THE UNINSCRIBED TOMB OF EMMET.

THE

LIFE, TRIAL AND CONVERSATIONS

OF

ROBERT EMMET, ESQ.

=Leader of the Irish Insurrection of 1803:=

ALSO, THE

CELEBRATED SPEECH

MADE BY HIM ON THE OCCASION.

O breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid;

Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,

As the night dew that falls on the grass o’er his head

But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.—MOORE

_Stereotyped from the last Dublin Edition._

NEW-YORK:

PUBLISHED BY ROBERT CODDINGTON

NO. 366 BOWERY,

1850.

THE UNINSCRIBED TOMB OF EMMET.

“Let my tomb remain uninscribed, and my memory in oblivion, until

other times and other men can do justice to my character.”

“Pray tell me,” I said, to an old man who stray’d,

Drooping over the grave which his own hands had made,

“Pray tell me the name of the tenant who sleeps

’Neath yonder lone shade where the sad willow weeps;

Every stone is engrav’d with the name of the dead,

But yon black slab declares not whose spirit is fled.”

In silence he bow’d, then beckon’d me nigh,

Till we stood o’er the grave—then he said with a sigh,

“Yes, they dare not to trace e’en a word on this stone,

To the memory of him who sleeps coldly alone;

He told them—commanded—the lines o’er his grave,

Should never be traced by the hand of a slave!

“He bade them to shade e’en his name in the gloom,

Till the morning of freedom should shine on his tomb,

‘When the flag of my country at liberty flies,

Then—then let my name and my monument rise.’

You see they obey’d him—’tis thirty-three years,

And they still come to moisten his grave with their tears.

“He was young like yourself, and aspir’d to o’erthrow

The tyrants who fill’d his lov’d island with woe;

They crush’d his bold spirit—this earth was confin’d,

Too scant for the range of his luminous mind.”

He paus’d, and the old man went slowly away,

And I felt, as he left me, an impulse to pray.

Grant, Heaven! I may see, ere my own days are done,

A monument rise o’er my country’s lost son!

And oh! proudest task, be it mine to indite

The long-delay’d tribute a freeman must write;

‘Till then shall its theme in my breast deeply dwell,

So peace to thy slumbers, dear shade, fare thee well!

THE

LIFE AND CONVERSATIONS

OF

ROBERT EMMET, ESQ.

There are few persons whose name has been so hailed by the young and

ardent, whose firmness and patriotism has been more admired, and whose

character has produced a greater effect upon society, than the subject

of these pages.

Robert Emmet was born in Dublin, in the year 1782, and was the son of

Dr. Emmet, for many years state physician in Dublin. He was the youngest

brother of Thomas Addis Emmet, who, before the rebellion of 1798, had

abandoned a respectable situation at the Irish Bar, in order to project

and carry into execution, the schemes of that day, for an Irish

Republic, and of course, separation from Great Britain.

Emmet was moulded in Nature’s happiest form for his destined service. He

possessed the physical qualities necessary for an accomplished speaker,

with high intellect to master and employ knowledge, with imagination and

feelings to sway the passions and command the heart; with the power of

incessant labour to collect, discipline, and perfect the valued

materials of a revolutionary measure, he was eminently calculated for

the task which he had undertaken. And, had success depended upon the

worth and the virtues of one man, Emmet would now have been hailed as

the liberator of his country.

Early impressions are always the most lasting. Emmet had his young mind

filled with a detestation of tyranny and injustice at an early age, by

the virtue and patriotism of his private tutor, the Rev. Mr. Lewes, who,

though a minister of the Established Church, was yet an enemy to its

monopolizing power and persecuting spirit towards his Catholic

fellow-subjects.

At the age of sixteen he entered Trinity College. Here his progress in

classical and mathematical knowledge soon gained him honour and

reputation. But his heated spirit had been worked up by the political

enthusiasm in which he had been early initiated. At the Historical

Society, of which he was a member, he expressed his sentiments so freely

on English influence in Ireland, that he came under the suspicions of

Lord Chancellor Clare, who ultimately expelled him from College, for

denouncing, in a speech he made, the English form of government, and

advocating that of a republic.

He had been sufficiently unguarded in his conduct, while the

disturbances of ‘98 existed, to become an object of the vigilance of

government, and had found it prudent to reside abroad so long as the

habeas corpus act was suspended. He fled to the Continent, where an

active correspondence was set on foot by the French government. Emmet,

with the chiefs of the preceding Irish Rebellion were summoned to Paris.

Consultations were held with them, and the organization of another

revolution was commenced and prosecuted with increasing diligence. Nor

was the then ruler of France, (Buonaparte) inattentive, or remiss to

forward, by every means, in his power, the project. To Emmet was

delegated the office of director and mover of this new attempt upon the

British dominion in Ireland.

On the expiration of the habeas corpus act, he returned to Dublin, but

thought it prudent, for the forwarding of the revolution, to live

privately. He took obscure lodgings at Harold’s Cross, under the assumed

name of Hewit. Here he held his meetings with his associates. These

people hailed with transport the opportunity of recommencing another

attempt on subverting British power in Ireland! and while some spread

themselves over the country in every direction, others fixed themselves

in the metropolis.

During the first four months after Emmet’s arrival, nothing of his

machinations transpired. Soon after the King’s Proclamation, on the 8th

of March, conceiving the moment of national alarm at the renovation of

hostilities, and a threatened invasion, favourable to his projects, he

became more active in his preparations. The whole of his family portion,

which consisted of two thousand five hundred pounds, he devoted to his

enthusiasm. In the beginning of April, he quitted his lodgings at

Harold’s Cross, with the name of Hewit, and in the new name of Ellis he

took the lease of a house, for which he paid a fine of sixty-one

guineas, in Butterfield-Lane, near Rathfarnham. Here he harangued his

associates, and encouraged them by hopes of a happy result to their

labours.

‘Liberty,’ said he, ‘is the child of oppression, and the birth of the

offspring is the death of the parent; while tyranny, like the poetical

desert bird, is consumed in flames ignited by itself, and its whole

existence is spent in providing the means of self-destruction. We have a

complete exemplification of this in the past history and present state

of Ireland, where increase of numbers and increase of intelligence, have

been the direct result of that system which too long has ruled this

kingdom.

‘The relentless oppression of the English Government forced the people

into habits of temperance—necessity made them abstemious, and time

reconciled them to their wholesome esculent, which providentially came,

like the manna of the desert, to feed the sojourners in the land of

their fathers.

‘When nature is easily satisfied, and the necessaries of life procured

with little labour and care, increase of population will follow: because

parents, who are contented with their own condition, will feel no

uneasiness for their offspring, who can, without any difficulty, procure

a situation similar to their own. Emigration from such a country was not

to be expected; for men whose modified wants were amply satisfied at

home, had no need to seek elsewhere for wealth they did not desire, or

distinctions they did not value. Besides, Ireland has always had

peculiar attractions in retaining her children: a Scotchman loves a

Scotchman, but an Hibernian loves the green fields of his youth and to

enjoy these there are few privations to which he will not cheerfully

submit. The eccentric humour, the boisterous mirth, the kind and social

intercourse, that characterize the peasantry, likewise spread their

charms, and generally succeeded in subduing the aspiring notions of

adventurers, and helped to retain the people at home. When to these were

added the allurements of a more tender kind, and when no restraint was

placed upon the natural instinct of man, we must not wonder that Ireland

is blessed with a population without a parallel in Europe.

