MOILEY'S LAST MEAL.
Doreen speedily recovered her presence of mind, shaken for an instant
by the sudden shock of the predicament in which she found herself. The
ringleaders of the riot were, with a few exceptions, netted. The young
officers of militia, many of whom had danced at balls with the
beautiful Miss Wolfe, were loud in their outcry over the tragedy,
vociferous in promises of vengeance. Would she wish the rascals to be
lashed, or would pitchcaps please her fancy? The malefactors should
swing, every one; that would be a comfort to her, no doubt.
Excruciating cats should be manufactured to oblige her. No punishment
could be too severe for wretches who had dared to kill two members of
the peerage. Where should they take their beautiful charge? Would she
go to the Castle, or to her lamented parent's mansion? Wherever Venus
liked, there would Mars escort her. Disciplined by sorrow, Doreen
could even at this dark hour consider the grief of others before her
own. The Countess of Glandore was sick and shattered. Since Terence's
vanishing she had returned to the condition of an owl; what would be
the effect on her frayed nerves of the sudden death of her favourite
son? Doreen decided, postponing the consideration of her own loss, to
drive at once to Strogue, lest tidings should reach her aunt more
abruptly than her state would warrant.
It was dawn when Miss Wolfe reached the Abbey--the cold raw dawn of
early summer, when nature asserts her right to live despite the
tyranny of winter--and she was seized with a new pain on entering the
hall; for wan Sara was sitting where she had sank down, to await she
knew not what. Alas! for her, too, was she a bearer of evil tidings,
and Sara read them on her face, and sighed. The look of deep
compassion told but too plainly that her worst forebodings were
realised; and that, as a daughter of Erin, she must accept her
place in the grim procession of the bereaved. She did not ask for
news--preferred, indeed, to hear none, for what news was there that
could bring aught but misery? Like a tired child she closed her eyes,
and clung to the older maiden in a mute entreaty not to be left alone.
This speechless sorrow was painful to witness. The offices of Miss
Wolfe were needed elsewhere, for there was another in the stricken
household who must be attended to before the sad _cortege_ should
arrive. My lady would have to be told that she had lost both a brother
and a son. It was with relief then that she heard a creaking on the
stairs and perceived Mr. Curran coming down, who, by his appearance,
had evidently not been to bed. She, who had learned what loss is, knew
the full value of a father's love. Beckoning him to his daughter, she
disentangled the cold fingers from about her neck and went away to my
lady's bedroom.
Mr. Curran was himself in dolorous mood. Extremely troubled by the
rocket which he too had seen, and by hints which, during the past
week, had reached him through the proprietress of the Little House, he
had been unable to sleep. Groaning in spirit he saw the shambles
reopened; the reign of terror recommenced. His country was dead now;
Moiley had eaten her up to the last crumb. Might not the sacrifice of
her existence bring peace unto her sons? As leaning his cheek upon his
hand he sat looking across the tranquil bay at the twinkling lights
beyond, his heart became exceeding sorrowful while he reviewed the
efforts of his life. Memory stood by in a sable robe. Though he had
held himself erect whilst others grovelled; though his courage had
remained unshaken whilst others quaked and fawned; how little--how
very little--it had been given to him to accomplish! Yet there was
nothing he had wittingly left undone. His political honour was so
bright that malice could detect no stain on it. He had worked for
others--not for himself. Instead of lifting himself as he might have
done above the stormy agitation of his time, he had clung to the
heaving of the wave--to rise and fall with it--perchance to be dashed
with it upon a rock--with how little result--how little--how very
little! Yet he saw not how he could have acted otherwise. As dawn
began to sparkle on the bay, he took up a book to change the current
of his pondering--a volume of the grand Greek poets. It opened at the
'Seven Against Thebes,' and he read thoughts which were a painful echo
of his own. 'The happiest destiny is never to have been born; the next
best to return quickly to the nothingness from which we came.' Grand
old Titan AEschylus! Was that all his genius could discern? Never to
have been born! Was that the conviction of the great philosopher? Mr.
Curran looked out on the panorama stretched before him, as fair a
prospect as man may desire to look upon. The glittering waters were
strewn with flakes of silver; the looming hills steeped in a golden
haze. The beautiful world! Was its beauty a mockery of human
trouble--no more? It seemed so. Those lovely hills were teeming with
desperate men, reduced by the branding-iron of oppression to the
condition of wild beasts. In the blue shadow of those picturesque
ravines were cottages--charred, unroofed, deserted. That fairy
city that mirrored its whiteness in the bay--glistering,
silver-crowned--had been but t'other day the scene of perhaps the most
hideous carnival of human wickedness which ever disgraced humanity.
