, held up the light, so as to reveal it more fully. His fancy had not deceived him. There, in a grave—evidently digged by his own hands—lay his old enemy—dead—dead!

While Abel was wrapt in contemplation of this miserable spectacle, and surrendering himself to the thoughts which it inspired, heavy steps were heard behind him, and Jacob rushed into the cellar.

‘Where is he?’ cried the porter, in accents of alarm. ‘Has anything happened? Ha! I see.’

And pushing past Abel Beechcroft, he precipitated himself into the hole with his master.

‘All’s over with him,’ he cried, in a voice of agony and self-reproach, and grasping the cold hand of the corpse. ‘This would never have happened if I had been at home. I’m in a manner his murderer.’

‘Another hand than yours has been at work here, Jacob,’ said Abel; ‘and terrible as your poor master’s fate has been, it may prove a salutary lesson to others. There he lies, who a few hours ago was the possessor of useless thousands, the value of which he knew not—nay, the very existence of which he knew not—for the few bags of gold beside him were the only palpable treasure he owned.

DISPERSION OF THE JACOBITE CLUB, AND DEATH OF CARDWELL FIREBRAS—THE SUMMER-HOUSE AT THE CHEQUERS—THE OLD MILL—THE JACOBITES BETRAYED

A glance satisfied Firebras that all was right, and he returned slowly to the house, the landlord stamping upon the floor as he quitted the building, as a signal to the grenadiers that they might now come forth from their concealment. On reaching the house, Firebras dismissed the landlord, and going up to Randulph, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, ‘I have rare news for you.’

‘And I have rare news for you,’ replied the other.

‘Hear mine first!’ cried Firebras. ‘What if I tell you I am come to offer you your estates and the hand of Hilda, if you join the Jacobite party?’

‘There would be no use in joining you now!’ returned Randulph.

‘You think I’m trifling with you!’ cried Firebras, producing a packet; ‘but this will speak to the contrary. Here is the assignment of your estates to Isaac Isaacs. A receipt in full of all claims is attached to it. The deed is yours, provided you join us.’

‘You amaze me,’ cried Randulph, gazing at the packet; ‘that is unquestionably the deed I executed.’

‘Most certainly it is,’ replied Firebras. ‘It is too long a story to tell you how I became possessed of it,’ he added, replacing it in his pocket, ‘but I have other intelligence for you. Mr. Scarve is dead!’ Randolph uttered an exclamation of surprise.

‘He died last night,’ pursued Firebras, ‘and left his property to Philip Frewin, in case of Hilda’s refusal to marry him.’

‘But Philip may not live to claim the fulfilment of the condition,’ cried Randulph.

‘Philip, also, is dead,’ replied Firebras. And smiling at Randulph’s astonishment, he added, ‘Now you see that all is in your grasp. Fate has given you the lady of your love. I offer you your fortune. Can you refuse to join us?’

‘Mr. Firebras,’ said Randulph, composing himself, ‘this is not the time to put such a question to me.’

‘Pardon me,’ cried Firebras sternly, ‘I must have an answer now—at this moment—or you lose your estates and Hilda for ever. Do not suppose I threaten lightly. I can, and will, make good my words.’

‘You mistake me altogether,’ rejoined Randulph. ‘I mean to say it would be useless for me to assent. You are betrayed.’

‘Betrayed!’ exclaimed Firebras, in a voice of thunder. ‘How! by whom? But this is a mere assertion made to turn me from my purpose.’

‘You will find it too true,’ replied Randulph. ‘The house is environed on all sides by grenadiers.’

‘I have just visited the summer-house,’ said Firebras. ‘There was no one there.’

‘The men were concealed in a lower chamber,’ said Randulph.

‘It’ may be so,’ cried Firebras, with a terrible imprecation. ‘But they shall not take me easily. My pistols! ha! they have been removed! The landlord, then, is our betrayer.’

‘He is,’ replied Randulph. ‘Your only chance of escape is apparent unconsciousness of the design. You might perhaps make good your own retreat—but the others——’

‘I will never desert them,’ said Firebras. ‘There is a boat at hand, for I ordered Jacob Post to be in waiting for you off the summer-house, for another purpose, and I caught a glimpse of him just now. Ha! here come our friends.’ And, as he spoke, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, Sir Bulkeley Price, Father Verselyn, Mr. Travers, and four or five other gentlemen entered the room.

‘Leave us, landlord,’ said Firebras; ‘we will call you when we want you.’ And the order being obeyed, he bolted the door. ‘We are betrayed, gentlemen,’ said Firebras, in a low tone; ‘the house is surrounded by guards, and our retreat is cut off by the river.’

As the words were uttered, the door was tried by some persons without, who, finding it fastened, proceeded to burst it open. ‘To the garden! to the garden!’ cried Firebras. And the party made for the window.

Before, however, the whole of them could pass through it, the officer and a party of grenadiers burst open the door, and endeavoured to seize them.

Firebras and the others, with the exception of Randulph, drew off.

DEATH OF TUE JACOBITE CLUB, AND OF CARDWELL FIREBRAS—DISPERSION

The Miser’s Daughter their swords, and the next instant an encounter took place. But, as all was buried in darkness, little mischief was done. In spite of the efforts of the soldiers to prevent them, five or six of the Jacobites contrived to get across the ditch, and gaining the mill, took shelter within it. They were followed by a party of grenadiers, who fired a few shots at them. Whether the circumstance was the result of accident or design is immaterial, but a few minutes afterwards the mill was found to be on fire. Flames burst from the upper windows, throwing a fierce glare on the groups below, and brightly illumining the towers of Westminster Abbey.

Repeated loud explosions were next heard, threatening each moment to shake the mill to pieces; while some of the unfortunate Jacobites were seen springing from a side window upon the waterwheel, and trying to descend by it. Two others, at the risk of breaking their necks, dropped from a window facing the river, and endeavoured to gain the vessel moored beside it. The fugitives on the water-wheel were held in check by a party of grenadiers, who, having thrown a couple of planks over the little stream, were enabled to reach them.

Meanwhile, favoured by the previous darkness, for all was now as bright as day, Firebras, Salusbury, and the rest of the Jacobites made good their retreat as far as the summer-house. Some of them even managed to force their way to the platform. Here a desperate struggle took place, in which Sir Norfolk was severely wounded in the side by a bayonet. By this time the fire had broken out in the mill, and its glare showed Jacob at a little distance in a skiff. Notwithstanding the menaces of the soldiers, who pointed their guns at him, and threatened to fire if he approached nearer, Jacob pushed resolutely towards the summer-house.

He was now close under the platform, and made signs to Randulph to descend, but the latter would not desert Sir Norfolk, who had been seized by a couple of grenadiers. He threw himself upon the old baronet’s captors, and in the struggle that ensued, the railing gave way, precipitating Sir Bulkeley Price, the Jesuit, and the grenadiers into the tide. Before the other soldiers had recovered from their surprise at this occurrence, Randulph had lowered Sir Norfolk into the skiff and sprung in after him.

Jacob’s efforts to push off were impeded by Sir Bulkeley Price, who clung to the stern of the skiff, earnestly imploring them to take him in. Father Verselyn caught hold of the steps, and apprehensive of some further disaster, crept along the side of the summer-house, and took refuge in a small sewer, in the slime of which it is supposed he perished, for he was never heard of more.

Meanwhile, Cardwell Firebras—engaged hand to hand with the officer, who, having vainly summoned him to surrender, attacked him in person—had reached the platform. Seeing escape impossible, Firebras, while defending himself against the officer, called to Randulph, whom he descried below, and held out the packet to him. The latter ordered Jacob to keep the skiff steady, and to bring it as near the combatants as possible.

While Jacob obeyed the injunction, a successful thrust from Firebras stretched his adversary upon the platform, but the next moment he received his own death-wound from Long Tom, who stepped forward as his officer fell, and discharged his musket into his breast. With a dying effort, Firebras stretched his hand over the rail, and consigning the packet to Randulph, fell backwards into the water. Possessed of the packet, Randulph turned to the aid of Sir Bulkeley Price, and pulling him into the skiff, Jacob instantly pushed off. Assisted by the stream, which ran very strong, they soon got under the sides of the vessel near the mill, and were sheltered from the fire of the soldiery.

Meanwhile, the conflagration raged fast and furiously, and before the skiff containing the fugitives had got half way to Westminster Bridge, a tremendous explosion took place, scattering the blazing fragments of the old mill far and wide into the river.

RANDOLPH CREW’S MARRIAGE WITH HILDA AT LAMBETH CHURCH—DETAILING AN EVENT WHICH MAY POSSIBLY HAVE BEEN ANTICIPATED

We shall hurry over the intervening period as rapidly as the lovers themselves would have hurried it over, and proceed at once to the wished-for day.

A little before nine o’clock, on this eventful morning, Randulph, who had taken up his quarters with Sir Bulkeley Price, in Saint James’s Square, entered the breakfast-room, arrayed in his bridal attire, which had been prepared for him by the skilful hands of Desmartins. He found Sir Bulkeley Price and Sir Norfolk Salusbury at the table—the latter having come up from Wales, whither he had retired to recruit himself after his wound, expressly to attend the ceremony. After receiving their congratulations, Randulph sat down with them, but as he could only swallow a cup of chocolate, he underwent much rallying on his want of appetite.

Breakfast over, the party drove to Whitehall Stairs, where a six-oared barge was in readiness to convey them across the river. Jacob Post was appointed coxswain of this barge, and he wore a waterman’s coat of scarlet cloth, and velvet jockey-shaped cap of the same colour. The six rowers were attired in the same livery, and presented a very gay appearance.

The morning was bright and beautiful, and everything seemed to Randulph to participate in his happiness. Each boat that passed them, seeing the purpose on which they were bent, cheered them cordially, and Jacob, who was greatly elated, returned their greetings lustily.

As they passed through Westminster Bridge, and shaped their rapid course to Lambeth, they passed a boat containing a couple in bridal attire, and rowed by watermen with favours in their caps. These were Mr. Rathbone and Mrs. Nettleship, who, having made a composition with their creditors, had come to the conclusion that the best thing they could do would be to fulfil their original agreement, and having heard that Randulph and Hilda were to be united at Lambeth, they determined, like Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, to be married at the same time, and at the same church. The boats cheered each other as they passed. Shortly after this, they came up with a four-oared cutter, in which was a still more gaily dressed bridal party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Deacle, the fair Thomasine, and Peter Pokerich. The sunny tresses, bright eyes, and dimpling cheeks of the bride attracted Sir Bulkeley’s admiration, and he called out to Peter that he ought to consider himself a very happy man; to which the little barber replied, ‘that he was the happiest man in the world—Mr. Crew excepted.’

Another cheering passed between the rowers; and Randulph’s barge swept over the sparkling waters to the stairs near Lambeth Palace, where he and his companions disembarked.

As Abel Beechcroft was extremely well known and highly respected in the neighbourhood, great preparations were made to lend éclat to his nephew’s wedding. A band of music was stationed on a lighter moored near the stairs; and the lighter itself was hung all over with flags and streamers. The band was playing, the bells ringing, and as Randulph leaped ashore, a loud shout from the crowd collected to see him land, welcomed him, while many flattering comments, in no very low key, were made upon his handsome appearance by the female part of the assemblage. In passing towards his uncle’s residence, Randulph noticed with interest a troop of pretty little girls with wreaths round their heads, and baskets of flowers in their hands, standing in the path leading to the church.

The party were admitted by Mr. Jukes, whose portly figure was well displayed in an expansive snowy waistcoat, a brown coat, spick and span new for the occasion, and a well-powdered bob-wig. The worthy butler gave Randulph a hearty welcome, and wished him many years of happiness, and having ushered him and the others into the parlour, returned to the hall to Jacob, to give him wedding favours for himself and the watermen, which the other hastened to distribute.

The meeting between the young bride and bridegroom was full of agitated delight. Abel looked perfectly happy, but thoughtful, as did Mrs. Crew, whose emotion found relief in an occasional sigh—not the sigh of misgiving, but the relief of a joy-oppressed heart.

Trussell was, as usual, in very high spirits. He shook Randulph heartily by the hand, wished him all sorts of happiness, and then cordially greeted the Welsh baronets. Besides Mrs. Clinton, there was another young lady present, the daughter of an old friend of Mrs. Crew’s, a Miss Wilbraham, who acted as bridesmaid to Hilda.

Soon afterwards, all being in readiness, the bride prepared to set forth under the care of Abel Beechcroft, who, before they quitted the house, in an earnest tone, invoked a blessing on her head and on that of his nephew. And both felt that the blessing of so good a man would not be thrown away.

Cheered by the good wishes and smiling countenances of the groups through which they had passed, and enlivened by the sunshine, the party entered the church. Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, with Mr. Rathbone and Mrs. Nettleship, were already standing beside the altar. The young couple advanced, and took the central place, and the church was instantly crowded with spectators. The service was admirably performed by a venerable clergyman—an old and valued friend of Abel’s, and at its close, the concourse issued from the church, dividing into two lines, so as to allow a passage for the wedding train.

As soon as the happy couple were seen issuing hand-in-hand from the Gothic portal of the old church, a loud and joyous shout was raised by the assemblage, a couple of guns were fired on board the lighter, and the church bells rang forth a joyous peal.

It was a heart-cheering sight, and many a breast throbbed, and many an eye grew moist at beholding it. And plenty of spectators there were. The whole of the area before the church was filled, and the windows and towers of the old archiépiscopal palace were studded with faces. The little flower-girls now stepped forward, and strewed their fragrant offerings in the path of the happy pair, who walked on amid the continued cheers of the bystanders.

A little behind Randulph, on the right, walked Trussell, who, excited by the general enthusiasm, had placed his hat on his cane, and waved it to the crowd. Near him came Abel and Miss Wilbraham, the former with a glowing smile on his countenance, such as Mr. Jukes himself never remembered to have witnessed. After them walked Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Mrs. Crew. Next in order came Mr. and Mrs. Pokerich, the latter of whom thought it decorous to turn aside her pretty face from the ardent gaze of her enamoured little lord. Lastly came Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone, whose appearance did not seem greatly to interest the spectators. Sir Bulkeley Price had posted himself on the left of the church door, to watch the wedding train pass by, and to wait the coming forth of the clergyman.

As Randulph advanced through the crowd, Jacob Post stepped forward, and holding out his rough, honest hand to him, said in a voice, the sincerity of which could not be doubted, ‘God bless you, sir, and your lovely bride, and may you know years of uninterrupted happiness!’

‘And take my blessing too,’ said Mr. Jukes, likewise extending his hand. ‘An old man’s good wishes, though he be but a dependant, can do no harm.’

‘I thank you both!’ cried Randulph, in a voice of emotion; ‘and my wife thanks you too.’

‘I do—I do,’ she replied; ‘nor do I doubt the fulfilment of your wishes.’ And as she uttered these words, loud and deafening cheers rent the air, and another discharge of guns took place.

In this way they proceeded to the house, where they were followed by the rest of the party, and presently afterwards by the clergyman and Sir Bulkeley. They then all sat down to an excellent repast.

By desire of his hospitable master, Mr. Jukes invited the other couples and their friends to take refreshments at his house, which, as they delightedly availed themselves of the offer, were served to them in the summer-house overlooking the river; where, while enjoying themselves, they did not forget to drink long life and happiness to Randulph and his bride.

The honeymoon—all the rest of their life was a honeymoon—was passed by the happy couple, in good old-fashioned style, at Lambeth. They then proceeded to Cheshire, accompanied by Trussell and Mrs. Crew, and were soon afterwards followed by Abel, who passed the winter with them. In due time the prognostications of Mr. Jukes were fulfilled, and Abel displayed no objection to the endearments of two great-nieces and a great-nephew.

Appointed Randulph’s head-gamekeeper, Jacob Post passed the remainder of his days in the service of his new master. Of the two brothers Beechcroft, Abel was the first to pay the debt of nature, Trussell survived him two or three years, during which he was a great martyr to gout. He never, however, lost his temper, except when young Master Randulph accidentally trod on his toe, and then he would swear a round oath, to frighten him, and try to hit at him with his stick, as testy old gentlemen are wont to do in plays. Randulph and Hilda almost touched the verge of the nineteenth century; and from the anecdotes of one of their descendants, in the third generation, the materials of the present tale have been collected.

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HISTORY OF THE IRISH REBELLION IN 1798 AND EMMETT’S INSURRECTION IN 1803

By W. H. Maxwell

Author Of ‘The Life Of The Duke Of Wellington,’ Etc. Etc.

Take heed

How you awake the deeping sword of war;

We charge you, in the name of God, take heed!

For never two such kingdoms did contend,

Without much fall of blood.

—Shakspeare.

THE CRADLE OF THE REBELLION

The rebellious movement which, in 1798, openly burst into the horrors of civil war, had for years been maturing. The success of the American colonists in defeating the mother country, and the upheaval in France, the great Revolution, proved fatal precedents, and the easily excited minds of the Irish people led the disloyal and disaffected of the sister kingdom to contemplate the forcible carrying out of a similar policy. As will be seen, this fratricidal struggle largely resolved itself into a religious campaign between the Catholic and Protestant sections of the community.

At an early stage of the coming struggle the ulterior objects of the discontented Catholics became perfectly apparent, and some of their warmest advocates took alarm. Sir Hercules Langrish, in his place in the Irish Parliament, thus addressed the House: ‘Notwithstanding my prepossessions in favour of the Roman Catholics, I was checked for some time in my ardour to serve them, by reading of late a multitude of publications and paragraphs in the newspapers, and other public prints, circulated gratis with the utmost industry, purporting to convey the sentiments of the Catholics. What was their import? They were exhortations to the people never to be satisfied at any concession till the State itself was conceded: they were precautions against public tranquillity; they were invitations to disorder, and covenants of discontent; they were ostentations of strength, rather than solicitations for favour; rather appeals to the power of the people, than applications to the authority of the State; they involved the relief of the Catholic, with the revolution of the Government; and were dissertations for democracy, rather than arguments for toleration.’

APPEAL TO FORCE OF ARMS

Acting, however, on the resolutions they had published, the Committees determined to summon a Convention in imitation of the proceedings which were at the time violently revolutionising France, where the horrors of the great French Rebellion had already unsettled everything in 1789. Circulars were issued by their leaders—representatives elected in the counties—and on the 3rd of December 1792 the ‘Back Lane Parliament’ commenced its first session in Tailor’s Hall.

The daring measure of calling together an assembly, where the delegates debated with closed doors, was followed by a still bolder demonstration. The discontented Romanists resolved upon making an overbearing display of physical force, and declared their intention to arm, to maintain their rights and effect their objects. For this purpose large sums of money were levied, and a body was enrolled in the metropolis under the title of ‘The National Guard.’ They were arrayed in green uniforms, with a harp without the crown displayed upon the buttons and appointments. Orders were issued for a general muster on the 9th of December; but a proclamation, issued by the Lord Lieutenant, declared the body to be dangerous to the public peace, and directed the authorities to disperse the meeting should it be attempted, and employ force were it required. Many conjectures were hazarded at the time respecting the objects of the movement; some asserted that it was merely intended, by an exhibition of numerical strength, to confirm unsteady friends, and intimidate those who were opposed to them; others, however, ascribed to the National Guards more serious and sanguinary designs—‘to seize even then upon the city, and commence at once a civil war.’ Certain it is that the Government were led to apprehend that this muster would lead to a revolutionary movement, and, accordingly, the most decisive measures were taken to render it abortive.

‘THE UNITED IRISHMEN’

To follow up the progress and proceedings of the ‘United Irishmen’ throughout that unquiet period which intervened between the lieutenancies of Earls Westmoreland and Camden would be unnecessary. Their civil and military organisation, however, shall be described, and a brief analysis given of their general history from the epoch where we have broken off, when the seeds of disaffection had taken a firm root, and a conspiracy was hatched, which, a few years afterwards, became fatally matured, and exploded in 1798 with portentous violence.

Under the colour of volunteering, the arming and drilling of the malcontents continued. A proclamation, issued by the 11th of March 1793, declared these proceedings illegal, and attached penal consequences to any who should continue them. The preamble ran thus: ‘Whereas certain seditious and ill-affected persons, in several parts of the north, particularly in the town of Belfast, have endeavoured to foment and encourage discontent, and to defame the Government and the Parliament, by seditious publications circulated among the people; and that several bodies of men have been collected in armed associations, and have been levied and arrayed in the said town of Belfast; and that arms and gunpowder to a very large amount have been sent thither; and that bodies of men have been drilled and exercised by day and night, under the pretext of obtaining a redress of grievances, though the obvious intention appears to be to overawe the Parliament and the Government, and to dictate to both.’

This and the Gunpowder Act struck heavily at the military organisations of the revolutionists; while the Convention Act, subsequently passed, embarrassed the leaders of the movement so much, that an influential member of the Union, Samuel Neilson, afterwards declared, ‘That the bill was calculated to meet every part of the system, and the framer must have had their constitution in his hand when he was devising its provisions.’

‘THE DEFENDERS’ AND ‘ORANGE LODGES’

In 1794 and 1795 outrages by ‘the Defenders’—a lawless confederacy, exclusively Catholic—became general, and the Protestants associated for self-defence. A conflict between the rival religionists took place at a spot called ‘The Diamond,’ in the county of Armagh, in which the Defenders were signally defeated. In commemoration of this success the first Orange Lodge was formed on the 21st of September 1795. The system of Orange Lodges ‘was not established in the metropolis, though many years threatened with open rebellion, till the month of January 1798; and many gentlemen of high character and considerable talents placed themselves at its head, to give the institution a proper direction, and to silence the calumnious clamours of traitors against it.’ The ‘Orange’ organisation, slowly but steadily, gained strength, until the body was considered in the north of Ireland so numerous and effective, that General Knox, commanding at the outbreak in 1798, assured the Government that to these ardent supporters of the constitution the safety of Ulster might be confidently entrusted.

STATE PROSECUTIONS

Early in the annals of the movement several of the revolutionary leaders were subjected to State prosecutions for sedition. Hamilton Rowan was convicted, fined, and imprisoned, but escaped in women’s clothes from Newgate; Nappy Tandy placed under bail, but fled the kingdom to avoid a trial; Doctor Drennan was tried and acquitted; Tone expatriated himself, and went with his family to America; but Jackson, an English clergyman, and an envoy from the French Republican Government to the Irish revolutionists, was, on the 23rd of April 1795, capitally convicted of high treason. The unhappy man committed suicide, and poisoned himself in the prisoner’s bar, immediately after the foreman had announced him guilty.

The recall of Lord Westmoreland and the appointment of Lord Fitzwilliam as viceroy raised the sinking confidence of the Catholic party as much as it depressed the hopes of the Orangists. The well-known bias of the Earl’s political opinions was warmly in favour of fresh and full concessions, and it was supposed that Catholic emancipation was at hand. While the Roman Catholics were buoyant with high expectation, arising from the noble lord’s appointment to the Irish lieutenancy, a sudden recall crushed their hopes and augmented their disaffection. From this period their hostility to any monarchical form of government appears to have become inveterate, and the first test required of a United Irishman—one in which a reformed Parliament was distinctly recognised—was instantly exchanged for another purely democratical.

OATH OF THE ‘UNITED IRISHMEN’

The initiatory oath taken henceforth by the United Irishmen was thus worded:—‘In the awful presence of God, I,... do voluntarily declare that I will persevere in endeavouring to form a brotherhood of affection among Irishmen of every religious persuasion, and that I will also persevere in my endeavours to obtain an equal, full, and adequate representation of all the people of Ireland. I do further declare, that neither hopes, fears, rewards, or punishments, shall ever induce me, directly or indirectly, to inform or give evidence against any member or members of this or similar societies, for any act or expression of theirs, done or made collectively or individually in and out of this society, in pursuance of the spirit of this obligation.’

FRENCH INVASION INVITED

1796 was not fated to enjoy more tranquillity than the stormy era that preceded it. A compulsory increase of military power, under the provisions of the Militia Bill, increased the general discontent, and the public uneasiness was not abated by a discovery that the French Directory had undertaken to land an invading army to assist the Irish revolutionists, who, on their part, undertook to pay these auxiliaries, and eventually defray the whole expenses of the expedition. Additional powers were now demanded by the Irish Executive, and the Insurrection Act, which had passed in spring, was followed up by a suspension of habeas corpus in October.

There is no doubt that these stringent powers were afterwards sadly and frequently abused. Arrests on secret information—districts unnecessarily proclaimed—suspected persons sent, without the shadow of a trial, on board the fleet—military license—arbitrary impressment of beasts of burden for baggage transport—abuse in billeting—a general insolence in the soldiery,—all these formed constant subject for complaint, and, unfortunately, it was seldom made without ample provocation.

These severities were impolitic—they reacted against the Government—and the feelings of the lower orders became exasperated, but not subdued. The most deeply marked of innate feelings in the human breast is resistance to oppression, whether it be real or imaginary. The peasantry assembled by night to drill, or deprive the loyalists of their arms, whilst by day they collected in enormous numbers to harvest the crops of persons imprisoned for political offences, or under the pretext of attending a funeral, or a hurling match, they paraded in military array, with banners and martial music.

While the disaffected thus evinced warm sympathy for their imprisoned friends, reaping their corn and securing their potato crops, they were equally assiduous in shielding them from the penal consequences of their crimes. Bribery and intimidation were the means commonly employed, and should these fail, assassination was not infrequent. This system of terror too frequently sheltered the guilty from the punishment they deserved; for, dreading the consequences of conviction and consequent reprisals, witnesses prevaricated, intimidated jurors were afraid to do their duty, and the criminal escaped.

PROSECUTIONS AND SEARCHES FOR CONCEALED ARMS

In the spring of 1797 General Lake issued a proclamation, directing that all persons unauthorised to keep arms should surrender them forthwith to the proper authorities. It was declared that secret information where weapons were concealed should be liberally rewarded, and the full value of such arms as might be thus recovered should be given to the informant. That the quantity hidden throughout the kingdom was immense may be conceived from the fact that, within the year, and in two provinces alone, Ulster and Leinster, 129,583 weapons of various descriptions were seized or surrendered. In this number there were 48,000 firelocks, 70,000 pikes, and 22 pieces of cannon.

READY FOR THE REBELLION

At this period it is probable that the United Irishmen, in point of numbers and organisation, were almost as formidable as at the moment of the insurrection. In the northern provincial meetings particular inquiries were made of the delegates assembled, ‘whether they considered themselves as being sufficiently strong to disarm the military quartered in their respective districts?’ and, with a few exceptions, the question received an affirmative reply. Although too successful in corrupting the soldiers, they appear to have made very erroneous calculations as to the number whose allegiance had been shaken. Many, both of the line and the militia, became pretended converts to republicanism merely to obtain the money and entertainment offered liberally by the disaffected. Some regiments, however, became seriously tainted with disloyalty; but, generally, the active measures to counteract seduction adopted by the commanding officers defeated the attempt.

ORGANISATION OF THE REBELS

With the confidence which strength and union give to those who meditate a revolutionary essay, the leaders of the disaffected waited with impatience the assistance promised them through their agents by the French Directory.

The military organisation of the United Irishmen was grafted on their elaborately framed civil representative constitution, and was constituted in the following manner:—‘The secretary of each subordinate society, composed of twelve members, was appointed their petty or non-commissioned officer. The delegate of five societies to a lower baronial committee was commonly appointed captain of a company, consisting of the five societies who had delegated him, and who made the number of sixty privates; and then the delegate of ten lower baronials to the upper or district committee was commonly appointed colonel of a battalion, which was thus composed of six hundred. The colonels of battalions in each county sent in the names of three persons to the Executive Directory of the Union, one of whom was appointed by them adjutant-general of the county, whose duty it was to receive and communicate military orders from the Executive to the colonels of battalions, and in general to act as officer of the revolutionary staff. They were required to inform themselves of, and report the state of the rebel regiments within their respective districts, of the number of mills, the roads, rivers, bridges, and fords, the military positions, the capacity of the towns and villages to receive troops, to communicate to the Executive every movement of the enemy (meaning the King’s troops), to announce the first appearance of their allies (the French invaders), and immediately to collect their forces.

MILITARY PLANS

Besides these a military committee was specially appointed. Its labours were twofold: one was to prepare a plan for a general insurrection unsupported by foreign aid; the other, to devise the best means of co-operation with a French army, in the event of the promised descent being effected on the coast of Ireland. On this event the Directory calculated with such certainty in 1797, that a general order ‘to be ready’ was issued through the provincial committees. Those who had the means to obtain them were exhorted to procure firearms and ammunition—pikes were to be provided by the lower orders—and throughout three provinces the order was promptly obeyed. The organisation of Connaught was, fortunately, still imperfect, and at the outbreak of the insurrection the western counties were, happily for themselves, quite unprepared for action.

FRENCH INVASION

Passing over the abortive attempt at an invasion arranged between Lord Edward Fitzgerald and General Lazare Hoche in 1796, when, after months of preparations, which—like the Spanish Armada—failed ignominiously, the ships being the victims of the adverse winds, and the commander, Morard de Galles, being watched by the English Admiral Gardiner with a stronger force (18 sail of the line). The equipment, but for unfavourable circumstances, was sufficiently formidable,—the expedition numbering 15 sail of the line, 10 frigates, and 7 transports, which were afterwards augmented,—the whole comprising 15,000 troops, with 40,000 extra stand of arms, a field park of 29 pieces, 60,000 barrels of powder, and 7,000,000 cartridges. The time chosen was just before Christmas.

DISCOMFITED FRENCH FLEET IN BANTRY BAY

On the 26th December—the morning after the French admiral had issued orders to cut the cables and put to sea—Wolf Tone, who was the active spirit of the expedition, thus describes the situation to which the remnant of the invading forces was reduced:—‘The morning is now come, the gale continues, and the fog is so thick that we cannot see a ship’s length ahead; so here we lie in the utmost uncertainty and anxiety. In all probability we are now left without admiral or general; if so, Cherin will command the troops, and Bedout the fleet; but, at all events, there is an end of the expedition. Certainly we have been persecuted by a strange fatality, from the very night of our departure to this hour. We have lost two commanders-in-chief; of four admirals not one remains; we have lost one ship of the line (the Séduisant was shipwrecked) that we know of, and probably many others of which we know nothing; we have been now six days in Bantry Bay, within 500 yards of the shore, without being able to effect a landing; we have been dispersed four times in four days; and at this moment, of 43 sail, of which the expedition consisted, we can muster of all sizes but 14. There only wants our falling in with the English to complete our destruction.’

On the 27th the weather continued stormy. Several ships were obliged to cut and run, the fleet was reduced to 7 sail of the line and a frigate, the troops to 4200 men, and the artillery to two four-pounders. As a last effort this miserable remnant of the expedition determined to seek the Shannon, which had been named as the place of rendezvous. During the whole gale, which blew on the night of the 28th, a sixth separation occurred, and three seventy-fours and a frigate parted company. On the 29th the commodore signalised the other captains to steer for France, and the last ship of an expedition intended to overthrow the British monarchy quitted the shores of Ireland without having landed a single soldier, communicated with the disaffected, or thrown a musket on the shore.

The failure of the first attempt at an invasion was a fatal disappointment to the Irish Unionists; and although hopes were held out that a second armament would be fitted out by the French Directory without delay, the financial and political embarrassments of the Republic gave little promise that it would or could be effected. Hoche, who did not reach France for fifteen days after Grouchy, was nominated soon after to the command of the army of the Sambre and the Meuse. This appointment was heavily regretted by the agents of the United Irishmen, for there is no doubt that Ireland was to Hoche the favourite field of ambition that Egypt was afterwards to Bonaparte; and undoubtedly he was sincere in his expressed intention of making the second effort at invasion, had not his sudden dissolution intervened.

‘The affair,’ replied he, ‘is but suspended. You know our difficulties for money; the repair of our fleet and the necessary preparations require some considerable time, and, in the meantime, there are 15,000 men lying idle below, and, in fact, we cannot even feed them there. The Directory has resolved, in the meantime, to employ them usefully elsewhere, and has accepted my services; but be assured, the moment the enterprise is resumed, that I will return with the first patrouille which embarks.’—General Hoche to Tone. Hoche sank from rapid consumption, it is said, 19th of September 1797, in command of the united armies of the Rhine and Sambre and Meuse. Adverse fate seemed determined to overwhelm unhappy Ireland, but fortune again miraculously warded off the desperately threatening conjunction of affairs.