‘The base and cowardly conduct of the Irish proprietors in deserting the

country, though at the moment a grievance, was absolutely productive of

good. Their large domains were parcelled out to humble cottages; farms

were divided and subdivided; cabins every where raised their

unostentatious roofs; and every floor was blessed with a numerous

progeny.

‘Ireland has been forced into agriculture;[1] and, this still farther

tends to increase the population, and to give her that political

importance she never could have acquired if the people had been immured

in mineral dungeons, or confined to the fetid vapours of a manufacturing

bastile. Rural labour is not more conducive to the health of the body,

than it is beneficial to the exercise of the mind; and we always find

the agriculturist superior to the mechanic not only in physical

strength, but in moral energy. The one is a natural soldier, who

commands respect, and exacts consideration; while the other is a mere

animated machine, whose ideas serve but as internal wheels to keep his

hands in motion. His frame is distorted, his mind crippled, and his

courage annihilated: but the agriculturist is a man such as nature

intended—fearless, active and resolute; the air he breathes ensures him

health; the ground he tills supplies him with sustenance; and his

occupations make him moral, hardy, and brave. This is the copy of a

million portraits, and they are all found in Ireland.

‘The aspirations of civilized man after freedom are coeval with his

existence. His rights, like the mountain torrent, may be diverted from

their original channel, but cannot be effectually impeded in their

course. Dams may be raised to stop the coming stream; but, if the

congregated waters cannot find another way to the place of their

destination, they will burst through every opposition, and overwhelm in

destruction all the works of lordly and presumptive man.’

‘But we find,’ observed a bystander, ‘that very populous countries have

continued in slavery.’

‘Numbers,’ rejoined Emmet, ‘whose minds are more enslaved than their

bodies may submit to injustice; but numbers inspired with intelligence

never can. The Irish people are not only shrewd, but informed; and for

this good, as well as for every other blessing they possess, they are

indebted to the folly and wickedness of their governors, _Divide et

impera_ has long been the maxim of those who oppressed us; but the

result has been the reverse of their anticipations. The continued

agitation, faction, and discord, consequent upon such a system of

legislation, produced their moral effects, and, like the vivid

lightning, served to purify the element they disturbed. The political

whirlpool has drawn within its vortex every man in Ireland; discussion

has been universally provoked; and the passions have been enlisted in

the general conflict. The human intellect has been propelled, vulgar

errors corrected, and the spirit of enquiry and investigation has gone

abroad.

‘To reason upon the political state of his country, has long been the

propensity of the Irish peasant; and, from continually thinking upon

that subject, he has at length learned to think right. He not only knows

his degraded condition, but is well acquainted with the cause. There is

not a subject connected with the country, on which he cannot give an

accurate opinion; he knows, as well as any man in the Castle, the

purpose of every measure of Government, whether it be to enrich a

spendthrift nobleman by a job, or coerce the unfortunate peasantry by an

Insurrection Act.

‘I know my countrymen: I have conversed with them, and have found them

practical philosophers. Their sentiments are the pure emanations of

acute minds, instructed in the school of nature, and taught by

adversity. They are, in consequence, generally correct, and, without any

great exertion of thought, are frequently profound. How often have I

seen them smile at the abortive efforts of their friends, who endeavour

to procure them redress in a constitutional way, while, at the same

time, they have told me very pertinently, and very truly, that they

expected no concession from Government, until they were able to insist

on it!’

During this address, Emmet’s fine manly countenance glowed with an

enthusiastic ardour, and he delivered himself with as much animated

fervency as if he were addressing a numerous, but distracted assembly,

which he wished to persuade. His words flowed with a graceful fluency,

and he combined his arguments with all the ease of a man accustomed to

abstract discussions.

His amiable and esteemed character gave an elevating influence to the

fame of the society of which he was the leader—many of whom, though of

equal talents and respectability, were inferior in that fine sensibility

of heart, and constancy in friendship, which gained him the love and

esteem of all who knew him. Nor was it only for his bland manners and

fine sensibilities of heart, and constancy in friendship, and firmness

in principle; he ranked amongst the highest of its gifted sons, who

display its fertile genius and its social spirit, who introduce the name

of Ireland to the respect of the world.

Commensurate with his value to relatives and friends, and to his native

city, was the appalling sensation that pervaded his country on the

occasion of his lamented death. It is not, then surprising that his

removal in one unexpected moment from this busy life’s vocations, to the

oblivious silence of the tomb, should produce, as it did, a general

burst of sorrow, and a common sense of bereavement.

Forty summers have closed around the United Irishmen since they made

catholic emancipation and parliamentary reform the leading measures of

their policy. They found all the catholics of Ireland, the great

majority of its population, reduced by the operation of the ferocious

penal laws, to the condition of slaves, in all things but being

vendible, to the very meanest of their protestant countrymen. Not only

did the British Government embrace every severity that could waste the

vigour of the nation, but all the rights of humanity, and every duty of

life were sacrificed by its direction or connivance, provided only that

this would promote the self interest, or gratify the rancour of the

favoured party.

There was a law of discovery, by which a man who betrayed the confidence

of his friend, if he were catholic, possessed himself of that friend’s

estate. There was a law which disabled the catholic father to be

guardian to his own child, or to educate him. There was a law which made

the disobedience or apostacy of the catholic child the means whereby to

disinherit his father. There was a law for robbing a catholic of his

horse on the highway, if, when interrogated, he confessed his faith.

There was a law to prevent the education of catholic children, and to

punish catholic teachers as convicts; to banish the catholic clergy, and

to hang them if they returned: to prevent catholics from purchasing or

inheriting landed estates: from having arms for their defence: to debar

them from the profession of the law: to prevent them from holding any

office of trust, honour or emolument, voting at elections, or sitting in

parliament.

The United Irishmen found their country under government of those laws,

and of perhaps a hundred more, all conceived in the same spirit, and all

elaborated with consummate skill to rob, harass, and insult a

defenceless people. Those statutes, without parallel for their

inhumanity, were framed against christians, under pretence of securing

the protestant religion. They were enacted by the Irish protestants,

political protestants, than whom no sect has cried more loudly against

persecution, when protestants were the martyrs. For all this the

protestant religion is not persecuting in its nature. The crimes of the

dominant party are not justly chargeable upon the protestant religion,

though committed in its name. They were bitterly deplored by the United

Irishmen of all religions, and by none more than the subject of this

memoir, himself a member of the established church, but no abettor of

its injustice.

Through all this long persecution, the conduct of England wore a vizor

of hypocrisy. It was not the conversion of the Irish it desired, but

their spoliation, division and subjection. If united in religion, they

might unite for their worldly interest, and a means of weakening them by

dissension would be lost. The English mission never had the merit of

even being honestly fanatical; it was cold-blooded and crafty. Its

conduct was not feebly palliated by the mistaken sincerity of blind

zeal, which time might soften and philosophy assuage. It had the more

terrestrial motives of insatiable rapacity, the appetite for plunder,

and the desire of battening on the green pastures of Ireland. This is

the eating canker which neither time nor reason ever cures, and which is

now as devouring, where it has the power, as at the first hour.

