But he was not to be turned from his purpose by any maundering sentimentality on the part of the attorney-general. It was necessary, was it, to leave Mr. Curran alone? That was a pity, but all the more reason for a display of energy in another quarter. In pursuance of his determination, so sweetly expressed in metaphor, to tame the lion with blows and hot irons, Lord Clare proceeded, as chancellor of the University, to hold a visitation there, in order publicly to deplore the doings of the undergraduates.
The worthy gentleman was pained, he said. Alma Mater had taken the fell disease, the contagious epidemic (there could be no doubt about it), the only remedy against the spread of which was cautery. A number of students were ignominiously expelled; foremost amongst them Robert Emmett, (who was conspicuous for a tendency to inconvenient argument,) although his tutor, Mr. Graves, pleaded hard for him. Robert, filled with glee, rushed off to his brother's office to tell the glorious news--that he, boy though he were, had been deemed worthy of the martyr's crown. But when he reached the place he found that there were to be other martyrs besides himself. For the second time the house of his brother Tom was attacked and gutted. As he turned into the street, the presses were being pitched out of window, the types strewn in the mire, the tables and office-stools broken up to make a bonfire. Knitting his brows, he crossed his arms and stood watching the yeomanry at play; then wheeling about, he made the best of his way to Cutpurse Row, where, in the cellar of a crazy tenement, the patriots were accustomed to assemble, instead of riding out to the 'Irish Slave,' as they used more warily to do, before the destruction of the shebeen.
Russell, Bond, Dease, and others were there, delegates of the society for Dublin and its environs. Robert, looking round, perceived Cassidy fidgeting in a corner. Terence was not present. Cassidy observed this, and growled with disappointment between his teeth.
Tom Emmett was finishing a speech, wherein he declared to his audience that his opinions were changed. The French were coming; were, indeed, expected hourly. But it would not do to wait for them, as on a late disastrous occasion; a blow must be struck, a heavy and united blow. If the French came to follow it up, so much the better. The shocking behaviour of the friends of Government was becoming hourly more unbearable; the outrages committed by soldiers at free-quarters daily more flagrant and atrocious. He spoke with Irish hyperbole and a burning fervour of conviction which just suited the temper of his hearers.
'We must heed no more,' he cried, 'the glare of hired soldiery or aristocratic yeomanry. War, and war alone, must occupy every mind and every hand in Ireland, till its oppressed soil be purged of all its enemies. Vengeance, Irishmen! vengeance on your oppressors! Remember the crimes of years! Remember their burnings, their torturings, their legal murders! Remember Orr!'
At the end of a long peroration he paused for breath; and Cassidy, who was evidently anxious to 'catch the speaker's eye,' trolled forth in his rich voice the words which were becoming familiar to every one's lips:
'What rights the brave? The sword!
What frees the slave? The sword!
What cleaves in twain the despot's chain, and makes his gyves and dungeons vain? The sword!
All present took up the chorus, and looked towards the giants as though waiting for the next verse; but he raised his hand for silence, and said:
'Bedad, ye're right, friends. The sword's the only thing for poor Pat. But be careful now. Where's the young lordling who makes himself so busy?'