Perchance even at this very instant, while the wizened little man was
gazing out so dreamily, fresh horrors were being enacted. Truly,
'twere the happiest of destinies never to have looked on the false
sheen of the sepulchre at all. But though we may drag at them, the
tough fibres of existence are deeply imbedded in our flesh.
Mr. Curran, from his station, marked the return of Lord Kilwarden's
coach--the pallid concern of the servants, who were speaking in hushed
tones, as though in the awful presence of the Pilgrim. He went
downstairs to learn what had happened. It was worse than he expected.
Deluded Robert--insane enthusiast! Alas! The advocate would have to
stand forth yet once again and wrestle for a life; would have to rouse
himself from his dejection to do all that was possible to save this
lad. With the urgent need for action Mr. Curran recovered his mental
steadiness. He resolved to seek tidings at once of Robert and of
Terence; to raise his voice in their behalf. Were both concerned in
the disastrous riot? Were both captured? had both escaped? As he rode
past the Little House, Madam Gillin called out that she had something
to say. Anxious, on account of Terence's disappearance, the kind lady
had sent Jug into town for several days past to ferret out the truth.
The hag had discovered that men had been remarked loitering about the
Abbey gates; that Terence one evening had been observed by a passing
peasant to emerge into the road and go to the water's edge; that there
he had been accosted by these self-same suspicious men, who had a boat
with them. It was certain that Terence had never been seen in the
neighbourhood of young Robert's _depot_, or in the _melee_ of last
night. Hence it was clear that he had departed. Where and why? Was it
of his own accord? As for Robert, he was not among the captives. Jug
examined them every one, as, heavily ironed, they were marched to
Kilmainham in detachments. A man in a uniform plastered thick with
gold was rowed out to sea by four sturdy rowers an hour or two ago. In
all probability that man was Robert, who had provided for his escape
by means of one of the many vessels that were cruising in the Channel.
Utterly mad in all other ways, he had shown prudence and forethought
in this. He was gone. His noble young life would not be thrown away
for nothing--he whose sin was too fond a love for unhappy motherland.
Mr. Curran gave a sigh of thankfulness. Small mercies keep us from
breaking down at times. This was good news, at any rate. With courage
revived, he could go to the Castle now and demand with a high hand
that inquiries as to the fate of Terence should be set afoot. If
anything unpleasant was said about Emmett, he could snap his fingers
in the Viceroy's face--for the boy was gone, thank goodness, out of
his clutches. Moiley would grind her gums for her last morsel in vain.
The hungry ogress! She had eaten Ireland and quaffed the best blood of
Ireland's children. Her appetite was delicate, it seemed, and
clamoured for the best. She declined to lunch off the Battalion of
Testimony. The flesh of Sirr and Cassidy was bitter, and she spat it
out. She absolutely refused even to nibble, much less to swallow,
either of these honest gentlemen.
At mention of Cassidy, Gillin, whose cheeks had puckered into dimples
at Curran's badinage, grew grave again. She felt, scarcely knowing
why, that Cassidy had something to do with the affair of Terence, who
was Earl of Glandore, secret or no secret, now. The difficulty had
been solved in a quite unexpected manner; and in her heart of hearts
the worthy woman was glad, though she would have to abandon her desire
of seeing Norah adorning the assembly of the _elite_. Ah! deary me,
she sighed to herself. There were other fish in the sea. Norah was a
comely colleen, who would get a good husband somehow--maybe a better
one than Shane would ever have made, though he was lord of broad acres
and had a coronet to bestow on the girl who touched his fancy. But
where was the new Earl of Glandore? Curran trotted off to make it his
business to find out.
This last armed attempt to free Ireland was the vulgarest and weakest
of riots, which would never have been recorded, or have occupied any
place in history at all, but for the unfortunate murder of the Lord
Chief Justice and his nephew. Their fate--especially that of Lord
Kilwarden, who was a kindhearted gentleman--demanded a scapegoat.
Foolish young Robert was the first cause of the disaster. It was
essential that he should be held up as an example. Could anything be
more provoking than that he should get away? Perhaps he was not
gone--perhaps he had landed somewhere. The town-major was commanded to
scour the country in all directions. His battalion was well paid and
had been very idle of late. It was time that its members should do
some service to earn their bread-and-butter. Such were the orders
which issued from the Castle, and Curran knew well that they did not
emanate from Lord Cornwallis. He was not much surprised, therefore,
after crossing Castle-yard, to be ushered into a morning-room,
garnished with a huge bureau, at which was sitting, in handsome black
velvet trimmed with sable fur, the Chancellor.