After the laws had disfranchised four-fifths of the population, all the

emoluments of office, all the wealth of the richest church in the world,

all the distinctions of power, all the pomp, circumstance, and

advantages of dominion, fell into the lap of the favoured few. These men

never wished to lessen the pretext of their gains; they never sought the

conversion of their helots by any means that ever made proselytes to any

cause.

The domestic spoliation of the catholics was the share of the Irish

protestants in this wholesale robbery. The spoliation of the Irish

nation was the part of England in this boundless plunder: she took the

whole trade, prosperity, and independence of Ireland, which the Irish

protestants freely surrendered for the license to pillage and tyrannize

at home. These wrongs inflicted and endured, begat mutual hatred and

frequent collision, and will account for the little union among

Irishmen, and the ferocity of character to be found in those districts

where the adverse parties came oftenest into contact.

This barter of a nation’s rights for the lucre of a faction, is what was

called the protestant ascendancy in church and state. It was also called

the British constitution. Against that impious combination of treachery

within, and tyranny from without, the United Irishmen pointed their oath

of union—“To forward a brotherhood of affection, a community of rights,

an identity of interests, and a union of power among Irishmen of every

religious persuasion.” It was this oath that was prosecuted as a felony,

and for which frequent victims were sent to the scaffold.

Emmet did not live to behold the triumph of the catholic cause, that

happy accomplishment of one of the great measures to which he devoted

fortune and life. But he saw, or thought he saw, all the materials for a

successful struggle for freedom, in the internal resources of his

beloved Ireland. In his moments of social ease and retirement, he

delighted to enumerate those resources. A writer who seems to have known

him well, gives us the following conversation between Emmet and his

friends while he was maturing his measures for the coming contest.

‘I have seldom spent a happier hour in my life, than I did that evening

with Emmet. His manners, his eloquence, and the sincerity, as well as

kindness, which breathed through every thing he said, banished reserve

on my part, and we all conversed more like long-tried friends than

casual acquaintances. We talked of literature, of London, and of

politics. My sentiments regarding Liberty—the goddess he idolized—were

warm; and, as I spoke with becoming abhorrence of tyranny, he seemed

delighted with my opinions. Before we separated he made me promise to

call on him that night at his lodgings; and when I did so, about eight

o’clock, I was agreeably surprised to find the Exile there before me.

After supper the conversation took a political turn, and Emmet, whose

mind was then filled with the project of liberating his country, began

to expatiate on the ease with which Ireland could throw off the English

yoke, and the benefits that would ensue from such a measure.’

‘Your enthusiasm, my friend,’ said I, interrupting him, ‘carries you

beyond the bounds of probability; for, in anticipating a revolution in

this country, you forget that England calculates on the subjection of

Ireland, and that she is able to compel what it is her interest to

desire.’

‘That she desires it,’ he replied, ‘I have no doubt; but that she is

able to compel it, I unhesitatingly deny. The belief in England’s

superior strength has too long prevailed in this kingdom, but it is now,

happily, beginning to disappear. In comparing the two countries, we must

exclude from our calculation every thing but physical strength alone,

and then the balance will be entirely in favour of Ireland; for I

believe it will be readily admitted that she has the greater military

population; and in a struggle for liberty, men only are valuable.

‘It is a matter of arithmetical calculation. Ireland can, in the event

of a well-organized revolution, turn into the field between seven and

eight hundred thousand effective men—an army certainly more numerous

than any force England could send against her.’

‘Admitting your calculation to be correct,’ I returned, ‘you are not to

deny the superiority of disciplined troops over rebel numbers. An army

of fifty thousand men would soon rout your invincible phalanx.’

‘The time has passed, my dear sir,’ he rejoined, ‘when such an exploded

notion found credence among mankind. In a barbarous age, when two armies

drew up within gun-shot of each other, each serving as an immoveable

target for its opponent to fire at, such a belief was natural, because

he who possessed a musket had a fearful advantage over the man who had

not one. But modern times have a different and more natural mode of

warfare; personal prowess now, as in periods of antiquity, is likely to

be victorious; and all necessary discipline can be learned in a very few

days. A man does not necessarily acquire either superior courage or

address from the colour of his coat, and a soldier with a fixed bayonet

has no advantage over a fierce peasant with a well-tempered pike. Almost

every victory of modern times has been gained by coming to close action,

and that mode, to which a well-regulated army is indebted for success,

is as available to a determined band of freemen as to any hired troops

in Europe.

‘But, as different animals have different modes of attack and defence,

an insurgent army has a discipline of its own, recommended by reason,

and sanctioned by experience. With walled towns and close garrisons they

have nothing to do: the hills of their country serve them as places of

retreat; marshes, rivers, and lakes are their best bastions, while

defiles afford them opportunities of attack, and woods and valleys serve

them as places of ambush.

‘The face of nature solicits the oppressed to regain their freedom; and

certainly, no country on the globe has so many invitations to revolt as

our own. Scarcely a mile, from one extremity of the island to the other,

in which an hostile army could not be successfully harassed, and, if

needful, successfully opposed. To this may be added, that an Irish

insurgent army would materially differ from a similar one in any kingdom

of Europe; for nearly every peasant, and certainly every man above the

rank of a peasant, is intimately acquainted with the use of fire-arms.

Those near the sea-shore (and those are a large portion) are excellent

marksmen; while the inhabitants of mountains, and the neighbourhoods of

bogs, lakes and marshes, are expert fowlers. The Wexford insurgents, in

the late rebellion, gave a proof of their abilities, and showed that the

peasantry of Ireland, when aroused, are nothing inferior to the best

disciplined troops in Europe.’

‘I know it,’ interrupted the Exile, ‘for I witnessed their skill in

bringing down an enemy, and I must confess that, had they leaders of

experience, they were nothing inferior, man for man, to any force that

might be brought against them.’

‘There is always a deficiency,’ said I, ‘in some part, that renders

every effort of the remainder abortive. Out of a hundred revolts,

scarcely one has been successful.’

‘Pardon me,’ said Emmet, ‘if I set you right; for history furnishes us

with few instances of failure where a nation has been unanimous. It is

giving the enemies of man a new weight, to add to the burden of

oppression, by dignifying pigmy insurrections and partial rebellions

with the name of open revolt. They should rather be called sanguinary

riots, and thus reduced to their proper level: their ghosts might not be

summoned from oblivious neglect to scare mankind from an assertion of

their rights. Instances of national resuscitation are neither few nor

unfrequent. Tyranny was expelled from Rome by the rebellion of the

people; and Switzerland and the Netherlands are memorials of successful

revolts. In our own day, America has shown us what a few thousand

peasants could accomplish when actuated by a love of liberty. Ireland is

superior in numbers to any of these, equals them in address and courage,

and stimulated by wrongs greater than have been experienced by all these

together.

‘Soldiers are but men, and generally the most imbecile of men. Let the

people be taught to despise the glare and glitter of polished arms, and

the terror they are wont to inspire will be converted into objects of

ridicule and contempt.—Happily an opinion prevails in Ireland, that a

soldier is an inferior mortal, and that three hundred athletic peasants

would be equal to a regiment of a thousand men. I don’t say that this

opinion is correct, but it must be admitted that, in case of a rising,

it would be of infinite service, as tending to inspire confidence in the

insurgents, and contempt for their enemies—two things that materially

conduce to victory.