THE DUTCH INVASION AVERTED

From another quarter, however, the Irish revolutionists obtained both sympathy and support. Lewines, the chief agent of the United Irishmen, had been accredited to Spain and Holland, with both powers England being at war, to request assistance. From the Spanish Government he received, generally, an encouraging answer to his memorial; and from the Batavian Executive a positive assurance of prompt and powerful co-operation on the part of the Dutch republicans—a promise they endeavoured to faithfully perform.

It was an awful epoch in British history; and it would have been difficult to say whether at home or abroad the political position of England was more embarrassed and portentous. Conquest had attended the onward march of the Republicans, and victory had succeeded victory; and while Ireland was ready to explode, public confidence was shaken to its centre, for that stay of Britain—her fleet—had failed her in her trying hour, and broken into open mutiny. Such was the ominous aspect, foreign and domestic, when the Batavian Government determined to strike a blow, that, if fortunately delivered, might have gone far to dismember that island empire which had wrung from the Dutch the dominion of the seas.

Holland was a power to be dreaded. France threatened and intended a descent, but she possessed the wish, rather than the power to effect it. Her naval executive was wretchedly defective, her marine and monetary resources limited and precarious; and while the dockyard authorities declared that eight weeks would be sufficient to fit out a second expedition, it was probable—and so it proved—that as many months must elapse before a fleet could be sent afloat. With the Dutch Republic matters were in a different state. In the Texel five-and-twenty line-of-battle ships and frigates were lying manned, equipped, and ready for sea; 15,000 troops were ordered for instant embarkation; and with a quantity of spare arms, a large artillery force, and plenty of money to subsist the troops when landed, the Batavian armament undauntedly determined to push out of harbour with the first fair wind, elude Admiral Warren and his blockading squadron—if they could—or, if intercepted, stand an action with the British admiral’s forces, and thus endeavour to redeem the honour of a flag that once had been feared and respected.

The Dutch Government proved their sincerity of intention by the selection they made for the command of the expedition. The naval department was entrusted to De Winter, an officer of distinguished reputation, while the troops were placed under the direction of Daendels, a man justly considered to be the best general in the service of the Republic. The feelings of the Batavian Executive towards the Irish revolutionists were ardent and disinterested, and nothing could surpass the enthusiastic spirit which pervaded both the military and marine.

Tone relates in his Memoirs:—‘General Daendels showed me to-day his instructions from the Dutch Government. They are fair and honest, and I have no doubt he will act up to them. The spirit of them is, always to maintain the character of a faithful ally, and not to interfere in the domestic concerns of the people; to aid them, by every means in his power, to establish their liberty and independence, and to expect no condition in return, but that we should throw off the English yoke, and that, when all was settled on that score, we should arrange our future commerce with the Dutch Republic on the basis of reciprocal advantage and accommodation.’

But it would appear that against invasive efforts fortune had declared herself an enemy, and the same wind that prevented the landing of a French armament as obstinately resisted the sailing of the Dutch one. Day after day fifteen sail-of-the-line, eight frigates, and thirty transports lay at single anchor, locked up in the Texel, while a breeze, any point to northward, would have carried them to sea with eighteen battalions of infantry, four of chasseurs, eight squadrons of cavalry, and eleven companies of artillery—the whole forming an efficient and well-appointed army of 14,000 men, a force more than sufficient, under happy auspices, to have changed an empire’s fate.

Foul winds continued. The spirit of troops cooped up a month on shipboard gradually abated, and golden opportunities slipped away. Even the most sanguine began to doubt, a coolness arose between the commanders, and De Winter at last memorialised his Government, and intimated that the expedition, as far as its original destination was concerned, must be abandoned for the present. The document stated that July had been named for the attempt, that on the 9th all was ready, that the English fleet (the forces of which he rightly foresaw, would have to be faced) at that time consisted, at the very most, of thirteen sail-of-the-line, which could not make any effectual opposition, that contrary winds having prevailed ever since, without an hour’s intermission, the enemy had had time to reinforce himself to the number of seventeen sail-of-the-line, so that he had now a superiority in force over the Dutch fleet, which, of course, rendered the issue of an engagement, to a certain degree, doubtful; that, by this unforeseen delay, which might, and probably would, continue still longer, a great additional consumption of provisions had taken place, so that in a very few days there would be barely sufficient for the voyage north-about; that the season was now rapidly passing away, and, if the foul wind continued a fortnight longer, the voyage would become highly dangerous, if not utterly impracticable, with a fleet encumbered with so many transports, and amounting to nearly seventy sail of all kinds, and that, in consequence, even a successful action with the English would not ensure the success of the enterprise, which the very season would negative; that for all these reasons, his opinion was that the present plan was no longer advisable, and in consequence he proposed that it should be industriously published that the expedition was given up; that the troops should be disembarked, except from 2500 to 3000 men of the élite of the army, who with twenty or thirty pieces of artillery, and all the arms and ammunition, should remain on board the frigates and one or two of the fastest-sailing transports; that as the vigilance of the enemy would probably be relaxed in consequence, this flotilla should profit by the first favourable moment to put to sea, and push for their original destination, where they should land the men, arms, and artillery, and he would charge himself with the execution of this plan; that by this means, even if they failed, the Republic would be at no very great loss, and if they succeeded must gain exceedingly; that she would preserve her grand fleet, which was now her last stake, and, during the winter, would be able to augment it, so as to open the next campaign—in case peace was not made ad interim—with twenty sail-of-the-line in the North Sea. These were most certainly very strong reasons, and, unfortunately for the would-be invaders, the wind gave them every hour fresh weight.

FATE OF THE DUTCH FLEET

In accordance with De Winter’s advice the troops were landed, and the Dutch attempt upon Ireland virtually abandoned; for although it was ordered that the invading army should be so cantoned that it could be instantly concentrated for embarkation, its future destination was changed, and the north of Scotland was declared a fitter place for the attempt than the Irish coast. But these designs were never carried out, for the excellent reason that the British North Sea fleet under Duncan’s leadership was prepared to intervene. On the 11th October 1797 De Winter put to sea, and the memorable action of Camperdown resulted. Both fleets in numbers, men, and metal were much the same, and though the Dutch vessels were skilfully handled and most gallantly fought, their defeat was so decisive, that with this crushing blow the marine power of the States of Holland was finally extinguished.

DESPAIR OF FOREIGN ASSISTANCE

The failure of the Batavian Government in giving their promised assistance to the Irish malcontents proved in many respects most injurious to the success of the conspiracy. The ardent expectations of succour from abroad, so long and eagerly expected, vanished with the crowning victory of Camperdown. This heavy and irremediable disaster abated the confidence of the most sanguine, distracted the deliberations of the leaders, and hurried the lower classes into overt acts of violence which irritated the royalists and provoked a fearful retaliation. Indeed, on both sides exasperated feelings had produced cruelty, and, as a consequence, barbarous reaction. The troops, with the impunity attendant upon martial law, made a plea of disaffection the excuse for licence and exaction; and upon the innocent and guilty, too frequently, the vengeance of the Executive was indiscriminately directed. The summary infliction of corporal and capital punishment—the destruction of property—the severity attached to charges of sedition, when secret enmity and vile espionage would bring ruin on the unoffending, and suspicion was held synonymous with guilt,—all these severities, equally illegal and injudicious, kindled a ferocity of feeling between parties which milder measures might have allayed, accustomed men to acts of violence from which otherwise they would have revolted, and reconciled them to the terrible barbarities attendant upon civil war.

INFLAMMATORY PUBLICATIONS

Nor is it to be denied that cruelty in the authorities found much extenuation in the crimes committed by the disaffected. That accursed crime, so alien to British feeling, became every day more prevalent, and secret assassination was perpetrated by the ignorant, and encouraged by the most infamous prints which ever damned a cause. The Union Star headed its columns with a broad encouragement to murder, and individuals were regularly branded for the knife; The Press was equally violent, but its sedition was modified—the treasonable doctrines of the one being levelled generally against public securities, while a malignant hatred to the person inculcated in the leading article of the other the assassination of those who were obnoxious. Both these inflammatory prints were eventually prosecuted and put down; and while no publications ever called for the intervention of the law-officers more imperiously, in justice we must add that none were more unconstitutionally disposed of—a military mob demolished the one, the civil authorities arbitrarily suppressed the other.

To the cause which they ardently but unwisely advocated these prints were fatally mischievous. There were two great parties in the kingdom: one—the Roman Catholics—had serious reasons for discontent, for statutory enactments excluded them from civil rights; with the Protestants it was different—they had much to reform, but nothing to obtain. In the north of Ireland and part of Leinster, as it does at present, the wealth, the moral character, and hence the moral influence of the kingdom, might be considered as being concentrated; and, as it will ever be, the intelligence of the minor section of the Irish people overbalanced the physical superiority of the other. To one object—wild and imaginative—the efforts of the Protestant party were directed; to another—vague, bigoted, and impracticable—the Romanists addressed themselves. Hence the combination of interests and feelings was easily disorganised, and within six months after an eternity of union had been announced as existing between religionists virulently opposed, the discrepancy of intentions had severed the Roman Catholics and Dissenters so completely, that the conviction exists, had the issue come to trial, nineteen out of twenty of the northern republicans would have eventually joined the royal banner.

Musgrave, in his Memoirs, has pointed out this logical conclusion:—‘When Dickey, a rebel leader and a Dissenter, was on the point of being hanged at Belfast, he declared that the eyes of Presbyterians had been opened too late; and that they were convinced by the massacres perpetrated by the Romanists in the province of Leinster, that they must have had to contend with them if they had succeeded in overturning the constitution.’

The secret informer played a most important part in this fearsome history from its commencement; of these—the most important—because occupying the most influential position, was Mr. Thomas Reynolds, of the county of Kildare, who had acquired a landed property at Kilkea Castle.

Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Oliver Bond, two leaders in the conspiracy, having, for the reason that he possessed considerable influence amongst the Romanists, considered Reynolds a proper person to assist in forwarding their treasonable designs, practised every art of seduction to attach him to their cause; and having at last succeeded, he was sworn a United Irishman at the house of Oliver Bond in Dublin in the beginning of the year 1797, was induced to accept the commission of colonel, the offices of treasurer and representative of the county of Kildare, and at last that of delegate for the province of Leinster.

THE LEADERS OF THE CONSPIRACY BETRAYED TO THE GOVERNMENT

Soon after he was raised to this elevated situation in the Union, having discovered that the conspirators, instead of intending to reform the abuses of the State, and to abolish all religious distinctions, which was their professed object at first, meditated the subversion of the constitution, the massacre of the leading members of Government, and of such persons as should oppose their designs, he determined to defeat them by embracing the first opportunity of communicating them to some person in whom he could confide.

REVELATIONS OF THE SECRET TRAITOR-INFORMER

He had a very great friendship and respect for Mr. Cope, an eminent merchant of the city of Dublin, who, having lamented to him in the course of conversation the crimes and atrocities which were constantly committed, and which were undoubted symptoms of an approaching rebellion, Mr. Reynolds, upon whom his conversation had made a very deep impression, said, ‘That he knew a person connected with the United Irishmen, who, he believed, would defeat their nefarious projects by communicating them to Government, in order to make an atonement for the crime he had committed in joining them.’ Mr. Cope assured him that such a person would obtain the highest honours and pecuniary rewards that the administration could confer, and that he would be admired and applauded by the most virtuous and valuable portion of society. But Mr. Reynolds said that nothing could tempt him to come forward and avow himself. However, after the most earnest and pressing solicitations repeatedly made on the part of Mr. Cope, for whom he had filial reverence, he said that his friend would appear in person and disclose the particulars of the plot on the following conditions:—“That he should not be called upon in person to prosecute any United Irishmen; that the channel through which the information came should be kept a secret, at least for a time; that, as his life would be in danger upon its being known, and he must leave the country and go to England till matters were settled—which would derange his affairs, and put him to considerable expense—he expected to receive some compensation. Mr. Cope then told him that he might draw on him for any sum not exceeding five hundred guineas. On that he told Mr. Cope that the Leinster delegates were to meet at Oliver Bond’s on the 12th of March to concert measures for an insurrection.”

It will be seen that, to pierce the conspiracy, no common informer was likely to penetrate the secrets of the confederacy. Save to a chosen few the higher executive was veiled in mystery—the revelations of obscure and ordinary traitors would therefore prove unavailing—and he who could denounce the Secret Directory must be a member himself.

The traitor who had betrayed the elements of this huge conspiracy found his confidences well kept. Documents, whose authenticity cannot be called in question, are in existence, and furnish irrefragable proof of Mr. Thomas Reynolds having received for his disclosures not £500 only, but the sum of £5000 in four payments, at the following dates, and in the following amounts:—

1798. Sept. 29, Mr. T. Reynolds received....£1000
Nov. 16.....................................£2000
1799-Jan. 19................................£1000
March,,.....................................£1000
£5000

In all these curious disclosures is revealed the fact that, owing to the sensitive conscience of the informer, he in all received a very comfortable sum—including an annuity of £1000 per annum.

Moreover, on the 14th of June 1799 Mr. Reynolds received his annuity of £1000, ‘in full to the 25th March 1799; from which period till his death, the 18th of August 1836, his pension continued to be paid to him.

The amount of that pension was £1000 Irish, or £920 British, per annum, he received for a term of thirty-seven years.

The gross amount for the above period, at £920 per annum, is £34,040

Gratuity before the trials of Bond, M’Cann, and Byrne £500

Gratuities between Sept. 1798, and 4th March 1799 £5,000

Consulship at Lisbon, four years at £1,400 per annum £5,600

Consulship at Iceland, two year at £300........£600

.............................................£45,740

THE HEADS OF THE CONSPIRACY SWEPT OFF

The result of Reynolds’s information was the arrest of the whole provincial committee, consisting of fifteen members, delegates from different societies. They had assembled at the house of Oliver Bond, in Bridge Street, on the 12th of March, and were completely surprised by Captain Swan, attended by a dozen soldiers in coloured clothes. Several important papers were found upon the persons of the conspirators, some written by Byrne, and others by John M’Cann—and both these unfortunate men subsequently underwent the extreme penalty of the law.

The arrest at Bond’s was followed up by many others, and most of the Leinster delegates were promptly seized and imprisoned, while others were denounced. Among the former were Emmett, Sweetman, Jackson, and Macnevin; among the latter Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Sampson, and McCormick.

The consequences of the fatal occurrence can be readily imagined. The loss of their leaders created confusion and distrust—that they had been betrayed was evident, and yet none could point to the betrayer. No wonder that men implicated in the conspiracy trembled for themselves—treason was abroad—and what added terror to that knowledge was that none could name the individual, and hence all was vague apprehension, more heart depressing than actual but open danger.

The effect of this fetal discovery was equally injurious to the interests of the Union abroad.

WOLF TONE’S DIARY

In his ‘Diary’ Tone records:—‘I have read news of the most disastrous and afflicting kind, as well for me individually as for the country at large. The English Government has arrested the whole committee of United Irishmen for the province of Leinster, including almost every man I know and esteem in the city of Dublin. It is by far the most terrible blow which the cause of liberty in Ireland has yet sustained. I know not whether in the whole party it would be possible to replace the energy, talents, and integrity of which we are deprived by this most unfortunate of events. I have not received such a shock from all that has passed since I left Ireland. What a triumph at this moment for Fitzgibbon (Lord Clare)! These arrestations following so close on that of O’Connor, give rise to very strong suspicions of treachery on my mind. I cannot bear to write or think longer on this dreadful event.’

BELATED PRECAUTIONS

The first care of such of the leaders as remained at liberty was to fill up the vacancies in their executive; and while the shaken confidence of the Unionists should be re-established they endeavoured, by a cautionary address, to repress any premature explosion. This diplomatic document thus concludes:—‘This recital, Irishmen, is meant to guard those of you who are remote from the scene of the late events against the consequences of misrepresentation and mistake. The most unfounded rumours have been set afloat, fabricated for the double purpose of delusion and intimidation. Your enemies talk of treachery in the vain and fallacious hope of creating it; but you, who scorn equally to be their dupe or slaves, will meet their forgeries with dignified contempt, incapable of being either goaded into untimely violence, or sunk into pusillanimous despondency. Be firm, Irishmen, but be cool and cautious; be patient yet awhile; trust to no unauthorised communications; and above all, we warn you—again and again we warn you—against doing the work of your tyrants, by premature, by partial, or divided exertion. If Ireland shall be forced to throw away the scabbard, let it be at her own time, not theirs.’

DESPAIR OVER WRECKED OPPORTUNITIES

A month wore on. Every day the chances of a successful rising became more gloomy; disclosures were hourly made; and it became quite evident to the revolutionary leaders that the Government had penetrated their most secret plans, and were prepared to crush the conspiracy. As the arms and ammunition of the malcontents were detected and seized, the hands of the Executive were proportionately strengthened as the offensive power of the disaffected became less formidable. Supplementary corps of loyalists were armed and embodied; and those to whom the destinies of Ireland were entrusted assumed now an air of stern determination equally inflexible and appalling to the guilty. Daily a French invasion appeared a more improbable event. At last the truth became apparent that it was hopeless to expect foreign assistance; and the blow must be struck by the conspirators, unaided and alone.

THE DATE OF RISING FIXED

Accordingly, the night of the 23rd May was appointed for a general insurrection; and the signal for a rising en mane was to be the destruction or detention of the mail coaches after they had left the metropolis, while the counties and districts were left generally to the direction of local leaders; the insurrectionary movement in the capital embraced a simultaneous attack on the castle, the prisons, and military posts, the artillery barracks at Chapelizod, and the camp at Laughlinstown, seven miles south of Dublin.

Some of the foreknowledge of the movements of the United Irishmen was evidently furnished by the informer Reynolds, who, strange to relate, had successfully eluded detection. In making his terms with the Government the traitor had prudently insisted upon his condition, that the channels through which the information came should remain for some time a secret; a stipulation in which his employers were no less interested than himself, as, by wearing still the mask of a friend, he could retain still the confidence of those he was betraying, and whatever victims his first aim had missed might, from the same ambush, be made sure of afterwards. In pursuance of this policy we find him, as he himself admits, paying a friendly visit to Mrs. Bond, two or three days after he had marked her husband for death; and even to Lord Fitzgerald—whose place of concealment at this moment was kept secret, as we shall see, from his own family—Reynolds, under the trust reposed in him, found ready admittance. Lord Edward was at once the head and arm of the seditious movement.

THE UNFORTUNATE LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD

The name of Lord Edward stands out as that of the most conspicuous actor in this lurid history of the Irish Rebellion, as a personage whose birth, talents, energies, and enthusiasm obtained for him an unhappy pre-eminence. The fifth son of the Duke of Leinster, Lord Edward was nobly born by the maternal side, his mother being the daughter of Charles, Duke of Richmond. When Lord Edward was ten years old the Duke of Leinster died, and after a brief widowhood his relict remarried, and removing to France, there Lord Edward commenced his education, which appears to have been hurried and imperfect. Subsequently, after remaining for a short time with the Sussex militia, he obtained a commission in the line, joined the 96th regiment in Ireland; exchanged into the 19th, embarked for America, with which England was then at war, and, landing at Charlestown, was placed under the command of Lord Rawdon (Lord Moira), and afterwards attached to the staff of that spirited commander.

Here the young soldier had an opportunity of witnessing field service for the first time, and in one important branch of the profession—outpost duty—it afforded frequent opportunities of exhibiting tact and address, as well as personal courage. With these qualities Lord Edward was abundantly gifted, and apparently a contempt for danger, carried to rashness. Owing to ill-health Lord Rawdon left Carolina for England, and Lord Edward rejoined his regiment (the 19th), when Greene attacked Stuart at Eutaw Springs, the result of which was a gallant and very doubtful action. Lord Edward, with his accustomed daring, was closely engaged, wounded in the leg, and left upon the field.

In this helpless situation he was found by a poor negro, who carried him off on his back to his hut, and there nursed him most tenderly till he was well enough of his wound to bear removing to Charlestown. The negro was the ‘faithful’ Tony, whom in gratitude for the honest creature’s kindness he now took into his service, and who continued devotedly attached to his noble master to the premature ending of his lordship’s career.

After the surrender of Cornwallis’s army at York Town, Lord Edward joined the staff of General O’Hara at St. Lucia; but, after a few months, he left the West Indies, returned home, and was nominated by his brother, the Duke of Leinster, member for the borough of Athy. Several years passed; his career appears to have been unsettled and undetermined—one while studying professionally at Woolwich, the next visiting Gibraltar and Lisbon, and subsequently the principal cities of Spain. In June 1788 he returned again to America, landed at Halifax, and proceeded to join the 54th regiment, quartered at St. John’s; and held a field officer’s rank in the same corps, in which the celebrated political writer, Cobbett, was then acting as sergeant-major.

Lord Edward appears—according to Moore’s Life and Death—to have been a man of nervous excitability. We find him occasionally enacting ‘Love’s Slave’—and, with all the ardour and inconstancy of Romeo, forgetting Rosalind for Juliet. Had circumstances permitted the chances are that he would have changed his military profession for the calm enjoyments of domestic happiness. But they did not—and hence, probably, ‘an uneasy mind’ sent him a second time across the Atlantic to seek, in savage or primaeval life, employment for an ardent and impassioned spirit, which, under more fortunate circumstances, would have sought domestic and cultivated enjoyments.

The active and careless character of his pursuits may be collected from an extract from one of numerous letters to his mother:—‘I have been out hunting, and like it very much—it makes me un peu sauvage, to be sure. You may guess how eager I am to try if I like the woods in winter as well as in summer. I believe I shall never again be prevailed on to live in a house. I long to teach you all how to make a good spruce bed. Three of the coldest nights we have had yet I slept in the woods with only one blanket, and was just as comfortable as in a room. It was in a party with General Carleton, we went about twenty miles from this to look at a fine tract of land that had been passed over in winter. You may guess how I enjoyed this expedition, being where, in all probability, there had never been but one person before.’

This excursion, no doubt, suggested to Lord Edward his subsequent overland journey direct from Fredericstown to Quebec.

To modern adventurers the exploit would appear a commonplace essay, but at the time the expedition was devised and accomplished, few excepting an Indian or backwoodsman would have voluntarily undergone the real and imaginary hardships of the journey. After a thirty days’ pilgrimage the young adventurer reached Quebec. One incident written to his mother is characteristic: ‘I must tell you a little more of the journey. After making the river we fell in with some savages, and travelled with them to Quebec; they were very kind to us, and said we were “all one brother”—all “one Indian.” They fed us the whole time we were with them. You would have laughed to have seen me carrying an old squaw’s pack, which was so heavy I could hardly waddle under it. However, I was well paid whenever we stopped, for she always gave me the best bits, and most soup, and took as much care of me as if I had been her own son; in short I was quite l’enfant chéri’

A final expedition he made via Detroit and Michilimackinack to New Orleans, seems to have confirmed his Indian predilections, and led to his adoption into the Bear Tribe,—an honour upon which Lord Edward prided himself no little. From New Orleans he embarked for England, and for the three years succeeding his career was passed in England and Ireland without important occurrences to mark them, beyond the outbreak of the great French Revolution, that prodigious social and political upheaval which turned the heads of Europe. This terrible cataclysm intoxicated the Irish sympathisers, who, valorous for liberty, were blind to its excesses. This bouleversement fascinated the imaginations of the men who aspired to copy its progressive developments, and to leave their record heroically impressed upon Irish history; the Emmett brothers, Wolf Tone, the brothers Sheares, Lord Edward himself, and many other enthusiasts—the guiding spirits of the Irish insurrection—drew their inspirations from the Gallic font. They were friends and developed into fellow-conspirators. For instance, take the names last mentioned. Henry and John Sheares were brothers, and sons of a banker in Cork. They had received a liberal education, and both had been called to the Irish bar. Travelling, during the wildest period of the French Revolution, they became residents in Paris while the reign of terror was at its height, and, as it has been stated, witnessed the horrible scenes enacted daily under the tyranny of Robespierre, with an apathy from which accomplished and civilised gentlemen should have recoiled. The fearless manner in which their political opinions were promulgated exposed them to the suspicions of the Executive, and shortly before the Irish conspiracy broke out,—thanks to the revelations on the part of the traitor-informer, which at one swoop cut off the entire corps of directing spirits—they were arrested and confined.

Lord Edward, more practical than his philosophic friends, had notoriously learned to act while they were ‘philosophising;’ he too had been educated in the school of the French Revolution, with the arch leading spirit of which violent movement he had connected himself by family ties. When France declared herself a republic in 1792, and the Duke of Orleans—‘the enigma of the revolution,’ as Lamartine pronounces him—had voted for the death of the king, his kinsman, possibly realising a similar fate overhung his own head, Lord Edward was too enthusiastic to lose such a spectacle of moral and political excitement, and hastened over to Paris without communicating his intentions even to the Duchess, and to that fatal visit, as his biographer Moore avers, his subsequent misfortunes must be traced. His wild and hasty attachment to French principles—for he became almost a personage of the French Revolution, and is mentioned in Lamartine’s History—his introduction to Madame de Sillery (de Genlis), gouvernante to the Orleans children, his falling desperately in love with the notoriously bewitching and spirituelle ‘Pamela,’ natural daughter of the Egalité Duke of Orleans by the lady gouvernante already mentioned, are matters of history. Pamela, on all accounts, was sufficiently fascinating to account for so romantic an attachment, and Lord Edward was in himself a perfect hero of romance, and was made all the more interesting, even in France, by this tender episode. After this union his dismissal from the British army, his return to Ireland with his bride, the surpassingly charming Frenchwoman, are merely personal details. Had not Lord Edward been steeped in the practical development of the Irish rebellion, his political career would have subsided in favour of that domestic felicity of which he sent his mother the following artless and sympathetic picture:—

‘My little place is much improved by a few things I have done, and by all my planting; by the bye, I doubt if I told you of my flower garden,—I got a great deal from Frescati. I have been at Kildare since Pam’s lying-in, and it looked delightful, though all the leaves were off the trees, but so comfortable and snug. I think I shall pass a delightful winter there. I have got two fine large clumps of turf, which look both comfortable and pretty. I have paled in my little flower-garden before my hall door with a lath paling like the cottage, and stuck it full of roses, sweetbriar, honeysuckles, and Spanish broom. I have got all my beds ready for my flowers; so you may guess how I long to be down to plant them. The little fellow will be a great addition to the party. I think when I am down there with Pam and child of a blustering evening, with a good turf fire and a pleasant book, coming in after seeing my poultry put up, my garden settled, flower beds and plants covered for fear of frost,—the place looking comfortable and taken care of, I shall be as happy as possible; and sure I am I shall regret nothing but not being nearer my dearest mother, and her not being of our party. It is indeed a drawback, and a great one, our not being more together. Dear Malvern! how pleasant we were there; you can’t think how this time of year puts me in mind of it. Love always. Your affectionate son, E. F.’

Moore significantly comments: ‘In reading these simple and, to an almost feminine degree, fond letters, it is impossible not to feel how strange and touching is the contrast between those pictures of a happy home which they so unaffectedly exhibit, and that dark and troubled sea of conspiracy and revolt into which the amiable writer of them so soon afterwards plunged; nor can we easily bring ourselves to believe that the joyous tenant of this little Lodge, the happy husband and father, dividing the day between his child and his flowers, could be the same man who, but a year or two after, placed himself at the head of the rebel myriads, negotiated on the frontiers of France for an alliance against England, and but seldom laid down his head on his pillow at night without a prospect of being summoned thence to the scaffold or the field.’

At the crisis of the conspiracy the hopes of the disaffected almost centred in this individual, who has left a memory behind which commands the admiration of many—the pity, I believe, of all. His earlier history we have already sketched, and the more painful duty of describing its hurried and unhappy close now devolves upon us. Meanwhile Lord Edward, as a military leader, devoted himself to arming and disciplining the people whose grievances he was preparing to redress by force.

Whether the high estimation in which his military character was held by the United Irishmen was justly merited or not, is a question that can never be determined. He had many essential qualities to command popular respect, and fit him to become a revolutionary leader—high birth, family influence, singleness of purpose, devotion not to be mistaken, and courage beyond a doubt. But he seems to have been a self-willed and most imprudent man, and, if his biography may be credited, the last person upon earth to whose absolute direction a nation’s fate, and the fortunes of a mighty and complicated movement, should have been entrusted.

It was perfectly notorious to the Government that Lord Edward was deeply implicated in the conspiracy; that he was the life and spirit of the plot, the hope of the revolutionists, and the selected leader of the intended insurrection. When the arrest at Bond’s, due to Reynolds’s treacherous disclosures, had fallen like the stroke of a thunderbolt upon the Union, and paralysed the boldest, it was whispered in that gloomy hour that Lord Edward had escaped abroad, and therefore the cause was not altogether desperate. That he had not been found at the secret meeting of the Leinster committee was a heavy disappointment to the Executive. It was true that, in the seizure of the delegates, the conspiracy had received a stunning blow, but it was ‘scotched, not killed.’ Lord Edward was at liberty, and consequently the masterspirit was abroad. On the score of humanity, of policy, or both, it had been hinted by the Irish Government that his escape would be connived at, and the ports left open, if he would secretly quit the kingdom. Mr. Ogilvie, Lord Edward’s foster-father, hastened to Dublin, and interviewed Lord Clare; the Lord Chancellor expressed himself with the most friendly warmth on the subject, counselling Lord Edward’s stepfather: ‘For God’s sake get this young man out of the country; the ports shall be thrown open to you, and no hindrance whatever offered.’

The offer was conveyed to Lord Edward, and rejected by him; no course remained but to apprehend him if possible, and thus deprive the hydra of its head. Among others, he was afterwards denounced by proclamation dated the nth of May, and £1000 offered for such secret information as might lead to his arrest.

On quitting Leinster House, the first place where Lord Edward sought concealment was the domicile of a widow lady situated on the banks of the canal. Thither, three nights after the surprise of the Leinster committee, he was conveyed in disguise, and there he remained a month undiscovered, although, with an imprudence not pardonable in a leader on whose safety a mighty movement hinged, he too frequently exposed himself to detection. For the feelings of the lover-husband, that would induce him to risk everything to visit an idolised wife and the children, even a callous heart would find or frame an apology. As Moore relates: ‘Her ladyship had immediately, on the disappearance of Lord Edward, removed from the Duke of Leinster’s to a house in Denzel Street, taking with her an attached female servant and the negro Tony, her husband’s favourite. The two latter believed, as did most people, that their master had fled to France, and it was therefore with no small surprise that the maidservant saw, in going into her lady’s room late in the evening, his lordship and Lady Edward sitting together by the light of the fire. The youngest child had, at his desire, been brought down out of its bed for him to see it, and both he and Lady Edward were, as the maid thought, in tears.’ Circumstanced as he was, unnecessary exposure was unpardonable. His person might be considered a sort of public property, and yet we find him walking most nights along the banks of the canal, jumping in and out of boats to amuse a child he had made his companion, and afterwards by sheer recklessness falsifying the incognito of an assumed name.

How Lord Edward could have evaded detection so long appears astonishing. An enormous reward was offered for his detection, and, as the plot became further unfolded, the alarm of the Government for its own existence superseded every other thought, and all considerations of mercy were lost in their fears. At the period, therefore, where we are now arrived, the search after his lordship was, by the emissaries of authority, pursued with as much eagerness as political zeal, urged by fear and revenge, could inspire.

Lord Edward at last seemed awakened to his danger, and it was considered by himself and friends that a longer residence where he was might be hazardous and lead to a discovery. Another asylum was accordingly provided for him at a feather merchant’s house in Thomas Street, and at Murphy’s, as the owner was called, he remained for several days in safety.

On the 30th March the kingdom had been declared by proclamation ‘in actual rebellion,’ the troops were directed to act without magisterial authority whenever their own officers deemed it proper. This fearful order loosed a licentious soldiery upon the country, and every hope of averting bloodshed ended. As the great object of the revolutionary leaders was to prevent a premature explosion, agents were despatched to hold out encouragement to the disaffected that a French invasion would speedily be reattempted. But a double failure had damped the expectations of the Directory. Hoche, the apostle of this adventurous policy, was in his grave; Bonaparte, bent on other objects, and unfriendly to an Irish demonstration; and without foreign assistance it became evident to the conspirators that ‘themselves must strike the blow.’ The plot was on the verge of coming to a head.