Lord Clare beheld with evident pleasure the entrance of his enemy, the
man who had been his stumbling-block through his career; for this was
the moment of his triumph. He held out his jewelled fingers with a
polished bow; rasped out a welcome in his least pleasant voice; and
explained that, in the overflow of labour which sprang from the
details of yesterday's Great Measure and last night's deplorable
catastrophe, both Viceroy and Chief Secretary were so worked off their
legs that they had been delighted to accept of his poor services for
the transaction of ordinary business.
Lord Clare was rather sorry for Kilwarden, though he had always
despised him as a nincumpoop. But this transient cloud of annoyance
was dissipated by the sun of yesterday's success and the new vista of
power which it opened to his ambition; and Curran looked at him in
wonder as he strutted and fussed about, with the comical majesty of a
raven.
It has been observed that the greatest political and religious crimes
are due to public spirit out of gear. The Irish chancellor was
probably honest in his conviction that union was the best thing for
Ireland, and it was not his fault if his duty and his interest jumped
in the same direction. His standard of morals was so low that the
desperate patriotism of such men as Tone or Terence, or Robert Emmett,
were as unknown tongues to him. He despised Kilwarden, though he liked
him, because he was weak; but he hated Curran with all his heart,
because, while brave as any lion, ho had an inconvenient knack of
putting his finger on the chancellor's weak places. But Lord Clare was
so jubilant this morning that he was prepared to be generous even to
this enemy. Difficulties were over; he could almost feel the flapping
of the united banner overhead, almost hear the packing of the trunks
of my Lord Cornwallis. He observed, too, that the crab-apple features
of the little man before him seemed old and dried; that the eyes were
glazed which used to flash with fire and dance with fun. He was one of
the fools whose heart was broken over a chimera; of course the
successful statesman could afford to be generous to so pitiable a
wreck. So he said:
'Delighted to see my respected Curran--friend, I suppose, I may not
say? Ah! well. You always wronged me, my good fellow. Civility was
never among your faults. But demagogues would lose half their prestige
if they were not crabbed. No wonder you are rude, for you have lost
all your tricks. Had you not, in a huff, thrown up your seat in
parliament, you might have done much to hurt us; and that makes you
spiteful, I suppose. What do you gain by this ghastly display of
martyrdom? Believe me, Curran, that if you are too good for the world
you live in, it will be more comfortable to yourself as well as others
to go out of it. That's why Wolfe Tone helped himself out of it, I
presume, and I for one am vastly obleeged to him. Talking of that
reminds me of last night's folly--a sad affair--a sad affair; but
can't be helped, you know. A drop of trouble in the sea of bliss which
yesterday's decision gave us. You don't feel quite that way? Ah! well.
People's opinions differ, don't they? The one I'm most distressed
about is our old friend the countess. She will feel that fellow's fate
most terribly, the more so that he was a ne'er-do-well; though there
are reasons why it's best as it is. Your _protege_ is the holder of
the family honours now?'
Curran nodded, wondering what his enemy was aiming at; while the
latter, scanning his features, perceived with pleasure that my lady's
secret had never been divulged to him. It was well that that secret
should lie in as few hands as possible.
'Where is Terence?' Curran inquired bluntly.
'Terence! I know not,' replied the other, in his turn surprised. 'Has
anything befallen him?'
'You _really_ do not? Then it's Cassidy who's done it,' cried out
Curran. 'He's been kidnapped for some hellish purpose!'
Knowing Cassidy as he did, the chancellor looked disturbed. It was
quite possible that this worthy might be up to his tricks again. Had
not he, Lord Clare, warned the young man against him once, when he was
too stupid to take the hint? This scoundrel was still then, with, some
dark intent, pursuing him. Why had he not been told of this before? It
was most serious. Terence kidnapped, evidently by Cassidy! It would
never do. Would the countess have to bewail both sons? Not if her old
friend could help it. Touching a gong, he gave rapid directions that
every prison in Dublin should be searched immediately for the missing
prisoner; that, if found, he was to be taken back at once to Strogue,
whither the chancellor would proceed in his coach, in the company of
his esteemed friend.