‘Leaders, in a harassing war, would be easily procured, for the sagacity

of an unlettered peasant might serve for the purpose. Who does not

remember the servant boy at Oulard, whose advice was followed by the

destruction of a whole regiment?—Great occasions produce great men, and

generals are formed in the study as well as in the camp. The Catholics

are not what they formerly were,—intelligence is diffused, thousands of

them are in the British army, and every man of these would desert on the

first opportunity, for the _amor patriæ_ is not extinguished by the

imposition of the military oath.’

Down to the period of 1782, English acts of parliament were suffered to

bind Ireland. Misgovernment and poverty, the neglect of agriculture, the

prohibition of commerce, the abandonment of manufactures were, during

that period, the portion of Ireland. But towards the end of the American

war, the volunteers emancipated their country from this bondage, and

gave it the means of being independent. The example of America was

before both parties with all the omens; hence the demands of the

volunteers were prudentially conceded, and the glorious revolution of

1782 was accompanied without the loss of a drop of blood. The happy

consequence was the immediate liberation of the commerce of Ireland from

English restrictions. Her ensuing prosperity seemed miraculous—so

prompt, so general, so enriching; and her aptitude to prosper by a free

trade became known at the same time, to her rival and herself.

But the volunteers could not be always in arms, and Ireland had no

representative assembly to foster her prosperity during peace. Hers was,

alas! a borough-parliament, composed solely of the dominant faction,

representing but a small portion of the inhabitants, and having few

feelings or wishes in unison with the mass of the people.

Every one soon perceived that all measures of relief would be insecure,

nay, illusory, unless preceded or accompanied by a reform in the

parliament. The volunteers saw it, and endeavoured to reform; but they

excluded the Catholics from their plan, and did not see (unhappy effects

of the ignorance of the time!) that this alone would defeat their aim;

that they could not erect an edifice of freedom on a foundation of

monopoly. Warned by these errors, the United Irishmen altered the system

of reform fundamentally. They extended their base, and established their

plan upon three simple principles, necessarily dependent upon each

other, and containing the disease, the remedy, and the mode of its

attainment. The excess of English influence was the disease, a reform in

parliament the remedy, and the inclusion of the Catholics the mode of

its attainment.

Theobald Wolfe Tone had, of all others, the greatest part in effecting

this change of sentiment among the Protestants, to whose communion he

belonged. He wrote the original declaration for the Society of United

Irishmen of Belfast, and his powerful writings brought the Presbyterians

of the North very generally into the system.

Emmet often heard him in strains of pure and forceful eloquence expand,

inculcate and apply, for the benefit of his beloved country, the

political principles of the United Irishmen.

Wherever men have had no means of legitimate redress, we have seen them

become their own avengers, the worst government being always marked by

the greatest commotions. If there be not an impartial administration of

justice, the stiletto takes place of the jury, and for want of a

government restricted and accountable in Ireland, insurrection and civil

war were the resources of an exasperated people. Left without the

protection of a national parliament, Ireland was always tyrannically

ruled, the frame of society dislocated and broken, and her numerous

insurrections were the throes of agonized nature.

But from the moment the protestant reformers recognised the principle

that no reform was practicable, efficacious, or just, which should not

equally include Irishmen of every religious persuasion, the measure was

feasible. It received the assent of the whole nation, save only the

established church, and the other dependants of the British government.

Its principle recommended itself to the common sense of mankind; and the

authority of America proclaimed its benefits. In a short time its way

was so far prepared by public opinion that even its interested opponents

anticipated its final success. They determined, therefore, upon the

desperate expedient of leaving no parliament in Ireland for reform to

better. They hastened to buy from the borough-holders that which a truly

Irish parliament would not sell—its own existence and the nation’s

independence. They hoped to extinguish in the abolition of the

parliament, every chance of peaceable and constitutional improvement.

They conspired to transport it for life, mutilated and captive, into the

British House; to imprison beyond sea, in the abyss of English

supremacy, where its languishing, nerveless remains, doomed to live in a

perpetual minority, could never more bring to its ill-fated country the

blessings of liberty, good government, or commerce.

By the measures of a legislative union, Ireland reverts again to the

same wretched state as when bound by acts of the British parliament. On

the misery of that state, the ablest men who ever advocated her cause,

even other than United Irishmen, have exhausted eloquence and invective,

and the brightest page in her history is the one which records the

extorted renunciation of that usurped power and plenary right of

self-government. The pitiful representation of Ireland in a foreign land

can but little avail her for her own benefit. She is there in a minority

of one to six. The six give the law to the one, and with that one they

have nothing in common. They have other constituents, who are a

different people, who have clashing interests, who have national

antipathies and who may well feel contempt for the substitutes of that

parliament that traitorously sold its country. Such are the legislators

who have bound Ireland in fetters.

The consequences are the same as heretofore: discontent and

remonstrance, and a proclamation to all Europe, showing how easy it

would be to dismember the United Kingdom. No loyalty will reconcile

rational beings to preserve an evil which they can exchange for a good;

so that those who make Ireland poor and enslaved, set before her, above

all other men, the advantages of separation. What can create a desire

for this remedy but ill-treatment? And so long as this treatment lasts,

how shall that desire discontinue? They stand in the relation of cause

and effect, and will for ever go on, or cease together.

It was the opinion of Emmet, that the legislative union was a measure

more suited to facilitate the despotism of the ministry than to

strengthen the dominion of England. Since the abuse of power has always

followed excess, no less in nations than individuals, a restraint upon

human actions is salutary for all parties, and the impediment that shall

stop the career of ministerial tyranny, will be found to work best for

the stability of the connexion. If this operate to the good of Ireland,

she will observe it for its utility, an Irish parliament being then its

best preservative. If, on the contrary, it be made, as at present, to

sacrifice the many for the few, it will be viewed as a curse by the

Irish people—an evil that must be got rid of rather than a good to be

embraced and cherished.

At present we see those persons who deny a parliament to Ireland on

which to rest her peace and happiness, self-poised and self-protected;

we see them sedulous to change the state of the question, and to

represent the repeal of the legislative union as a schism in the

government. They would limit the people of Ireland entirely to England

for benefits—whence, then, have come their wrongs? An Irish parliament,

on the contrary, would be a bond of liberal connexion; it would settle

every question of domestic policy at home, prevent strife and

recrimination between both countries, secure to the affairs of Ireland,

a degree of attention which however necessary, they do not and cannot

obtain among the weighty concerns of a different people, in a foreign

legislature. It would remove the old opprobrious evil of legislation

without representation; for wherever this is partial and foreign, it is

inadequate: as relates to Ireland, it is worthless mockery. Why was a

borough-constituency vicious, but because it sent men to make laws for

the people who did not represent the people, who were returned by a

different body, and intent upon serving themselves and their employers.

The attributes of genius are not rare among the countrymen of Emmet, and

time is constantly developing the resources of mind. The labours of

intellect press onward for distinction, while names of high endowments

are forced back to make room for new reputation. They alone will be

remembered who have acted with an impulsive power on the destinies of

their country and kind. Among those who first taught how to overthrow

the misrule of Ireland, who exposed its cause and prepared its cure,

Emmet is distinguished. He had great influence in the adoption of those

measures which are still at issue between Ireland and her foes, and

which, in part obtained, in part withheld, are determinative of her

future happiness, as they shall finally fall or be signally successful.

