“My dearest Tom and Jane: I am just going to do my last duty to my country. It can be done as well on the scaffold as in the field. Do not give way to any weak feelings on my account, but rather encourage proud ones that I have possessed fortitude and tranquillity of mind to the last.
“God bless you, and the young hopes that are growing up about you. May they be more fortunate than their uncle, but may they preserve as pure and ardent an attachment to their country as he has done. Give the watch to little Robert; he will not prize it the less for having been in the possession of two Roberts before him. I have one dying request to make to you. I was attached to Sarah Curran, the youngest daughter of your friend. I did hope to have had her my companion for life; I did hope that she would not only have constituted my happiness, but that her heart and understanding would have made her one of Jane’s dearest friends. I know that Jane would have loved her on my account, and I feel also that, had they been acquainted, she must have loved her for her own. None knew of the attachment till now, nor is it now generally known; therefore do not speak of it to others. [I leave her][2] with her father and brother; but if those protectors should fall off, and that no other should replace them, [take][2] her as my wife, and love her as a sister. Give my love to all friends.”
It is to be feared that “little Robert” (the eldest of the children, afterwards Judge Robert Emmet of New York) did not receive his legacy. According to what testimony can be gathered, the watch which Emmet carried to the last was either presented to the executioner, or passed over to him with some understanding which has not transpired. Poor Emmet’s seal, a beautiful design of his own for the United Irishmen, went safely into friendly keeping; but most of his personal belongings worn on the scaffold, including his high Hessian boots and the stock with the precious hair sewed inside the lining, were actually sold at auction in Grafton Street, Dublin, during December, 1832. In this letter to his brother and sister, how piercing is the “I did hope,” iterated to them as to Richard Curran! It reminds us what a network of beneficent will and forethought made up that intense nature, and how the perishing leaf was but in the green. When the Lord Lieutenant, in the course of his industrious correspondence with his brother, sent to him, as a literary curio, a copy of Robert Emmet’s letter (Robert himself being newly dead), in reference to it, he hastens to add this significant sentence: “The letter to his brother will not be forwarded; but the passage respecting Miss Sarah Curran has been communicated to her father.” The Chief Secretary and Lord Hardwicke were joint contrivers of what seems to us (from the point of view of the most helpless of the persons chiefly concerned) an unnecessary if not unfeeling move. And Mr. Curran promptly replied to the former, the Right Honourable William Wickham, on the morrow (Hard. MS. 35,703, f. 158):—
“Sept. 21st, 1803.
“Sir: I have just received the honour of your letter, with the extract enclosed by desire of His Excellency. I have again to offer to His Excellency my more than gratitude, the feelings of the strongest attachment and respect for this new instance of considerate condescension. To you also, sir, believe me, I am most affectionately grateful for the part that you have been so kind as [to] take upon this unhappy occasion; few would, I am well aware, perhaps few could, have known how to act in the same manner.
“As to the communication of the extract, and the motive for doing so, I cannot answer them in the cold parade of official acknowledgment; I feel on the subject the warm and animated thanks of man to man, and these I presume to request that Lord Hardwicke and Mr. Wickham may be pleased to accept: it is, however, only justice to myself to say, that even on the first falling of this unexpected blow, I had resolved (and so mentioned to Mr. Attorney-General), that if I found no actual guilt upon her, I would act with as much moderation as possible towards a poor creature that had once held the warmest place in my heart. I did, even then, recollect that there was a point to which nothing but actual turpitude or the actual death of her parent ought to make a child an orphan; but even had I thought otherwise, I feel that this extract would have produced the effect it was intended to have, and that I should think so now. I feel how I should shrink from the idea of letting her sink so low as to become the subject of the testamentary order of a miscreant who could labour, by so foul means and under such odious circumstances, to connect her with his infamy, and to acquire any posthumous interest in her person or her fate. Blotted, therefore, as she may irretrievably be from my society, or the place she once held in my affection, she must not go adrift. So far, at least, ‘these protectors will not fall off.’
“I should therefore, sir, wish for the suppression of this extract, if no particular, motive should have arisen for forwarding it to its destination. I shall avail myself of your kind permission to wait upon you in the course of the day, to pay my respects once more personally to you, if I shall be so fortunate as to find you at leisure. I have the honour to be, with very great respect, your obliged servant, John P. Curran.”