But the proposed drive, during which Lord Clare promised himself to
twit his fallen foe, was not to be. At the bottom of the stairs he was
assailed by a troop of suitors, who would not be refused. Reluctantly
he was compelled to allow Curran to trot off on his pony, promising to
follow in an hour, at most.
The lawyer rode along, marvelling at the sphynxlike chancellor. Here
was a man who reeked of the blood of the peasantry; who would, if he
could, have burned all the Catholics in one vast bonfire, and who yet
was capable of feeling emotion on behalf of a white-haired old friend.
Then he thought of his dear daughter Sara, who seemed stunned by last
night's catastrophe. Did she care so much, then, for this lad? It was
fortunate that he should have been able to escape. That would save
Sara much agony. She would have to be taken abroad for change of
scene, and, peradventure, in a foreign land might find the brook of
Lethe. How glad her father would be if he too might find it; but that
was past wishing for. He was too old to receive new impressions, while
Sara would speedily forget.
With shoulders rounded and head bowed, Mr. Curran trotted back to
Strogue. Feeling that he was no longer able to fight as he used to do,
it was a wonderful relief to think that Robert was gone away. Time was
when it was exhilarating to break a lance with my Lord Clare. But the
sturdy advocate had received his passport for the undiscovered
country, and, but for Sara's sake, was little inclined to murmur if he
were required to use it soon. It was clear to him that there must be
an exodus--to America--anywhere. He and Sara should be the first to
go; and perhaps he might be permitted to linger on until her future
was in some way assured.
He trotted along the road, absorbed in sorrowful considerations,
until, just as he passed under the hedge which belonged to the Little
House, he was rudely roused from reverie. Madam Gillin was
gesticulating like a madwoman.
'Hist!' she whispered. 'The boy's not gone! Whillaloo! 'Twas the baker
that escaped! It's at Strogue he is this cursed minute. The candle's
there, the moth is booming round it! Maybe there's time still. Bid him
be off, jewel, do; and I'll keep watch lest any come. Jug's looking
out on the back road.'
'Murther!' ejaculated Curran, wide awake now. 'They're scouring the
country for him. Oh, the silly lad!' And beating his pony with
unwonted vehemence, the lawyer galloped through the park-gates, along
the short turn of avenue which led to the Abbey, and, leaving the
astonished animal to recover how he could, hurried up the steps into
the hall.
The door was idly swinging, but no one was visible in the vestibule
nor in the dining-room, nor in Miss Wolfe's boudoir. Hark! Subdued
voices, murmuring further on, in the tapestry-saloon. He moved
quickly thither, and, standing on the threshold, stamped his feet
in the impotent fury of his wrath. There was Robert--haggard and
unkempt--still in the pinchbeck uniform, torn and bespattered now,
with a peasant's frieze-coat thrown over it--a ridiculous disguise. He
was kneeling by a couch whereon lay Sara, her face turned towards him,
her eyes fixed full on his with a wild unreasoning longing, while he
chafed her hands and kissed them. The tall and graceful figure of
Doreen leaned against the sculptured garlands of the mantelpiece, as
she gave the homage of silent sympathy to the voiceless parting of
this pair, while her mind wandered in the cypressed graveyard of her
own sorrow. That heap of black satin, prone under the carriage-wheels,
would never leave her memory so long as life should last. Stroke had
succeeded stroke, and she winced no more.
All three looked up when Curran stamped his feet, and Robert advanced
towards him timidly.
'I have done wrong, terribly wrong, sir,' he said, with a sigh. 'I can
make no atonement, except by laying down my life.'
'A useful sacrifice, truly!' the incensed lawyer rejoined. 'You don't
think of _her_--whom you are killing!'
'The breath of the tomb is on me!' implored the lad, with a dry mouth.
'Spare any addition to my misery. I was infatuated, too certain of
success, and knew she would be so glad when I succeeded. Those
lives--those lives! Would success have blotted out the recollection of
them? I go, and it is well that I should go, though I leave to so many
a legacy of sorrow.'
There was a dreamy resignation about the youth, as of one who does
wrong and leaves others to bear the brunt, which infuriated Curran. If
ever there was a moment for promptitude to the exclusion of
dreaminess, this was that moment, for the sake of others as well as
himself; and here he stood, soliloquising like a Hamlet--the
unpractical dangerous dreamer!
'You might have got away, and did not,' said the lawyer, tartly. 'Do
you know that the country is being scoured for you--that if you are
taken the scrag-boy will make short work of you? You don't care,
maybe. Is it nothing to us--to _her?_'
'Perhaps there is still time. Get ye gone by the postern in the
rosary. The peasantry are staunch. You might lie in a cabin under the
bed-furniture till night, and then steal out to sea under cover of the
darkness.'