The different depots of Dublin, which he hired, were, at his sole

expense, furnished with military pikes and handles, ammunition and

clothing. In one of these depots, gunpowder was manufactured: in the

others, timber was provided for constructing pikes, and those already

made, and his other arms and stores were there deposited.

It must be observed of the numerous persons connected with those depots,

that neither the certainty of an ample reward, nor the wavering

instability common to men engaged in danger and dangerous designs, could

draw the discovery from the impenetrable recesses of their fidelity: an

evident proof that the hearts of the people were with the project; or,

perhaps it was that the departments of the police of Dublin, were all

filled by men who had been deeply engaged in the cruelties of the

preceding rebellion, and who, being on that account stigmatized and

detested by the people, even those who were secretly inclined to give

information, were not willing to unbosom themselves to men whom they

regarded with so much horror.

We cannot resist the temptation to insert the following narrative, as

illustrative of the cruelties and abominations committed daily, and with

impunity, upon the unfortunate people of that dreadful period:

“After walking about a mile, we came to a neat thatched cabin, situated

in a very sequestered valley. A river ran before it, and a few aged

trees shaded the simple roof. The door was open, and, on our entrance, a

peasant rose to receive us. He smiled as he handed me a chair, and

looked inquisitively at my companion.

“‘Don’t you recollect Mr. J——?’ inquired the exile. This interrogation

was followed by a momentary pause, during which Howlan seemed lost in

reflection, after which he burst into an exclamation of surprise and

pleasure.

“‘Oh! blud-an-ounze!’ he repeated several times, ‘is this yourself—your

own four bones whole and sound after all? Well, well, I knew, I knew I

should see you again, though I was certain you were dead; and many is

the _pater-and-avi_ I said for your soul, though I believe you are a

Protestant. But where’s the harm in that? did not you fight like any

Roman for ould Ireland? and what more could a real true-born Catholic

do? Troth, some of them didn’t do as much, the _spalpeens_, or we

wouldn’t have now to begin again.’

“‘So, so, Howlan,’ said the Exile, ‘you haven’t yet learned to be

loyal?’

“‘Loyal!’ repeated the hero of Oulard, ‘no, in troth, for it is not in

my grain; and faith, I believe if I was paid for it, these stripes on my

back would not let me. Oh no, the crows will get white feathers before

Denis Howlan will forgive the Orangemen—bad luck to them.’

“‘I recollect,’ returned the Exile, ‘a part of your story, but the

apprehensions I was under when I first heard it, prevented me from

attending to the whole. Was not your father murdered?’

“‘Murdherd!’ repeated Howlan; ‘ay, murdherd over and over again; and

wasn’t I murdherd myself? But,’ he continued, ‘I’ll just tell it all

here to you both.’ Then, drawing his stool close to where we sat, he

proceeded:—

“‘My father, (Lord be marciful to his sowl in glory!) kept a snug little

farm on the righthand side of the road that goes from Gorey to Ferns;

and, though I say it, there was not a more _sasty_ man in the county of

Wexford. I, myself, was the youngest of three sons and two daughters,

and the devil a more genteeler family attended Mass of a Sunday than

Paddy Howlan’s. My two brothers were able strapping fellows, and faith,

there were worse boys in the parish than myself. You may be sure we were

real _Crappies_, and why but we should for our religion and country?

“‘The winter before the Rebellion, the Yeo’s[2] were out every night,

and dreadful work they made of it—burning, whipping, and shooting.—A

poor Catholic couldn’t live at all at all; and, as we expected that they

would give us a call; we hid our pikes and guns in the ditches, and, to

be sure, appeared as innocent as lambs. I shall never forget the 15th of

November; no, never, while there is a drop of Irish blood in my soul;

for, when I think of it, my brain boils, and my very flesh creeps, as if

there was a blister all over me. Well, as I was saying, on the 15th of

November, I was coming home from Enniscorthy market; and being after

taking a glass of the _creature_ with one friend or another, I was

pretty merry, and to make the road light, I was singing ‘_The Victim of

Tyranny_,’ and the ould mare a-self was so pleased with the tune, that

she kept the track as straight as a die, though the night was as dark as

pitch.

“‘Just as I came to the top of the _boughareen_, that led down to our

house, a fellow seized my beast by the halter, and while you’d be

looking round you, a score of bayonets was ready to pop into poor Denis.

“Hallo!” said I, “what’s this?” “You Popish rebel,” cried the officer,

for it was a party of the North Cork, “what song is that you were

singing?”

“Och, nothing at all,” said I, “only new words to an ould tune.”

“Ah! then, by ——,” said he, “you shall soon sing another tune, unless

you tell us of all the people you know to be United Irishmen.”

“Faith, and that’s what I can soon do,” says I, “for I know nobody.” The

word wasn’t well out of my mouth, when he ran his sword into my arm,

saying, “That’s a tickler to help your memory.” “Thank your honour,”

says I, “but as ye are not Yeo’s, I hope you will act decent, and let a

poor boy pass. My name is Howlan, and never did any man an

injury.”—“Howlan!” cried the officer, “you are the very man we want.

Have you not two brothers?” “Ay, and a father too,” I answered, quite

calmly, though I was in a terrible pickle, with the blood streaming down

my arm.

“‘I was then bid to drive down to my father’s house, and they all kept

quite close to me. The family were all in bed, and I, foolish enough,

called up my poor father, then seventy years of age, and my two

brothers. They came out into the lawn in their shirts, for they were so

frightened they forgot to put on their clothes, and if they hadn’t, they

could not, for want of time.

“‘My father said he had no arms; and when he protested, which was the

truth, that he was no united man, the sergeant knocked him down with a

pistol, and some of the soldiers began kicking of him while he lay on

the ground. My brothers, of course, (for what Christian would turn

informer?) refused to confess anything, and accordingly, the eldest was

taken and tied to a car, and a drummerboy proceeded to flog him at a

desperate rate, while one of the party, to give him light, set fire to

the barn. As the flames mounted up to the skies, I could see my

brother’s back, hackled like a raw griskin, while the poor fellow

refused to gratify his murderers with a single groan. My mother rushed

out, and falling on her knees, beseeching the villains to forbear, but

one of the soldiers gave her a kick in the stomach, and stretched her on

the pavement.

“‘Knowing how soldiers then treated young girls, I made signs to my

sisters, who had come to the door, to shut it, and remain inside. They

did so, before the soldiers could prevent them; and one of them having

seen what I had done, told the others, and in a minute there were a

dozen stabs in my body. My eldest brother was then released, and the

other tied up in his place, when my father, who had recovered, rushed

forward and seized the drummer’s arm. Poor man! the savages had no pity

on his tears, and he received several stabs!’

“Here Denis was overpowered by his feelings, and after hastily wiping

away one or two natural drops from his cheek, continued.

