I have a letter here by me that was written to me, this time by one of the landlords, who was a kind of friend of mine. He was the biggest man in the country; was often high sheriff, and lord lieutenant of the county, as stately and handsome-looking a man as you could see in a day’s walk. He had some regard or liking for me, as you may judge by this letter of his:
O’Donovan Rossa—You slipped out of court yesterday before I could hand you my debt. I am sorry I should have been so long on your black books.
I trust you will pardon me for saying I was sorry at what took place in court yesterday. Men of mind and intellect, as you appear to possess, should not display their powers in trifles. Now, suppose there was a revolution to your very heart’s content, and that you were placed in the very position of your warmest aspirations, would it tell well that O’Donovan Rossa had been whistling and knocking at doors to annoy the police.
Believe me, though I do not wish you success in the foregoing, that I wish you prosperity in your worldly welfare. I am truly
T. Somerville.
The “bill” in question was for seed supplied to the farm steward in his employment.
The “whistling and knocking at doors” in question, I had nothing to do with, and know nothing about. The boys had been out in the woods one night drilling, I suppose. When they had done, they scattered, and came home by different roads. One party of them coming into town, knew that the police were out of town, watching after moonlighters. They knew there was only one policeman left in the police barrack, and that he should stay in it; so when they were passing the house of the head inspector, one of them gave a runaway knock on the rapper. I suppose he thought it was a good joke on the police, who were out looking for Fenians.
Some one saw me passing through the street that night, and I was summoned with others. Tom Somerville was chairman of the magistrates, and I showed him that I had nothing to do with knocking at any one’s door on the occasion.