'If I fall into their hands I will speak my own defence, sir,'
murmured Emmett, without moving.
'And much good may it do you--fool!' shouted the enraged councillor.
'Don't stand shilly-shallying here like a great goose. Sara, order him
to go. If he's hanged you'll have yourself to thank for it.'
Sara took no heed, but lay back, watching the dear youth--as white as
wax, like one in a trance.
There was a turmoil in the next room, a rustle of silk, an upsetting
of chairs, and Mrs. Gillin darted through the doorway. 'Is he gone?'
she asked. 'Then it's too late! There's a body of sodgers marching in.
They are surrounding the house.'
Robert passed his hands through his matted hair. His belief in his
star was gone. He was plainly not destined to be a Joshua. He panted
to join those who had crossed the rubicon. On the boundary-line of the
other life we are apt to plunge into a selfish beatitude, forgetting
the trouble which our exit may entail on those whom we leave behind.
In a few moments his fate was fixed. The regular tramp of disciplined
men was heard on the gravel with a ring of matchlocks. Then a figure
darkened the casement. It was Major Sirr demanding admittance. Robert
opened the window himself, and the town-major's lambs streamed in.
Doreen gave a sharp exclamation of surprise--for one of the group was
Cassidy--another, who came forward with arms outstretched, was
Terence--safe and sound.
The town-major's bushy eyebrows came down upon his nose, as, grinning,
he struck Robert on the shoulder. 'Do you recollect, young fellow,' he
railed, 'how anxious you twice were to be arrested? I told you then
that your turn would come soon enough. It has come now, and I hope you
are satisfied, though I fear I shan't keep you long.'
Robert Emmett bowed absently, as if he but half-heard, and, kneeling
by Sara's chair again, muttered--forgetful of lookers-on: 'Oh, my
love--my love. Do we part thus? I hoped to have been a prop, round
which your affections might have clung; but a rude blast has snapped
it--they have fallen across a grave!' Then, twining her fair hair
about his fingers with affectionate regret, he fell a dreaming, whilst
Madam Gillin gulped down her sobs.
'I go into my cold and silent tomb,' he whispered, as he stroked the
baby-fingers of his mistress. My lamp of life is nearly extinguished;
the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom.'
Major Sirr perceived with his usual tact that this sentimental scene
was producing a bad impression, and must be interrupted. The extreme
youth and woe-begone appearance of Robert--his half-distracted,
half-inspired look--moved the spectators to tears. Surely he was too
young--too much of a visionary--to be held really accountable for the
storm that he had raised. As to the frail girl, she appeared to be
beyond sublunary cares. Lulled by angel-strains, she was gazing upon a
world which has nothing in common with ours--what she saw was
beautiful, and true, and real--the people flitting round her couch
were the unreal shades. The town-major tapped his prisoner's arm, and
begged him to make haste. 'I must obey orders,' he said. 'They are
straightforward, and concise as Lord Clare's always are. I've brought
one prisoner here, and must take another hence. Come along!'
Mrs. Gillin, unhooking a pair of scissors from her girdle, between
convulsive hiccups, handed them to Doreen. The one woman understood
the other's thought. Doreen gently cut the longest tress from Sara's
golden head and pressed it into Robert's palm.
'Thanks,' he said, with a quiver of the lip. 'I will wear this in my
bosom when I mount the scaffold. I am ready, gentlemen, and will not
detain you. Before I leave the world--and I leave it now when I leave
my friends--I have one request to make. May the charity of oblivion be
accorded to my memory! Let no one write my epitaph; for as no man who
knows my motives dares now to vindicate them, let not prejudice or
ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in peace, and my tomb
remain uninscribed!'
This would never do. Major Sirr grasped him roughly by the coat-tail
to drag his prisoner away. The soldiers, accustomed to the business,
closed in quickly. But ere Robert went, Mr. Curran, with tears
streaming down his rugged features, placed his arms about his neck,
and held him in a long embrace.