“‘I was now questioned about united men, and arms, and as I also refused

to make any discovery, they took and bound my hands behind me, and then,

taking the halter from the mare’s head, they placed it round my neck,

and raising the car up, hung me out of the back-band. They were too

cruel to let me die a natural death, and so cut me down a few minutes

afore I went to Paradise. I can’t tell anything about that time, but my

ould mother told me that my face was as black as a pot, and my tongue a

_bandle_ long. The first thing I recollect, after being hanged, was to

see the poor ould house in flames, the soldiers having set fire to it,

to get my sisters out, but they were disappointed, as the girls had made

their escape while they were hanging me.

“‘To make a long story short,’ continued Denis, ‘my father, myself, and

two brothers, were thrown into the cart, and marched off to Ferns. Next

day my father died in the guard-house; and after a week’s confinement,

my brothers and I were turned out with pitched caps upon our heads.[3]

We had now no house, no home, for my father’s life being the term of the

lease, the landlord had seized on our little all, and so we went to

service, as did my sisters, my mother having died in a month after my

father. My brothers were long before they recovered; and for myself,

I’ll feel the effects of that bloody night to the day of my death.’

“The tale of this untutored peasant, told in his own vulgar, but

expressive language, produced a painful interest on my feelings, while

it excited my indignation to that degree of frenzy, which made me

instantly determine upon the Quixotic resolution of finding out the

office under whose command the family of Howlan had been tortured, and

call him to an account or, at least, expose him to the world. Filled

with this extravagant notion, I inquired of Denis, as we walked along,

where the North Cork were now stationed.

“‘Lord bless your honour,’ replied Denis, ‘there’s not a man of them in

the land o’ the living, for I was at the killing of them all myself—and

quick work we made of it—on Oulard Hill.’

“‘Oh, I remember,’ said I, ‘Mr. J—— spoke of your generalship there. How

was that?’

“‘Why,’ replied Denis, ‘when I went to sarvice, my master lived in the

very parish with Father Murphy, who, God bless him, coming one day

through Ferns, saw the Yeo’s shooting poor Catholics like dogs, trying

how many of them a musket ball would go through at once; so in the

evening he called his congregation together in the chapel. It was as

dark as _bags_, and not a candle lightning to show us the way to say our

prayers. We were all silent as death, and you could hear a pin drop on

the floor while the priest was speaking. He tould us ’twas better to die

fighting for our religion and country, than be butchered like sheep by

the Orangemen. He said what was Gospel, and faith we took his advice,

and marched in fine order after him, and he in the middle of us to

Oulard Hill, where we encamped for the night. The Yeo’s fled like murder

at the sight of us, for they are the greatest cowards in the world, and

sent the sogers to frighten us: but faith, their day was passed, and

once we burnt the candle, we’d burn the inch. When the red coats

appeared, our faces were all manner of colours, and many proposed to run

away. ‘No, no,’ says I, ‘the priest and God is with us, and what have we

to fear? Here is a ditch and gravel hole, and lie in them till the

sogers come quite close, and when I cry out _Erin go bragh_, let every

man start up, and use his pike.’ My advice was taken, and Father Murphy

blessed us all. The sogers come up, sure enough with a fellow like a

turkey cock strutting before them on his horse, and when they came quite

near the ditch, he went behind them, and we could hear the words,

“Ready, present, fire!” Pop, pop, pop, went their muskets; but faith I

shouted out like a lion, _Erin go bragh_,[4] and it would do your heart

good to see what sport we had. They weren’t a breakfast for us, and I

had the pleasure, thank God, of sticking my pike into the rascally

lieutenant, who murdered myself and my father.”

Government had, by the month of June, discovered sufficient to quicken

its diligence, and the officers of the police appeared thenceforward

more alert and vigilant; notwithstanding which it was difficult to bring

them to believe that the project of insurrection was on foot. This state

of delusion continued until the fourteenth of July, the anniversary of

the French Revolution, which opened the eyes of many, and excited a

considerable degree of alarm. Bonfires were publicly made in

commemoration of that event, and collections of people, apparently

strenuous and decided, formed and partook in the festivity. On the

sixteenth, the depot of powder in Patrick Street blew up, in which there

were two men nearly suffocated; one of whom, in throwing up the window,

cut the artery of his arm, and bled to death, the other was taken

prisoner. Emmet was so alarmed at the discoveries this explosion would

lead to, that he quitted the house in Butterfield-Lane, and took up his

permanent residence at the depot in Mass-lane. He there had a mattress

to sleep on, that he might be present night and day to direct and

animate the workmen.

The interval of the seven days ensuing after the explosion, was employed

by Emmet and his associates either in deliberating on the propriety of

immediately flying to arms, or in concerting the most practicable mode

of commencing their operations. It was ultimately agreed upon to seize

the several depots and arsenals in the vicinity of Dublin; and above

all, it was universally determined to gain possession of the castle, as,

in that case, it was supposed they could more decidedly influence the

public mind by having the seat of government in their power.

As the day of attack approached, the greater part of Emmet’s adherents,

contemplating their danger, wished to defer the attempt. Emmet, however,

was peremptory in the opposite way of thinking. He represented, with an

impetuosity not to be resisted, that the militia was about to be

embodied; that the country would be placed every day in a more

unassailable posture, and by its multiplied measures of defence, become

impregnable.

The reader will probably not be displeased with the following extract

from the pen of the same writer whom we have so often quoted, as

illustrative of the kind, generous, and unsuspecting character of Emmet,

even under the most difficult and trying circumstances.

‘I learned from Denis that the conspirators met in a valley not far from

where we were, and that he was hastening to join them: I signified my

readiness to attend him; and, as Denis was not a man of ceremony, he did

not stand long upon punctilios, but immediately conducted me across a

heathy and desolate hill, towards the place of rendezvous.

‘The night had closed around us as we approached a mountain chasm, and,

after scrambling through a rude aperture in a stupendous rock, we found

ourselves in a kind of natural recess, formed by an amphitheatre of

surrounding hills, whose overhanging acclivities frowned in gloomy

horror upon the little valley. By the light of the stars we could

discern some persons, who had entered before us, proceeding towards the

opposite side, and we accordingly followed in their footsteps. We had

not proceeded far when the voice of a person speaking fell upon our

ears, and I had not to listen long before I recognized the deep, but

harmonious accents of my friend Emmet, as he addressed the people around

him, who appeared to be about the number of five hundred. His harangue

was on popular topics, of Irish grievances, and he spoke with a fervency

of manner that showed him sincere in the sentiments he uttered. When he

concluded, Malachy took his station, and proceeded to address the

peasantry. I could not but observe in his speech, superior ingenuity.

Emmet was more eloquent, but less artful; more impassioned, but less

logical. There was sincerity in every word he uttered, and patriotism

appeared to predominate in every measure he recommended, whilst humanity

breathed throughout his discourse. But Malachy addressed himself

directly to the passions, and so intimately blended religion with

politics, that his auditors could scarcely suppress the operation of

their feelings, and when he concluded, an involuntary burst of applause

followed.

‘Denis, who had listened with the utmost attention to both speakers, now

took me by the hand, and led me into the throng. Malachy cast his eye

upon me, and instantly exclaimed, ‘A Spy!’

‘A Spy!’ was re-echoed by a hundred voices, and in a moment the

deferential horror of all present caused a circle to be formed around

me, every man being eager to get as far as possible from what he

considered the contagion of my presence.

