The life, trial and conversations of Robert Emmet, Esq., leader of the Irish insurrection of 1803

by Anonymous

From the explosion in Patrick-street, I lost the jointed pikes which were deposited there, and the day of action was fixed on before this, and could not be changed.

I had no means of making up for their loss but by the hollow beams full of pikes, which struck me three or four days before the 23d. From the delays in getting the materials, they were not able to set about them till the day before; the whole of that day and the next, which ought to have been spent in arrangements, was obliged to be employed in work. Even this, from the confusion occasioned by men crowding into the depot from the country, was almost impossible.

The person who had the management of the depot mixed, by accident, the slow matches that was prepared, with what was not, and all our labour went for nothing.

The fuzes for the grenades he had also laid by where he forgot them, and could not find them in the crowd.

The cramp irons could not be got in time from the smiths, to whom we could not communicate the necessity of despatch; and the scaling ladders were not finished (but one.) Money came in at five o’clock, and the trusty men of the depot, who alone knew the town, were obliged to be sent out to buy up blunderbusses, for the people refused to act without some. To change the day was impossible, for I expected the counties to act, and feared to lose the advantage of surprise. The Kildare men were coming in for three days; and after that it was impossible to draw back. Had I another week; had I one thousand pounds; had I one thousand men, I would have feared nothing. There was redundancy enough in any one part to have made up, if complete, for deficiency in the rest; but there was failure in all—plan, preparation, and men.

I would have given it the respectability of insurrection, but I did not uselessly wish to spill blood: I gave no signal for the rest, and they all escaped.

I arrived time enough in the country to prevent that part of it which had already gone out with one of my men, to disarm the neighbourhood from proceeding. I found that by a mistake of the messenger, Wicklow would not rise that night—I sent off to prevent it from doing so the next, as it intended. It offered to rise even after the defeat, if I wished it, but I refused. Had it risen, Wexford would have done the same. It began to assemble, but its leader kept it back till he knew the fate of Dublin. In the state Kildare was in, it would have done the same. I was repeatedly solicited by some of those who were with me to do so, but I constantly refused. The more remote counties did not rise, for want of money to send them the signal agreed on.

I know how men without candour will pronounce on this failure, without knowing one of the circumstances that occasioned it. They will consider only that they predicted it; whether its failure was caused by chance, or by any of the grounds on which they made their prediction, they will not care—they will make no distinction between a prediction fulfilled and justified—they will make no compromise of errors—they will not recollect that they predicted also that no system could be formed—that no secrecy nor confidence could be restored—that no preparations could be made—that no plan could be arranged—that no day could be fixed, without being instantly known at the Castle; that government only waited to let the conspiracy ripen, and crush it at their pleasure; and that on these grounds only did they predict it miscarriage. The very same men that after success would have flattered, will now calumniate. The very same men, that would have made an offering of unlimited sagacity at the shrine of victory, will not now be content to take back that portion that belongs of right to themselves, but would violate the sanctuary of misfortune, and strip her of that covering that candour would have left her.

R. E.

The following facts have come to our knowledge, too late to be inserted in their proper place. But we deemed them too interesting to be altogether omitted. Indeed, every incident of his short, but virtuous life, however slight, cannot fail to impart some degree of at least a melancholy pleasure to every generous and patriotic bosom.