For the following fortnight Lord Edward—whose leadership counted for so much at the opportune and decisive moment of actual outburst—made Murphy’s house his place of concealment. Even there he received company (some of his friends were regarded as traitors to the cause), walked out at night, and, disguised in women’s clothes, visited Lady Edward in Denzel Street. He then changed his residence, and sought shelter in the houses of tradesmen, named Moore and Corwick, situated in the same street.

Some circumstances gave alarm to his friends, and Lord Edward a second time was conducted to his suburban retreat, and placed again in charge of his former hostess. Things were approaching a climax. On the 11th of May the proclamation that offered L.1000 for his apprehension appeared; the day for the insurrection was appointed; John Sheares despatched to Cork to raise the southern rebels; and, for the purpose of holding a closer communion with the Dublin leaders, Lord Edward quitted the house of his faithful protectress on the 13th May, and on the 18th he re-entered Murphy’s, and only left it on the 19th for a cell, wherein to linger out a few miserable days, and expire in the common jail, without a friend or relative to watch ‘the spirit’s parting’!

THE ARREST OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD

It was evident that the Government were cognisant of these plans. The date of the rising had been determined, Lord Edward was to head the movement; his commanding officer’s uniform was ready, but it was preordained that the commander-in-chief of the rebel forces would never appear in it. From this distant point of view the operations of the Government resembled the movements of the watchful cat prepared to spring upon the doomed mouse.

On the night preceding the 18th of May it was arranged that Lord Edward, the hero and hope of the movement, now on the eve of being declared openly, should resume his residence with Murphy in Thomas Street, and he set out, accordingly, under a strong escort of his followers. One of those affrays, of common occurrence in those days of terror—which this popular escort seemed destined to attract—resulted.

It is quite evident from this occurrence that his betrayal was already complete. Of Lord Edward’s intended movements Sirr, the Dublin town-major, had received certain information; and this officer was on the spot, ready prepared to stultify the plans of the conspirators. Sirr had with him a party for the purpose, and as either of two streets would have conducted Lord Edward to his destination, the town-major divided his myrmidons,—one section occupied Wading Street, the other was posted in Dirty Lane.

A similar precaution happened to be adopted by Lord Edward’s escort; there consequently ensued in both these streets a conflict between the parties. In the street affair John McCabe, a very active member of the United Irishmen, was seized and made a prisoner; he was afterwards tried, convicted, and executed. Lord Edward, by a miracle, was left free for the moment. Sirr, bearing the brunt of the struggle, found his opponents overstrong, and was nearly losing his life. In defending himself with a sword, which he had snatched from one of his assailants, he lost his footing and fell; and had not those with whom he was engaged in a hand-to-hand scuffle been much more occupied with their noble charge than with him, Sirr could hardly have escaped. A pistol or two was snapped at the fallen officer, and the group passed on with Lord Edward to Murphy’s.

The house was under surveillance. On the morning following, evidently the eve of the insurrection, the generalissimo of the United Irishmen’s uniform—dark green, faced with scarlet—was delivered by an old woman to Murphy. This ‘his already nervous host’ concealed under goat-skins in his warehouse. At noon a party of soldiers suddenly entered the street, and suspiciously halted before Moore’s house, the man who had formerly sheltered Lord Edward. Alarmed for the safety of his guest, the feather merchant conveyed him by a trap door to the roof of his warehouse, and in one of the valleys which ran between the houses.

Lord Edward remained for two or three hours, until the alarm had subsided, and the soldiers had left the street.

At the usual hour dinner was served, and Neilson, a constant and most imprudent visitor, was invited to join Murphy and his noble guest. The cloth ‘had not been many minutes removed, when Neilson, as if suddenly recollecting something, hurried out of the room and left the house; shortly after which, Mr. Murphy, seeing that his guest was not inclined to drink any wine, went downstairs. In a few minutes, however, returning, he found that his lordship had, in the interim, gone to his bedroom, and, on following him thither, saw him lying without his coat upon the bed. There had now elapsed, from the time of Neilson’s departure, not more than ten minutes, and it is asserted that he had, in going out, left the hall door open.’

At this moment Major Sirr, who had but just received an intimation from the Castle of the place where Lord Edward was concealed, proceeded in hackney-coaches to arrest him, attended by eight soldiers in coloured clothes, and accompanied by Captains Swan and Ryan. While Sirr was disposing the soldiers below to prevent any chance of escape, Swan hurried upstairs, entered the apartment, and, approaching the bed, told Lord Edward that he was a prisoner. Lord Edward jumped out of bed, and Swan, perceiving that he was determined on resistance, snapped, or, as others say, discharged a pistol ineffectually, and then closing with his antagonist, both rolled upon the bed. In the struggle which ensued Lord Edward stabbed his opponent on the hand and body repeatedly, when Ryan entered the chamber and rushed to the assistance of his companion, lunging at Lord Edward with a cane-sword, which, however, turned on the ribs, and only inflicted a flesh wound. All three fell on the floor together; in the mêlée which followed Ryan received a mortal stab, and when Sirr entered he found Lord Edward on his feet endeavouring to reach the door, while Swan and Ryan held on desperately by the legs to prevent it. Threatened as he was with a fate similar to his companions, Sirr had no alternative but to fire, and aiming his pistol deliberately, he lodged the contents in Lord Edward’s right arm near the shoulder. The wound for a moment staggered him; but as he again rallied, and was pushing towards the door, Major Sirr called up the soldiers, and so desperate were the captive’s struggles that they found it necessary to lay their firelocks across him before he could be disarmed or bound so as to prevent further mischief. Clearly the powers would have preferred to take this unfortunate and embarrassing prisoner dead—the history of the affair makes this evident—three attempts all more or less deliberate had been made on the captive’s life in the short encounter.

An eminent surgeon was immediately brought to the assistance of the wounded men; Ryan’s injury was pronounced the most dangerous—he had commenced his share in the affray by attempting to run their captive through the body. Swan’s wounds, though numerous, were not severe, and on examination Dr. Adreen expressed an opinion that Lord Edward’s were not mortal. The surgeon’s communication elicited a brief but significant remark, ‘I am sorry, doctor, to hear it’!

On the arrival of a cavalry picket and the Rainsford Street guard the wounded men were removed, and Lord Edward was taken to the Castle in a sedan, and carried into the office of the Secretary of the War Department. On his arrest being communicated to Lord Camden, orders were given that the State surgeon should instantly examine and dress his wounds; while with a feeling honourable to his well-known humanity, the Viceroy transmitted by his own secretary a private message to the noble prisoner, giving him an assurance of receiving every indulgence consistent with personal safety. The message was conveyed by Mr. Watson, whose account of the melancholy interview is graphic and interesting. ‘I found Lord Edward leaning back on a couple of chairs, his arm extended, and supported by the surgeon, who was dressing the wound. His countenance was pallid, but serene; and when I told him, in a low voice, not to be overheard, my commission from the Lord Lieutenant, and that I was going to break the intelligence of what had occurred to Lady Edward, asking him, with every assurance of my fidelity and secrecy, whether there was any confidential communication he wished to be made to her ladyship, or whether I could undertake any other act of personal kindness in his service, he answered merely, but collectedly, “No, no, thank you—nothing, nothing—only break it to her tenderly.”’

After a delay of several hours, during which time his wounds had been carefully attended to, Lord Edward was removed to Newgate under a strong military guard, and placed in Lord Aid-borough’s room. As the carriage and escort passed from the Castle to the prison, the countenances and demeanour of the disaffected indicated how deeply they felt the loss of the leader on whom they had placed so much dependence. To attempt a rescue was determined, and, in full assurance that the effort would be made, the garrison remained under arms throughout the night.

On the 31st of May Captain Ryan died of his wounds, but it was considered, though the heat of the weather was against him, that Lord Edward would recover. Attended by a kind-hearted militia officer named Stone, and constantly visited by the State surgeon, there is no doubt that the severity attendant on his confinement as imputed to the authorities was exaggerated.

Lord Edward lingered to the 1st June, when his wounds assumed an unhealthy appearance and fever set in; the death of Captain Ryan had transpired, and the knowledge that his victim was no more added poignant sorrow to a mind already excited too seriously. It is said that the confusion and noise attending on the execution of a young man named Clinch increased this mental irritation. On the 2nd of June Lord Edward became delirious, and the attendance of a keeper from a mad-house was deemed necessary. On the 3rd reason returned, but his strength had sunk completely. The authorities gave a tardy consent for his brother and sister to visit him, a concession Lord Clare had seen fit to withhold until the last. Lady Louisa Conolly relates they saw he was cast for death—‘The two dear brothers frequently embraced each other, to the melting of a heart of stone; and yet God enabled both Henry and myself to remain quite composed. As every one left the room we told him we only were with him. He said, “That is very pleasant.” However, he remained silent, and I then brought in the subject of Lady Edward, and told him I had not left her until I saw her on board; and Henry told him of having met her on the road well. He said, “And the children, too? She is a charming woman,” and then became silent again. That expression about Lady Edward proved to me that his senses were much lulled, and that he did not feel his situation to be what it was; but, thank God! they were enough alive to receive pleasure from seeing his brother and me. Dear Henry, in particular, he looked at continually with an expression of pleasure.’

Immediately after Lord Henry and his sister had taken leave convulsions came on violently, and at two o’clock in the morning of the 4th, a gallant, generous, and enthusiastic spirit—would that it had been better directed I—parted.

After an inquest the body was interred in the cemetery of St. Werburgh, the funeral being conducted as privately as possible to prevent any exhibition of popular feeling, which, had it been more public, would have been certain to occur.

ARREST OF THE BROTHERS SHEARES

The capture of Lord Edward on the eve of the rebellion was followed by the arrest of the brothers Sheares; and had the Government required documentary evidence to establish the ruthless spirit with which the ends of the conspiracy would have been carried out, a military memoir found in the writing-desk of the ill-directed young nobleman, and a sanguinary manifesto in the handwriting of John Sheares, and discovered in the house of his brother Henry, would have been amply sufficient. Lord Edward’s document was purely military, and, although highly mischievous, it was defensible; but the proclamation to be issued on the 24th of May betrayed a ferocity of intention which no circumstances could palliate. Every paragraph seemed traced in blood; and while the sanguinary course of action which it inculcated deprived the unhappy author of that sympathy which his fate might have otherwise obtained, those who would rescue his memory from the odium of savage purpose have wisely grounded its defence upon the only pardonable excuse—insanity.

JOHN SHEARES’ BLOODTHIRSTY MANIFESTO

This explosive manifesto had been prepared in anticipation that the sanguinary programme laid down for the 23rd of May, the outbreak of the rebellion in the capital, had been successfully carried out to its reckless sequel:—

‘Irishmen, your country is free, and you are about to be avenged. That vile Government, which has so long and so cruelly oppressed you, is no more. Some of its most atrocious masters have already paid the forfeit of their lives, and the rest are in our hands. The national flag, the sacred green, is at this moment flying over the ruins of despotism!

‘As for those degenerate wretches who turn their swords against their native country, the national vengeance awaits them. Let them find no quarter, unless they shall prove their repentance by speedily exchanging the standard of slavery for that of freedom.

‘Under the conduct of your chosen leaders march with a steady step to victory. Heed not the glare of hired soldiery, or aristocratic yeomanry: they cannot stand the vigorous shock of freedom. Their trappings and their arms will soon be yours; and the detested Government of England, to which we vow eternal hatred, shall learn that the treasures it exhausts on its accoutred slaves for the purpose of butchering Irishmen shall but further enable us to turn their swords on its devoted head. Attack them in every direction by day and by night; avail the natural advantages of your country, which are and with which you are better acquainted than they. Where you cannot oppose them in full force constantly harass their rear and their flanks; cut off their provisions and magazines, and prevent them as much as possible from uniting their forces; let whatever moments you cannot devote to fighting for your country be passed in learning how to fight for it, or preparing the means of war—for war, war alone must occupy every mind and every hand in Ireland, until its long-oppressed soil be purged of all its enemies. Vengeance, Irishmen, vengeance on your oppressors. Remember that thousands of your dearest friends have perished by their merciless orders. Remember their burnings, their rackings, their torturings, their military massacres, and their legal murders. Remember Orr!’

OUTBREAK OF THE REBELLION

The crisis hurried on rapidly. On the morning of the 21st, the Viceroy officially to the Lord Mayor, and the day following, through Lord Castlereagh, apprised the House of Commons, ‘that his Excellency had received information that the disaffected had been daring enough to form a plan for the purpose of possessing themselves, in the course of the present week, of the metropolis, of seizing the seat of Government, and those in authority within the city; that, in consequence of that information, he had directed every military precaution to be taken which seemed expedient; that he had made full communication to the magistrates for the direction of their efforts; and that he had not a doubt, by the measures which would be pursued, the designs of the rebellious would be effectually and entirely crushed.’

A spirited and dutiful answer was voted by the Commons. ‘The Speaker and all the members immediately waited on his Excellency with the address; and to show their zeal, and to increase the solemnity of the proceedings, they walked through the streets on foot, two and two, preceded by the Speaker, the sergeant-at-arms, and all the officers of the house.’

The 23rd of May, a day that must ever carry with it deplorable recollections, dawned upon a city destined before another sun should rise to undergo every horror that attends a civil war. A gloom overspread the countenances of the royalists. Enough had been communicated by the Executive to convince the most sceptical that the long portending thundercloud was on the eve of bursting—and still the moment of actual insurrection continued veiled in impenetrable mystery.

Evening came, and no positive information of revolutionary outbreak as yet had reached the Castle. A Government spy, late in the day, communicated authentic intelligence, that the picket of yeomanry cavalry at Rathfarnham would that night be surprised and cut off, and, consequently, instead of a sergeant’s party the whole troop mounted for patrol. After narrowly escaping an ambush, Lieutenant La Touche ascertained that the rebels had actually risen, and an express, carried by a trooper called Bennett, was immediately despatched to apprise the Lord Lieutenant of the insurrection. The duty—one of the many instances of the zeal and personal gallantry with which the Irish yeomanry evidenced their fealty and devotion to the Government—was truly perilous, for the rebels in great numbers were collecting in the road and adjacent fields in the vicinity of Dublin. In the city, particularly the suburbs, the yeoman saw a great number of rebels with pikes, in the gateways, alleys, and stable-lanes, waiting the beat of their drums and the approach of rebel columns from the country which they were expecting; and as he passed they frequently cried out, animating each other, ‘Come on, boys! who’s afraid?’

Immediately the garrison and yeomanry drums beat to arms, and the latter hurried to their alarm-posts. The North Cork Militia were formed in Stephen’s Green, and the bridges of the canals, which stretch along the city north and south, were occupied by strong pickets. Those crossing the Liffey were also secured, and the communications completely interrupted.

For some nights previous to the 23rd of May beacon fires were seen on the Wicklow mountains, whose luminous appearance by night and whose smoke by day served as signals to the disaffected in the metropolis and in all the adjacent country. The same practice took place on all the mountains which extend from the Scalp in the county of Wicklow to Mount Leinster in the county of Wexford.

Where existed any necessity for this idle and unnecessary display, when all was organised and ready, and any striking exhibition must naturally add to the alarm which every prudential motive should have allayed? Why increase the fears and consequently the vigilance of the Executive? In secrecy of purpose lay success, and all was in favour of it could the authorities be lulled into a false and fatal security. The yeomanry corps, which in a few days afterwards were purified of traitors, at the moment of the outbreak abounded in United Irishmen, upon whom no shadow of suspicion had yet fallen. ‘It was discovered,’ says Sir Richard Musgrave in his narrative, ‘that near nine-tenths of the Roman Catholics in the yeomanry corps were United Irishmen, and had taken an oath to be true to the rebels in direct contradiction to their sworn allegiance, and yet many of them, after taking the United oath, had, by deliberate and pre-determined perjury, joined the yeomanry corps for the purpose of getting arms in their hands, learning the use of them, and turning them against the loyalists perhaps in the very moment of danger. In the subsequent development of the conspiracy there occurred direct evidence of the loyalist corps deliberately joining the rebels they were sworn to subdue at the critical juncture of the encounters.

The domestic servants of Dublin were deeply engaged in the conspiracy, and hence every action of their employers was revealed, and the safety of every house was compromised. Even the lamplighters lent their assistance, and darkness was prearranged to assist—as it would do most effectively—a sudden outburst, by neutralising the advantages which daylight secures to disciplined troops in a conflict with fierce and tumultuary assailants.

It has been already mentioned that the stoppage of the mail-coaches was to be the signal for a general rising. On the evening of the 23rd, at Santry, the Belfast mail was burned; the Limerick stopped on the Curragh of Kildare, and both guard and coachman murdered; the Athlone coach was destroyed at Lucan, and the Cork mail at Naas.

A number of petty affairs followed the instant outbreak of the rebellion, all characterised by the atrocities attending civil war. In these affairs the rebels were generally repulsed; but in a few they unhappily succeeded, and always by surprise, treachery, or the imprudence of the royalists. Of these we shall meet instances in the course of our illustrations. As regards the outbreak in the capital, naturally the capture of Dublin was the grand and primary object at which the conspirators unanimously aimed; and a simultaneous movement on the metropolis by the Kildare rebels was to have seconded the efforts of the disaffected within the city. Everything was in favour of success; and, as the garrison was almost drained of regular troops, and its safety entrusted to the yeomanry, that circumstance was not overlooked by the rebel leaders. In barracks soldiers cannot be easily surprised; a few taps from the drum, and a very few minutes are quite sufficient to place a regiment in battle order; but to collect irregulars, dispersed and distant from the alarm-posts they have been directed to assemble at, is a work of time, and equally difficult and precarious, as, in an attempt to reach the posts assigned, individuals and isolated parties are readily intercepted and overpowered.

This was the great design of the insurgents, and nothing could have been more easily effected when aided by the darkness of night and the intricacies of a city crowded with houses, and intersected by narrow lanes.

By an unaccountable oversight the canals, which covered two sides of Dublin, had been left open, when by stockading the bridges they could have easily been rendered defensible, and have thus placed an impassable obstruction to any bodies who might approach the city from Kildare. Before the royalists occupied the bridges numbers of insurgents from the country had crossed over, and it was computed that by one northern turnpike more than two thousand strangers had entered the city during the evening and succeeding night.

Of the chief plans propounded by the rebel leaders, the capture of the Castle with the high authorities it contained, the cutting off of the royalists in detached parties as they hurried to their respective alarm-posts at the beat to arms of rebel drums, with an attack on the jail of Newgate, the liberation of their friends the State prisoners there incarcerated, formed the grand objects of their midnight movement. The guiding spirit was evidently lacking, for the head had been cut off. On the plans of action there was a division of opinion among the existing leaders. John Sheares confined the intended operations of his followers to dealing with the Castle and disposing of the inmates. Neilson, it was arranged, should attack the jail. Accident interfered; neither plan had any success, and the leader found himself at midnight the inmate of the prison from which he had falsely calculated that he was going to liberate his imprisoned confederates.

Southwell C. McClure, a rebel colonel, who had been pardoned, gave evidence that Neilson had made preparations for his task, and taken elaborate preparations for the carrying out of his plan on Newgate and cutting off the loyalist auxiliaries in detail. He had assembled at a house in Church Lane, a noted rendezvous for rebels, fifteen colonels representing as many battalions; to each of these leaders he had produced a map of Dublin, and assigned to each the post which each colonel and his regiment was to occupy that night. In his attack upon Newgate he was to have been seconded by a large body of rebels, headed by Seagrave, who was to have secured possession of Mr. Halpin’s distillery, the windows of which flanked it, and they were to have kept up a constant fire on the front of the prison, while another party scaled the walls in a different quarter. Neilson’s preparations promised to prove formidable, and at ten o’clock this leader, having a body of rebels collected in some fields contiguous to-Eccles Street, proceeded to reconnoitre Newgate and point out the best points of attack to his supporters. Escalade, supported by a commanding fire of musketry, was the plan adopted, and from the manner in which the prison was domineered the attempt might have easily succeeded. In the most suspicious manner Neilson was always found doing compromising acts. His behaviour had helped to compromise Lord Edward’s security, and on this occasion he seems to have deliberately sacrificed his plans and his safety at the critical juncture, and thus compromised the entire scheme.

Some waste ground, then covered with heaps of market offal, and close to the prison, enabled a person to examine the building unperceived, and of this advantage Neilson, already well acquainted with the locality, had availed himself. In the darkness he trod upon a child, and the outcry brought its mother to the spot. The woman was drunk, an angry altercation followed, and no apology which Neilson could offer would conciliate the irritated poissarde. The noise naturally attracted attention; persons hastened to the spot, and among others Mr. Gregg, the jailor. Neilson, having already been in his custody, was perfectly familiar to Gregg. The latter immediately arrested him, a desperate resistance was offered, a pistol snapped, and a doubtful struggle ensued. Under a belief that Gregg’s assault on Neilson was occasioned by his resentment of the injury offered to her child, the fishwoman so far contributed by her clamour to mystify the affray that the line of posts which Neilson had established between Newgate and Eccles Street thought the noise only a squabble of drunken fishwomen, and waited in idle expectation for Neilson’s return and orders to advance, until the capture transpired in an hour or two, and the party took alarm and disbanded.

In a popular movement failure or success at first generally decides its fortunes. The attempt on the capital signally miscarried. The master-spirit was wanting at the hour of action, and he who might have given a fatal direction to efforts ill-directed and uncombined, was, with his abler associates, immured within the walls of a prison. Upon individuals alike wanting in courage and ability the hurried choice of revolutionary leadership had fallen. If Neilson’s imprudent visits to Lord Edward before the arrest subjected him to a charge of treachery afterwards, his conduct on the night he reconnoitred Newgate proves him to have been quite unfitted for command. That a man known to every turnkey should have personally examined a building in which he had been so long confined appeared, from its extreme rashness, almost to indicate indifference to the consequences of discovery.

THE REBELLION OFFICIALLY PROCLAIMED

On the morning of the 24th two proclamations were issued—the one from General Lake, the other from Alderman Fleming. Both were stringent, but the circumstances of the times admitted of no temporising measures:—

‘Lieutenant-General Lake, commanding his Majesty’s forces in this kingdom, having received from his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant full powers to put down the rebellion, and to punish rebels in the most summary manner, according to martial law, does hereby give notice to all his Majesty’s subjects, that he is determined to exert the powers entrusted to him in the most vigorous manner for the immediate suppression of the same; and that all persons acting in the present rebellion, or in any way aiding or assisting therein, will be treated by him as rebels, and punished accordingly.

‘And Lieutenant-General Lake hereby requires all the inhabitants of the city of Dublin (the great officers of State, members of the houses of Parliament, privy councillors, magistrates, and military persons in uniform excepted) to remain within their respective dwellings from nine o’clock at night till five in the morning, under pain of punishment.’

The Lord Mayor’s proclamation was equally to the point and equally judicious:—

‘Whereas the circumstances of the present crisis demand every possible precaution; these are therefore to desire all persons who have registered arms forthwith to give in, in writing, an exact list or inventory of such arms at the town-clerk’s office, who will file and enter the same in books to be kept for that purpose. And all persons who have not registered these arms are hereby required forthwith to deliver up to me, or some other magistrate of this city, all arms and ammunition of every kind in their possession. And if, after this proclamation, any person having registered arms shall be found not to have given in a true list or inventory of such arms, or if any person who has not registered shall be found to have in their power or possession any arms or ammunition whatever, such person or persons will, on such arms being discovered, be forthwith sent on board his Majesty’s navy, as by law directed.

‘And I do hereby desire that all housekeepers do place upon the outside of their doors a list of persons in their respective houses, distinguishing such as are strangers from those who actually make part of their family; but as there may happen to be persons who, from pecuniary embarrassments, are obliged to conceal themselves, I do not require such names to be placed on the outside of the door, provided their names are sent to me. And I hereby call upon his Majesty’s subjects within the county of the city of Dublin immediately to comply with this regulation, as calculated for the public security; as those persons who shall wilfully neglect a regulation so easy and salutary, as well as persons giving false statements of the inmates of their houses, must, in the present crisis, abide the consequences of such neglect.’

SURPRISE OF THE BARRACKS OF PROSPEROUS

The outbreaks in the immediate vicinity of Dublin come next in the order of alike the chronological sequence of events and of the illustrations. Slight affairs occurred on the night of the 23rd, and upon the following day. At Rathfarnham, Lucan, Lusk, Collan, and Baltinglass the royalists and rebels came in contact, and the latter were repulsed. At Dunboyne and Barretstown the escorts of some baggage (Reay and Suffolk Fencibles) were surprised. On the succeeding day Clane, Naas, Ballymore-Eustace, Kilcullen, and Prosperous were attacked, and with the exception of the latter, in every effort the rebels were unsuccessful.

Prosperous, a small but thriving town, then generally inhabited by persons manufacturing cottons, is seventeen miles from Dublin. It was garrisoned by a detachment of the North Cork Militia, some forty men under Captain Swayne, with a lieutenant and twenty of the Ancient British Cavalry. The infantry occupied a temporary barrack, half the cavalry were quartered in an opposite house, and the remainder in single billets. On the Sunday (20th) previous to the outbreak Swayne arrived in Prosperous with his detachment. He attended at the chapel with Dr. Esmond, a man of great local influence, and then implored the people there assembled to deliver up any arms which might be concealed, return to their allegiance, and receive the protection he was authorised to grant them. This exhortation proved ineffectual; some coercive measures—such as the seizure of cattle, then warranted by martial law—were resorted to; and on the 23rd it was intimated that fear had hitherto prevented the peasantry from bringing the concealed arms to the town, and that should they be permitted to enter after dark, unchallenged and unmolested, on the following night, pikes and firearms would be brought in and deposited in the streets.

It is difficult to decide whether the stupidity of Swayne or the treachery of Esmond were most to be condemned. A man individually may trifle with himself, but for him who turns right or left from the plain path which duty points to, and compromises the safety of those committed to his charge, there can be no extenuation. For Swayne’s folly there can be no apology—his pickets should have been doubled—a cart, a ladder drawn across the street, would have marked sufficiently where those who came to surrender arms might approach with full security. A step beyond it, if the challenge failed, the advanced sentry shot the intruder, and the garrison was at once alarmed. So much for Captain Swayne. His weakness was inexcusable—he died its victim—ignobly certainly, but still by the weapon of a foeman. Esmond met the doom he merited—a halter. Mus-grave’s account of the surprise is authentic:—

‘At two o’clock on Thursday morning, the 24th May, the two sentinels were surprised and killed; and both the barracks were assaulted while the soldiers were fast asleep. The barracks of the Cork company consisted of a hall, an apartment on each side, the same in the next storey, and underground offices. A party of the rebels rushed into Captain Swayne’s apartment, which was on the ground floor, and murdered him. Some soldiers, who slept in the opposite apartment, alarmed at the noise, came forth with their firelocks and expelled those ruffians from the barrack, after having killed two or three of them.

‘The house was at that time surrounded with a great number of rebels variously armed. A fierce conflict ensued between the assailants and the besieged; but it was soon put an end to by the following malignant device of the former. There was a great quantity of straw in the underground office, to which the rebels set fire, and, to increase the flame, introduced some faggots into it. The soldiers were soon in a state of suffocation; and the heat being so great that they could not endure it, they retreated to their comrades in the upper storey; but the flames and smoke soon reached them there, as the rebels continued to introduce lighted faggots into the apartments under them. Enveloped with thick smoke, and overcome with heat, some of them leaped out of the windows, but were immediately received on the pikes of the assailants, who gave a dreadful yell whenever that occurred.

‘At last the barrack being in a state of conflagration, the soldiers resolved to rush forward and fight their way through their assailants; but they, who were very numerous, formed a halfmoon round the front of the barrack, and received them on their pikes, so that but few of them escaped.5

Nothing could have been more detestable than the treachery of Esmond; though lieutenant in the Armagh Militia, he actually planned and led the rebel surprise of Prosperous. He wore the royal uniform, and yet was false to the monarch to whom he had sworn allegiance. When men of desperate fortunes swerve from the path of honour poverty may be pleaded to extenuate, though not excuse. Esmond had no plea to offer—he was wealthy, well born, and respected. He might have proved a rebel, but why play the traitor? When in the house of God loyalty was on his lips, while the heart was contemplating bloodshed. Even the tie a savage venerates could not turn him from his truculent design,—and, while he devoted him to death, he shared his victim’s hospitality—dined with Captain Swayne ‘at an inn on the 23rd of May, and continued to enjoy the glow of social mirth with him, till a few hours before the perpetration of that bloody scene which he had for some time meditated.’

The work of death at Prosperous was interrupted by intelligence conveyed to the insurgents, that at Clane, three miles off, their friends had been defeated—for although partly surprised, that little garrison succeeded in beating off their assailants.

ATTACK ON THE GARRISON AT CLANE

Clane was occupied by a party of the Armagh Militia and some yeomanry cavalry. Early on the morning of the 24th a large body of armed rebels stole into the street. Fortunately there was just time to beat to arms, although such of the soldiers as were at single billets in the town were attacked as they issued from the houses where they had been quartered, and several of them killed and wounded before they could join their comrades. The guards, however, with great gallantry, held the rebels in check until their comrades hastily turned out and formed. A few well-directed volleys routed the rebels, and they were driven with considerable loss from the town; but deeming pursuit imprudent, the royalists returned, and again formed in the streets.

At five in the morning the rebels made a second attempt, reinforced by the exulting rebels who had returned from their bloody deeds at Prosperous; supported by a column of pikemen and musketeers, a party mounted on the horses and furnished with the arms of the slaughtered Ancient Britons, whom they had cut off at Prosperous, charged boldly into Clane. A rolling volley from the royalists brought down half the party and dispersed the rest. They retired at gallop from the rebel column, which, from previous success of superior numbers, cut a strange but formidable appearance.

An affair highly honourable to the royalists resulted. ‘As they were not strong enough to attack so numerous a party, and thinking it dishonourable to retreat, the captain, Griffiths, in concurrence with the militia officers, resolved to take post on an elevated spot near the commons, where they could not be surrounded or outflanked, and there they waited for the enemy, who began a smart fire on them, but without effect, as the elevation was too great. Our troops, having returned the fire, killed and wounded a considerable number of them, on which they fled in great dismay, and were charged by the captain and his sixteen yeomen, who cut down many of those whose heads were ornamented with the helmets of the Ancient Britons or the hats of the Cork regiment.’

A disorderly flight succeeded—the rebels totally disbanding, by throwing away their own ruder weapon the pike, with the firearms and sabres they had captured in the morning, and held in but brief possession.

On re-entering Clane, Captain Griffiths was privately informed by a soldier named Philip Mite, that his own treacherous lieutenant had actually carried out the surprise of Prosperous. Having been ordered to march to Naas, at the moment when the troop were mounting, Esmond, in full accoutrements, joined it. The rash confidence that his treason was unsuspected proved ruinous to the unhappy man. He was arrested, forwarded to Dublin, tried, convicted, and hanged on Carlisle Bridge on the 14th of June.

The insurrectionary occurrences at Ballymore-Eustace and Dunlavin simultaneously with those described, offer fearful pictures of the atrocious spirit with which a civil war is carried through.

MURDER OF GEORGE CRAWFORD AND HIS GRAND-DAUGHTER

Uncompromising severity does not always produce the intended effect. On some example may strike terror, in others it will excite undying hatred, and foster the worst spirit of the human heart—thirst for vengeance. Of this truth a retrospect of the events of these calamitous days gives evidence enough, and it is difficult now to determine on which side the excess of cruelty should be awarded. Assassination on one side was met upon the other with military executions—the royalists extenuating the act under the plea of necessity, while the rebel proclaimed that his murders were committed only from revenge.

When admitting that a similar savageness of purpose might in many cases be charged against both sides, there all comparison must cease. No matter what the acts might be, the causes which produced them were totally dissimilar. The royalists took up arms for the protection of home and altar, which the fanaticism of Popery, or the accursed doctrines of the French revolutionists, were alike bent upon overturning. Allegiance to the king, and the maintenance of social order and an established government, urged the former to come forward; thousands perilled life and property from the purest motives; and when the insurrection was suppressed, sheathed the sword, drawn in the support of a matchless constitution, unstained by any act save those which resistance to rebellion had imperatively demanded. Those who have led a soldier’s life and seen service in the field know that men become the creatures of circumstances.