The indignation I felt at Malachy’s imputation for a moment deprived me

of speech, and felt as if riveted to the place, when Emmet kindly

stepped forward and took me by the hand. ‘My friends,’ said he, ‘there

is some mistake; Mr. K—— is a young man of liberal principles, and high

notions of honour, and I am certain that he is incapable of betraying

our secret, much less acting as a spy upon our proceedings.’—‘You do me

but justice,’ I replied, ‘for I came here this night to learn if your

cause was such as required or deserved the assistance of a freeman’s

arm, and not basely to betray my countrymen, for I trust those that

surround me will not refuse me the fraternal embrace because I was born

in England, while my parents and heart were ever Irish.’ This remark

elicited much applause, and I proceeded: ‘I trust that the person who

has imputed such a base motive to my presence here has mistaken me’—

‘You are right, Godfrey,’ interrupted Malachy, with the utmost

familiarity, ‘I did indeed mistake you for another person.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Emmet, ‘and let us now rejoice that our cause,

the noblest in which man was ever engaged, has received the acquisition

of a pure spirit, who feels indignant at our wrongs, and who burns to

avenge them.’

After this conference, many of his partisans slunk away, and declined

all farther participation in the affair; others, however, and those the

majority, resolutely determined to follow the fortunes of their beloved

leader, and declared that they would not desert him although they

advanced with the certainty of utter destruction to themselves or their

cause. The die was cast, and all further reflection was repelled by the

ardour and firmness of resolution.

Fortune, on this occasion, not to be accused of fickleness, seems never,

from his first embarking on this desperate adventure, to have been for a

single moment, auspicious to the devoted Emmet. His negociation with

Dwyer had failed, and a plan, even more specious, and on which he now

grounded the most sanguine hopes of success, proved equally fallacious.

A part of the plan of general attack determined upon, was to force the

batteries and stores at the mouth of the harbour of Dublin, by the

assistance of those working people from the counties of Wicklow and

Wexford, who in the months of June and July, repair in considerable

numbers, for the purpose of hay-making, to the neighbourhood of Dublin.

The minds of this class of men appeared by no means more softened, nor

their passions less alive to every motive of discontent, whether real or

imaginary, than they were at the period of the rebellion in 1798, which

they had principally supported; and the daring conduct of which had

prepared and habituated them for similar encounters; their enmities were

fierce and vehement; their courage and resolution undoubted; it was

therefore natural that they should be selected as most useful and

valuable auxiliaries. For some time they had manifested the most cordial

concurrence; but on the 22d of July, the day before that appointed for

action, they, for some cause unknown, formally declared their

abandonment of the design. They did not, however, accompany their

refusal with any discovery of the plot.

For some days prior to the 23d of July, Emmet passed entirely in his

depot, reposing at night on a mattress thrown upon the ground, amid the

implements of death which he had there collected.

In a back house, recommended by its secluded and uninviting situation,

were about a dozen men at work; some busy making cartridges, while

others were casting bullets; some fabricating rockets, and others making

pikes. The heaps of muskets, and other warlike weapons, scattered

around, served to inspire a feeling of awe in the gloomy mansion of

incipient treason, singularly contrasted with the thoughtless levity

depicted upon the half-intoxicated countenances of those engaged in

preparing the instruments of death.

My friend, on seeing all safe, could not conceal his satisfaction; and

having distributed some money amongst the men, he dismissed them. As

they withdrew, he bolted the door, and throwing himself upon a rude

seat, seemed lost in the intensity of his feelings. I was not less

serious; for the workmen, the arms, and the gloom of the place, had

deeply affected my spirits, and brought upon my mind a desponding

impression, not unmixed with sensations of fear.

“My friend,” said Emmet, after a silence of several minutes, “how

ungrateful are mankind! how thoughtless are nations! The philosopher is

neglected, and the patriot unhonoured; yet, without knowledge and

liberty, how valueless all the possessions of man! How little do those

who profit by wisdom, or glory in the possession of freedom, know of the

student’s privations, or the conspirator’s danger! and without study and

treason, how few could be either wise or free? Nations, exulting in the

enjoyment of their rights, but too often forget those to whom they are

indebted for the blessing. Englishmen continually boast of their

liberty, yet how many Britons are the names of Sydney and Hampden as

vague as those of Gallitzin and William Tell? The sound is familiar, but

it scarcely raises a single association.

“The hope of applause,” I replied, “though it may stimulate our

exertions, should never be allowed to direct our actions, and he that is

honoured by the discerning may readily dispense with the plaudits of the

vulgar.

“True,” he returned: “but those who benefit mankind may at least expect

gratitude; and, if the danger encountered by the patriot may be allowed

to enhance the debt, I know of none who has so large a demand as the

conspirator, whose object is universal good. After once he imparts his

schemes to others, he lives in continual apprehension; every stranger is

an object of suspicion; every incident is pregnant with danger. The

mistakes of his friends may ruin him, and a concealed enemy may lurk

amongst his associates; for, as his designs require numerous abettors,

it is very difficult to select many men without including some traitor;

and one informer is sufficient to blast all his hopes—as a single spark

will cause the explosion of the largest powder magazine. I have latterly

felt so acutely the uncertainty of my situation, that I am determined to

hasten the event of our plan; for any conclusion would be preferable to

protracted suspense.

“I know not,” I replied, “whether it is desirable to persist in your

scheme, for the reasoning of our friend, the Exile, never appeared to me

so rational as since I entered this depot of Rebellion. A thousand

thoughts start up in my mind, which I can neither allay nor

satisfactorily account for. These scattered instruments of destruction

proclaim, that in the event of an insurrection, numbers must die; but

how many are to taste the bitterness of death defies human calculation.

Ourselves, too, may be among the fallen, and, what is more, the cause

may be unsuccessful.

“All these,” interrupted Emmet, “depend upon events and circumstances,

about which we can know nothing positive; ’tis for us only to ascertain

the probability of success, and to persevere in the course which honour

and duty point cut. Enough for us to know, that Ireland requires the

standard of revolt to be raised by some one, and that neither defeat nor

triumph can add to or diminish our consciousness of rectitude.

Impediments may crowd the long perspective before us, but beyond these

are glory, honours, and immortality—rewards, for obtaining which no

sacrifice is too great—no enterprize too dangerous.

“Let not,” he continued, “my apprehensions, too carelessly expressed,

damp the ardor of your soul, for the reasons which first induced you to

embark in this best of causes are the same now as then, whatever

arguments you may have heard to the contrary. We are young and

unincumbered; defeat can neither distress our friends nor ruin

ourselves, for what have we to lose but life? And life is held on so

uncertain a tenure, that a thousand daily accidents may deprive us of

it, and that too so suddenly and so soon as to leave our memory without

an accompanying deed to keep it afloat on the stream of time. Admitting

for an instant that we shall (which Heaven forbid!) be unsuccessful,

think not that our endeavours will be forgotten, or that our country

will cease to remember us. No, my friend, the tyrant laws may condemn

us, and tyrant authority asperse and vilify our characters; but rely on

it that Irishmen shall reverence the names of K—— and Emmet while

patriotism has admirers, or Ireland a friend. Our country has never been

ungrateful, and so few have been her benefactors, that she is prodigal

of thanks for even dubious favours. Of us she can have but one opinion,

for ingenuous enmity cannot attribute any but laudable motives to our

designs. For Ireland I will spend my private fortune, and for Ireland I

shall, please God, venture my life. Kosciusko is a name as beloved in

Poland as that of Washington in America.