Then was the last of Moiley's victims marched away under a strong
guard, and the rest were left to their own sombre meditations. A
stillness of oppression fell on all as Curran, Terence, and Doreen
gathered round prostrate Sara. Mr. Cassidy found himself awkwardly
situated, for nobody took any notice of him. Vainly his boots creaked,
while he coughed behind his hand. Mrs. Gillin was no longer afraid,
for she as well as others saw that, the tussle over, the final
clearing away of Catholic disabilities was only a matter of time--that
even if he launched the thunderbolt at her, in terror of which she had
held her peace concerning what she knew of him, it would signify
little. With the Union a new era was dawning--all the Catholics felt
that--one in which Irish and English interests would grow to be the
same in the future, when the sea of blood was bridged--one in which
the last vile fragments of the Penal Code must soon be swept away--a
relic of the dark ages. Even if Mr. Cassidy were to declare publicly
that she took her Protestant daughter with her to the mass, it was
possible she might escape tribulation for the enormity. So Mr. Cassidy
coughed at her in vain. Curran had never liked him. Doreen knew too
much of him. It was a satisfaction to all, himself included, when,
with a clumsy excuse, he twirled his fine beaver and backed himself
out of the apartment.
The old earl, his parent, smirked from his frame upon the new wearer
of the coronet. Was the simper more full of meaning than it used to
be, or was it merely the limner's conventional flattery? The desire
expressed with such solemnity upon his deathbed was accomplished; the
wrong was righted now--at last.
An unconscious mesmeric sympathy beyond their own volition fixed the
gaze of three people upon that portrait of the wicked earl, while the
same thought struck each of them in turn. Doreen withdrew her eyes,
and they fell on Terence, who nodded, and striding towards his
mother's bedchamber, opened the door softly and entered. Though the
day was bright and mild there was a large fire on the hearth, before
which crouched my lady, wrapped in a loose white wrapper, supported by
many pillows. The windows were dimmed to twilight. Shane's favourite
hounds, Aileach and Eblana, sat on their haunches with their muzzles
on her lap, in wistful expectancy of that which they might never see.
She took no notice of the intruder, supposing that it was Doreen, till
recognising a heavier footstep and a dreaded voice, she shrank away
from him with a moan, as if she had received a blow.
'Mother!' Terence began.
My lady crawled along the carpet on her knees--a bundle of loose
draperies--her head bent down, her white hair straggling, towards her
son, who recoiled. The aspect of this piteous ruin--this soul-stricken
wreck, the mainspring of whose life was broken, whose courage had
ebbed quite away--suffused the heart of Terence with unutterable pity.
He raised his mother in his stalwart arms, and pressing his warm lips
to hers, whispered:
'Hush, hush! I know all. You have but one child now. Bless me!'
* * * * *
But little more remains to be told. Evil, though it seemeth to
flourish like the bay-tree, doth not always prosper in the long run.
Lord Cornwallis turned his back on Ireland, glad to depart. Cassidy
and Sirr came to blows, and fought a duel on the subject of Terence's
release. For those worthies had arranged to share together the reward
which Shane was to have given for their little service. But Shane's
murder altered the face of matters, and Cassidy, with a presence of
mind which did him honour, flew off at once to set free the new Lord
Glandore and claim the merit of having done so. The town-major,
however, knew his man. The giant's endeavours were fruitless, and Sirr
found him blustering at the provost-gate when, in obedience to Lord
Clare's behest, he came, with feigned surprise, to carry the new lord
back to his ancestral home. Sirr saw through his crony's intention,
and branded him hotly with being 'no gintleman,' and a 'mean fellow;'
whereupon the two met on Stephen's Green, and, after a few passes,
declared 'honour satisfied.' The nests of both were well feathered.
One became noted for pious works; the other set up as a patron of art,
and formed the finest collection of snuff-boxes in the three kingdoms.
Robert Emmett was hanged in Thomas Street, and met his fate with
fortitude. The same enthusiasm which allured him to his doom enabled
him to support with serene courage its utmost rigour. His extreme
youth and well-known talents filled the spectators with grief. He sang
'The Sword' with a firm and mellow voice, which never quailed till,
the board on which he stood being tilted up, he was set free to join
the band that were impatiently awaiting him beyond the Styx.
Lord Clare's ambition was not gratified. He who had been so
unprincipled and arrogant, so insolent and overbearing, his cleverness
no longer needed, was tossed aside by his employers. He carried his
pretensions into the English senate, and was ignominiously insulted
there by his Grace the Duke of Bedford. Pitt gave him no comfort,
observing with a yawn that he was sorry his lordship was a failure;
that he would do well, perhaps, to return to Ireland. He who had so
deceived was himself betrayed. For a few years he lingered in
obscurity, being heard on one occasion, when near his end, to mutter
with sombre meaning: 'Earl and Lord Chancellor! It would have been
better for Ireland if I had lived a sweep!' He died--some said of
chagrin, and some of remorse. Showers of dead cats were thrown upon
his coffin. His last eager directions were that his papers should be
carefully destroyed unread.