Let the gentlest spirit—and such are frequently united to the boldest heart—one that would not tread upon a worm or harm a sparrow, let him crown a defended breach, and he will use the bayonet unscrupulously. The feelings are influenced by the times; and if the royalists were sanguinary and unsparing, they could point to the atrocities of the insurgents, and bring forward established facts, so truculent and unwarranted, as to place those who committed them almost without the pale of mercy.

Making every allowance for the political colouring given to his history of the times, and recollecting that he felt and wrote as a partisan, Sir Richard Musgrave narrates two well-authenticated instances of unprovoked cruelty among the many that marked the rebel outbreak in Kildare, which will sufficiently exhibit the ferocious spirit of the insurgents from the moment they flew to arms.

‘The following horrid circumstances,’ relates the historian, ‘attended the murder of George Crawford and his grandchild, a girl of only fourteen years of age. He had formerly served in the 5th Dragoons, retired on a pension, and was permanent sergeant in Captain Taylor’s corps of yeoman cavalry. He, his wife, and grand-daughter were stopped by a party of the rebels, as they were endeavouring to escape, and were reproached with the appellation of heretics because they were of the Protestant religion. One of them struck his wife with a musket, and another gave her a stab of a pike in the back, with an intent of murdering her. The husband, having endeavoured to save her, was knocked down, and received several blows of a firelock, which disabled him from making his escape. While they were disputing whether they should kill them, his wife stole behind a hedge and concealed herself. They then massacred her husband with pikes; and her grand-daughter having thrown herself on his body to protect him, received so many wounds that she instantly expired.

These circumstances of atrocity have been verified by affidavit, sworn by Crawford’s widow, the 20th day of August 1798. The fidelity of a large dog, belonging to this poor man, deserves to be recorded, as he attacked those sanguinary monsters in defence of his master, till he fell by his side perforated with pikes.’

STOPPAGE OF THE MAIL AND MURDER OF LIEUTENANT GIFFARD

‘The second murder occurred on the same night. About eleven o’clock the Limerick mail was stopped by a numerous banditti, and a gentleman was slaughtered under circumstances which elicited a lively sympathy. The sufferer was Lieutenant William Giffard, of the 82nd regiment, son of Captain John Giffard of the Dublin regiment.’ The savages having shot one of the horses so effectually to prevent the coach from proceeding, demanded of Lieutenant Giffard who and what he was, to which he answered, without hesitation, that he was an officer proceeding to Chatham in obedience to orders he had received. They demanded whether he was a Protestant; and being answered in the affirmative, they held a moment’s consultation, and then told him that they wanted officers, that if he would take an oath to be true to them, and join them in an attack to be made next morning upon Monastereven, they would give him a command, but that otherwise he must die. To this the gallant youth replied, ‘That he had already sworn allegiance to the king, that he would never offend God Almighty by a breach of that oath, nor would he disgrace himself by turning a deserter and joining the king’s enemies; that he could not suppose a body of men would be so cruel as to murder an individual who had never injured them, and who was merely passing through them to a country from whence possibly he never might return; but if they insisted on their proposal he must die, for he never would consent to it!’ This heroic answer, which would have kindled sentiments of humanity in any breasts but those of Irish rebels, had the contrary effect, and with the utmost fury they assaulted him. He had a case of pistols, which natural courage and love of life, though hopeless, prompted him to use with effect, and being uncommonly active he burst from them, vaulted over a six feet wall, and made towards a house where he saw a light and heard people talking. Alas! it afforded no refuge! It was the house of poor Crawford whom, with his grand-daughter, they had just piked. A band of barbarians returning from this exploit met Lieutenant Giffard. There he fell, covered with wounds and glory, and his mangled body was thrown into the same ditch with honest Crawford and his innocent grandchild.

‘Thus expired, at the age of seventeen, a gallant youth—the martyr to religion and honour—leaving a memory behind that will ever be respected by the virtuous and the brave.’

Shortly, in the course of his campaign, struggling to suppress the rebellion, Sir James Duffs movable column entered Kildare, when it passed close to the scene of slaughter, and poor Giffard’s body was removed from the ditch and interred with military honours.

COURSE OF THE INSURRECTION

A course of cowardly assassination thus commenced was continued by the insurgents in their progress to attack Monastereven. Their numbers had increased to ten or twelve hundred men, and they were commanded by a ruffian called M’Garry. Such Protestants as they unfortunately met with were put to death, and a solitary dragoon, seized as he crossed the Curragh, was inhumanly murdered. About four in the morning they approached the town and made their preparations for attacking it.

On the 24th of May there was not a regular soldier in Monastereven; and an infantry company, with a troop of horse, both yeomanry, formed the little garrison. After a feint on the canal, and a movement by the high road, which was repulsed by a charge of the cavalry, they pushed boldly into the town, and a warm conflict took place in the main street. The well-sustained musketry of the infantry threw the head of the rebel column into confusion, when the cavalry charged home, and the rout was complete. Fifty bodies were found lifeless in the town; and as the horsemen followed the flying rebels vigorously, as many more were cut up in the pursuit. The repulse of this attack was most honourable to the defenders of Monastereven. The gallant action was achieved by loyalists alone, and of the brave men who fought and bled that day fourteen of the troop were Roman Catholics.

The outbreak of the 23rd of May was attended by many acts of cruelty inflicted upon isolated families, who, either from mistaken confidence or inability to reach a place of safety, exposed themselves to the fury of savages, whose natural truculence was often inflamed to madness by intoxication. Many individuals of great worth and respectability perished thus. Mr. Stamers, the chief proprietor of the town of Prosperous, was torn from the house of a lady where he had obtained a temporary shelter, and murdered in cold blood. Rathangan was, indeed, a scene of extensive butchery. Mr. Spencer and Mr. Moore were slaughtered there, although they had surrendered their arms on the assurance of being protected. They were murdered in the open street, and their wives had the horrible assurance that, with the shots they heard, the existence of their beloved partners had terminated. Thus Mr. Spencer, that worthy gentleman, ‘who was an active and intelligent magistrate, and as remarkable for the amiableness and affability of his manner as the benevolence of his heart, fell a sacrifice to the fanaticism of those savages, to whom he had been unremittingly a kind and generous benefactor. As his house, at the hall door of which he was so brutally murdered, was a short distance from the town, Mrs. Spencer, who was led to it in the midst of these monsters, had the anguish to see the mangled corpse of her husband lying at his door’ (Musgrave).

A number of other victims were immolated by these bloodthirsty savages, and, until relieved by Colonel Longfield on the morning of the 28th, Rathangan was a constant scene of atrocity, in which even woman forgot her sex and barbarously participated. The murders at Rathangan, while they exasperated the royalists to acts of desperate retaliation, operated against the perpetrators in another and unexpected way. The few Protestants in Leinster and the south, who had mixed themselves with the conspiracy, suddenly became alarmed, for the war had now assumed a religious rather than a revolutionary complexion. Suspicion once aroused finds abundant causes to confirm it; and while some Protestants quietly seceded from their fellow-traitors, not a few sought favour with the Government by a secret betrayal of their guilty companions.

Musgrave illustrates this point:—‘I shall mention here an incident which throws light on the spirit of the conspiracy and rebellion, and the secret designs of the great body of the rebels. One Dennis, an apothecary and a Protestant, was the county delegate and chief conductor of the plot in the King’s County, which was to have exploded in a few days; but the wanton massacre of Protestants at Prosperous and Rathangan having convinced him that their extirpation was the main object of the Romanists, though they had with singular dissimulation concealed it from him who was their leader, he repaired to Tullamore to General Dunn, who commanded the district, threw himself on the mercy of Government, exposed the whole plot, and betrayed the names of the captains, who were immediately arrested. He said to the general, “I see, sir, that it will soon be my own fate.”’ In the course of this history nothing will be more apparent than the incompetency, military and diplomatic, of many of the functionaries to whom extensive powers were confided. One while unnecessary severity was employed, and at another mistaken lenity marred every advantage which stringent measures might have effected. In military conduct the royalist commanders were too often found deficient, and almost in every instance, either to imprudence or imbecility, the insurgents were alone indebted for moments of doubtful and envanescent success. The affair at Old Kilcullen was about one of the worst military offences committed by an incompetent commander. Yeomanry officers always behaved with boldness, and frequently displayed both tact and talent when left to their own resources, while many from whose high military rank and standing something like ability might have been looked for, proved the truism of the adage, that as ‘the cowl does not make the monk,’ neither does an aiguilette constitute a general. Learning that some three hundred well-appointed rebels had assembled at Old Kilcullen, and that they had entrenched themselves in the churchyard, General Dundas proceeded to dislodge them. His force consisted of only forty dragoons and some twenty Suffolk militiamen. The rebel position was on a height—one side protected by a high wall, the other secured by a double fence—a hedge with a dike in front. Would it be credited that an English general could be mad enough to assail three hundred men thus posted with forty dragoons? Mus-grave thus narrates the transaction, and his account has been considered by those engaged to be perfectly correct:—

General Dundas ordered the Romneys and the 9th Dragoons to charge the rebels, though it was uphill, though the ground was broken, and many of the rebels were in a road close to the churchyard in which not more than six of the cavalry could advance in front.

‘They, however, charged with great spirit, though their destruction was considered by all the spectators to be the certain and inevitable consequence of it; for what could cavalry do, thus broken and divided, against a firm phalanx of rebels armed with long pikes? Nevertheless they made three charges, but were repulsed in each; and at every repulse the general urged them to renew the attack.

‘It was with the utmost difficulty that Captain Cooks and Captain Erskine could prevail upon their men to renew the charge after the first defeat. In the last charge, Captain Cooks, to inspire his men with courage by example, advanced some yards before them; when his horse, having received many wounds, fell upon his knees; and while in that situation the body of that brave officer was perforated with pikes; and he, Captain Erskine, and twenty-two privates were killed on the spot, and ten so badly wounded that most of them died soon after.’

Shamefully discomfited, Dundas fell back on the village of Kilcullen bridge, and occupied a pass in every way defensible. So thought the successful peasants who had garrisoned the churchyard and deforced an English general. They prudently declined any attempt to force the bridge, forded the Liffey at Castlemartin, and took up a position between Naas and Kilcullen—thus cutting off General Dundas’s communication with the capital.

Nothing remained for the royalist commander but to drive them from these grounds and open his road to Naas. He advanced accordingly, found them in line three deep, and with his cavalry in hand, boldly attacked the position with half a company of the gallant Suffolks. Small as the party was, three rounds broke the rebels. The cavalry charged, and the same body which had so recently inflicted a severe repulse were scattered like a flock of sheep, leaving the ground covered with their dead and wounded. After a brief but bloody pursuit, Dundas marched on Naas, to concentrate his troops and assist in covering the capital.

ATTACK ON NAAS

‘If one can imagine such a thing as a tableau, or bird’s-eye view of the rebellion from the 23rd to the 30th of May (1790), the appearance it would present would be this. Seven or eight comparatively minor explosions, lighting up the atmosphere for a short space and then going gradually out, viz. one in Meath (Tara), one in Wicklow (Mount Kennedy), a good blaze in Carlow, and four or five in Kildare, which its being Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s own county accounts for—these were Naas, Prosperous, Kilcullen, and Rathangan. The eye should then be drawn to the mighty and absorbing eruption of Wexford; taking Vinegar Hill as its crater, it would observe two streams of lava pouring forth, one due west to Ross, one due north towards Wicklow, and a third, of somewhat less importance, north-west to Newtown Barry. I rather think the first shot was fired by my regiment at Naas, as Mick Reynolds, who led the rebels, was one of the promptest of the insurgent leaders.’—The MS. Journal of a Field Officer.

The garrison of Naas consisted of a hundred and fifty of the Armagh Militia, with two battalion guns, and seventy cavalry, consisting of small detachments of the Fourth Dragoons, Ancient Britons, and sixteen mounted yeomen. The whole were under the command of Colonel Lord Gosford.

On the evening of the general insurrection (the 23rd of May) anonymous letters were received by the commanding officer, apprising him that a night attack would be made upon the town by a numerous body of well-armed rebels, and necessary dispositions of the garrison were made to receive the threatened assault. The guards were doubled, the outskirts of the town carefully patrolled, and a plan of defence prearranged to prevent any confusion when the hour for action came. Midnight passed without anything occurring to cause alarm, and as morning dawned, it was believed that the information received the preceding evening had been incorrect, and the officers retired to their quarters. At half-past two, however, an outlying dragoon galloped in, announcing the advance of a numerous body of rebels; the drums beat to arms, and the garrison occupied their alarm posts.

Perhaps the commanding officer and his staff were more than a trifle incautious and premature in deciding there was nothing in the timely warning.

In spite of the precautionary vigilance, Lord Gosford had the very narrowest possible escape from death by assassination. His lodging was situated at the summit of the hill which the Dublin road ascends. The sentinel at his door, having his attention attracted by the entrance of the rebel columns at the foot of the hill, was inexcusably so far off his guard as to allow two pikemen, belonging to the town, to slip into the hall, where they were ready to receive his lordship with their pikes as he hurried from his chamber on the alarm. And they were very near succeeding—but the sentinel turning about at the critical moment, shot one and bayoneted the other, just as his lordship was rushing down the stairs. The sentinel’s name was John Sandford; he was afterwards made a sergeant, and his son a drummer.

The rebels, who had assembled at the quarries of Tipper, advanced on the town in four divisions, each entering by a different approach, and the heaviest column moving by the Johnstown Road. The latter was commanded by Michael Reynolds, and it made a bold effort to carry the jail, in front of which a party of the Armagh Militia, the Ancient Britons, and a battalion gun were posted. But the attack was completely repulsed, and the rebel loss would have been more considerable had not the cavalry, irritated by the fall of their officer, Captain Davis, who had been fatally piked, charged too prematurely, and interrupted the play of the gun; the execution of the latter was so trifling compared to what it should have produced upon a body in close column and at canister range, that it was ascribed rather to treachery than want of skill. For forty minutes, however, desultory firing continued.

‘Large parties of the rebels, who stole unnoticed into the town through the houses and narrow lanes, fought some time in the streets, and stood three volleys from the Armagh Militia, posted opposite to the barrack, before they gave way; at last they fled precipitately in every direction, when the cavalry charged, and killed a great number of them in the pursuit. Thirty of the rebels were killed in the streets; and from the numbers found dead in back houses and in the adjacent fields a few days afterwards, it is imagined that no less than three hundred must have fallen.

‘They dropped in their flight a great quantity of pikes and other arms, of which a number were found in pits near the town, where also three men with green cockades were seized, and instantly hanged in the public streets. Another prisoner was spared in consequence of useful information which he gave. He informed the commanding officer that the rebel party was above one thousand strong, and was commanded by Michael Reynolds, who was well mounted, and dressed in yeoman uniform. He made his escape, but his horse fell into the hands of our troops.’

KILDARE AND CARLOW

The entire of the county of Kildare was now in open insurrection, and not less than six rebel encampments were formed, and multitudes of the peasantry flocked to them. The houses were almost entirely deserted. Of the Protestant clergy not a man remained, and indeed the ferocity of party feeling had attained an intensity of violence which now can scarcely be imagined or believed. An infernal spirit actuated the opposite religionists. On one side, Catholics were too generally regarded with hatred and distrust; on the other, Protestants and Orangemen were held synonymous, and to all who dissented from the Church of Rome the most abominable feelings and intentions were attributed.

The MS. Journal of a Field Officer relates: ‘One of the completest things during the rebellion was the defeat of the rebels at Carlow, in which a company of my regiment had a share. There was full information of the intended attack, but “not a drum was heard.” The soldiers, who were chiefly in billets, were allowed to repair to their quarters as usual, and remain there until it was ascertained that the town rebels had quitted it to join their fellows and arm themselves, which they did about two miles from the town. A number of sergeants then went round, and the men were brought to their posts without the least alarm.

‘The rebel column entered Carlow by Tullow Street, unopposed—the street terminating in a place or open space where stood the horse barracks and jail. Arrived here they raised a loud shout or yell, and it was fearfully responded to by a destructive fire which opened upon them from different points. Seized with a panic at this unexpected reception they endeavoured to escape in various directions. The greater part retraced their steps through Tullow Street, but a picket had by this time occupied the further end of it, and opened a withering fire. They now sought refuge in the houses: these the soldiers set fire to; a number were shot in attempting to escape the flames, but a great many of the unfortunate wretches perished in them.’

About eighty houses were consumed in this conflagration; and for some days the roasted remains of unhappy men were falling down the chimneys in which they had perished.

It will be here necessary to mention that in Kildare, within a few days after the outbreak, an amnesty for the past was solicited by many of the rebels, and, with the consent of Government, the generals commanding in that county entered into negotiations with their chiefs. How far this was a prudent measure is questionable. In the spirit of the proclamations issued—with arms in their hands, rebels should have been placed outside the pale of treaty; while at the same time the most extensive forgiveness should have been extended to such as should disband themselves and reoccupy their abandoned dwellings. In diplomatic, as well as in field abilities, the royal generals were defective, and the amnesty produced nothing but treachery and bloodshed. The former charge rests with the insurgents, the latter must be laid at the hands of the royalists.

TREACHERY IN THE MIDST OF THE CAPITAL

While the counties in the immediate vicinity of the capital were thus in open insurrection, in the city the spirit and hopes of the disaffected were still buoyant as to the prospect of ultimate success; and although the failure of the 23rd had for a time paralysed the traitors of the metropolis, they were disappointed, but not despairing, and rebellion was ‘scotched, not killed.’

The committees and ‘directories’ continued their meetings, pikes were fabricated in large quantities, the sentries were assaulted on isolated posts, the doors of royalists were marked, domestic servants were corrupted. Musgrave records:—‘The Lord Mayor’s servant acknowledged to his employer that he was at the head of a numerous body of servants who were to have assassinated their masters; that he and his party were to have murdered the Lord Mayor and his family, with two others of his servants who had refused to join this precious association, and that this atrocious deed was to have been the signal for the other servants in the vicinity to rise and commit similar enormities. Another certain proof that a revolution was not only contemplated but expected, many of the Dublin tradesmen refused to receive bank notes in payment from their customers.’

Another serious cause of alarm also was the discovery that into many of the yeomanry corps disaffected persons had been introduced, and in some the traitors outnumbered ‘the true men.’

In Kildare almost every corps was tainted, and the same remark applied to many in the metropolis. Of the country corps, the Sleamarigue laid down their arms, the Castledermot had but five well-affected men, the Athy cavalry were publicly disarmed in the market-place, and their captain, Fitzgerald of Geraldine, committed to prison. The Rathangan, North Naas, and Furnace yeomanry were all extensively disaffected, and the Clane, nominally amounting to sixty-six, could only muster five-and-twenty when the insurrection broke out.

Of the metropolitan corps many were exclusively loyal, but others were not without traitorous members. One instance will be sufficient to show how extensive and dangerous was the disaffection.

On the 29th of May, the St. Sepulchre’s corps, in turn of duty, took the guard at Dolphin’s Barn, an outpost on the southwest side of the metropolis. While on the march to the bridge, a Roman Catholic yeoman, named Raymond, entered into conversation with his comrade, a notorious United Irishman, and communicated the secret plot. He told Jennings, ‘that in case of an attack, which was hourly expected, and which it was believed he had previously concerted with the rebels, the disaffected members of the corps were to massacre their officers and the Protestants, and to deliver up the bridge to the assailants. They were then to proceed to the battery in the park, inform the guard that they had been defeated, ask admittance, and on being let in, murder the guard, take possession of the battery and ammunition, and turn it to their own use.

‘Jennings had been sworn a United Irishman, and was attached to the cause from republican principles; but being a Protestant, and having discovered from the massacres which had taken place in the counties of Dublin, Meath, and Kildare, that the extirpation of his own order was intended, he informed Lieutenant Mathurin of the plot; and he, having communicated it to the Government, Raymond was taken up, tried, convicted, and hanged on the Old Bridge on the 1st of June.’

As the Roman Catholic members of that corps, who formed the majority of it, were discovered to be disaffected, they were disarmed on parade the Sunday following, and disbanded.

The fears of the inhabitants of the city were not abated when, on the 26th of May, the Lord Mayor caused the following placard to be circulated throughout the metropolis:—

‘A Caution

‘Lest the innocent should suffer for the guilty.

‘The Lord Mayor requests his fellow-citizens to keep within their houses as much as they can, suitable to their convenience, after sunset, in this time of peril; as the streets should be kept as clear as possible, should any tumult or rising to support rebellion be attempted, in order that the troops and artillery may act with full effect in case of any disturbance.’

THE HILL OF TARA

At this period, after plundering, and a commission of other outrages at Dunboyn, the rebels, from the borders of Meath and Dublin, proceeded in the first instance to Dunshaughlin, and afterwards to the hill of Tara. Their numbers had rapidly increased; there were no military parties in the immediate neighbourhood; and unchecked and unresisted, they devastated the country for miles round their camp, to which they carried an immense quantity of booty. A few corps of yeomanry still remained in the vicinity, but they were not sufficiently numerous to attack a very strong and defensible position. Accident, however, interposed, and the royalists obtained the assistance they required.

Three companies of the Reay Fencibles, with a battalion gun, were on the march to the metropolis, and halted in Navan on the night of the 25th of May. Captain Preston, who commanded the yeomanry of that town, solicited the co-operation of Captain M’Clean to deforce the rebels....

‘After going some time in quest of the rebels they found them very strongly posted on Tara hill, where they had been four hours, and about four thousand in number, while the country people were flocking to them in great multitudes from every quarter. They had plundered the houses in all the adjacent country of provisions of every kind, and were proceeding to cook their dinners, having lighted nearly forty fires, and hoisted white flags in their camp.

‘The hill of Tara is very steep, and the upper part surrounded by three circular Danish forts, with ramparts and fosses; while on the top lies the churchyard surrounded with a wall, which the rebels regarded as their citadel, and considered impregnable.

‘The king’s troops, including the yeomanry, might have amounted to about four hundred. As soon as the rebels perceived them they put their hats on the tops of their spikes, sent forth some dreadful yells, and at the same time began to jump, and put themselves in singular attitudes, as if bidding defiance to their adversaries. They then began to advance, firing at the same time, but in an irregular manner.

‘Our line of infantry came on with the greatest coolness, and did not fire a shot until they were within fifty yards. One part of the cavalry, commanded by Lord Fingal, was ordered to the right, the other to the left, to prevent the line from being outflanked, which the enemy attempted to accomplish. The rebels made three desperate onsets, and in the last laid hold of the cannon; but the officer who commanded the gun laid the match to it before they could completely surround it, prostrated ten or twelve of the assailants, and dispersed the remainder. The Reay Fencibles preserved their line, and fired with as much coolness as if they had been exercising on a field-day.

‘At length they routed the rebels, who fled in all directions, having lost about four hundred in killed and wounded. In their flight they threw away arms and ammunition, and everything that could encumber them. Three hundred horses, all their provisions, arms, ammunition, and baggage fell into the hands of the victors, with eight of the Reay Fencibles, whom they had taken prisoners two days before, and whom they employed to drill them.

‘It is to be lamented that the Reay Fencibles lost twenty-six men in killed and wounded, and the Upper Kells infantry six men.

‘The king’s troops would have remained on the field all night, but they had not a cartridge left either for the gun or small arms, The prisoners, of whom they took a good many, informed our officers that their intention was to have proceeded that night to plunder Navan, and then Kells, where there was a great quantity of ammunition, and little or no force to protect it; and that when they had succeeded they expected, according to a preconcerted plan, to have been joined by a great number of insurgents from Meath, Westmeath, Lough, Monaghan, and Cavan.’

The defeat of the insurgents, and their complete dispersion at Tara hill and on the Curragh, were highly advantageous, as they opened the communications north and south with the metropolis, which had been seriously interrupted.

Many partial affairs took place at this time between the royalists and the rebels in Kildare, and barbarities on the one side produced on the other a terrible retaliation. The insurgents burned and murdered as they went along; the troops and yeomen shot and hanged liberally in return. The record of crimes inhumanly committed and ruthlessly revenged would only disgust a reader.

While thus Kildare was exhibited for nearly a week one wide blaze of general insurrection, another county, which in the annals of rebellion assumed afterwards a sanguinary pre-eminence, remained in ominous tranquillity. The storm burst at last, and in crime and bloodshed Wexford left every other scene of tumultuary violence completely in the shade.

WEXFORD INSURRECTION AND CONSEQUENT ATROCITIES

Wexford had long withstood the anarchy of the evil days. While many counties in Ireland were disgraced by nocturnal robbery and assassination, committed by Defenders and United Irishmen, for five years previous to ‘97, it was the pride of the Wexford gentlemen to boast that their county had remained in perfect tranquillity. But in the autumn and winter of that year, and in the spring of ‘98, there were well-grounded suspicions that the mass of the people had begun to be infected by those baneful principles which since proved fatal to the kingdom, that pikes were manufactured, and clubs had been formed, in which illegal oaths had been administered. In April, however, unequivocal symptoms that a disaffected spirit actuated the peasantry became evident; and although the priests laboured hard to lead the resident gentry to believe that no danger was impending, and the people by thousands swore allegiance in the chapels, and expressed open attachment to the Government, there is too much reason to conclude that the plot had been long in preparation, and that the ferocious spirit which marked the proceedings of the insurgents was not the wild ebullition of a resentment produced by injudicious severity, but the fruits of a long-cherished antipathy to those who dissented from them in faith. It was the explosion of a frantic effort of the Papists to stamp out and exterminate their Protestant fellow-countrymen.

There is no doubt violent measures produced great exasperation, and that possibly a conciliatory policy might have averted the outbreak altogether. ‘Not above six hundred men at most of the regular army or militia were stationed in the county, the defence of which was almost abandoned to the troops of yeomen and their supplementaries. The magistrates in several districts employed themselves in ordering the seizure, imprisonment, and whipping of numbers of suspected persons. These yeomen being Protestants, prejudiced against the Romanists by traditionary and other accounts of the former cruelties that sect committed, fearing similar cruelties in case of insurrection, and confirmed in this fear by papers found in the pockets of some prisoners, containing the old sanguinary doctrines of the Romish Church, which authorised the extermination of heretics, acted with a spirit ill-fitted to allay religious hatred and prevent any feeling to rebels.

CAPTAIN FATHER JOHN MURPHY OF BOULAVOGUE

Until Saturday, the 26th of May, the flame of rebellion remained smouldering; but on that evening John Murphy, the curate or coadjutor-priest of Boulavogue, gave the signal for a general rising, which was too fatally responded to. A fire lighted on the hill of Corrigrua was answered by another kindled on Boulavogue, and the rapidity with which the volcano burst appears almost incredible. Murphy, the rebel general, was the son of a petty farmer in the parish of Ferns, where he was educated at a hedge school kept by a man of the name of Gun. It appears by his testimonium and diploma, that he received holy orders at Seville in Spain in the year 1785, and probably graduated there as a doctor of divinity, as he assumes that title in his journal, which was dropped in his retreat from Vinegar Hill, and found by Captain Hugh Moore of the 5th Dragoons, aide-de-camp to General Needham.

Nothing could be more ferocious than the church-militant career of this savage man. Every Protestant house in the parish of Kilcormick was reduced to ashes, and such of their unfortunate owners as could be seized were ruthlessly destroyed. These outrages proceeded entirely from a truculent disposition—for mostly his victims were men who offered no opposition—and when rashly attacked at a place called the Harrow, he beat off the Camolin cavalry, and killed Lieutenant Bookey who commanded it.

Whether the demon spirit which Murphy afterwards exhibited had been provoked or not is a matter of controversy; some say that his house and chapel had been burnt before he took the field, and others as positively deny it. In searching through the evidence on record dispassionately, I incline to the Tatter opinion, for when his house was burned the furniture had been previously removed and hidden in a sand-pit, and when his vestments were brought from the same concealment, the leader of the loyalists observed, in reply to some insulting remark, ‘Punish the rebel if you can, but offer no mockery to his religion.’

Early in his martial career Murphy commenced his murderous treacheries, destroying the glebe house at Kyle and murdering the rector of Kilmuckridge, Doctor Burrowes, and his family, under circumstances of peculiar atrocity. The house was defended with barricades by the rector and his parishioners at sunrise it was attacked by about five hundred rebels. ‘It was vigorously defended for some time, many shots having been fired by the assailants and the besieged. At last the rebels set fire to the out-offices, which were quickly consumed, and soon after to the dwelling-house, which in a short time was in a state of conflagration. The rapid spread of the flames in the latter was caused by the application of some unctuous combustible matter applied to the doors and windows of the house, which the rebels frequently used in the course of the rebellion.

‘The besieged being in danger of suffocation from the thickness of the smoke, resolved to quit the house, however perilous it might be, and this they were encouraged to do by Father Murphy, who assured them they should not be injured if they surrendered themselves without further resistance. Relying on his promise they quitted the house, on which the rebels treacherously murdered Mr. Burrowes and seven of his parishioners, and gave his son, a youth of sixteen, so severe a wound in the belly with a pike, that it subsequently caused his death.

CAROUSAL AND PLUNDER AT THE PALACE OF THE BISHOP OF FERNS

George Cruikshank has seized this characteristic incident for one of his graphic pictures. It will be remembered that Murphy’s father came from the parish of Ferns. The illustration is in itself sufficiently graphic, and filled with pictorial details descriptive of the incident. Maxwell has related, in reference to the plunder of the bishop’s palace, an anecdote connected with it, which marks the total subversion of principle, religious feelings, badly excited, will produce. An orphan boy, whom the bishop had found naked and starving at the age of seven years, and whom he had fed, clothed, and instructed afterwards, was the leader of these marauders, showed them every valuable article of furniture, and assisted them in breaking open the cellar. The bishop’s fine library was plundered of its antique folios; these the rebels converted into saddles.

CAMPS OF KILTHOMAS AND OULART HILLS

The first consequences of the Wexford rising was the assemblage of two large bodies of insurgents, the one occupying the hill of Oulart, ten miles southward of Gorey, in the direction of the town of Wexford; the second taking a position nine miles westward of the former place, on a ridge of the Slieve Buoye mountain, called Kilthomas hill. Camps were established on the heights, and an immense number of the peasantry, including every age and sex, flocked immediately to join the rebels.

Both camps were attacked, but with results painfully different. The garrison of the little town of Carnew, consisting of nearly three hundred yeomanry, mounted and dismounted, marched boldly against the insurgents collected on Kilthomas, roughly estimated at about three thousand men. Although, with favourable ground and enormous superiority of numbers, it might have been expected that an attempt to dislodge the rebels from their position would have failed, nothing could have been more successful than the attack, and the royalists obtained a bloodless victory. Here again, the unrelenting spirit of the times appeared, and a very gallant and daring exploit was sullied by impolitic severity. The attempt to disperse the second camp at Oulart was attended with consequences not only disastrous to the troops engaged, but its results caused afterwards an immensity of bloodshed. Through the imprudence of an incompetent commanding officer, a very gallant detachment perished, while the insurgents, encouraged by accidental success, acquired a false but dangerous confidence which involved a fearful amount of atrocity, with a reaction, in many cases to be excused, and in more to be lamented.

On the morning of the 27th of May, Mr. Turner of Newfort arrived at Wexford and announced that his own house had been attacked and robbed of a quantity of arms, previously surrendered, and that the insurrection had unequivocally broken out.

Intelligence presently came in of the murders and atrocities everywhere committed in the neighbourhood, and also of the formation of a rebel camp at Oulart. Thinking it advisable to crush the outbreak in its birth, the yeomanry cavalry proceeded to scour the country, while Captain Foote with a detachment of the North Cork militia, amounting to no men, rank and file, marched in the direction of the rebel camp; and in route to Oulart he was joined by a troop of yeomanry cavalry; however, most of the yeomen in face of the enemy proved traitors and deserted to the enemy. In rough numbers, the insurgent force might have been set down at four to five thousand combatants. Although the advance was made with every disregard of military caution, accident more than determination enabled the rebels to profit from the gross mismanagement of the force opposed to them. Contempt of an enemy, which creates incaution, has often proved fatal. The rebels fled at the first onset, and were pursued at full speed by the militia, who were so little apprehensive of resistance, that no rank or order was observed. While the rebels were making their escape with precipitation towards the northern side of the hill, they were apprised that a large body of cavalry had been seen that morning advancing against them in the opposite direction, apparently with a design to intercept their flight and co-operate with the militia by a double attack. As the Wexfordian insurgents as yet were totally unacquainted with warfare, the onset of cavalry was, to the imaginations of many among them, more terrible than that of infantry. They therefore ignorantly supposed the cavalry to be still in the neighbourhood; and while Father John Murphy exclaimed that they must either conquer or perish, they turned desperately against the militia, who had now arrived near the summit, almost breathless, and charging them with their pikes, killed the whole detachment in an instant, except the lieutenant-colonel, a sergeant, and three privates. ‘It appears,’ says Musgrave, ‘that the rebels were rendered bold and desperate by intoxication, and that from twelve to fifteen of them singled out, cut off, and attacked each of the soldiers, who did not resign their lives but at a dear rate to their assailants.’

