The president was the Honourable Simon Butler: beside him, on a lower seat, sat the secretary. His uncovered head, and unshaded temples received the full light of the suspended lamp. It was one of those finely chiselled heads, which arrest the imagination, and seem to bear incontrovertible evidence of the certainty of physiognomical science. A dress particularly studied, was singularly contrasted with the athletic figure and antique bearing of this interesting looking person. For though unpowdered locks, and the partial uncovering of a muscular neck, by the loose tie of the silk handkerchief had something of the simplicity of republicanism, yet the fine diamond chat sparkled at the shirt breast, and the glittering of two watch-chains (the foppery of the day), exhibited an aristocracy of toilet, which did not exactly assort with the Back-lane graces. The secretary of the United Irishmen, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan.
On the opposite side sat a small, well-formed, and animated person, who was talking with singular vivacity of look and gesture, to one of extremely placid and even formal appearance. The first was the gay, gallant, and patriotic founder of the society, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the other was the celebrated and clever Doctor Drennan, a skilful physician, and an elegant writer, who might have passed in appearance, for the demure minister of some remote village-congregation of the Scotch kirk.
A tail, elegant, and sentimental looking person sat near to them, in an attitude of interested attention, listening to the speaker, to whom, it seemed, he was about to reply. It was Thomas Addas Emmet, the son of the state physician of Ireland—then a young lawyer of great promise, and now the Attorney-General of New York. The handsome and animated Dr. Mackenna, one of the most popular writers of the day, and Oliver Bond, the representative of the most reputable class of merchants, had grouped forward their intelligent heads; while one who brought no personal beauty to the cause (that letter of recommendation to all causes), James Napper Tandy, stood waiting with a packet of letters, which he had received in his former quality of secretary to the meeting.
While other leaders of the Union distinguished for their birth, talents, or principles (and it is remarkable that they were all protestants), filled up the seats near the head of the table; more mixed groups less distinguished by the beau sang, which then came forth, in the fine forms of the genuine Irish gentry of both sects, were congregated in the obscurity of the bottom of the room—Lady Morgan's O'Briens and O'Flahertys.
STORY OF RICHARD PLANTAGENET, SON OF RICHARD III.
It was on this awful night (the night preceding the battle of Bosworth Field), according to a letter which I have read from Dr. Thomas Brett to Dr. William Warren, president of Trinity-hall, that the king took his last farewell in his tent of Richard Plantagenet, his natural son, who himself thus describes that interview:—"I was boarded with a Latin schoolmaster, without knowing who my parents were, till I was fifteen or sixteen years old; only a gentleman, who acquainted me he was no relative of mine, came once a quarter and paid for my board, and took care to see that I wanted for nothing. One day this gentleman took me and carried me to a great fine house, where I passed through several stately rooms, in one of which he left me, bidding me stay there. Then a man richly dressed, with a star and garter, came to me, asked me some questions, talked kindly to me, and gave me some money. Then the fore-mentioned gentleman returned, and conducted me back to my school.
"Some time after, the same gentleman came to me again with a horse and proper accoutrements, and told me I must take a journey with him into the country. We went into Leicestershire, and came to Bosworth Field, and I was carried to king Richard's tent. The king embraced me, and told me I was his son. 'But, child,' said he, 'to-morrow I must fight for my crown. And assure yourself if I lose that, I will lose my life too; but I hope to preserve both. Do you stand on yonder hill, where you may see the battle out of danger, and when I have gained the victory, come to me; I will then own you to be mine, and take care of you. But if I should be so unfortunate as to lose the battle, then shift as well as you can, and take care to let no one know that I am your father; for no mercy will be shown to any one so nearly related to me.' The king then presented me with a purse of gold, and giving me a farewell embrace, dismissed me from his tent. I followed the king's directions; and when I saw the battle lost and the king killed, I hastened back to London, sold my horse and fine clothes, and the better to conceal myself from all suspicion of being son to a king, and that I might have the means to live by my honest labour, I put myself apprentice to a bricklayer. But having a competent skill in the Latin tongue, I was unwilling to lose it; and having an inclination also to reading, and no delight in the conversation of those I am obliged to work with, I generally spend all the time I have to spare in reading by myself."
The letter says, "When Sir Thomas Moyle built Eastwell House, near London, about the year, 1544, he observed his chief bricklayer, whenever he left off work, retired with a book. Sir Thomas had curiosity to know what book the man read, but was some time before he could discover it; he still putting the book up if any one came toward him. However, at last Sir Thomas surprised him, and snatched the book from him, and looking into it found it to be Latin. He then examined him, and finding he pretty well understood that language, he inquired how he came by his learning. Hereupon the man told him, as he had beer, a good master to him, he would venture to trust him with a secret he had never before revealed to any one. He then related the above story. Sir Thomas said, 'You are now old, and almost past your labour; I will give you the running of my kitchen as long as you live.' He answered, 'Sir, you have a numerous family; I have been used to live retired, give me leave to build a house of one room for myself in such a field, and there, with your good leave, I will live and die.' Sir Thomas granted his request, he built his house, and there continued to his death. Richard Plantagenet was buried the 22nd day of December, anno ut supra ex registro de Eastwell sub 1550. This is all the register mentions of him, so that we cannot say whether he was buried in the church or church-yard; nor is there now any other memorial of him except the tradition in the family, and some little marks where his house stood. This story my late Lord Heneage, earl of Winchelsea, told me in the year 1720." Thus lived and died, in low and poor obscurity, the only remaining son of Richard III!