Lord Castlereagh, as all the world knows, cut his throat.
Government, acting on the advice of the Marquis Cornwallis, accorded a
free pardon to the new Lord Glandore, whose romantic history softened
King George's heart--even though he added yet another to his sins by
marrying a Catholic. It is possible that his Majesty's ire might have
found vent in a seizure of the property of the incorrigible traitor;
but, happily for the latter and for the nation, the King's few wits
deserted him, and he was shut up--as he should have been many years
before.
Lord and Lady Glandore sojourned abroad awhile, basking in the
softness of a kindlier clime. They had suffered too much in Ireland to
feel aught but pain in dwelling there. Moreover, they had those under
their care whose sorrow hung over them, whilst theirs was at length
assuaged.
The old countess and the Currans travelled over Europe with them. My
lady never fully rallied. Though her son and daughter lavished every
attention upon her which affection could dictate, the ghost was never
laid, the startled expression never departed from her face. When they
were present she tried to assume cheerfulness; but if one or other
came on her unawares, it was to feel that her heart was not with
them--that it was buried in the vault on the verge of Dublin Bay, by
the side of the unlucky Shane.
Curran did rally to a certain extent, and returned to Ireland to win
new esteem as Master of the Rolls. But that was long after gentle Sara
died, an event which caused Doreen deep grief, though Terence reminded
her that it was for the best. Her reason went from her, so that she
never knew of Robert's fate, but would sit crooning the weird ditties
of her native land for hours together, and hearken for his coming with
a vacant glee that was heartrending to those who loved her: and all
who knew her loved gentle Sara. Slowly she faded and sank to
rest--peacefully, serenely, with no last buffeting against the
trammels of this life--as an infant sinks into refreshing slumber. To
her, if not to others, was Heaven kind. Though she was given a cross
to bear, yet she never felt its weight, nor knew that she stood in the
ranks of the bereaved. It was of her that a gifted poet sang:
'Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow!'
TO THE READER.
It has been the habit of novelists, for some reason or another with
which we have nothing to do at present, to associate the Irish
character with rollicking fun, naive bungling, and mighty fine tastes
of the brogue; and it occurred to me some time since that English
readers who are surfeited with orthodox Hibernian jollities might be
glad, for a change, to look on Pat from his shadowed side; to
contemplate his dreary pilgrimage through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death; to pause for a moment over the events which have bound round
his character with sorrow and hedged him about with grief. The history
of Ireland has been so perverted by mendacious faction that the truth
lies deeply interred. Protestant has vilified Catholic, and Catholic
Protestant, to the extent which is inevitably associated with
religious rancour. My sympathies being specially with neither party, I
have endeavoured to weigh the evidence in a free and independent
spirit, and have come to the conclusion, as might have been expected,
that both were in a measure right and both wrong, considering that
both were actuated by grievances of a more or less awful character,
which, being tinged by a colour of religion, drove them both to
madness and excess.
One of the chief difficulties with which an historical novelist has to
contend, is the question how far imagination may be permitted
successfully to fight with fact. Conversely, even reverend historians
are beset by this trouble. Walter Scott, Chateaubriand, Michelet,
hardly allow us to separate romance from history, and history from
romance.
Being desirous of giving a true picture of a time, clothed in romantic
garb, I, in my last novel, conscientiously pointed out the
peccadilloes which lay cunningly in ambush in its chapters; and, being
still anxious to keep my conscience clear, I deem it advisable now to
repeat the process.
In the construction of this work I was deliberately guilty of two
crimes, both of which, I consider, are attended with extenuating
circumstances.
The first concerns the compact between the Executive and the
state-prisoners, and is a sin of omission; for although the facts and
the disgraceful behaviour of the English King and Government are
truthfully related, it did not suit the scheme of the story to enter
into all the motives which impelled the United Irishmen to sacrifice
their feelings, and agree to so singular an arrangement. The rebel
leaders submitted to examination by the secret council in hopes of
saving the life of Oliver Bond; but as Oliver Bond was not one of my
chosen puppets, I considered it permissible to leave him in his grave.