The consequences of this unfortunate disaster speedily evinced themselves. Numbers of the peasantry who had hitherto remained neutral repaired to the camp and joined the rebel standard; and in the same ratio that the confidence of the insurgents increased, the spirit of the royalists was abated. Fearful of an attack by numbers of savage men under the intoxication of a first success, the little garrison of Gorey determined to retreat at once on Arklow; and the movement was conceived and executed with a celerity that caused the most afflicting distress to crowds of helpless loyalists, who, dreading the ferocity of the rebels, abandoned their homes and followed the retiring garrison as they best could; the situation of these unfortunates was truly deplorable, and their subsequent sufferings pitiable in the extreme.

DESTRUCTION OF THE CHURCH AT ENNISCORTHY

Flushed with success, Murphy, the fighting priest of Boulavogue, now turned his attention to the town of Enniscorthy, six miles distant from his encampment. Its possession would be important; and as the garrison amounted only to about three hundred men, of whom a hundred were North Cork Militia and the remainder local yeomanry, there was every reason to believe that an open town, accessible in many quarters and protected by a feeble garrison, would offer to the overwhelming masses which should assail it a short and unavailing defence. Accordingly, Father Murphy determined to attack the place, and he carried his resolution into effect early on the afternoon of the 28th of May.

From its dangerous vicinity to the rebel encampment the garrison of the town apprehended, naturally enough, that the first effort of the victorious insurgents would be directed against them, and they were obliged, in consequence, to be vigilant and prepared. The duty of patrolling and giving pickets was therefore most harassing; for three days and nights they had been continually under arms; but though worn out and exhausted, while reports and appearances were most discouraging, they determined nevertheless to offer a gallant defence, and nobly they realised their resolution.

Certain intelligence having been received on the morning of the 28th that the town would be attacked early that afternoon, the drums beat to arms and the garrison took the posts previously assigned to them. The North Cork Militia occupied the bridge, a cavalry corps holding the street connecting it with the town, while the Duffry gate hill, upon the Carlow road, was protected by the yeomanry and infantry. The market-house and castle had each a sergeant’s guard allotted for its defence.

The ground taken up by the yeomanry was three or four hundred yards in front of the Duffry gate, and on that point the rebels made their opening attack. On perceiving the yeomanry in line, the insurgent column halted and deployed, extending largely to the right and left, to outflank the small body in their front and cut it from the town. This done, they advanced, driving cattle in their front, and at the same time opening a heavy and well-directed fire. (As the county of Wexford abounds with water-fowl, the occupation of a fowler is so profitable that numbers of the lower class of people are not only experts in the use of fire-arms, but excellent marksmen.) The yeomanry replied to it with effect, but dreading, from the extension of the rebel wings, that they should be ultimately turned, they retired into the town, covered by a charge of cavalry, which dispersed a body that pressed them too closely, but inflicted on the gallant horsemen a very heavy loss.

The suburbs and the town itself were now on fire. A number of the assailants had got in through by-ways unperceived, the rebel inhabitants fired on the royalists from their windows (many lives of officers were thus picked off in ambuscade), while, repulsed from an attempt upon the bridge, the insurgents attempted to ford the river beyond the reach of the fire of the North Cork Militia. Pressed by numbers totally disproportionate, the yeomanry obstinately held their ground, and although suffering heavily themselves, they cheered as they observed that their own heavy and well-supported fusilade cut down the head of the rebel column and checked its advance.

‘The streets,’ relates Musgrave, ‘were entirely involved in smoke, so that the yeomen could not perceive the rebels till they were charged by their pikes. The flames from the houses at each side of the street were so great as to unite and form a fiery arch, by which their hair was singed and the bear-skin in their caps was burnt. The loyalists, bravely disputing every inch of ground, retreated to the market-house, an open space like a square, where they made a determined stand and killed great numbers of the enemy. By this effort the loyalists turned the scale and drove the rebels completely out of the town, the streets of which at each side of the river presented an awful scene of conflagration. While the troops were thus engaged in the south side of the town, another body of the rebels crossed the river, about three-quarters of a mile above the bridge, but were soon routed by Captain Snowe. On this occasion his men showed great dexterity as marksmen, seldom failing to bring down such individual rebels as they aimed at. Captain Snowe then ordered Captain Richards to charge, which he did most effectually, but with heavy loss in killed and wounded.

‘As a party of the rebels, which came from Vinegar Hill towards the glebe, still remained unassailed and their numbers seemed increasing, they were attacked by Captain Drury, with half a company of the North Cork Militia, and dispersed with considerable slaughter.’

Thus ended an action which lasted more than three hours, fought on a very hot day, in the midst of a burning town, the disaffected inhabitants of which set fire to their own houses to annoy the loyalists, and fired on them from their windows with deadly effect, picking out the loyalist leaders. In this action the yeomen and Protestant inhabitants performed prodigies of valour in support of the constitution and in defence of their property and their families.

‘It was generally believed that not less than five hundred of the rebels were killed or wounded. The banks of the river and the island in it were strewed with their dead bodies, and numbers of them fell in the streets. To keep up the courage of the insurgents every artifice was used; for even women, as if insensible of danger, were seen in the midst of the carnage administering whiskey to their rebel friends.’

In this most gallant defence the loss sustained by the garrison fell chiefly on the yeomanry and loyalists; nearly a third of the whole amount employed were placed hors de combat, the greater proportion being slain.

After the rebels were repulsed, the necessity of an instant retreat became apparent. The town was on fire, and no longer tenable by a garrison equally reduced in strength and numbers, the insurgents were hanging in an immense force about the town, a night attack seemed almost certain, and no hope could be held out that under existing circumstances it could be repulsed. A council of war was held, and, after mature deliberation, it was resolved to abandon the town and march on Wexford by the eastern side of the river, by St. John’s. ‘From the suddenness of the retreat, only a few of the Protestant inhabitants could accompany the troops, and they could carry with them no other comforts or necessaries but the apparel which they wore. Imagination cannot form a more tragic scene than the melancholy train of fugitives, of whom some were so helpless from their wounds, from sickness, the feebleness of old age or infancy, that they could not have effected their escape had not the yeomen cavalry mounted them on their horses. Some parents were reduced to the dreadful necessity of leaving their infants in cottages on the roadside, with but faint hope of ever seeing them again.

‘The town, the morning after the rebels got possession of it, presented a dreadful scene of carnage and conflagration; many bodies were lying dead in the streets, and others groaning in the agonies of death; some parts of the place were entirely consumed, and in others the flames continued to rage with inextinguishable fury. No less than 478 dwelling-houses and cabins were burned in the town and its suburbs, besides a great number of stores, malt-houses, and out-offices.’

The rebel entrance of the town was marked by the atrocities of a barbarous force, irritated by resistance, and now excited by the accidental success which circumstances had given them.

AN ACT OF VENGEANCE

In the spirit of sheer destructiveness the rebels turned their exertions to wrecking the Protestant church. Our artist has graphically pictured the wild and lurid spectacle attending the wilful destruction of the church at Enniscorthy; vestments, benches, the organ, the pulpit, Bibles, and church furniture were devoted to feed the flames and make a bonfire; meanwhile the triumphant insurgents are shown carrying off the church bell as a trophy, which we find set up subsequently, a prominent feature of the vast rebel camp in the vicinity.

THE CAMP ON VINEGAR HILL

Immediately after obtaining possession of Enniscorthy the rebels proceeded to form an extensive encampment on Vinegar Hill, from which the town, after its seizure, was garrisoned by rebel reliefs, sent down from headquarters on the mountain. Immense numbers of the peasantry flocked to this camp, and in a few days it was believed that fully ten thousand men were there collected. As this was the point on which the insurgents concentrated in greater force and for a longer time than on any other during the brief period that elapsed from the émeute to its final suppression, and as it was also, unhappily, the scene, were its atrocities recorded, that would picture civil war in revolting colours—which may be fancied but not detailed—it may be interesting here to describe its local position and the appearance it then presented.

In a military point of view Vinegar Hill is strong. High grounds, gradually rising, are crowned by a cone of bold ascent, while the country beneath, being cultivated fields, is divided into numerous enclosures, and intersected by stone walls, hedges, and trenches. On the apex of the hill stood the ruins of a windmill; round the upper height some rude field-works were thrown up, as well as on a lower ridge which the rebels occupied as part of their position. For defence by irregular troops, who trusted rather to numbers than to discipline, Vinegar Hill was particularly favourable, for the numerous enclosures afforded safe cover for skirmishers, who could with perfect impunity severely annoy any columns advancing to assail the hill, and oblige an enemy to feel his way with caution. Good roads wound round the base of the position, and a command of the Slaney added to its military value.

Its local appearance was singular and picturesque, and perfectly in keeping with a wild and guerilla sort of warfare. Although the weather was particularly hot and night but nominal, a part of the insurgents placed themselves under cover, and the position exhibited rather the varied colouring of an Indian camp than the dazzling whiteness of ‘the tented field.’ Wattles—as thin and flexible poles are termed in Irish parlance—were overhung with blankets, tablecloths, chintz furniture, and window curtains, plundered from the surrounding neighbourhood, while in the centre, from the top of the ruined windmill, a green flag ‘dared the battle and the breeze.’ A few guns and swivels were rudely placed in battery, and in whatever else the rebel executive might have been deficient, their commissariat, as the figures and records show, was carefully attended to. A local board of field officers assembled every day, and after their deliberations the larders and cellars of the neighbouring gentry were put into extensive requisition. Vinegar Hill was better provided with rude accommodations than any of the insurgent stations, for the heights on which the rebel masses herded were generally mere bivouacs, hurriedly taken up and as suddenly abandoned. These posts they termed camps, though they were destitute of tents, except a few for their chiefs, while the people remained in the open air in vast multitudes, men and women promiscuously, some lying covered with blankets at night, and some without other covering than the clothes which they wore during the day. This mode of warfare was favoured by an uninterrupted continuance of dry and warm weather, to such a length of time as is very unusual in Ireland in that season, or any season of the year. This was regarded by the rebels as a particular interposition of Providence in their favour, and some among them are said to have declared, in a prophetic tone, that not a drop of rain was to fall until they should be masters of all Ireland. On the other hand, the same was considered by the fugitive loyalists as a merciful favour of Heaven, since bad weather must have miserably augmented their distress and caused the death of many. In these encampments or stations, among such crowds of riotous, undisciplined men, under no regular authority, the greatest disorder may be supposed to have prevailed. Often when a rebel was in a sound sleep in the night he was robbed by some associate of his gun or some article considered valuable; and hence to sleep flat on the belly, with the hat and shoes tied under the breast for the prevention of stealth, was the general custom.

THE CAMP ON VINEGAR HILL

‘The camp at Vinegar Hill presented a dreadful scene of confusion and uproar. A number of female rebels, more vehement than the male, were marching out to meet the army from Newtown Barry; this was a large body which Father Roche led from Vinegar Hill to the attack of that town, which took place the 1st of June. Great numbers of women were in the camp. Some men were employed in killing cattle and in boiling them in pieces in large copper brewing-pans; others were drinking, cursing, and swearing; many of them were playing on various musical instruments which they had acquired by plunder in the adjacent Protestant houses, the whole producing a most disagreeable and barbarous dissonance.’—Visit to the Camp, Rossiters Affidavit, printed in Musgrave’s Appendix, No. XX.

They were in nothing more irregular than in the cooking of provisions, many of them cutting pieces at random out of cattle scarcely dead without waiting to dismember them, and roasting those pieces on the points of their pikes, with the parts of the hide which belonged to them still attached. The heads of cattle were seldom eaten, but generally left to rot on the surface of the ground, as were often large portions of the carcases after a few pieces had been cut away. From this practice the decay of animal matter was rapid, and the stench of the encampment in a few days became intolerable.

THE FATAL PASS OF TUBBERNEERING

This incident, one of the most fatal episodes of the insurrection, was due, like several others recounted, to the incompetence of the leaders; a fine body of men were thus sacrificed, and the situation of the loyalists was aggravated in consequence. The abandonment of Wexford followed the succession of military mistakes. The peasantry, hounded on by truculent priests and ferocious partisans, committed every enormity which can be imagined, while the royalists and yeomanry emulated this abominable cruelty, and, under the name of loyalty, too frequently perpetrated wanton and savage reprisals. Confidence between men was ended, and while the rebels dissimulated to obtain their end, the royalist, shielded by the hand of power still predominant, robbed and slaughtered ‘in the king’s name.’ On both sides there were violence and treachery. It was an unholy contest, and while Popish massacres were revolting, it cannot be denied that Protestant atrocities were neither ‘few nor far between.’ Colonel Walpole was detached from Dublin to reinforce General Loftus, that on his junction he arrogated for himself an independent command, that it was culpably acceded to, that he was ambitious to fight an action without delay, and that to oblige a minion of a Lord-Lieutenant an attack on the rebel position, the hill of Ballymore, was planned, it being considered the safest method of gratifying ‘a carpet-knight’ whose services had as vet been confined to the duties of the drawing-room. The result may be imagined. Walpole led his fine division into a well-prepared ambuscade in the fatal pass of Tubberneering, the guns were taken, the commanders shot. ‘Suddenly from the enclosures a wild yell burst forth, accompanied by a stream of musketry. Colonel Walpole fell on the first fire; the confusion was tremendous, and to fight or retreat impossible. The height and number of the fences on every side made the ground most favourable for irregular and desultory warfare, as the long pikes of the rebels reached nearly across the narrow road, and those of the distracted soldiers who escaped the first close fire were perforated from behind the hedges’ by invisible opponents. The surprise of the troops was complete, dragoons and infantry were thrown in helpless disorder on each other, and a scene of butchery ensued. The column was now completely surrounded, discipline unavailing; an attempt made by a detachment of the 4th Dragoon Guards to turn the enemy’s right flank failed. After having sustained the attack for about three-quarters of an hour with considerable disadvantage on the part of the king’s troops, and having lost their commander and three pieces of artillery, which were immediately turned against them, a retreat began in all the confusion which might be expected from raw and inexperienced troops.

‘The rebels pressed them hard, a general dismay took place, which would probably have been fatal to the whole of the column had not Lieutenant-Colonel Cope of the Armagh Militia, who had been fortunately in the rear of the column with a detachment of his own regiment, rallied and formed them on the road to impede the progress of the enemy. He gallantly disputed every inch of it for three miles. To this small band of brave men, under the command of a cool and gallant officer, the safety of those who escaped on that disastrous day may be entirely attributed.

‘Walpole, a mere Castle attache, had been very improperly employed to collect what troops could be spared from Naas, Kilcullen, and Baltinglas to reinforce General Loftus.... Walpole assumed the duties of his superior, planned ridiculous attacks, and finally sacrificed one of the finest detachments in the field.’

THE LOYAL LITTLE DRUMMER-BOY

Musgrave has thus related the touching incident of which George Cruikshank has made an effective picture:—‘A drummer, named Hunter, of the Antrim regiment, only some twelve years old, fell into the hands of the rebels in the unfortunate affair in which Colonel Walpole lost his life. He carried his drum with him, and when conducted to the town of Gorey with some other prisoners, being ordered to beat it, actuated by a spirit of enthusiastic loyalty, he exclaimed, “That the King’s drum should never be beaten for rebels,” and at the same instant leaped on the head and broke through the parchment. The inhuman villains, callous to admiration of an heroic act even in an enemy, instantly perforated his body with pikes.’

The consequences of the slaughter at Tubberneering were precisely such as might be expected. The royalists lost heart, and the insurgents acquired a dangerous audacity. Every Protestant abandoned home and property in despair, and more than a thousand individuals fled from their once happy dwellings, with wives and children, and, without food or shelter, endeavoured to seek safety elsewhere, and obtain eleemosynary support from those who still possessed a home. In the first place all, soldiers and civilians alike, fell back to Arklow, but, feeling themselves insecure even there, the retreat was continued to Wicklow.

As we have seen, the results of the insurgent success reacted most disastrously; the rebels at once became masters of Gorey, and to the army of Irish liberty in ‘98 the conquest of this town proved the reverse of advantageous to the captors.

INSURGENT OCCUPATION OF GOREY

For five days they halted in and about the town, drinking and pillaging, destroying property not portable, and, as at Enniscorthy, visiting their vengeance on the church. Had their fury been expended on the building alone it would have been a matter of little import, but unhappily the contest had now taken a religious colouring, so rancorous and sanguinary that blood alone could satisfy party hatred and thirst for vengeance, and the best interests of the cause itself were sacrificed to stupid and unproductive brutalities, from which gray hairs afforded no protection, nor boyhood could claim no immunity. To satisfy this insensate vengeance upon inoffensive victims, military expediency was disregarded, and important advantages lost sight of and utterly sacrificed.

The MS. Journal of a Field Officer, in every sense an invaluable guide to the true situation of those affairs which come within the observations of this keen professional critic, dwells conclusively on this point: ‘Providentially, the rebels had too many commanders; those of the Wexford force being mostly priests, their attention was more directed to the interests of their church by purging the land of heretics than to the concerns of the “Irish Republic,” which the northern leaders had in view. Consequently time was wasted in collecting and piking Protestants, which might have been employed with far greater advantage to the cause.’

THE BATTLE OF ROSS

The operations of the rebel armies which we have already detailed, namely, the attempt on Newtown Barry by the corps under Father Kearns, and that on Gorey by the insurgents under the two Murphys and Perry of Inch, with the intervening occurrence of Walpole’s defeat at Tubberneering, must be connected by a simultaneous transaction, probably, in military importance, the most interesting which marked the outbreak.

The strongest of the insurgent corps had assembled on the hill of Carrickbyrne, under the chief command of B. Baganel Harvey, with Father Roche acting en second. Their encampment was six miles from the town of Ross, of which it was their first and greatest object to obtain possession.

The dangerous proximity of the rebel host had caused alarm for the safety of the town, and, consequently, the garrison had been strengthened. On the 5th of June the County Dublin Militia, commanded by the popularly beloved Lord Mountjoy, with detachments from the Clare, Donegal, and Meath Militia, 5th Dragoons, Midlothian Fencibles, and English Artillery, occupied the place—a force amounting to 1400 men of all arms, of which 150 were yeomen. General Johnson, a veteran officer, commanded, and his heroic exertions won the day, and must shed a lasting lustre upon his reputation as a courageous and able leader.

On the evening of the 4th June the rebel camp at Carrick-byrne broke up, and the insurgents moved bodily to Corbethill, within a mile and a half of Ross. The rebel hordes ‘moved by parishes and baronies, each having a particular standard; in their way they stopped at a chapel, where mass was said at the head of each column by priests, who sprinkled an abundance of holy water on them.’—Musgrave. After driving in a distant outpost they bivouacked on Corbethill for the night. The royalists, fearing a surprise, remained under arms, the infantry and guns in position on the southern and eastern faces of the town, the yeoman infantry holding the bridge, and the cavalry formed on the quay. Night passed, however, without alarm; and it was four o’clock on the morning of the 5th before Baganel Harvey, who had been a few days before elected to the chief command, sent a formal summons to General Johnson, which unfortunately (as some say) was not delivered. Furlong, the rebel leader, who carried it, was shot, through the ignorance of the advanced sentry, who paid no respect to a white handkerchief he waved on approaching the outposts.

The MS. Journal of a Field Officer sums up the actual military situation: ‘The movement upon Ross showed some head on the part of Baganel Harvey, the object being to force the principal passage of the Barrow, and, in conjunction with the insurgents of Kilkenny, bear down upon Waterford, which was then very disaffected, weakly garrisoned, and presented strong temptations in the way of plunder. But Harvey had no idea of attacking Ross when that event took place, and there were evidently no preparations made for it. Harvey expected, and with reason, that the appearance of his masses on the hills which domineered the town would have secured the active co-operation of the Kilkenny men from the other side of the Barrow. And this would have been the case had time allowed it, but Furlong was a popular leader among the rebels, and when he was shot by a sentinel at the outpost the mass of the rebels, maddened by the occurrence, rushed by a sudden impulse, in a mighty but disordered torrent, along one side of the road on the Three-bullet Gate, instead of making a combined movement on an open town, by which facility of approach and enormous preponderance in numbers could not but have succeeded.’ This argument is supported by the communication which Furlong carried. On searching the pockets of the dead man the following cartel was found:—

Sir—As a friend to humanity I request you will surrender the town of Ross to the Wexford forces, now assembled against that town. Your resistance will but provoke rapine and plunder, to the ruin of the most innocent. Flushed with victory, the Wexford forces, now innumerable and irresistible, will not be controlled if they meet with resistance. To prevent, therefore, the total ruin of all property in the town I urge you to a speedy surrender, which you will be forced to in a few hours, with loss and bloodshed, as you are surrounded on all sides. Your answer is required in four hours. Mr. Furlong carries this letter, and will bring the answer.—I am, Sir,

B. B. Harvey,

General commanding, etc., etc.

Camp at Corbethill, half-past three o’clock morning,

June 5, 1798.

The death of Furlong is said to have precipitated the attack, for immediately afterwards the rebels moved forward in dense masses, cheering and yelling, and directing their march on the Three-bullet Gate. The advance of this armed multitude—by some estimated as from 20,000 to 25,000 men—was described to me by an eye-witness as the most singular spectacle imaginable. The irregularity of their array—partly in close column and partly in line—had the effect of displaying their enormous strength to full advantage; while the presence of several priests, who were observed flitting through their ranks and haranguing their deluded followers with certain assurances of victory, inspired an enthusiastic fanaticism, which blinded them to danger and rendered them additionally formidable. They pushed forward four guns and a cloud of musketeers, some in extended order, and others heading the pikemen, whose crowded columns occupied the whole road, far as the eye could range.

As might have been expected, the pickets were roughly driven in, and, in a wild rush made by the rebels on the troops in front of the Three-bullet Gate, the latter were obliged to recede, and one of the guns was captured. In turn, however, the troops rallied and drove back the insurgents, and, perceiving their unsteadiness when mobbed together in the repulse, General Johnson ordered the 5th Dragoons to charge. For cavalry effect the ground was totally un suite, the numerous fences enabling the rebels to avoid the charge, while, protected themselves, they inflicted a heavy loss on men who very gallantly, but very ineffectively, had thus assailed them at disadvantage.

An entrance to the town was gained, and while some of the rebels fired the houses, others pushed forward towards the bridge. But the advance by Neville Street was swept by the steady fire of a gun placed in the market-place, which looked directly down the approach. Notwithstanding the murderous fire which fell on a dense mass of men, wedged together in a narrow street, and which shore the head of the column down as frequently as it came forward, others succeeded those who fell, and fresh numbers momentarily appeared. The troops, terrified at the armed crowds who swarmed through the Three-bullet Gate, and who, maddened by inebriety and fanaticism, seemed rather to court death than avoid it, the defenders at last despairing of offering a longer resistance against myriad hordes of infuriated fiends, retreated across the bridge.

BATTLE OF ROSS—‘COME ON, BOYS! HER MOUTH’S STOPPED!’

George Cruikshank, with his native genius for selecting effective and sensational episodes for pictorial delineation, has seized an actual incident which more resembles the effort of a romancer’s imagination than an actuality of stern warfare. The illustration is founded upon one of the paragraphs given by Maxwell in confirmation of his statement that the hordes of rebels apparently courted destruction rather than safety.

Says our historical authority:—‘One rebel, emboldened by fanaticism and drunkenness, advanced before his comrades, seized a gun, crammed his hat and wig into it, and cried out, “Come on, boys! her mouth is stopped!” At that instant the gunner laid the match to the gun and blew the unfortunate savage to atoms. Incredible as this instance of savage ignorance may appear, the fact has been verified by the affidavit of a person who saw it from a window.’

BATTLE OF ROSS—GENERAL JOHNSON RETRIEVES THE WANING FORTUNES OF THE DAY

It appeared, beyond the causes already related as having induced Harvey and his rebel myriads to feel confident of easily securing the strategically important town of Ross, that the insurgents had been induced to think that the militia regiments at Ross, from being almost entirely composed of Romanists, would have either joined them in the action, or offered a feeble opposition. The Clare regiment was considered friendly, and the Dublin County were believed not particularly loyal or trustworthy. The MS. Journal of a Field Officer is enlightening upon these points:—‘Be this as it may, their colonel, Lord Mountjoy, was heading them up the street leading to the Three-bullet Gate when he met his death by a traitorous shot, and the attachment which his men bore him superseded every other feeling but a desire for revenge. Although they had retired at first before the torrent, they rallied instantly, and showed no appearance of disaffection afterwards, but fought stoutly at Vinegar Hill. Lord M. was riding a little way ahead of the regiment when he was treacherously shot from a window by a baker’s boy. Such were the results of the fall of Furlong on the one side, and the death of Lord Mountjoy on the other.’

The forced abandonment of the bridge was a heavy repulse. Virtually the day was lost, for although a small party of the royalists, under Sergeant Hamilton, still held most gallantly a position in the vicinity of the Three-bullet Gate, had the insurgents followed up their success, a total and bloody defeat of the king’s troops must have been unavoidable. But, once within the town, drink and plunder engrossed the attention of the majority, while the admirable gallantry of that brave old man who commanded the retreating royalists retrieved the fortunes of the day.

Crossing to the Kilkenny side, General Johnson rallied the fugitives and urged them to follow him once more. ‘Will you desert your General?’ he exclaimed to the disheartened militia; but this appeal was coldly heard. ‘And your countryman, too?’ he added. The chord of national honour was touched, a cheer answered it, the old man wheeled his horse round, and, riding in front, brought back his rallied troops to the fight, and, rejoining the staunch few who still held the post beside the Three-bullet Gate, announced that a large reinforcement had just arrived from Waterford. When the fortune of a doubtful day is in the balance, a feather turns it frequently. Such was the case at Ross. The troops cheered, and plied their musketry with additional spirit and excellent effect, and, turning the rebel rear, put their massive column into a confusion which proved irretrievable, and at last, with desperate slaughter, drove them fairly from the town. The exhaustion of the garrison prevented anything being attempted beyond a brief pursuit in the direction of Corbet Hill, while the rebels made no effort to rally and renew the action, but went off dispersedly, some to their old camp at Carrickbyrne, and others to a new position which they had taken on a height called Slieve Keilter, some four miles’ distance from the town.

In this, the most sanguinary and hardly contested action of the insurrection, commencing at five in the morning and ending at three in the afternoon, the loss on both sides was immense, although in gross numbers wholly disproportionate. Musgrave states the rebels killed to have exceeded 2500, besides the many ‘carried off on cars.’ Before the walls, between Three-bullet and Bunnion Gates, and in the cross lanes and streets which led directly to the market-place, the slaughter was enormous.

In Chapel Lane the rebels lay three deep, and throughout the approaches to the main guard the streets were heaped with corpses.

The defence of this post, and the assistance afforded to the few brave men who held it, were characteristic of the desperate fighting which marks the uncompromising spirit that religious and political antipathies produce. A most gallant soldier, Sergeant Hamilton of the Donegal Regiment, with sixteen men and two ship-guns, indifferently mounted, were posted at the intersection of four streets in the immediate vicinity of the jail. When the troops retreated over the bridge, Hamilton was recommended to remove the spare ammunition he had in charge and quit a post where now he must remain isolated and unsupported. His reply was, ‘Never, but with life!’ and though frequently assailed by hundreds, he laned them literally with grape-shot, covering the approach to the guns with dead and dying men, and through every turn of a doubtful conflict resolutely maintaining his ground.

Although the leading streets were completely under his fire, the gallant sergeant was open to attack from a narrow lane immediately beside the main guard, where, sheltered from the cannon, the rebels could form in security; and, no doubt, from that point they would have carried the post by a sudden onset had not a fortunate circumstance afforded the Donegal soldiers protection from the threatened danger.

The house of a loyalist called Dowesley was in the Backhouse Lane, and occupied by the family and a lame pensioner. The part of the lane where the rebels were safe from the fire of Hamilton’s guns was, however, commanded by Dowesley’s windows; and whenever the insurgents attempted to form and attack the main guard, a close and constant fusilade from the little garrison of the house drove them from a place where they expected to find shelter while collecting for their intended attack. As fast as the muskets were discharged the old soldier quickly reloaded them, adding half a dozen buck-shot to the bullet, and so deadly was the fire from Dowesley’s dwelling that upwards of fifty bodies were found after the action heaped together in the lane.

Mr. Tottenham, the proprietor of Ross, employed six carts and a great many men for two entire days in collecting the bodies of the slain. Most of those found in the town were thrown into the river and carried off with the tide. The remainder were flung into a fosse outside the town wall and buried there. The conflict at Ross might have been shortened had the Roscommon regiment, which had been detached from Waterford early on the morning of the action, completed its march and brought its timely reinforcement to the exhausted garrison. It was also very fortunate the Roscommon regiment returned to Waterford that night, as the rebels, who were numerous and well organised there, meditated an insurrection, imagining Ross had been taken. The next day the Roscommon regiment moved a second time from Waterford and reached Ross with little opposition, although during the short interval which had occurred the country had risen en masse. On the adjacent hills parties of rebels were seen, and an arch of the Glynmore bridge had been partially broken, but the colonel planked it and passed his guns easily across. A body of rebels, who showed themselves upon a height, gave way after a round or two from the cannon, previously murdering fifteen of the refugee militiamen who had fled from Ross the day before, fell into these ruffians’ hands, and now paid the penalty of their cowardice.

With the battle of Ross subsequent atrocities, which have placed the Wexford insurrection fearfully pre-eminent in crime, were connected. One foul deed, the massacre at Scullabogue, infinitely surpassed all others, and, with the massacres perpetrated wholesale on Wexford Bridge and Vinegar Hill, has cast a stain on Irish character that another century will scarcely remove. One reads, almost with incredulity, of Autos-da-fe and Eves of St. Bartholomew, and blesses God, when he finds the narrative is true, that his lot was not cast in an age of cruelty and darkness. But the narration of scenes which discoloured the Irish rebellion makes one blush to think that the wolfish wretches who were the actors therein bore the common name of man. It is a revolting detail that historic impartiality forces on the writer, and it shall be briefly despatched.

MASSACRE AT SCULLABOGUE

When the rebels encamped on Carrickbyrne they established an outpost at the house of Scullabogue, which had been deserted by its proprietor, Captain King. A large barn was attached to the mansion; it was 34 feet long, 15 feet in breadth, and 12 feet high. This outhouse and the mansion itself had been made a prison wherein to deposit the unfortunate prisoners who by their loyalty or their difference in religious faith had incurred the displeasure of the rebels, and fell after the outbreak into their hands; and on the morning when the rebels marched on the attack of Ross, 230 ill-fated victims were then confined in a building, which proved at once their prison and their grave. A rebel guard was left to secure the captives, amounting to 300 men, under the command of three subordinate leaders, named Murphy of Loughnageer, Devereux, and Sweetman. The particulars of the butchery which took place on the fatal 5th of June will be best understood by abstracts from evidence upon oath, given on the trials of some of the monsters implicated in this hellish sacrifice. Any person who wishes for more extensive details of this most atrocious transaction will find them duly verified in the voluminous appendix attached to Musgrave’s Memoirs.

The depositions of sundry persons are briefly abridged. One who escaped the massacre, by the bribery of a rebel and the virtue of a priest’s protection, gives the following account of this horrible transaction. He states that, when the rebel army began to give way at Ross, an express was sent to Murphy to put the Protestant prisoners to death, as the king’s troops were gaining the day; but Murphy refused to comply without a direct order from the general. That he soon after received another message to the same purpose, with this addition, that ‘the prisoners, if released, would become very furious and vindictive.’ That, shortly after, a third express arrived, saying, ‘the priest gave orders that the prisoners should be put to death.’ That the rebels, on getting the sanction of the priest, became outrageous, and began to pull off their clothes, the better to perform the bloody deed. That, when they were leading the prisoners out from the dwelling-house to shoot them, he turned away from such a scene of horror, on which a rebel struck him with a pike upon the back, and said he would ‘let his guts out if he did not follow him!’ That he then attended the rebels to the barn, in which there was a great number of men, women, and children, and that the rebels were endeavouring to set fire to it, while the poor prisoners, shrieking and crying out for mercy, crowded to the back door of the building, which they forced open for the purpose of admitting air. That for some time they continued to put the door between them and the rebels, who were piking or shooting them. That, in attempting to do so, their hands or fingers were cut off. That the rebels continued to force into the barn bundles of straw to increase the fire. At last, that the prisoners having been overcome by the flame and smoke, their moans and cries gradually died away in the silence of death—and all became still.

