_Saturday Night, Jan. 1796._
My father is gone to a Longford committee, where he will I suppose hear
many dreadful Defender stories: he came home yesterday fully persuaded
that a poor man in this neighbourhood, a Mr. Houlton, had been murdered,
but he found he was only _kilt_, and "as well as could be expected,"
after being twice robbed and twice cut with a bayonet. You, my dear
aunt, who were so brave when the county of Meath was the seat of war,
must know that we emulate your courage; and I assure you in your own
words, "that whilst our terrified neighbours see nightly visions of
massacres, we sleep with our doors and windows unbarred."
I must observe though, that it is only those doors and windows which
have neither bolts nor bars, that we leave unbarred, and these are more
at present than we wish, even for the reputation of our valour. All that
I crave for my own part is, that if I am to have my throat cut, it may
not be by a man with his face blackened with charcoal. I shall look at
every person that comes here very closely, to see if there be any marks
of charcoal upon their visages. Old wrinkled offenders I should suppose
would never be able to wash out their stains; but in others a _very_
clean face will in my mind be a strong symptom of guilt--clean hands
proof positive, and clean nails ought to hang a man.
_To_ MISS S. RUXTON.