The second crime is one of much greater enormity. To suit the purpose
of the weft, I have presumed to ante-date Emmett's rising by two years
and a half. The United standard first waved over Dublin Castle on
January 1,1801, whilst Emmett's riot did not take place till July,
1803. But I hold that, for the purposes of romance, the romancist may
be permitted to draw events together, though he is in no case to be
allowed to transpose them. At the time of the Union Robert Emmett was
away in France on treasonable business; but it is in every way
probable that if he had been in Ireland he would have acted as I have
made him act. There is ample testimony to prove that the dwellers in
the country (as opposed to the dwellers in the towns) were ready as
early as the winter of '79 to make a new attempt if they could have
found a leader, and that they waited for two years simply because
Emmett did not call them to arms till then.
Lord Cornwallis writes to General Ross under date of 1779: 'We have
every reason to believe that the French are undertaking a serious
attack, and from the most authentic channels we learn that the
disaffected are more active than ever in swearing and organising the
southern provinces.'[2] And again later: 'That the French will
persevere in their attempt to invade Ireland there can be no doubt,
and if they should succeed, which God forbid, in establishing a war in
this country,'[3] etc. At page 86 we find, 'Though the new Directory
was never fully formed, yet the spirit of rebellion was carefully kept
alive--the flame subtly fanned--till it burst out in 1803 under Robert
Emmett.' H. Alexander, Esq., writes to the Rt. Hon. T. Pelham under
date January, 1800, that 'Dublin is much and seriously agitated.'
----------------------------
Footnote 2: Cornwallis Correspondence, vol. iii., p. 56.
Footnote 3: Ibid., p. 60.
----------------------------
My portrait of Lord Clare differs in some respects from the usual
conception of that statesman; but I have diligently studied everything
concerning him which was attainable, and am convinced that his
character was as it is here depicted.
I gratefully take this opportunity of thanking the Press for the
unanimously indulgent manner in which they treated 'Lady Grizel'--with
one exception, that of a certain weekly print whose _raison d'etre_ is
its scurrility; and I further embrace this occasion of reminding the
anonymous critic of the said ill-natured print that facts may be
slightly distorted for a set purpose rather than through ignorance,
and that the critic doth not transcendently exalt either his wisdom or
his attainments by pointing out with magnificent scorn that such an
event took place in January instead of March; for Macaulay's
celebrated schoolboy could do as much or more in a diligent half-hour
by the help of that invaluable book 'The Encyclop[oe]dia of
Chronology.' For the special benefit of the said sapient critic,
however, I append to this discourse a list of the works upon Irish
affairs to which I have been indebted, in order that he too may
improve his mind, and be the better prepared to hold up to derision
the rents and slits in my poor pasteboard armour.
LEWIS WINGFIELD.
Garrick Club,
_July_, 1879.
* * *
LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED IN THE COURSE
OF THE CONSTRUCTION OF THIS STORY.
Barrington's Personal Sketches, 3 vols.
Barrington's Historic Memoirs of Ireland, 2 vols.
Madden's Irish Political Literature, 2 vols.
Madden's United Irishmen, 4 vols.
Croker's Memoirs of Holt, 2 vols.
Gilbert's History of Dublin, 3 vols.
Maxwell's Irish Rebellion, 1 vol.
Curran's Speeches, 1 vol.
Hardy's Memoirs of Charlemont, 2 vols.
Memoirs and Journals of Wolfe Tone, 2 vols.
Life and Times of Geo. R. Fitzgerald, 1 vol.
Fitz Patrick's Sham Squire, 1 vol.
Fitz Patrick's Ireland before the Union, 1 vol.
Curran's Life, by his son, 2 vols.
Philips's Curran and Contemporaries, 1 vol.
Memoirs of the Earl of Clare, 2 vols.
Walsh's Ireland Ninety Years Ago, 1 vol.
The Spirit of the Nation, 1 vol.
Cornwallis Correspondence, 3 vols.
Castlereagh Correspondence, 3 vols.
Gentleman's Magazine, vols. 53 to 72--19 vols.
Memoirs of Captain Rock, 1 vol.
Father Burke's Refutation of Froude, 1 vol.
Goldwin Smith's Irish History And Character, 1 vol.
Ladies' Museum and Polite Repository, 6 vols.
Martin's Before and After the Union, 1 vol.
Sufferings of Charles Jackson at Wexford. June, 1798, 1 vol.
PAMPHLETS.
Both Sides of the Gutter.
Irish Catholics in 1725.
Ireland: A Satire.
Account of Ireland: A Letter.
Aphorisms Relating to the Kingdom of Ireland.
Causes of the Rebellion, 1799.
THE END.
* * * * *
BILLING AND SON'S, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY.
_S. & H_.