The witness, during this dreadful scene, saw a child, who got under the door and was likely to escape, although much hurt and bruised, when a rebel perceiving it, thrust his pike through it and threw it into the flames. While the rebels were shooting the prisoners in front of the dwelling-house, a party of men and women were engaged in stripping and rifling the dead bodies; and the prisoner, Phelim Fardy, called out to them to avoid the line of his fire (as he was busily employed in shooting the prisoners), and after saying so, he fired at a man who was on his knees, who instantly fell and expired. Another ruffian, whose barbarities made him conspicuous, trampled on the dead and wounded bodies, and behaved otherwise in such a ferocious manner as to obtain from the rebels the appellation of ‘the true-born Roman.’

The barn was so limited in size that suffocation must have soon taken place from the great number of people compressed into a space so small; for besides the burning of the thatched roof of the barn, the rebels fed it by introducing blazing faggots on their pikes.

Richard Grandy, who was present, swore the prisoners were led out by fours to be shot, and that the rebels who pierced them when they fell took a pleasure in licking their spears.

A gentleman present, who had a narrow escape, assured the writer that a rebel said he would try the taste of orange blood, and that he dipped a tooth-pick in the wound of one of the Protestants who was shot and put it into his mouth.

Whenever a body fell on being shot, the rebel guards shouted and pierced it with their pikes.

They burned there several wives and some of the children of the North Cork Militia in the barn, who were Roman Catholics; but it was sufficient to provoke their vengeance that they were connected with the soldiers of an heretical king.

The most innocent victims were sacrificed; a girl was brought there in place of her sister; she was seized and sent to the barn, and her father shortly after, having gone there with his poor old wife to solicit her liberation; the parents and child were thrust into the barn together, and burned with the other unfortunates. No less than twenty-four Protestants were taken from the village of Tintern, about eight miles distant, many of them old and feeble, and led in one drove to the barn, where they perished. Two Romanists, serving-men, were burnt in the barn because they would not consent to the massacre of their Protestant masters. Another Romanist, who was travelling with a royalist pass for his protection, was intercepted by the rebels, who considered the pass an emblem of loyalty; they committed him to the barn, with a son who happened to accompany him, and both perished in the flames.

In his history of these events Taylor, after recording the dreadful massacre of Scullabogue, thus describes the retreat of the rebels from New Ross, and pictures Baganel Harvey’s feelings when he viewed the scene of the fearful tragedy enacted at the fatal barn: ‘After ending this horrid massacre, the rebels marched (exulting in their diabolical achievements) towards New Ross, but the destroying angel had gone before them, and miserably defeated that huge army in which they trusted. As they proceeded to reinforce their brother rebels they met multitudes of the wounded returning, some crawling along as well as they could, others on horses and on cars; some were shot through different parts of the body, while others had broken arms, legs, and thighs. Going on further, they met the remnant of the main body retreating in the greatest confusion, hurry, and noise, bringing with them cars full of the dead and wounded. They took their station on Carrickburn that night; several stole home, and never joined them more, particularly those of Barony Forth, who, though a race of cowards, were cruel in the extreme.’

The next morning Baganel Harvey was in the greatest anguish of mind when he beheld Scullabogue House and the barn, where the murdered Protestants were to be seen in every attitude. They lay so close, that several were standing up against the walls, and many lying in heaps in each other’s arms among the ashes of the timber of the house, while their bodies looked frightful, being burned to a cinder. He turned from the scene with horror, wrung his hands, and told those around him that ‘as innocent people were burned there as ever were born, and that their conquests for liberty were at an end.’ He then said privately to a friend, ‘I see now my folly in embarking in any cause with these people. If they succeed I shall be murdered by them; if they are defeated, I shall be hanged.’ Now convinced of the sanguinary feelings of his followers, he was determined to put a stop to it, as far as in his power lay, and that day he issued a proclamation, had it printed, sent many copies to Vinegar Hill, Wexford, and Gorey, and distributed them over the country.

On Saturday, the 9th of June, 184 skeletons were cleared out of the barn, thrown into a ditch near the place, and slightly covered with clay.

There is every reason to believe that this horrible atrocity occasioned to all but the lowest barbarians, who were banded with the rebel forces, feelings of alarm and disgust. Almost the last act of Baganel Harvey before he was deprived of his command was the publication of a general order to restrain future acts of violence, under the penalty of death; and he originated a subscription—in which many rebel leaders joined—to pay for the interment of the poor sufferers.

Years afterwards, record all the authorities who have dwelt on this cruel episode, it was the greatest wish of such of the Wexford rebels as survived, to prove that, in whatever crimes they might have participated largely, they were wholly unconnected with the burning of Scullabogue.

FATHER M. MURPHY OF BALLYCANOO AND THE HERETIC BULLETS

Of the rebel chiefs, the priests were decidedly the most despotic, and too often the most unrelenting, to the unhappy men who became prisoners to the banditti they commanded. One of the most truculent of these spiritual chiefs was Father Michael Murphy of Ballycanoo, a prominent church-militant general in the Wexford campaigns, who met his fate at the battle of Arklow. After the priest’s death the following edifying epistle, addressed to a Dublin tradesman, was found on his body; this letter, as Musgrave suggests, in the constant hurry and confusion in which he had been kept, probably in preparing for the attack of Arklow, the Father had neither time nor opportunity to forward:—

Gorey, 6th June 1798.

Friend Houston—Great events are ripening. In a few days we shall meet. The first-fruits of your regeneration must be a tincture of poison and pike in the metropolis against heretics. This is a tribunal for such opinions. Your talents must not be buried as a judge. Your sons must be steeled with fortitude against heresy, then we shall do; and you shall shine in a higher sphere. We shall have an army of brave republicans, 100,000, with fourteen pieces of cannon, on Thursday before Dublin; your heart will beat high at the news. You will rise with a proportionate force.—Yours ever, M. Murphy.

Decipher B.I.K.M.Q.Y....

The plans disclosed in this letter came near to complete realisation; but for the events of Ross and Arklow, who can say that the results foreshadowed in the intercepted letter of the slain priest might not have been realised to the very letter?

The lowest ruffians had become leaders of the mob, and several monsters, who desecrated the holy orders intrusted to them, encouraged the barbarities of their besotted followers and pandered to their superstitions. Among these wretches Murphy of Bannow and Roche of Paulpearsay were conspicuous. The latter, like Murphy of Ballycanoo, was a bullet-catcher, and while he occasionally distributed to his flock balls which had been caught in action, he promised an immunity from danger to the faithful—for a consideration. ‘He would give them gospels,’ he said (they were generally sewed to a brown-coloured tape), ‘to hang about their necks, which would make the person who wore it proof against all the powers of heretical artillery; but that notwithstanding their extraordinary utility to the Irish army, they would be of no avail unless they were purchased. The price to the better sort of people was half-a-crown; but as the poorer were zealous in the glorious cause, he would only ask from them a sixpence.’ Says Taylor, ‘Thousands of these gospels were made and speedily sent round the country.’

In the heat of action, on every repulse, and when his deluded followers retreated, Murphy of Ballycanoo had induced fresh victims to come forward, and, blinded against danger by whisky and fanaticism, they rushed on more than one occasion to the very muzzles of the guns. Were the fact not accredited beyond a doubt, it would not be believed that the drunken scoundrel persuaded the unhappy savages who obeyed his orders that his person was impervious to heretical balls, producing a handful of musket-bullets, which he averred had struck him during the action, or had been caught as they innocently whistled by. However potent the spell might be that saved the worthy churchman from lead, it proved inefficient against ‘cold iron.’ A round-shot from one of the Durham guns struck him down while leading these ignorant wretches to the charge; the ruffian went to his account, and his followers broke finally and disbanded. When the warlike Murphy fell he was but a few paces from the barricade, and was waving a banner over his head emblazoned with a huge cross and the motto of ‘Death or Liberty.’

THE BATTLE OF ARKLOW

The consternation which the intelligence of Walpole’s destruction occasioned in the metropolis may be easily imagined. Many families quitted the kingdom in despair. This, probably, was the gloomiest moment of that fearful period, but the unbounded loyalty and devotion of the Dublin Protestants shone out with increasing brilliancy, and assisted to dispel the gathering cloud.

In the metropolis the yeomanry amounted to nearly 4000 men, now armed, well disciplined, and purged from those traitors who, but a few weeks before, had thronged their ranks. With perfect confidence the city was intrusted to their protection, and from the few regular troops in garrison, the Cavan regiment, with a detachment of Reay Fencibles, were despatched to reinforce the troops in Wicklow, and enable the royalists to rally and recover the ground they had lost.

FATHER M. MURPHY OF BALLYCANOO AND THE HERETIC BULLETS

The troops were forwarded by carriages specially impressed, the command given to General Needham, and on the 6th of June the column quitted Wicklow, and after passing a deserted country and being joined by some yeomanry and armed loyalists, it entered Arklow early the same evening; some straggling rebels retiring from the town, where they had loitered, plundering and drinking, on the cavalry advanced guard appearing by the Dublin road.

The reception of the troops by the inhabitants was enthusiastic, for many, under fear of death, had already abandoned their houses to embark in fishing boats, and escape from a place which they expected to become an immediate scene of savage violence.

During the two succeeding days (7th and 8th of June) the commanding officer was engaged in making dispositions for the defence of the town and in selecting a position. Ground was marked out capable of being occupied by a body of troops so limited in number as the garrison; and while such fences were preserved as would afford cover to the royal light troops from which to annoy an advancing enemy, others that could neither mask their movements or interrupt the play of the guns were levelled and removed. Meanwhile the country was carefully patrolled, and alarm posts assigned to the different corps to take up on the rebels being reported to be in motion.

The morning of the 9th came. At noon a wing of the Durham Fencibles marched in under the command of an excellent officer, Colonel Skerrett, affording a well-timed and most effective reinforcement to the garrison, and, in consequence of this arrival, General Needham made a slight change in his dispositions, and never was a little army more curiously composed than the morning state of that of Arklow exhibited on the day of the attack upon the town.

As the evening came on, an advanced picket announced the appearance of the insurgents, and consequently an infantry outpost at the Charter-house was called in and replaced by a cavalry patrol, while by the two great approaches to the town—the seaside road and that leading to Coolgreney—dense masses were seen moving to the attack. By the former road one great column directed its march against the lower part of the town called the Fishery; by the latter an immense mass, under the command of Father Murphy of Ballycanoo, threatened the upper part of Arklow, and thus endangered the right and rear of the royalist position. To deploy their unwieldy masses appeared to be a task beyond the power of their leaders, for more than half an hour was consumed in the attempt, and when they did effect the change the line was irregular and disordered, at some parts merely in rank entire, and at others six files deep.

The royalists were already in position, the line being slightly curved, the flanks refused, and each protected by battalion guns, with two six-pounders nearly in the centre. The hedges were lined by the Suffolk and Tyrone Militia and part of the supplementary yeomen, with a small party posted in the churchyard and another at the bottom of the street which looked upon the bridge. These posts were occupied to defend the lower town. The barrack walls had been provided with a ‘banquette’ (a wooden stage attached to high walls, at an elevation which will allow the defenders to fire over the parapet), and supplied with musqueteers, while the upper end of the street was barricaded with carts and lumber, and defended by part of the Antrim regiment and a field-piece. Generally the cavalry were formed on the bridge and sands. Taking the local character of the place and the small number of its defenders into consideration, the disposition of the troops was very judicious and creditable to General Needham.

The actual strength of the rebel army was, on the lowest calculation, computed at 25,000 men, and on good authority it has been even raised to 31,000. About 5000 of the insurgents, were armed with firearms, and they brought two well-appointed guns into action. But it was not from their enormous numbers only that they were formidable. They came forward under the wildest enthusiasm, burning to exact vengeance for past defeats, and confident they must annihilate the small but daring body who, undaunted by a twenty-fold superiority, were steadily awaiting their attack. During the morning’s march from Gorey they plundered the houses of the Protestants of everything valuable, putting in requisition all the spirits and provisions that could be supplied; and, under the double influence of intoxication and fanaticism, were led on by their priests, who inspired them with ideas of their own invincibleness; because, as they assured the misguided wretches, they were engaged in the cause of heaven, and opposed to the enemies of God. To maintain that religious frenzy which was their great source of courage, at the end of every mile during the march their leaders said mass, and used every mode of exhortation and every superstitious device that priestcraft could invent. They advanced in an irregular line, which was frequently broken by their running out to file along the hedge-rows lying parallel to the position of the king’s troops, of the cover of which they endeavoured to avail themselves. Their front rank was composed of those who had firearms, and were mostly from the barony of Shelmalier, on the Wexford coast, where they subsist during the winter by shooting sea-fowl, which makes them expert marksmen. They were covered in the rear by the pikemen, many deep, while at certain intervals the line was strengthened by numerous masses of men, who were ready to supply the places of those who fell, or act as occasion might require. Each company had a green flag about two feet square, with a yellow harp in the centre, while some were parti-coloured, and equal in size to the king’s colours. Their leaders were distinguishable riding through the ranks, marshalling them and giving orders. During the engagement the rebels frequently repeated their dreadful yells, which heightened the terrific appearance of a numerous host of barbarians, who seemed confident, from superior numbers, that they could easily overwhelm the small army that opposed them.

The rebels advanced two guns by the Coolgreney road, under a sharp and destructive fire from those on the right of the Durham regiment, and the third in position at the barricade. Both of the former were dragged up by lanes on the high road and placed on high grounds, one looking on the centre of the royalist line, the other commanding its left flank.

Although tedious in their formation, the insurgent column directed against the lower town advanced so rapidly that they had nearly succeeded in cutting off a cavalry patrol, which saved itself, however, by swimming the horses across the Ovoca. Having fired the houses in the suburb, the rebels pushed on under cover of the smoke, but they never could gain the bridge, as the fire of the detached party, which covered that approach, and the second, which held the churchyard, cut down the head of the column, and finally disordered it so much as to allow the cavalry, formed on the sands, to charge with excellent effect. During a long and desperate struggle the troops behaved with a steadiness and determination which enabled them not only to secure the lower town, but to inflict a destructive loss upon the assailants.

But the grand effort of the insurgents was directed against the left and centre of the position and the barricade that covered its right flank. From behind the hedges the rebels kept up a steady and well-directed fusilade, and also commanded the royal line with such effect as to dismount a battalion gun and oblige Colonel Skerrett to advance his left wing and protect it behind a fence from the fire of a field-piece, which otherwise must have enfiladed it. The gallantry of the Durham Fencibles was unbounded. Thrice the rebels came forward in immense force against the wing of this noble regiment, and as often a destructive volley from their musketry, with grape from the battalion guns, obliged the assailants to recede from a fire they found intolerable. But, maddened by intoxication and encouraged by their ghostly leader, the deluded wretches again and again returned to the attack, and the General, despairing of repulsing the continued efforts of desperate savages, determined to yield the ground and abandon the position. Colonel Skerrett, well aware that to retire with a handful of beaten troops in the presence of five-and-twenty thousand men would lead to their total destruction, as sternly resolved to hold the post he had taken to the last; and an unforeseen event decided the fortune of this doubtful day, and crowned the gallant few with well-merited victory.

As long as the redoubtable Murphy of Ballycanoo—who hitherto seemed to bear a charmed life—remained to lead his demented and infatuated followers, all that the assailed could effect was to frantically hold their ground, their assailants continuing to rally after each repulse. It may be judged how critical was the situation of the defending royalists. Murphy, as described, had led his legions within a few paces of the barricade, and was encouraging his adherents by waving his famous banner of ‘Death or Liberty’ at the head of the advancing hordes he was leading to the charge, when a round-shot from one of the Durham guns struck him down; the invincibility charm was broken, and the rebels fled dismayed. About eight o’clock, when it was growing dusk, they began to retreat towards Coolgreney in an irregular and disorderly manner, carrying off nine cart-loads of dead and wounded. Had the cavalry but had sufficient daylight to have pursued them, they must have cut off great numbers in the retreat.

The loss of the rebels was said to have amounted fully to one thousand, while that of the royalists in killed and wounded did not exceed sixty or seventy.

Although night saved the rebels from any pursuit, and probably thus abated their losses extensively, as the wounded were enabled to crawl away, the moral effect of their defeat was incalculable, obliterating entirely the false confidence which the affairs at Oulart and Three Rocks and the calamity at Tubberneering had produced. The mischief occasioned by their first neglect of seizing Arklow when deserted by its garrison was consummated by the defeat attendant on the attempt on the part of the rebels to redeem their original error and carry the town when it had been rendered defensible. Had the insurgents not lost time at Gorey—had they advanced and seized Arklow—Wicklow and Bray must of necessity have fallen into their hands without the snapping of a flint. The metropolis, as Father Murphy’s intercepted letter revealed, assaulted by 100,000 reckless men, like the warlike priest’s followers, with the fourteen pieces of cannon at that time in their possession, joined in Dublin by the rising of a proportionate force similarly armed, might have effected their wicked object.

The effect of the defeat, and the deductive inferences from it, as drawn by Gordon as our authority observes, are interesting and correct:—

‘As the repulse at Arklow,’ writes Gordon in his History, ‘decided the fate of the rebellion, so it fortunately left undecided a question how far the Romanists would have carried religious animosity had the insurrection been successful. The violent acts of the insurgents at Gorey and its neighbourhood were not near so great as in the southern parts of the county. The former might, by an advocate of their cause, be coloured with a pretext of retaliation, since acts of the same kind had been committed by the loyalists, as the burning of houses, the quartering of men on families for subsistence, imprisonments, trials of prisoners by court-martial, the shooting of prisoners without trial, and the insulting of others by cropping the hair and covering the head with a pitched cap. But an opinion is entertained, I fear indeed with too much foundation, that if the town of Arklow had been taken, and thus a wide prospect opened for the success of the rebellion, the Protestants remaining in the power of the Catholic rebels in the county of Wexford were to have been massacred.

Many believe also that the persons excepted from the first massacre were destined for ultimate slaughter on the final success of the insurgents, and that even such leaders of the rebels as were Protestants were to be included in this proscription. The war from the beginning—in direct violation of the oath of the United Irishmen—had taken a religious turn, as every civil war in the south or west of Ireland must be expected to take by any man acquainted with the prejudices of the inhabitants. The terms Protestant and Orangeman were synonymous with the mass of the insurgents; and the Protestants they meant to favour had been baptized into the Romish Church by the priests of that communion. But whatever degree of religious bigotry or party hatred had been hitherto discovered by the insurgents, there were still many individuals who evinced the greatest humanity in their endeavours to mitigate the fury of their associates.’

CAPTURE OF VINEGAR HILL

The fatal effects of the defeat at Arklow in the subsequent fortunes of the insurrection became every day more apparent, and during these transactions the rebels who remained at Gorey and its neighbourhood were gradually dispersing. ‘A part of them retired to Wexford, bringing with them the prisoners who had been confined in the market-house of Gorey. These had been severely treated; they had been supplied with food only once in the twenty-four hours, cropped, pitch-capped, and exposed from the windows to the insults of the shouting multitudes on their march to attack Arklow, while many had been shot or piked to death. As the mass of remaining rebels had taken their station on the hill of Ask, only a mile from Gorey, after the battle of Arklow, the royal army remained some days close within its quarters, sending out patrols with caution, at first to a very small distance, and afterwards gradually advancing further. At last a troop of yeomen cavalry ventured so far on the road towards Gorey as to approach the rebel station on Ask hill, and found the post had been so thinned by perpetual desertions that not more than about a hundred men fit for action were then remaining in it, and these without a leader.’

For every reason, military and political, it was now unanimously determined by the royalist commanders that the relief of Wexford and Enniscorthy, so long and so unhappily in possession of the rebels, must be preceded by the capture of the camp and a total dispersion of the insurgent bodies collected on Vinegar Hill. To effect this difficult but desirable object a vigorous and well-combined attack would be required, and on the 16th of June the preparatory movements of the different corps were arranged by General Lake; to Generals Dundas, Needham, Johnson, Sir Charles Asgill, Wilkinson, Sir James Duff, Loftus, and Moore were assigned plans of operations covering three or four days; some of these movements were delayed from various eventualities, and two brigades were unfortunately absent at the final assault on Vinegar Hill. As the attack was to be made immediately after daybreak on the 21st, and as it was utterly impossible that by any exertions his wearied troops could reach their ground in time, Needham despatched an aide-de-camp to the Commander-in-Chief requesting the advance to be delayed for an hour, to allow him time to get up; but General Lake could not postpone his movements against the rebel position, as an immediate assault upon the camp was absolutely necessary to prevent the enemy from detaching reinforcements to their friends at Enniscorthy, who were then warmly engaged with Johnson’s brigade. Under these circumstances General Needham, finding it impossible to get the column up, very properly pushed his cavalry forward; and when the rebels broke upon the hill, they were sufficiently advanced to cut down a number of the fugitives. General Sir James Duff, who advanced by the Ferns road, with his right resting on the Slaney and his left flanked by the light infantry under General Loftus, reached the base of the hill with occasional interruptions from rebel pickets, who occupied the high grounds on the line of march, but who were easily dispersed by a few shells from the howitzers. Previous to commencing his ascent he detached General Loftus with the light infantry and guns to seize an eminence which overlooked the lower line of the rebel position, and consequently laid it open to a cannonade at easy range. The movement was rapidly effected, and although the enclosures were numerous and the ground steep, General Loftus, by breaking down the stone fences, was enabled to get his artillery forward, and, crowning the height with his guns, he opened them with excellent effect upon crowded ranks, which were completely enfiladed. The remainder of Duff’s brigade pressed steadily up the hill, and at the same time the columns of Generals Lake, Wilford, and Dundas, with Campbell’s light companies, ascended the south-eastern face, while Johnson’s brigade mounted from Enniscorthy.

As the troops advanced they sustained a sharp fire from the rebel marksmen, who, acting en tirailleur, lined the numerous enclosures and disputed them with some spirit. The rebel cannonade was ineffective, although they had thirteen pieces of various calibres on the hill, but their musketry was well sustained, and yet, with all the advantages of a strong position, the loss inflicted on the assailants was infinitely less than could have been anticipated. The steady advance of the troops was never for a moment checked, and the movements of the columns so admirably timed that they crowned the hill simultaneously, while the rebels, availing themselves of the means of retreat which General Needham’s failure had unluckily left open, went off en masse, abandoning their cannon, ammunition, and all the plunder that had been accumulated during the period they had occupied their savage and sanguinary encampment.

If the wholesale destruction of a deluded multitude were a desirable object, certainly the failure of this movement is to be lamented, for the rebels were enabled to get off bodily, whereas had Needham reached his ground they must have been so totally derouted that no exertions could have rallied them again, and the flame of rebellion would have been extinguished. But the results of his failure, and not the cause, were severely tested at the time, and the General was censured with injustice for a miscarriage, occasioned by circumstances entirely beyond control, and of everyday recurrence in war.

The brunt of the action, and the greatest proportion of the loss, fell upon the brigade commanded by General Johnson (afterwards Sir Henry Johnson, G.C.B., who may be said, in the rebellion of 1798, to have been the military saviour of Ireland). On the evening preceding the attack on Vinegar Hill, that General advanced within a mile and a half of Enniscorthy, intending to bivouac in the vicinity of the rebel position, and bring his column fresh into action the next day. The troops had scarcely, however, piled arms when the rebels in great force issued from Enniscorthy and moved forward with the apparent intention of attacking the royalists and hazarding a general action. They advanced in close columns, covered by a number of sharpshooters, and connected by several bodies, formed in irregular lines. The rebel skirmishers, after maintaining a sharp fusilade, were speedily dislodged by the fire of the cannon, and, falling back on the supporting column, which had halted on an eminence half a mile from the ground occupied by the royalists, the guns were directly turned upon the height.

On this occasion these unfortunate and deluded men evinced an ignorance of warlike missiles which can hardly be conceived. As the round shot from the guns bedded themselves in the face of the hill against which they had been directed, the rebels rushed in numbers to pick them up. A shell from a howitzer falling, it was exultingly surrounded by a crowd of men, each struggling to become owner of this god-send. The effect of the explosion may be fancied, as when the fuse reached the powder, more than fifty of the ignorant wretches were furiously contending for the possession of the lighted shell.

According to Taylor’s History, ‘Here they were cannonaded, and on seeing the shells they were driven into the utmost confusion, as they could not conceive what they were, some shouting in a kind of delirium (as shell followed shell), “They spit fire at us”; others, “We can stand anything but these guns which fire twice!” Indeed the carnage occasioned by them was very great, and fully answered the end.’

The night passed, and at daybreak Johnson drove the rebels from the height and forced them back upon Enniscorthy. After halting an hour, to allow the general attack upon the hill to operate as a diversion and employ the main body of the enemy, Johnson pushed his column into the town. On this occasion the rebels made a stubborn resistance, their pikemen disputing the streets and their musketry firing upon the advancing troops from the windows. Every yard was stoutly contested, and a six-pounder, advanced into the open space before the court-house, was carried by a sudden rush, the gunners killed, and the piece captured by the pikemen. But it was immediately retaken; the bridge was cleared of the enemy, the Dublin regiment cheered and pressed up the hill, and although that ascent was the steepest, the brave old man reached the summit as the other columns cleared it.

The royalist casualties were comparatively trifling, and the rebel loss fell infinitely short of what might have been expected from a déroute so complete as that which followed the loss of their favourite position. As the greater number of the insurgents were cut down dispersing in the pursuit, the amount could not be correctly estimated. Probably three or four hundred might have been slain. One of their favourite generals, a church-militant leader, was included in the casualties of the day, for Father Clinch of Enniscorthy was killed while retreating after the action.

There is a military criticism which is placed here while summarising the results of this action. It is given in the M.S. Journal of a Field Officer:—‘There is one point which has never been explained to my satisfaction. After the defeat at Vinegar Hill the main body of the rebels retreated to Wexford, where they divided—one column crossed Wexford bridge, and made their way to the north of the county about Gorey; now this body must have been due north while General Lake was moving due south from Vinegar Hill upon Wexford, so that they must have actually passed each other at a distance of not six miles between the parallel roads, as a glance at the map will show. Perhaps General Lake did not consider himself strong enough to divide and occupy both roads to Wexford, or perhaps he might have thought “the stag at bay’s a dangerous foe,” and permitted them to weaken themselves by allowing them to quietly disbandon. It cost, however, much loyal blood at Gorey.’

REBELS EXECUTING THEIR PRISONERS ON THE BRIDGE AT WEXFORD

Wexford was a scene of unexampled horror, where were enacted the most sanguinary barbarities in emulation of the bloodthirsty atrocities of the reign of terror; nor can it be an excuse that the monsters avowedly imitated those terrorising scenes which were made luridly familiar by the annals of the French Revolution.

The plunder of houses and the incarceration of their innocent victims after the unfortunate defeat of the Meath detachment at the Three Rocks, which determined Colonel Maxwell’s fatal retreat from Wexford, immediately occupied the insurgents.

While the rabble were engaged in collecting numbers of ill-fated Protestants for future slaughter, the leaders went through the mockery of establishing a provisional government, and, in imitation of the French Jacobins, a grand national committee, a council of elders, and a council of five hundred were to be organised forthwith, while the dwelling-house of a wealthy merchant was put into requisition as a senate-house, wherein the different estates were to legislate for the young republic.

If it were necessary to prove the fallacy that any possibility exists of retaining influence over a sanguinary and superstitious mob by any means but acting on their ignorance or pandering to the worst passions of brutal dispositions, the rebel occupation of Wexford would afford an ample evidence, and the president of the council and the governor of the town, in their own sad stories, tell that the baser the materiel of the mob, the briefer is the authority of those who undertake the direction of its movements. Every day during the rebel occupation of the town and adjacent encampments, fresh victims continued to be brought in by the savage pikemen. In Wexford a small sloop, the town jail, and subsequently the market-house, were filled with unhappy sufferers. A reign of terror had commenced, the rabble power had become predominant, and all persons of superior rank or a different faith were denounced by wretches who associated crime with religion and slaughtered in the name of God. The chiefs themselves, particularly those few among them who had been educated in the Protestant religion, were in perpetual danger of death or violence from an ungovernable multitude, whom they had unwisely hoped to command.

With such feelings and dispositions it will be a subject of regret, but not surprise, that now the ferocity of the rabble resisted all control and blood alone could appease it. The death decree of the wretched prisoners went forth, and the fearful story of the massacre is recorded by one who miraculously escaped the fate of his less fortunate companions. It is a fearful record of butchery, and, alas! the statement is not over-coloured. The leading monster of these executions was Thomas Dixon, a relative of the priest, and he may well be described as a fiend in human form.

On the 19th of June the Protestants in Wexford received the heart-rending intelligence that all the prisoners were to be murdered the next day. That night also, one of them, while sitting alone in silent sorrow, heard the death-bell toll as loud as ever she heard it, and much more awfully. On the following morning, the never-to-be-forgotten 20th of June, Thomas Dixon rode to the gaol-door and swore that not a prisoner should be alive against sun-set. He then rode into the street repeating the same, with horrid imprecations, adding ‘that not a soul should be left to tell the tale.’ Good God! how shall I proceed? neither tongue nor pen can describe the dismal aspect of that melancholy day,—a day in which the sun did not so much as glimmer through the frowning heavens. The town-bell rang, and the drums beat to arms to assemble the rebels for the purpose of joining those at Three Rocks to march against General Moore’s brigade. In the evening Dixon assembled the murdering band, and immediately hoisted that harbinger of destruction, the Black Flag, which had on one side a bloody cross, and on the other the initials M.W.S., that is, ‘murder without sin,’ signifying that it was no sin to murder a Protestant. Having paraded for some time to give more solemnity to the scene, the Protestants who were confined in the gaol and prison ship were led forth to the slaughter, and conducted to the bridge under a strong guard of merciless ruffians, piked to death, with every circumstance of barbarous cruelty, and then flung into the river to leave room for more! While this work of blood was going on, a rebel captain ran to the Popish bishop and entreated of him ‘for the mercy of Jesus’ to come and save the prisoners. The bishop coolly replied that ‘it was no affair of his.’ All this time the sanguinary pikemen continued butchering the poor victims on the bridge; some they perforated in places not mortal, to prolong and increase their torture, others they would raise aloft on their pikes, and while the miserable victim writhed in extreme agony, his blood streaming down the handles of their pikes, they exulted round him with savage joy. In the midst of this terrific scene General Edward Roche galloped up in great haste and commanded the drums to beat to arms, declaring that Vinegar Hill was nearly surrounded by the king’s troops, and that all should repair to camp, as reinforcements were wanting. This express had a wonderful effect; the assassins instantly closed the bloody scene and fled in all directions. Some of the rebel guard returned soon after and conveyed the prisoners back to gaol. But that sanguinary monster, Thomas Dixon, returning, he soon evinced that his thirst for blood was not yet satiated by ordering out the remainder of the prisoners from the gaol and prison ship, the greater part of whom were tortured to death in like manner as the former. He then proceeded to the market-house, and having fixed his vulture eye on others, dragged them to the fatal bridge for execution. After butchering these, a lot of ten more was brought forth and barbarously murdered. The third time they took out eighteen, and were massacring them when Dick Monk rode into town from Vinegar Hill, with his shoes and stockings off, and shouted, ‘D—n your souls, you vagabonds, why don’t you go out and meet the enemy that are coming in, and not be murdering in cold blood?’ Some Protestant women followed him and asked him, ‘What news?’ He replied, ‘Bad news, indeed; the king’s forces are encamped round Vinegar Hill.’ He then rode towards the convent. Shortly after, Priest Collin was seen running towards the bridge. There were six of the poor Protestants killed out of the last party that were taken down before he arrived, and it was with great difficulty he prevailed on them to spare the rest. After using all the arguments he could, without effect, he at length took off his hat and desired them to kneel down and pray for the souls of the poor prisoners before they put them to death. They did so, and having got them in the attitude of devotion, he said, ‘Now pray to God to have mercy on your souls, and teach you to show that kindness towards them which you expect from Him in the hour of death and in the day of judgment!’ This had the desired effect; he led them off the bridge without opposition, and they were sent back to confinement. The massacre of that day ceased about eight o’clock in the evening. Out of forty-eight prisoners who had been confined in the market-house, nineteen only escaped.