But it is time to return to our death-doomed “miscreant.” At half-past one, on the afternoon of September 30, the order was given to start. The scaffold had been built in Thomas Street, nearly opposite S. Catherine’s Church. He was dressed all in black, and maintained the serene and undemonstrative demeanour which was thought scandalously unbefitting by some spectators and some scribes. On the principle that the game was up, that “no hope can have no fear,” Robert Emmet became, not indifferent, but beautifully gay towards the end, as gay in irons as Raleigh or Sir Thomas More. He was quite sure that he had nothing to repent of, now that the account was cast and cancelled. Of course his care-free conduct was misconstrued: it passed officially for “effrontery and nonchalance,” and the single-minded Christian, never quite out of touch with the Church in which his holy mother had brought him up, was darkly given forth as an impenitent atheist. The ordinary attitude of the revolutionary late eighteenth-century mind was irreligious enough, but it was not Robert Emmet’s. One of his colleagues in the dream and the disaster, Thomas Russell, an elder figure in Emmet’s never-marshalled “army,” and a nobly interesting one, was extraordinarily pious: as pious as General Gordon. On the scaffold at Downpatrick (brought to that by his thwarted outbreak in the North), he recalled, for a memory well suited to encourage him, “my young hero, my great and dear friend, a martyr to the cause of his country and to liberty.” Russell’s hospitality of mind was not such that he could have made an exemplar of an infidel. But there is so much proof on this point, that the old charge may be laid aside in that limbo of all inaccuracies for which the invention of printing is responsible. The Englishman at the helm of affairs in Dublin, by no means (as we have seen) a wholly unsympathetic annalist, bequeaths us an account of Emmet’s final interview with the chaplains. It cannot escape the reader that two distinct issues were, in the minds of those worthy gentlemen, vaguely blended. No person in Mr. Robert Emmet’s situation, unless he repented of his politics, had any chance of being considered otherwise than unsound in his religion. Individualism, looked upon as the exact science it undoubtedly is, was not quite at its best in the self-righteous era of George the Third, and under the Establishment which was regulated by a now almost obsolete basilolatry.
“Mr. Gamble, the clergyman who attends the prisoners in Newgate, visited [Mr. Emmet] yesterday evening, and again this morning, in Kilmainham Prison, in company with the Reverend Mr. Grant, a clergyman who resides at Island Bridge. In the report which they have made to me of what passed in their communications with Mr. Emmet, they state that though their conversation did not produce all the good they had hoped, it had nevertheless the effect of bringing him to a more calm, and in some respects a better temper of mind, than they had reason to expect from a person professing the principles by which they supposed him to be directed. They repeatedly urged to him those topics which were likely to bring him to a better feeling, and acknowledgment of the crime for which he was to suffer, but were not successful in persuading him to abjure those principles by which he was actuated in his conspiracy to overthrow the Government. He disclaimed any intention of shedding blood; professed a total ignorance of the murder of Lord Kilwarden, before which, he declares, he had left Dublin; and also professed an aversion to the French. He declared that though persons professing his principles, and acting in the cause in which he had been concerned, were generally supposed to be Deists, that he was a Christian in the true sense of the word; that he had received the Sacrament, though not regularly and habitually, and that he wished to receive it then; that what he felt, he felt sincerely, and would avow his principles in his last moments; that he was conscious of sins, and wished to receive the Sacrament. The clergymen consented to join in prayer with him, and administered the Sacrament to him, considering him as a visionary enthusiast, and wishing him to bring his mind to a proper temper and sense of religion.
“On their way to the place of execution they conversed with him upon the same topics, but could never persuade him to admit that he had been in the wrong. In answer to their question whether, if he had foreseen the blood that had been spilt in consequence of his attempt, he would have persisted in his design to overthrow the Government, he observed that no one went to battle without being prepared for similar events, always considering his attempt as free from moral reproach in consequence of what he conceived to be the goodness of the motive that produced it. At the place of execution he was desirous of addressing the people. He intended to have declared that he had never taken any oath but that of the United Irishmen, and by that oath he meant to abide. The clergymen who were present explained to him that an address to that effect might possibly produce tumult and bloodshed, and that it ought not to be permitted. He was therefore obliged to acquiesce, and did so without appearing to be disturbed or agitated.” (Hard. MS. 35,742, ff. 191 et seq.)