Nor were these dreadful cruelties confined to the town alone. In their camps, and on their marches and retreats, the same execrable barbarities were constantly committed. No exaggeration can be imputed to those who escaped death, and afterwards described the sufferings they had undergone; for the dying confessions of many who were actors in those scenes of blood, and afterwards paid the penalty of crime, corroborated the statements of those who had been their prisoners, and confirmed their truth.

Jackson’s Narrative affords further dreadful details of the Protestant martyrdoms enacted on Wexford bridge:—

‘They thus continued till about seven o’clock to convey parties of prisoners, from ten to twenty, from the gaol, the market-house, and the prison ship, where many of them were confined, to the bridge, where they butchered them. Every procession was preceded by the black flag, and the prisoners were surrounded by ruthless pikemen, as guards and executioners, who often insultingly desired them to bless themselves.

‘The mob, consisting of more women than men, expressed their savage joy on the immolation of each of the victims by loud huzzas.

‘The manner in general of putting them to death was thus: Two rebels pushed their pikes into the breast of the victim, and two into his back; and in that state (writhing with torture) they held him suspended till dead, and then threw him over the bridge into the water.

‘After they had massacred ninety-seven prisoners in that manner, the insurgents were taken off their blood-thirsty work by the cry “to camp! to camp!”’

Musgrave, in the Appendix to his Memoirs, relates:—‘After taking possession of Enniscorthy they planted the Tree of Liberty, with shouts of “Vive la République” and “Erin go Bragh!” Here the work of blood immediately began, and continued every day, more or less, for twenty-five days—a dreadful specimen of what might be expected from such a government. One day they were so diabolical as to murder all the Protestants they had; and not satisfied with this, they sent to Wexford for more, and every day parties ranged the country, dragging forth all they could find, to satiate their thirst for blood.’

It is said that not less than four hundred Protestants were massacred in Enniscorthy and on Vinegar Hill, the bodies of whom lay unburied during several days.

Meanwhile, the final scene of the tragic occurrences promised to equal, and perhaps exceed, the terrible events which had preceded it. There is little doubt that a general and unsparing massacre of the Protestants had been resolved upon; and although, assisted by an alarm that their camp was being attacked, the Catholic bishop and clergy had induced the greater number of the insurgents to quit the town, still the most ferocious wretches remained, and seemed determined to conclude a period of anarchy and terrorism by a scene of indiscriminating slaughter.

During the confusion which the precipitate flight of the rebels occasioned (when they proposed to fire the town, only had no time!), the bloody Thomas Dixon, mounted on a very fine horse, rode through the streets with a broad sword drawn and upbraided the rebels for their timidity and their dilatoriness. ‘If you had followed my advice,’ he said, ‘in putting all the heretics to death three or four days ago, it would not have come to this pass.’ Mrs. Dixon—a worthy mate of her sanguinary husband—who accompanied him on horseback with a sword and case of pistols, clapped the rebels on the back and encouraged them by saying, ‘We must conquer; I know we must conquer!’ and she exclaimed repeatedly, ‘My Saviour tells me we must conquer!’ They repaired to the bridge to stop the retreat of the rebels, but in vain, though Mrs. Dixon drew a pistol and swore vehemently ‘that she would shoot any one who would refuse to return with her to put the remainder of the heretics to death!’ They endeavoured to raise the portcullis of the bridge to prevent retreat, but were unable to do so.

It has been said that the butcheries on Wexford bridge were perpetrated by a small section of the insurgents, kept by that sanguinary monster, Thomas Dixon, in a state of constant drunkenness, and ever ready to execute his ruthless orders. Every means were used by the ruffian to play upon the credulity and excite the worst passions of his followers, and his fiendish inventions to irritate a brutal mob appear almost incredible.

The approach of Moore’s brigade, however, freed Wexford from the banditti who infested it to the last moment, and averted the intended massacre. ‘Captain Boyd, the member for the town, and commandant of a corps of mounted yeomen, having ascertained that the great body of the rebels had returned, asked and obtained permission from General Moore to enter Wexford, and announce that the army was on its march to occupy the place. Attended by only a dozen mounted yeomen, Captain Boyd galloped down the streets, proclaiming to the inhabitants their deliverance. At five in the evening Moore’s brigade arrived at the heights commanding Wexford, and bivouacked on the Windmill Hill, while a wing of the Queen’s regiment marched into the place and took military possession. Description fails in attempting to set forth the emotions which arose in the breasts of the poor Protestants who had been doomed to destruction. Many wept with joy to see their deliverers.’

The Wexford prisons had been scarcely emptied of the Protestant prisoners who had occupied them until they were tenanted by those who had lately been the directors of the insurrection. General Lake arrived on the 22nd, and took up his quarters in the house of Captain Keugh, the ex-governor, the latter exchanging his former domicile for a jail.

SUMMARY FATE OF THE INSURRECTIONARY CHIEFS

While some of the rebel chiefs endeavoured to evade the first outbreak of the royalist excitement by seeking a temporary security in concealment, others, under the persuasion that the negotiations between the Wexford leaders and the commanding officers of the troops would lead to a general amnesty, or, perhaps, in the desperation of their circumstances, remained in their respective homes, and quietly awaited the fate they knew to be impending. Grogan had retired to his mansion at Johnstown, while Harvey repaired to Bargy Castle, from whence, as a peace-offering, he sent some fat cattle to the commanding officer in Wexford. On the return of the messenger he found that to the chiefs of the insurgents mercy would not be extended, and quitting his house, never to revisit it, he set out to join a fellow-unfortunate, who had vainly endeavoured to remove himself beyond the reach of the vengeance of the outraged laws.

Colclough, with his wife and child, had sought a temporary asylum in one of the Saltee Islands, about six leagues from Wexford; with some valuables hastily collected, and a few necessaries to maintain life, they had hidden themselves in a cave, of which the entrance was artfully concealed. There Harvey joined the unhappy fugitives; and chiefly through the indiscretion with which he had neglected to keep his fatal visit secret, the whole party were arrested, brought back, and committed to close custody.

THE CAPTURE OF COLCLOUGH AND HARVEY

To these unfortunate gentlemen, John Colclough of Ballyteigue and B. Baganel Harvey of Bargy Castle, late commander-in-chief of the Wexford insurgents, a melancholy interest is attached; and the retreat selected by the hapless fugitives has an air of romance that makes it interesting. The subject of George Cruikshank’s realistic illustration of this picturesque incident is founded upon the account given in Musgrave’s Memoirs:—‘The arrest of B. B. Harvey and John Colclough was attended with some curious circumstances which I shall relate. On the flight of the rebels from Wexford, the 21st of June, they retreated to the largest of the Saltee Islands, which Mr. Colclough rented from Mr. Grogan. Dr. Waddy, a physician who served in the yeomanry, having got intelligence of their retreat, applied to General Lake for a proper party and armed vessel to go in quest of them, which he readily obtained.

‘About three o’clock on Sunday evening, the 23rd of June, he set sail in the Rutland cutter of ten guns, commanded by Captain Willoughby, with Lieutenant Turner of the Queen’s, a detachment of his regiment, and a man-of-war’s boat with a party of sailors well armed. The island is about six leagues from Wexford, and four or five miles from the southern coast of the country. The weather was so tempestuous that they were obliged to reef their sails; and the wind being adverse, they did not descry the island till about four o’clock in the morning, and could not cast anchor alongside till eight. When they were approaching it they saw a small boat pass from the island to the mainland. As it is surrounded with high precipices, and is accessible but in one place, and as they expected to be opposed by a party of armed rebels, who, it was believed, had accompanied Harvey and Colclough, Captain Willoughby prepared to cover their landing with the cutter’s guns, and they were attended for the same purpose by the man-of-war’s boat. On landing they repaired to the only house on the island, occupied by one Furlong, who rented it from Mr. Colclough. They found there an excellent feather-bed, with fine sheets which were warm, a handsome tea equipage, some genteel wearing apparel belonging to both sexes, particularly a pair of pantaloons, which Dr. Waddy had seen on Mr. Colclough before the rebellion; and, near the house, some silk shoes and other articles hid in high ferns. They searched every suspected spot in the island, particularly a place called the Otter’s Cave, but in vain, though they had not a doubt of their having been there, as they had found, among other things, a chest of plate in a concealed place belonging to Mr. Colclough. The doctor resolved to make another effort by going round the island in a boat, for the purpose of reconnoitring the sides of it. In doing so he perceived on the edge of a high precipice one rock lighter coloured than the adjoining one; and, as the earth near it seemed to have been recently stirred, he suspected that they had been making preparations there for their concealment. He therefore again ascended the island, and found that the approach to the place which he wished to explore was steep, serpentine, and through some crags. The light-coloured stone covered the mouth of the cave, and above it was an aperture to let in the light. The doctor called out to Colclough and told him that if he did not surrender immediately, and without resistance, he should receive no quarter. Colclough asked, “Is that Dr. Waddy?” and on his saying “Yes,” he said he would surrender; and soon after he, at the doctor’s desire, gave up his arms through the hole of the cave. The doctor threw down the precipice the stone which covered the mouth of it, which fell with a monstrous crash; on which Mr. and Mrs. Colclough came forth, dressed in the meanest habits of peasants for the purpose of disguising themselves. Then Mr. Harvey came out saying, “My God! my God!” and so pale and weak from fatigue and anxiety of mind that the doctor was obliged to support him. He also had a chest of plate concealed, which he gave in charge of the doctor and his party.’

There was little of romance about the sequel; these unfortunates were simply led off by their captors direct to the scaffold. The prisoners were arraigned on charges of high treason, and tried by a court-martial. Among the first to suffer were Father Philip Roach, Captain Keugh, who deserved a better fate,—he had served his king in America,—and Esmond Kyan, rebel captain of artillery. The executions took place upon the bridge, and they were hurried over with little consideration to the last moments of the dying, or to the feelings of relations who survived them. Roach was a tall and weighty man, and, on being suspended, the rope broke, and he fell to the ground, stunned and stupefied. Another halter was immediately procured; he thus suffered the last penalties of the law, it might be said, twice over. After death the sufferers were decapitated, the mutilated bodies cast into the river, the heads placed upon spikes on the Sessions-House, exposed to public view, thus calling into operation again one of the most disgusting remnants of feudal severity upon offenders against the State.

Harvey’s trial commenced on the same evening; he appeared to be much agitated, and spoke little. It came out in evidence that he acted as commander-in-chief of the rebel forces at the battle of Ross on the 5th of June, and his letter to the commander-in-chief of the king’s troops, signed ‘B. B. Harvey,’ summoning him to surrender the town to the rebels, was produced in evidence on the trial, and acknowledged by Mr. Harvey to be in his handwriting. The unhappy man produced many witnesses in his defence, but none to disprove the main facts. He did not deny having acted as commander of the rebel forces, but endeavoured to extenuate his conduct by saying he had accepted the distinction to prevent much greater evils, which must have occurred had it fallen into other hands, and in the hope of surrendering that command one day or other, with greater advantage to the country. He had no counsel, and, after a trial which lasted eight hours, was found guilty of death; which sentence, with that of Grogan, was put into execution on the morning of the 28th. His head was cut off and placed on the Sessions-House and his body thrown into the river. On the same evening was executed John Colclough of Ballyteigue. He was a gentleman of great respectability, and bore a very good private character. On this occasion the entreaties of his widowed partner were attended to, mutilation was dispensed with, Mrs. Colclough received the body of her husband, and in the poet’s words

She laid him in his father’s grave,

and had the melancholy satisfaction of giving sepulture to the body of a beloved husband.

THE ATTACK ON CAPTAIN CHAMNEY’S HOUSE, BALLYRAHEENE

The tide of rebellion was ebbing fast, dissension prevailed in their councils, the leaders disagreed, and the Wexford men separated from those of Wicklow, the latter, under Garret Byrne of Ballymanus, moving off to the hill of Ballyraheene, nearly midway between Tinehaly and Carnew. Here another error in judgment occasioned an unnecessary loss of life. The yeomanry had pursued the rebels closely, but the latter gained the high grounds and formed in a very strong position. The numbers were enormously disproportionate, and every prudential consideration should have discouraged an attack. Some of the yeoman officers were of opinion that their troops ought to halt, and that they should content themselves with watching at a safe distance the movements of the enemy. Contrary opinions prevailing, an attack was made up the hill, when the rebels, who had wished to avoid a battle, rushing down, put the royalists to flight, killing ten of the infantry, but the cavalry escaped. Two officers fell in the beginning of this action, Captain Chamney of the Coolattin company, and Captain Nickson of the Coolkenna company, both greatly lamented. George Cruikshank’s picture vividly represents the situation of Captain Chamney’s house at the critical point of the siege, which saved a portion of this unfortunate loyalist force. ‘The slaughter,’ records Gordon, ‘would have been far greater if sixty of the infantry, under Captain Morton and Lieutenant Chamney, had not taken refuge in Captain Chamney’s house at the foot of the hill, where they sustained during fourteen hours the attacks of the rebels, who attempted repeatedly to fire the house. Some—particularly a very large man from Gorey named John Redmond, nicknamed “Shaun Plunder”—advanced under a covering of feather-beds to the hall door, with the design of burning it, and thus opening a passage into the house; but they were killed in the attempt, the bullets penetrating even this thick tegument. As a discharge of musketry was maintained from the windows on the assailants, whose associates injudiciously set fire to the neighbouring house of Henry Morton (the owner being among the defenders of Captain Chamney’s house), the illumination enabled the garrison to aim at their enemies in the night, and the loss of the rebels was very considerable, amounting according to some accounts to a hundred and thirty men, by others, to two hundred.’ This ill-judged affair occurred on the 2nd of July.

It has been described how Wexford was by the success of the king’s forces ultimately liberated from the masses of its insurgent population. We have stated that the scene of their predatory warfare was changed from their native county to Kildare, and that they were reinforced by the insurgents commanded by Michael Reynolds. The junction produced little advantage, except in increasing the numbers of a tumultuary rabble, in whom there was neither unity of purpose nor any fixed plan of future operations. Every leader had some object of his own, none a particle of military talent, and their strategic conceptions were as erroneous as the execution was feeble and contemptible.

Anthony Perry, another rebel general, despairing of doing any mischief in Wexford, now so well defended, where the insurgent forces were too dispirited to longer struggle in a body against the royalists and yeomanry, when joined by a strong body under the command of Michael Aylmer, intended to penetrate into the north of Ireland, where he expected to meet with a cordial co-operation. But Aylmer prevailed on Perry to abandon his intention, and declared that it was more advisable to attack Clonard, a town on the confines of Kildare and Meath, and situated on the river Boyne, as there was but a small force to defend it; and afterwards march by Kilbeggan to the Shannon, and surprise Athlone, where, from its central position, great advantages might be expected to arise. This plan was accordingly adopted; and their united forces, amounting to four thousand men, on the 11th of July marched to the attack of Clonard.

THE REBELS STORMING ‘THE TURRET’ AT LIEUTENANT TYRRELL’S, CLONARD

Many very gallant exploits were performed during this short and sanguinary period by loyalist irregulars; but probably the defence of Clonard may be placed foremost among numerous occurrences, in which the boundless gallantry of a determined handful of daring spirits repulsed the overwhelming masses to which they were opposed, and proved that no physical superiority can quench the courage of men devoted to home and altar, and determined ‘to do or die.’ The little garrison of Clonard consisted of a weak corps of yeoman infantry, and its commander was a self-taught soldier. But military talent is intuitive, and Lieutenant Tyrrell proved that the ruder the storm, the more extensively the resources of a brave man will be developed.

On being apprised that the rebel column was in march, Tyrrell made the best dispositions for defence which his small force permitted. He occupied a turret, which domineered the road, with half a dozen musketeers, and with the remaining twenty retired into the old mansion-house. Having selected his best marksmen, they were placed at such of the windows as offered the best positions for firing with effect upon the assailants, while the remainder of the corps were secured behind the walls, and employed in loading spare muskets to replace the firearms when discharged.

The rebel cavalry, amounting in rough numbers to three hundred, formed an advance guard, and were commanded by a man named Farrel. Unconscious that the garden turret was occupied, they came forward in a trot, and the first intimation that they were already under fire was conveyed by a shot from the youngest Tyrrell, a boy only fifteen years old, which mortally wounded the rebel captain. A volley from the other loyalists emptied several rebel saddles; a panic ensued, and the horsemen galloped out of musket range, leaving Several of their companions dead upon the road. With more caution and better success the rebel footmen came forward under shelter of a hedge, and, lining an opposite fence, they opened a sharp fire on the turret, while the column itself pushed forward to surround the’ house, and unite itself with another division which had advanced to join them by a cross-road. To cut off all communication and prevent the garrison from receiving reinforcements, the bridge was occupied by a rebel guard, but as it lay directly under the fire of the house, half a score of the occupants were rapidly shot down, the bridge cleared of its defenders, the western road laid open, and the garrison communication maintained.

In both their first attempts the insurgents were heavily repulsed, but defeat seemed only to exasperate them, and they again came forward to the attack. Penetrating by the rear, an immense number filled the garden and seized the lower portion of the turret. As the ladder had been drawn up by the defenders of the upper story, the rebels, by climbing on each other’s shoulders, attempted to force through the ceiling; still the fatal fire of the loyalists was kept up; at every shot a rebel fell, and on the ground floor lay seven-and-twenty bodies. At last, despairing of success, they procured a quantity of straw and fired the building. To force a passage through the rebels was almost a desperate attempt, but to perish in the flames, which had now seized the building, was the sad alternative. Two yeomen were killed in their attempt at escape, but fortunately the other four, by jumping from a window into a hay-yard under cover of the garden wall, succeeded in reaching the main body, who were posted in the dwelling-house. For six long hours this unequal contest had been maintained, and still no impression had been made upon the gallant royalists. To confuse the garrison, the assailants set fire to the toll-house and adjacent cabins, but the conflagration served no better purpose than to consume their own slain, whose bodies they flung into the burning houses. Happily succour was at hand, and at five in the evening a reinforcement was descried by the wearied royalists, advancing rapidly to meet them.

THE REBELS STORMING ‘THE TURRET’ AT LIEUTENANT TYRRELL’S, CLONARD

One of the yeomen, who had been excluded by the sudden shutting of the gates in the morning, finding he could be of no use in defending the house, repaired to Kinnegad and represented the alarming situation of his friends at Clonard; upon which, Lieutenant Houghton, with fourteen of the Kinnegad infantry, and a sergeant, with eleven Northumberland Fencibles (this being all the force that could be spared), immediately marched to their succour. The pass by the bridge having been kept open in the manner before related, Lieutenant Tyrrell now sallied from the house, and soon effected a junction with this reinforcement. A few volleys completely cleared the roads, and having placed the Northumberland Fencibles and Kinnegad infantry in such situations as most effectually to gall the enemy in their retreat from the garden, the lieutenant himself undertook the hazardous enterprise of dislodging them from thence.

‘At this time it is supposed there were four hundred rebels in the garden, a large body being posted on a mount planted with old fir-trees, which afforded considerable protection, while many lay concealed behind a privet hedge, from where they could see distinctly every person who entered the garden, though unperceived themselves. The brave Tyrrell, at the head of a few chosen men, now rushed into the garden, and was received by a general discharge from both bodies of the enemy; but he instantly attacked the party behind the hedge, which, being defeated, retired to the mount. Here a warm action ensued, the enemy appearing determined to maintain their advantageous situation; but the yeomen, though fatigued with the heat and burden of the day, and six of them badly wounded, persevered with the most undaunted courage, and directed such a steady and well-directed fire against the mount, that the enemy were at length dispersed, and in their flight the Northumberland Fencibles and Kinnegad infantry made great havoc among them.’—Taylor’s History.

The rebel loss, when it is remembered that it was inflicted by a garrison not numbering thirty men, may appear to be overstated. In killed and wounded it was said to reach two hundred. Nor is there any reason to question the accuracy of the return. A close and well-directed fire was maintained for half the day, and some of the yeomanry were supposed to have discharged one hundred rounds a man.

After this severe repulse the remaining body of insurgents retreated to Carbery and plundered the mansion of Lord Harburton, and next day entered Meath by Johnstown. On the 12th of July they were again overtaken, brought to action, and defeated by a detachment under Colonel Gough, hunted afterwards by General Myers, and driven upon Slane, and encountered ar In all these affairs disorganised that, as a body, they ceased to have existence.

FATE OF FATHER JOHN MURPHY OF BOULAVOGUE AFTER VINEGAR HILL

The horde of insurgents with Father John Murphy of Boulavogue escaped from the Vinegar Hill déroute, retreated through the Scullagh gap, and selected Kilkenny as their field of future operations. Their progress was marked by the customary atrocities of plundering and murder, and the line of march towards Castlecomer might have been readily traced by property destroyed and houses laid in ashes.

After the continuation of their old tactics and acts of coldblooded treachery—such as the affair at Gore’s bridge, when promises of protection were given to the discomfited loyalist soldiers surrounded in an untenable position, to induce them to lay down their arms, and scandalously violated, and in a few hours after their surrender, six privates of the Wexford, two of the 4th Dragoons, and nine Protestant prisoners were savagely butchered at Kellymount by orders of Devereux, a sanguinary ruffian, principally concerned in the massacre at Scullabogue—the insurgents were discovered at daybreak halted on Kilcomney Hill. The Downshire battalion guns—under Major Mathews—opened fire, and the rebels, to avoid the cannonade and gain time to make dispositions to receive the royalists, fell back a mile. While forming, Sir Charles Asgill’s artillery were heard firing at a rebel party in their rear, and a few rounds from the Downshire guns completed their discomfiture. They broke, fled, and were cut down, scarcely resisting, the pursuit being continued for two hours with fatal effect.

This was the crushing blow given to the southern insurrection. All was lost, for baggage, arms, provisions, and ammunition were totally abandoned. A few soldiers and Protestants who had fallen into their hands and escaped assassination were mercifully they suffered a continued loss, and at last had become so totally delivered and the insurgents disbanded, and while the Wexford party crossed into their native country through the Scullagh gap, the wanderers from Wicklow and Kildare went off dispersedly, some of the least guilty returning to their own homes, while others, despairing of forgiveness, commenced an outlaw’s life, and sank the rebel in the robber.

‘Father John Murphy, a priest who acted as aide-de-camp to the great sacerdotal hero, John Murphy of Boulavogue, and who had accompanied him from Vinegar Hill, fell in this action. He had a dove and a crucifix on his buttons, and letters directed to him were found in his pocket, recommending proper places for encamping. Father John Murphy, the commander-in-chief, who fled from the field of battle, was taken at an ale-house by three yeomen, one of the name of M’Cabe, and led a prisoner to Tullow, the headquarters of Sir James Duff. He was introduced into a room where the general, his aides-de-camp, Colonels Foster and Eden, the Earl of Roden, Captain M’Clintock, and about twenty officers were sitting. Major Hall, having asked him some questions which gave offence, in a violent rage the priest made a blow of his fist at the Major, which would have knocked him down, but that he warded it off with his arm, on which, however, he received a severe contusion. On searching Murphy, in his pockets his vestments were found, with some letters from Mrs. Richards and other ladies, prisoners at Wexford, imploring him to save the lives of their husbands and relations. He was hanged on the same day; his body was burned and his head fixed on the market-house.’

Musgrave’s Memoirs, which furnish the foregoing account, further enlighten us upon Murphy’s personal traits:—‘He was about forty-five years old, light complexioned, bald-pated, and about five feet nine inches high, well made, uniting strength with agility. He was exceedingly irascible, and when in a passion had somewhat the aspect of a tiger. His pix, his oil stock, and a small crucifix were found in his pocket.’

LANDING OF THE FRENCH INVADERS IN KILLALLA BAY

In the west of Ireland the system of terrorism was also incessantly persevered in; general murders were announced, and the people continued not to sleep in their own houses to avoid surprise. The strangest means by which these imaginary massacres were to be effected were invented, promulgated, and believed, and the peasantry in many places actually remained night after night in the open fields as the only means of escaping the devilish devices of destroyers.

Musgrave has set down in his Memoirs: ‘A few days before the French landed, a report was industriously circulated that the Protestants had entered into a conspiracy to massacre the Roman Catholics, and that they would not spare man, woman, or child. It was said that for this purpose a large quantity of combustible stuff had been introduced by the Orangemen, who made a kind of black candles of it; that they were of such a quality that they could not be extinguished when once lighted, and that in whatever house they should be burnt they would produce the destruction of every person in it.’

Such was the state of Mayo and Connaught generally when, on the 22nd of August 1798, three French frigates, with English colours flying, entered Killalla Bay. No suspicion was occasioned by their appearance, and under the belief that they were British cruisers, several gentlemen from the town visited the strangers, and when declared prisoners first discovered their mistake.

Killalla was at that time a bishop’s see (subsequently suppressed on the passing of the Reform Bill). On the day when the French appeared in the bay the lord-bishop was holding his annual visitation, and the clergy of the diocese were collected in the castle, as the see-house was popularly called. The strange vessels, however, excited no alarm; dinner passed quietly, the guests were preparing to depart, when that intention was accelerated by the arrival of a breathless messenger to inform the company and their host that the French had actually landed, and an advanced guard of three hundred men were marching on the town.

Killalla was feebly garrisoned by a party of the Prince of Wales’s Fencibles and a few yeomanry, the whole not exceeding fifty or sixty men, but still they offered a bold resistance, until, with the loss of a few killed and wounded, they were finally driven into the castle and obliged to surrender. The commander of this extraordinary expedition, Humbert, after summoning the bishop to his presence, and having announced that he came from the great nation to give the Irish liberty and sever the yoke of England, which had so long oppressed them, proceeded to put into requisition his lordship’s horses, sheep, and cows, intimating at the same time that the Irish Directory, to be established immediately in Connaught, would pay the full value of the same.

The French officers gave the following account of the expedition:—‘About eighteen days before, 1500 men, some of whom had served under Bonaparte in Italy, the rest had been of the army of the Rhine, embarked on board three frigates at Rochelle, and on a very dark night eluded (beyond their expectation) the vigilance of the English fleet, which was close behind them. Two of them had forty-four guns, eighteen-pounders, the other thirty-eight guns, twelve-pounders. They said also they brought nine pieces of cannon and arms for 100,000 men, but this was French gasconnade, as they had arms only for 5500 men and but two four-pounders. The meagre persons and the wan and sallow countenances of these troops, whose numbers did not exceed 1060 rank and file and 70 officers, strongly indicated the severe hardships which they must have undergone.

‘They hoisted a green flag in front of the castle, with the Irish words, “Erin go braugh” inscribed on it, which signifies “Ireland for ever,” and they invited the people to join them, having assured them that they would enjoy freedom and happiness by doing so.

‘The first day they passed in landing arms and ammunition; the second in clothing and arming the natives, of whom great multitudes flocked to their standard, and granting commissions to Irish officers.’

Compared with the other armaments destined for the invasion of Ireland, Humbert’s was by far the smallest. The grand army, termed ‘the reserve,’ which was commanded by General Kilmaine, amounted in round numbers to 10,000; and a second, lying in the harbour of Brest, under General Hardy, had 3000 men on board. Neither, however, attempted to put to sea, and although Kilmaine never appeared in person, his proclamations were abundantly distributed.

Humbert’s manifesto was cleverly conceived and ingeniously put together:—

LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! UNION!

Irishmen—You have not forgot Bantry Bay; you know what efforts France has made to assist you. Her affections for you, her desire for avenging your wrongs and insuring your independence can never be impaired.

After several unsuccessful attempts, behold Frenchmen arrived amongst you.

They come to support your courage, to share your dangers, to join their arms, and to mix their blood with yours in the sacred cause of liberty.

Brave Irishmen, our cause is common; like you, we abhor the avaricious and bloodthirsty policy of an oppressive government; like you, we hold as indefeasible the right of all nations to liberty; like you, we are persuaded that the peace of the world shall ever be troubled, as long as the British ministry is suffered to make, with impunity, a traffic of the industry, labour, and blood of the people.

But exclusive of the same interests which unite us, we have powerful motives to love and defend you.

Have we not been the pretext of the cruelty exercised against you by the cabinet of St. James’s? The heartfelt interest you have shown in the great events of our revolution has it not been imputed to you as a crime? Are not tortures and death continually hanging over such of you as are barely suspected of being our friends? Let us unite then and march to glory.

We swear the most inviolable respect for your properties, your laws, and all your religious opinions. Be free; be masters in your own country. We look for no other conquest than that of your liberty—no other success than yours.

The moment of breaking your chains is arrived; our triumphant troops are now flying to the extremities of the earth to tear up the roots of the wealth and tyranny of our enemies. That frightful Colossus is mouldering away in every part. Can there be any Irishman base enough to separate himself at such a happy juncture from the grand interests of his country? If such there be, brave friends, let him be chased from the country he betrays, and let his property become the reward of those generous men who know how to fight and die.

Irishmen, recollect the late defeats which your enemies have experienced from the French; recollect the plains of Honscoote, Toulon, Quiberon, and Ostend; recollect America, free from the moment she wished to be so.

The contest between you and your oppressors cannot be long.

Union! liberty! the Irish republic!—such is our shout; let us march, our hearts are devoted to you; our glory is in your happiness. Health and Fraternity, Humbert, Gen.

Humbert’s was a bold but wild experiment, but still it evinced the daring character of the adventurer. He had encountered difficulties that would have disheartened a soldier less enthusiastic.

To land with 1200 men in a country in full military occupation, as Ireland then was, without money, necessaries, or any resources but what chance and talent gave, proved indeed that the French general was no common soldier.

The sketch given by Bishop Stock (his involuntary and captive host) of the invading army and their daring leader is not only graphic, but faithfully descriptive of the bold adventurer and his hardy followers:—‘Intelligence, activity, temperance, patience, to a surprising degree, appeared to be combined in the soldiery that came over with Humbert, together with the exactest obedience to discipline. Yet, if you except the grenadiers, they had nothing to catch the eye. Their stature for the most part was low, their complexions pale and sallow, their clothes much the worse for wear; to a superficial observer they would have appeared incapable of enduring almost any hardship. These were the men, however, of whom it was presently observed that they could be well content to live on bread or potatoes, to drink water, to make the stones of the street their bed, and to sleep in their clothes, with no covering but the canopy of heaven. One half of their number had served in Italy under Bonaparte; the rest were of the army of the Rhine, where they had suffered distresses that well accounted for thin persons and wan looks. Several of them declared, with all the marks of sincerity, that at the siege of Metz, during the preceding winter, they had for a long time slept on the ground in holes made four feet deep under the snow; and an officer, pointing to his leather small-clothes, assured the bishop that he had not taken them off for a twelve-month. Humbert, the leader of this singular body of men, was himself as extraordinary a personage as any in his army; of a good height and shape, in the full vigour of life, prompt to decide, quick in execution, apparently master of his art, you could not refuse him the praise of a good officer, while his physiognomy forbade you to like him as a man. His eye, which was small and sleepy (the effect, probably, of much watching), cast a side-long glance of insidiousness, and even of cruelty—it was the eye of a cat preparing to spring upon her prey. His education and manners were indicative of a person sprung from the lowest orders of society, though he knew how (as most of his countrymen can do) to assume, where it was convenient, the deportment of a gentleman. For learning, he had scarcely enough to enable him to write his own name. His passions were furious, and all his behaviour seemed marked with the characters of roughness and violence. A narrower observation of him, however, served to discover that much of this roughness was the result of art, being assumed with the view of extorting, by terror, a ready compliance with his demands. This latter trait in Humbert’s character was personally experienced by the bishop. An offer of the presidency of the Connaught Directory was declined by his lordship, on the plea of his sworn allegiance to the king—a pledge, he said, never to be violated; and a command that he should issue orders to place every horse and vehicle in the country at Humbert’s disposal for mounting his cavalry, and the transport of his guns, stores, and baggage, was evaded by an assurance that his lordship had been but lately a resident, and, from want of local knowledge or authority, had not the means of compliance with the French general’s request.

‘Next morning Humbert, finding that no cars or horses had been procured, became furious, uttered a torrent of vulgar abuse, presented a pistol at the bishop’s eldest son, and declared he would punish his father’s disobedience by sending him to France, and accordingly he marched off the bishop towards the shore under a sergeant’s guard, but when they had advanced a short distance a mounted orderly recalled the party, and Humbert apologised to the bishop, and excused, under the plea of military necessity, a very gross departure from the laws of la politesse.

‘The 24th was occupied by a French reconnaissance on Ballina, which was repelled by a party of carbineers and some yeomanry. In the evening the royalists advanced to Killalla in return, had a smart skirmish with the enemy, and, after losing a few men, were hastily driven back.’

On Sunday, the 26th, Humbert took the offensive, leaving six officers and two hundred men in Killalla to garrison the town, secure his spare ammunition, and drill such recruits as should join the standard of the republic. The French numbered about 900 bayonets, with treble that number of peasant partisans. They entered Ballina unopposed, and Humbert expressed considerable disappointment when no respectable persons welcomed his entree, and the body of an active agent suspended to a tree, executed by the troops before they retreated for having a French commission in his pocket, while it afforded an exhibition for Gallic civism, gave still but a sorry omen of success.

Before he had commenced his operations the French general felt difficulties which, in some degree, he was unprepared for. He came totally unprovided with money, and in the co-operation he was led from the reports of Irish agents to build upon as certain he was miserably disappointed. The first of these difficulties he endeavoured to overcome by the issue of assignats on the Irish Directory that was to be.

The first serious action Humbert had on encountering the royalist forces was signalised by a series of military mistakes, of which the French commander took the fullest advantage, and the memory of the loyalist discomfiture at Castlebar remains a discreditable page in the annals of our generalship.

It is almost impossible to conceive anything more disgraceful and unaccountable than the defeat of the royalist army at Castlebar. That the strength of the king’s army fully warranted its commander in covering the town and taking an open position cannot be denied, but still, as there was some uncertainty touching the number of the assailants, in the event of disaster measures should have been arranged for rallying the troops within the town, which a very little trouble would have made thoroughly defensible against a force so inferior as Humbert’s. That the general spirit of the troops was excellent many individual cases proved, and, with a superior cavalry and artillery, the latter particularly well served, the contest should not have lasted ten minutes.

HEROIC CONDUCT OF THE HIGHLAND SENTINEL

The party who defended the bridge of Castlebar, consisting of some gallant officers, some of the Longford, a few of the Kilkenny and Fraser Fencibles, suffered most severely, as they were exposed to a cross-fire both from the roads leading to it and from the houses on either side. The men often fell back, but were again rallied by their officers. At length most of the Royal Irish Artillery, who worked the gun, having been killed or wounded, it became useless, and the enemy were able to push forward a body of cavalry, whose charge was repulsed by this small party, and two of the foremost hussars killed within the ranks. By this charge, however, the numbers of the royalists were much reduced, and, having been deprived of the assistance of one captain and one subaltern, who were desperately wounded, they were at last obliged to retreat after having lost half their number.

‘The French appeared men qualified not only to obtain but also to improve a victory, and with singular daring a party of hussars, not exceeding ten in number, hung on the rear of the retreating royalists and overtook and captured a gun, which they were about to turn on the runaways, when a superior number of Lord Roden’s Foxhunters charged back, killed five, and drove off the rest. The slain were buried where they fell, and, in memory of the event, the place is still called French Hill.

‘The artillery taken in this disgraceful defeat consisted of fourteen pieces, of which four were curricle guns. The courageous behaviour of the Fraser Fencibles has been mentioned with admiration as a conspicuous example of gallantry against desperate odds.’

The spirited and characteristic water-colour drawing executed by George Cruikshank to illustrate the landing of the Gallic legions in Mayo deals with a noteworthy instance of individual and solitary devotion as related by Musgrave:—

‘The French approached the new gaol to break it open. It was guarded by a Highland Fraser sentinel, whom his friends had desired to retreat with them; he heroically refused to quit his post, which was elevated, with some steps leading to it. He charged and fired five times successively, and killed a Frenchman at every shot, but before he could charge the sixth time they rushed on him, beat out his brains, and threw him down the steps, with the sentry-box on his body.5

During the period that Humbert occupied Castlebar—that is, from the 27th of August until the morning of the 4th of September—the French behaved with the greatest moderation, protecting the Protestants from insult, and repressing every attempt at cruelty on the part of their ignorant and useless allies. Invariably, the invaders regarded the Irish mob who accompanied them as a pack of senseless savages, and no pains were taken to disguise these feelings of contempt. ‘The French,’ records Musgrave, ‘ate the best of meat and bread, drank wine, beer, and coffee, and slept on good beds. They compelled the rebels to eat potatoes, drink whisky, and sleep on straw. They beat and abused them like dogs, in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity. A volume would not contain an account of the brutal actions of the rebels; and the women, who were worse than the men, carried off hides, tallow, beef, cloth, and various other articles.

‘The wonder was how the zealous papist should come to any terms of agreement with a set of men who boasted openly in their hearing “that they had just driven Mr. Pope out of Italy, and did not expect to find him so suddenly in Ireland.” It astonished the French officers to hear the recruits when they offered their services declare “that they were come to take arms for France and the Blessed Virgin.”’

To the Irish priesthood the French officers exhibited a marked antipathy. Frequently a latent hatred of Protestants became too apparent, but any attempt, and many were made, to give a religious turn to the war was on the French part furiously repelled.

ENDING OF THE FRENCH INVASION

No reinforcements had arrived from France; no insurrectionary movement in the other provinces followed the descent at Killalla and the unexpected success at Castlebar. The game was played; Lord Cornwallis was within thirty miles; another day, and surrender would be inevitable; but still a chance might be ‘upon the die,’ and, like a brave adventurer, Humbert determined to put it to the hazard. After mature consideration he decided to march in a northerly direction, as that part of the country he understood to be disaffected, and also the route leading through Sligo and Donegal was tolerably free from troops, and consequently more open to him. Accordingly, on the night of the 3rd of September he sent off his baggage and cannon, with part of his troops, towards Sligo, and about seven next morning set out with the remainder, about 400 in number. With the abandonment of the capital of Mayo, Humbert’s Irish career may be said to have closed, and probably the most summary but faithful account of his extraordinary campaign is contained in his own report to the French Directory:—

‘After having obtained the greatest successes, and made the arms of the French republic to triumph during my stay in Ireland, I have at length been obliged to submit to a superior force of 30,000 troops, commanded by Lord Cornwallis. I am a prisoner of war on my parole.’ Never a despatch more brief, nor yet more true.

Four days had passed since the French and their auxiliaries had abandoned Castlebar (on being apprised of Humbert’s retreat Colonel Crawford advanced, and at nine o’clock the same evening Castlebar was occupied by the royalists), and during that time they had been harassed continually. So closely were they pressed that the fusilade between their rear-guard and the advance of the royalists was almost incessant. His great superiority in cavalry enabled Lord Lake to hang closely on their rear, from which it was impossible to shake him off, and by mounting light infantry behind dragoons, so vigorously was Humbert pushed that he was obliged to halt the head of his column and receive an attack from the advancing enemy.

While forming the leading division the rear-guard, under Sarazin, were overtaken within a mile of Ballynamuck, and that general, who commanded en second, at once surrendered. Indeed, in doing this Sarazin exercised a sound discretion in preventing the useless expenditure of human blood, and, from the daring intrepidity of his character, the sacrifice, most painful to a soldier’s feelings, would never have been made by him until every hope was over.

The following circumstances, as Musgrave has related, attended the surrender of the French:—‘The Earl of Roden and Colonel Crawford, who led on the advanced guard, consisting of his lordship’s Fencibles, perceiving an officer who seemed desirous to communicate with them, Lord Roden ordered his trumpet to sound, which was answered by the French, when his lordship and the colonel advanced into the French lines. The officer politely asked them what their wishes were. They answered to stop the effusion of blood, and desired them to surrender. The officer said that he did not command, but that he would go to General Humbert, which he accordingly did. Humbert came up, asked the same question, and received a similar answer. He then demanded half an hour to give a final answer, which was granted on condition that he halted his troops; to which he made no reply, but retreated with precipitation. Lord Roden then ordered his trumpet to sound the advance, and came up to the first and second brigade of the French army, who surrendered to about 300 cavalry under his lordship and Colonel Crawford. After this they advanced with about twenty dragoons and took possession of the French guns. Shortly after Humbert rallied his grenadiers, the only part of the army, except the chasseurs, that had not surrendered, consisting of about 400 men, who surrounded Lord Roden and his twenty dragoons. They were given in charge to the hussars. While they were their prisoners—which lasted about fifteen minutes—the French officers loaded the United Irishmen, their allies, with execrations for having deceived and disappointed them by inviting them to undertake a fruitless expedition. They also declared that the people of Ireland were the most treacherous and cowardly they ever knew. Lord Roden and Colonel Crawford continued prisoners till his regiment of Fencibles advanced in quest of their colonel, which the French hussars perceiving, requested that his lordship would desire them to halt, as they meant to surrender, and by doing so he prevented them from being cut to pieces.’

According to Gordon’s authority, ‘the troops of General Humbert were found, when prisoners, to consist of 748 privates and 96 officers, a loss of 228 being sustained since their first landing at Killalla.’ The story is incomplete without recounting the fate of their misguided auxiliaries. It would appear that the soldiers of the grande nation and their Irish allies were heartily tired of each other, and both sides complained bitterly, and apparently with reason.

From the commencement of Humbert’s movement towards the north until his surrender, not an hour passed without the vengeance of the royalists felling on the deluded wretches, who still continued rather to embarrass than assist the French army while retreating. Every straggler that was overtaken was cut down by the Hompeschers and Foxhunters who hung upon Humbert’s rear; and when the invaders laid down their arms at Ballinamuck, if blood could have atoned for treason, it was fearfully exacted, for the sword and halter were used with an unsparing hand. It is impossible to form any correct estimate of the number sacrificed to the fury of the soldiery. During the pursuit of Humbert, as the rebels preserved not even the semblance of order, but straggled where they pleased, it was not unusual to find them sleeping in dozens in the fields, some from fatigue, and more from drunkenness. No questions were asked; the coup de sabre when on march, the arm of the next tree, if halting, ended all inquiry. At Ballinamuck va victis was pronounced, no quarter was given, and, to use Musgrave’s words, ‘dreadful havoc’ was made among the unfortunate wretches, who were excluded from mercy and cut down by the hundred.

REBELS DESTROYING A HOUSE AND FURNITURE

Probably the artist has executed this characteristic scene pertaining to the destructive proceedings which were so significant of the rebellion—con amore; it is sufficiently marked by George Cruikshank’s peculiar genius for conveying a full sense of boisterous exuberance, wherein the tragic marches hand-in-hand with the grotesque, and humour of the broadest contrasts with terrible episodes, which weirdly impress the imagination. In short, this picture may be regarded as the typical contribution of the gifted illustrator to Maxwell’s History, and, as such, speaks sufficiently for itself, telling its moving tale with that native force and graphic directness Cruikshank had always at command.

It may be realised that, to gratify their native love of fun, an Irish mob finds in the humours of any given situation the satisfaction of comic relief in contrast to absolutely grim terrorism; appreciative touches of these congenial qualities are conspicuous throughout Cruikshank’s vividly pictorial realisations of the episodes of the rebellion of 1798. Herein souvenirs of the humorous touches of the amenities of Donnybrook Fair lend their spice of rough fun to relieve the gloomier horrors inseparable from the subject, while the spirit of general destruction is in full swing, and the intoxicating influence of wantonly wrecking everything at hand, or within reach, is producing chaos and spreading annihilation around; the whole spectacle of reckless ruin to characteristically conclude with a grand conflagration of everything destructible, to put the final touches to the tableau.

EMMETT PREPARING FOR THE INSURRECTION

Two names most intimately connected with the Irish Rebellion are surrounded by an atmosphere of sentiment and the glamour of romance, which endears their memories to their admirers at this distant date. The untoward fate of one, the unfortunate enthusiast Lord Edward Fitzgerald, commences the history of the insurrection; the last, Robert Emmett, comes to complete the story, his episode almost as an anticlimax. Both were lives of promise, miserably thrown away, and it is recognised that both these victims rebels destroying a house furniture of misapplied talents were worthy of a better fate, and capable of higher things.

Robert Emmett was the son of a respectable physician in Dublin, and was the younger brother of Thomas Adis Emmett, a gifted barrister who had been a conspicuous member of the rebel Directory in the fateful 1798. Robert Emmett was by natural gifts qualified to figure as a hero of romance, and his name is so regarded by sympathisers, even after the lapse of a century, wherein his fame has fitfully survived. He was a young man of fine talents rather than solidity of judgment, possessing uncommon eloquence, and no inconsiderable portion of courage and activity. He was not unqualified for the part he had undertaken, and for a service so pregnant with difficulty and danger his sanguine temperament was a necessary adjunct. He had quitted Ireland after the unfortunate termination of the former conspiracy, and resided in different parts of the Continent, but principally in France, till Christmas 1802, when he returned to his native country, filled with ambitious projects of an unreasonable and uncompromisingly revolutionary nature.

‘A quotation from one of his speeches, when a lad at Dublin University, proves the early political bias of his mind. After a brilliant eulogy on the French republic, he concluded with a remark sufficiently expressive:—“When a people, advancing rapidly in knowledge and power, perceive at last how far their government is lagging behind them, what then, I ask, is to be done in such a case? Why, pull the government up to the people!” The consequences of indulging in such language at such a time may be imagined—Emmett was struck off the College roll.’—Memoir of Robert Emmett.

On his arrival in Ireland he first went into a state of the most perfect obscurity at the house of a Mrs. Palmer, at Harold’s Cross, where he assumed the name of Hewitt. The nature of his mission did not admit of his remaining in this retreat longer than was necessary to mature his plans and form his connections. About the end of April, a house and premises of some extent, formerly a malt-house, and which had been long unoccupied, were taken in Marshall’s Alley, Thomas Street, sufficiently obscure to escape detection, and yet near enough to the heart of the city to effect the most desperate purposes. In this place Emmett lodged for nearly two months, with no better accommodation than a paillasse, and surrounded by from fourteen to twenty associates. A depot of arms was here formed on a large scale; muskets and other weapons were procured from time to time to a considerable amount, and a large manufacture of pikes was secretly carried on. There was a group of tailor hands employed in making rebel uniforms of green.

‘One of these dépôts was set apart for the manufacture of gunpowder and the construction of weapons. Some idea of the industry with which Emmett accumulated these implements of deadly vengeance, and his sanguine reliance upon thousands responding to the tocsin of insurrection, may be formed from the catalogue of the contents of his magazine:—It comprised forty-five pounds of cannon-powder, in bundles; eleven boxes of fine powder; one hundred bottles filled with powder, enveloped with musket-balls and covered with canvas; two hundred and forty-six hand grenades, formed of ink-bottles filled with powder and encircled with buck-shot; sixty-two thousand rounds of musket-ball cartridge; three bushels of musket-balls; a quantity of tow mixed with tar and gunpowder and other combustible matter, for throwing against woodwork, which when ignited would cause an instantaneous conflagration; sky-rockets and other signals, etc.; false beams filled with combustibles, with not less than twenty thousand pikes.

‘The conspirators occasionally pressed not only horses but men into their service, and forced the latter to work at different employments necessary for the object in view while confined in the depot. At the same time stores of arms and gunpowder were deposited at the residences of others of their accomplices in convenient stations of the city. The whole of the conspiracy had, however, been nearly overthrown and exposed by an explosion which took place in Patrick Street. By the ability of the conspirators, or the security of their adversaries, the accident was overlooked, or at least represented as unconnected with any treasonable design. Emmett once more changed the place of his concealment, apprehending the explosion would lead to untimely disclosures, removing to one of his dépôts situated in Mass Lane. “Here he strove to make, as far as possible, by increased exertions, amends for the recent loss. So restless was he, that he sought no further repose than that he derived from occasionally reclining upon a mattress, placed in the midst of the workmen, from which he could by night and day observe the progress of, and direct and animate their labours.”

EMMETT PREPARING FOR THE INSURRECTION

‘At length the preparations were complete, or the funds of the conspirators exhausted, and the 23rd of July 1803 was appointed for a general insurrection. Though the persons immediately connected with the principals in the plot—Emmett, Dowdall, and Quigley—did not exceed from eighty to one hundred persons, they were so far misled as to the state of the public mind, that they expected the spirit of rebellion would pervade the kingdom. The stopping of the mail-coaches was to be the signal of revolt in the country. The immediate object of the insurgents in the metropolis was the castle (“as it was felt that to have command over the seat they might speedily secure the power of government”), and the vicinity of the depot in Thomas Street was calculated to favour the intended enterprise against this seat of the government. Various rumours had been afloat for a. few days previous, that “a rising,” as it was termed, was intended; but the reports were so contradictory that the government was unable to take any measures of precaution further than the doubling of patrols in certain stations. Towards dusk on the 23rd of July, Emmett prepared for the anticipated action by superintending the distribution of arms and ammunition (of which he had a large supply) amongst the multitude that had congregated before the headquarters of the projected rebellion. But we must not omit to mention that previous to the evening the ill-success of the enterprise had been omened forth by the retreat of the Kildare men, who, after marching into the capital, were fortunately persuaded by their leaders to disband and return home.’ What ensued has been graphically described by one of Emmett’s coadjutors:—

‘About six o’clock Emmett, Malachy, one or two others, and myself put on our green uniform, trimmed with gold lace, and selected our arms. The insurgents, who had all day been well plied with whisky’ (this paragraph is most significant), ‘began to prepare for commencing an attack upon the castle; and when all was ready, Emmett made an animated address to the conspirators. At eight precisely we sallied out of the depot, and when we arrived in Thomas Street the insurgents gave three deafening cheers.

‘The consternation excited by our presence defies description. Every avenue emptied its curious hundreds, and almost every window exhibited half a dozen inquisitive heads, while peaceable shopkeepers ran to their doors, and beheld with amazement a lawless band of armed insurgents, in the midst of a peaceable city, an hour at least before dark. The scene at first might have appeared amusing to a careless spectator, from the singular and dubious character which the riot wore; but when the rocket ascended and burst over the heads of the people, the aspect of things underwent an immediate and wonderful change. The impulse of the moment was self-preservation, and those who, a few minutes before, seemed to look on with vacant wonder, now assumed a face of horror, and fled with precipitation. The wish to escape was simultaneous; and the eagerness with which the people fled before us impeded their flight, as they crowded upon each other in the entrance of alleys, courtways, and lanes; while the screams of women and children were frightful and heart-rending.

‘“To the castle!” cried our enthusiastic leader, drawing his sword, and his followers appeared to obey. But when we reached the market-house our adherents had wonderfully diminished, there not being more than twenty insurgents with us.

‘“Fire the rocket!” cried Malachy.

‘“Hold awhile,” said Emmett, snatching the match from the man’s hand who was applying it. “Let no lives be unnecessarily lost. Run back and see what detains the men?”

‘Malachy obeyed, and we remained near the market-house, waiting their arrival, until the soldiers approached.’

THE MURDER OF LORD KILWARDEN

Thus far Emmett was with his deluded followers, and the work was less bloodthirsty; but the hordes armed by their enthusiastic and visionary general of the moment were of a combustible nature, and having weapons in their hands, speedily began ruthlessly murdering innocent people:—‘The conspirators assembled previously in the depot did not exceed the number of fifty, but pikes and other weapons were liberally dispersed among the mob, and the insurgents soon swelled to the amount, it is said, of about five hundred. The night was dark, and the scene is described as tremendous; groups of pikemen and other insurgents were dispersed in various parts of the vicinity of the scene of action, while others were calling out for arms, and led in crowds to the grand depot. Directly these mob-valiant ruffians secured their weapons, they set about employing them to deadly purpose.

It was thus that the life of Lord Kilwarden, the eminent and venerable chief-justice, was wantonly taken. Driving to the castle via Thomas Street, the carriage, unhappily for its inmates, fell into the thick of the rebels at the beginning of their excited career. It is related that the judge had formerly tried and sentenced to death a youth, convicted of treason, who, unlike his confederates, refused to accept pardon upon the condition of leaving the country. After the death of this misguided lad, his relatives, readily listening to every misrepresentation which flattered their resentment, became persuaded that the attorney-general had selected the youthful victim in question to suffer the utmost severity of the law (his companions having consented to expatriate themselves). One of his family connections, a person named Shannon, was an insurgent on the 23rd of July; and when Lord Kilwarden, hearing the popular cry of vengeance, exclaimed from his carriage, “It is I, Kilwarden, chief-justice of the King’s Bench!”

“Then,” cried Shannon, “you’re the man that I want!” and plunged a pike into his lordship’s body.’

The narrative as related by one of those present is as follows:—

‘It was during the height of the insurrection that the venerable magistrate, accompanied by his daughter, Miss Wolfe, and his nephew, a clergyman, arrived in Thomas Street in his way from his country-house to the castle. Lord Kilwarden and Mr. Wolfe, his nephew, were inhumanly dragged from the carriage and pierced with innumerable mortal wounds by the pikemen. Before he expired he was rescued by a party of military and of the police; and hearing some violent expression employed as to the punishment of the rebels, he had only time, before he breathed his last, to prefer a petition “that no man might suffer but by the laws of his country.” Such a death was more honourable than that of a commander who dies in the arms of Victory, and who possibly acts a part to secure a posthumous reputation. Miss Wolfe, by the humanity or the heedlessness of the mob, effected her escape, and, on foot and unattended, was one of the first who arrived at the castle to give notice of the horrors of the night. Colonel Browne, a gentleman greatly respected, was another victim of the multitude, and was assassinated in the same brutal and cowardly manner. On the first alarm he repaired to join his regiment, but uninformed of the precise station which was occupied by the rebels, he unfortunately, in the darkness of the night, fell in with the main body; he received a shot from a blunderbuss, and was almost immediately hewn to pieces.

‘Every casual passenger who was not murdered was forced to join the insurgents and armed with a pike. This happened even to some gentlemen of rank and character. The first check which the rebels experienced was from Mr. Edward Wilson, a police magistrate, who, at the head of only eleven men, had the courage to approach the scene of insurrection. He had hardly arrived at the spot before he found his little party surrounded by a body of nearly 300 pikemen. Undismayed by their hostile appearance, he called upon them to lay down their arms or he would fire. The rebels appeared somewhat confused, but one of them, bolder than the rest, advanced, and with his pike wounded Mr. Wilson in the belly, but was instantly shot dead by the wounded magistrate. The fire from his men threw the rest of the body of assailants into some confusion, but they presently opened to the right and left to make way for such of their party as had firearms, when Mr. Wilson thought it prudent to retreat towards the Coombe. The rebels soon after met with a more formidable assailant in Lieutenant Brady, of the 21st Fusileers, who, at the head of only forty men, had the gallantry to advance to the attack. He subdivided his little force into smaller parties, and though assailed by bottles and stones from the houses, and with shot from the alleys and entries, kept up so warm and well-directed a fire that the insurgents, numerous as they were, soon fled in different directions. Lieutenant Coltman, of the 9th regiment of foot, also at the head of only four men of his own regiment and some yeomanry of the Barrack division in coloured clothes, in all but twenty-eight, hastened to the scene of action, and was successful in dispersing the mob, and securing some of the most desperate of the offenders.

‘The military now poured in from all quarters; the rebels were routed with considerable slaughter, and, before twelve, the insurrection was completely quelled.’

The brief and sanguinary affray, which was fully detailed in the evidence given on the trial of the chief conspirator, we think will bear us out regarding the in competency of the leaders and the general inefficiency of an Irish mob. More was in Emmett’s favour than he was entitled to have expected. The government, although rumour was rife with alarm, had turned a deaf ear to every attempt to awake it from its culpable security. The detective police of that day, a crew of mercenary bloodhounds, showed that within the heart of the city treasonable plans could be matured, and not a functionary suspect it. To stimulate Sirr and his myrmidons to exertion, crime was not to be prevented but committed, and a regular price must first be placed upon the offender. The apathy of the government and the imbecility of the conspiracy were worthy of each other. On the night of the 23rd of July one hundred determined men, by a well-arranged coup de main, might have easily obtained possession of the castle.

Even with that success, twelve hours would have ended the treasonable triumph. More blood might have been shed, but the end would have been the same, and by noon the next day the insurrection would have terminated as it commenced—in slaughter.

TRIAL, CONVICTION, AND EXECUTION OF ROBERT EMMETT

The madly infatuated leaders of this desperate and futile attempt contrived to evade their deluded followers before the crisis of the outbreak, in spite of their conspicuous uniforms and trappings. Favoured by the darkness, Emmett and his lieutenants, decked in their warlike panoply, contrived to escape from the city which their rash enterprise had stirred into wild excitement, and headed to that haunt of outlawed and desperate malefactors, the mountain range of Wicklow, where they foiled to raise the late rebels. Under this rebuff, for better security, the party separated, each adopting the best means within his power to evade the now uplifted hand of outraged justice. Emmett, it is said, might possibly have quitted the country in a fishing boat, but his wild and ardent attachment to a daughter of the celebrated Curran induced him to return to the metropolis and seek a parting interview with his mistress. None but a madman would have risked the dangerous experiment; but Emmett appears to have been influenced in all his actions by the wildest impulse, and, accordingly, he regained the city safely, and again took up his quarters in his old concealment, Harold’s Cross. Here he was tracked by the bloodhound who had successfully trapped Lord Edward Fitzgerald and the many misguided enthusiasts who had similarly played with treason under mistaken ambition.

Arrested by Town-Major Sirr on the 25th of August, a special commission was immediately issued, Lord Norbury presiding. The evidence was clear, decisive, and direct, and went over and unmistakably proved the facts as already described.

The story of Emmett’s arrest, as related by Major Henry Charles Sirr, appropriately closes the history: ‘I went, in the evening of the 25th of August, to the house of one Palmer. I had heard there was a stranger in the back-parlour. I rode, accompanied by a man on foot; I desired the man to knock at the door. He did, and it was opened by a girl. I alighted, and ran directly into the back-parlour. I saw the prisoner sitting at dinner; the woman of the house was there, and the girl who opened the door was the daughter of the woman of the house. I desired them to withdraw. I asked the prisoner his name; he told me his name was Cunningham. I gave him in charge to the man who accompanied me, and went into the next room to ask the woman and daughter about him; they told me his name was Hewitt. I went back and asked how long he had been there? He said he came that morning. He had attempted to escape before I returned, for he was bloody, and the man said he knocked him down with a pistol. I then went to Mrs. Palmer, who said he had lodged there for a month. I then judged he was a person of some importance. When I first went in there was a paper on the chair, which I put into my pocket (Emmett’s fervid proclamation). I then went to the canal bridge for a guard, having desired him to be in readiness as I passed by. I planted a sentry over him, and desired the non-commissioned officer to surround the house with sentries while I searched it. I then examined Mrs. Palmer, and took down her account of the prisoner, during which time I heard a noise, as if an escape was attempted. I instantly ran to the back part of the house, as the most likely part for him to get out at; I saw him going off, and ordered a sentinel to fire, and then pursued him myself, regardless of the order. The sentry snapped, but the musket did not go off. I overtook the prisoner, and he said, “I surrender!” I searched him, and found some papers upon him.’

On the witness expressing concern at the necessity of the prisoner’s being treated so roughly, the prisoner observed, ‘that all was fair in war.’ The prisoner, when brought to the castle, acknowledged that his name was Emmett.

In his address to the jury Mr. Conyngham Plunket, as counsel for the Crown, laid stress upon the revolutionary proclamation drawn up by Emmett, and pointed out the condemnatory nature of this incendiary document:—

‘Under what circumstances is he taken? In the room in which he was, upon a chair near the door, is found an address to the government of the country, and in the very first paragraph of that address the composer of it acknowledges himself to be the head of a conspiracy for the overthrow of the government which he addresses, telling them, in diplomatic language, what conduct the undersigned will be compelled to adopt if they shall presume to execute the law. He is the leader, whose nod is a Fiat, and he warns them of the consequences!

‘And how was this revolution to be effected? The proclamation conveys an insinuation that it was to be effected by their own force, entirely independent of foreign assistance. Why? Because it was well known that there remained in this country few so depraved, so lost to the welfare of their native land, that would not shudder at forming an alliance with France, and therefore the people of Ireland are told, “the effort is to be entirely your own, independent of foreign aid.” But how does this tally with the time when the scheme was first hatched—the very period of the commencement of the war with France? How does this tally with the fact of consulting in the depot about co-operating with the French, which has been proved in evidence? But, gentlemen, out of the proclamation I convict him of duplicity. He tells the government of the country not to resist their mandate, or think they can effectually suppress rebellion by putting down the present attempt, but that “they will have to crush a greater exertion, rendered still greater by foreign assistance”; so that upon the face of the proclamation they avowed, in its naked deformity, the abominable plan of an alliance with the usurper of the French throne to overturn the ancient constitution of the land, and to substitute a new republic in its place.’

CONCLUSION OF EMMETT’S EXALTED DEFENCE

After the verdict of guilty was pronounced, the clerk of the Crown asked the condemned ‘what he had to say why judgment of death and execution should not be awarded against him according to law?’ Emmett, without precisely defending himself, calmly proceeded to pour forth an eloquent impassioned attack upon the executive. The concluding passages convey the general tendency of his exalted oratory:—

‘I have been charged with that importance in the efforts to emancipate my countrymen as to be considered the keystone of the combination of Irishmen, or, as your lordship expressed it, “the life and blood of the conspiracy.” You do me honour overmuch—you have given to a subaltern all the credit of a superior. There are men engaged in this conspiracy who are not only superior to me, but even to your computation of yourself, my lord; before the splendour of whose genius and virtues I should bow with respectful deference, and who would think themselves disgraced to be called your friend, and who would not disgrace themselves by shaking your blood-stained hand. [Again the judge, as frequently in the course of this bitter harangue of Emmett’s, felt called upon to interrupt him.]

‘What, my lord, shall you tell me on the passage to that scaffold which that tyranny, of which you are only the intermediary executioner, has erected for my murder, that I am accountable for all the blood that has and will be shed in this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor? Shall you tell me this, and shall I be so very a slave as not to repel it?

‘I do not fear to approach the Omnipotent Judge, to answer for the conduct of my whole life, and am I to be appalled and falsified by a mere remnant of mortality! By you, too, who, if it were possible to collect all the innocent blood that you have shed in your unhallowed ministry in one reservoir, your lordship might swim in it. [Here the judge interfered.]

‘Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonour; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but of my country’s liberty and independence, or that I became the pliant minion of power in the oppression or the miseries of my countrymen. The proclamation of the provisional government speaks for our views; no inference can be tortured from it to countenance barbarity or debasement at home, or subjection, humiliation, or treachery from abroad. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom I would have fought on the threshold of my country, and its enemies should only enter by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor and the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country her independence. Am I to be loaded with calumny and not suffered to resent or repel it?

‘If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, O ever dear and venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have even for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now about to offer up my life.

‘My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors that surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to heaven. Be ye patient! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave—my lamp of life is nearly extinguished—my race is run—the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world—it is the charity of its silence! Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done!’

Execution followed fast upon conviction, and Emmett suffered the penalty of high treason on the following day. The scene of his crime was chosen as the place of his punishment, and in Thomas Street the unfortunate gentleman met his fate with a calm and manly resignation, which elicited the sympathy of all who witnessed the painful occurrence.

If any sparks of disaffection lingered in the country, the mad outbreak of this deluded man finally extinguished them. The democratic feeling ten years before rife in the north of Ireland, and prevalent among the Presbyterians, had, long before Emmett’s emeute, been generally repudiated; a political change had been wrought rapidly in Ulster, and the educated and intelligent portion of the kingdom, whom American connection and French example influenced for a time, had detected the unsound principles of theoretic liberty, and disowned the rotten foundations upon which mob-governments are superstructed. When Russell, an early example of the republican school, attempted to operate coincidently with Emmett’s deluded attempt in the north, not half a dozen fools could be found to listen to delusory principles which had been tested and found wanting; and when he later suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Downpatrick, the utmost charity to which his quondam admirers reached was to declare that he was insane—a conclusion no doubt correct.

THE END