“But reverse this gloomy picture, and look—as humanity should ever

look—upon the bright side of things; for defeat does not always

terminate daring enterprises. Reflect upon the consequences of success;

our enemies vanquished, our arms triumphant, and Ireland free! Our names

associated with the liberators of nations, and ourselves overwhelmed

with the grateful benedictions of an emancipated people. Our youth will

increase the general wonder, and the means by which we shall achieve

such illustrious actions will augment the pleasing amazement. Add to

this the exalted stations we shall occupy, and the joyful approbation of

our own bosoms; and tell me, is not our present situation, taking all

things into account, one that might well be envied? Defeat cannot

deprive us of honor, nor death of glory; while success, if obtained, has

in store for us all those rewards which ever graced the most fortunate

of mankind.

“Opportunities for great actions,” says the moralist “occur but seldom,

and surely he ill deserves honour who lets the opportunity pass when it

presents itself. Glory has found us, and let us embrace her; the tide of

our affairs is at the flood, and let us embark upon the waves of

fortune: we are all attended, and Heaven seems propitious. A thousand

years may pass, and a more favourable moment may not again occur.

“What, still thoughtful? Oh, I see, Miss J—— has whispered something

into your ear which has operated unfavourably upon your mind. Well, I

can excuse you, for a being of such perfect loveliness might well

disturb a hermit’s prayer, though I will not allow her to divert a

patriot’s purpose.”

“Then,” said I, “you will not pardon love in a conspirator?”

“I can not only pardon it,” he replied, “but sincerely wish that the

tender passion may be always blended with the _amor patriæ_ for he that

anticipates the commendation of a beloved mistress, can never act

dishonourably. My friend,” he continued, rising, and taking me by the

hand, “I, too, have one whose praise I wish to merit, and whose

exaltation, next to my country, is the first wish of my heart. She is

kind, she is lovely, and Heaven only knows how good!”—

“And yet,” I interrupted, “you would fling away this jewel, without

having the untutored Indian’s apology, for you know its value.”

“I know its value,” he rejoined, “and, because I know it, I wish to

place it where its worth may be appreciated. The stagnant vale of

inglorious ease is for those domestic enamoured souls who are content to

pass a life of inactive worthlessness, and who wish to enjoy affection

without having merited love. Mine is a higher ambition: I must make

myself worthy of the woman of my choice, and the glory which shed its

lustre on the husband shall reflect its splendour on the wife. Heaven

forbid that an excusable passion should thwart the great design of my

life, or cause me for an instant to neglect my country’s good, for the

purpose of promoting my own personal advantage. What earthly possession

could equal the glory of having freed Ireland from foreign domination?

and, though failure might partially obstruct its rays, we never can be

deprived of the consciousness of having deserved it.”

His magazine was by no means despicable. It comprised the following

warlike implements: 145 lbs of cannon powder, in bundles—eleven boxes of

fine powder—one hundred bottles filled with powder, enveloped with

musket balls, and covered with canvass—two hundred and forty-six hand

grenades, formed of ink bottles, filled with powder, and encircled with

buck shot—sixty-two thousand rounds of musket ball cartridge—three

bushels of musket balls—a quantity of tow mixed with tar and gunpowder,

and other combustible matter, for throwing against wood work, which,

when ignited, would cause an instantaneous conflagration; sky rockets,

and other signals, &c., and false beams filled with combustibles; with

no less than twenty thousand pikes.

This super abundance of ammunition is an evident proof of Emmet having

promises of large supplies of men, in which promises he was fatally

disappointed; for, instead of having a force of thousands at his

command, he could only muster a few hundred on the evening of

engagement.

On the morning of the appointed day for this momentous enterprise, the

Kildare men were seen directing their hurried steps towards the capital.

They had collected about the depot in Marshalsea-lane and Thomas-street,

in unusual crowds, when about five o’clock they were persuaded by their

officers to return home. This, with the defection of the Wicklow and

Wexford labourers, would have deterred a less ardent spirit than that of

Emmet’s from proceeding. His, though damped, never quailed under the

danger that this disappointment was likely to bring on him and his

followers.

Towards dusk he directed the distribution of pikes amongst the waiting

crowds in Thomas-street, and proceeded to make the necessary

arrangements for the contemplated attack.

On the night of the 22d, we assembled at the depot, and, though every

thing wore a gloomy aspect, resolved to persevere. The different leaders

received their instructions; some were to assemble their forces in the

Barley Fields, now Mountjoy Square, some on the Coal-Quay, and others in

different parts of the town. These were to act only in case of seeing a

third rocket, which Emmet was to send up when he considered the time

arrived for the commencement of hostilities. Emmet, Malachy, Bryan, and

I, were to head the forces which were to attack the castle.

Every thing being thus arranged, I bid my companions farewell for the

night, and returned to my lodgings. I could sleep but little, and when I

awoke the next morning, the consciousness of being on the eve of a great

event, filled my mind with gloomy apprehensions. To reflect, however,

was now useless, and without giving my thoughts time to inform against

my purpose, I hurried to the depot, where I found all in confusion. The

place was thronged by insurgents, who had arrived from the country, and

whose presence served to obstruct the workmen. Malachy and Emmet, with

astonishing firmness, gave directions; and I was handed the printed

proclamation to read.

As I looked upon the expressive countenances of the desperate and

infatuated men around me, I could not resist the gloomy prescience which

the scene was calculated to impart. It was a moment I would not wish to

go through again, there was so much of foreboding evil—so much of

personal misfortune to be apprehended—and so much toil and peril which

must be endured, whether the rebellion triumphed or was crushed. My

imagination, like a prism, collected all the rays of evil from probable

discomfiture, and showed me, in aggravated horror, all the dangers I had

to encounter. However, to recede was now impossible, without incurring

the imputation of cowardice, or what was more intolerable, the suspicion

of my associates. Actual hostility was preferable to either of these;

and, making a virtue of necessity, I recalled the memory of those

conspirators who had been successful, and fortified my resolution by

anticipating the same fortune, though every thing around might have

taught a rational man the extravagant folly of hoping to subvert a

powerful government with a few hundred men, partially armed. These, it

is true, we thought, had only to raise the standard of rebellion, and

thousands were ready to support it, but in future, who will rely upon

the promises of conspirators?

About six o’clock, Emmet, Malachy, one or two others, and myself, put on

our green uniform, trimmed with gold-lace, and selected our arms. The

insurgents, who had all day been well plied with whiskey, began to

prepare for commencing an attack upon the Castle; and when all was

ready, Emmet made an animated address to the conspirators. At eight

o’clock precisely, we sallied out of the depot, and when we arrived in

Thomas-Street, the insurgents gave three deafening cheers.

The consternation excited by our presence defies description. Every

avenue emptied its curious hundreds, and almost every window exhibited

half a dozen inquisitive heads, while peaceable shopkeepers ran to their

doors, and beheld with amazement a lawless band of armed insurgents, in

the midst of a peaceable city, an hour at least before dark. The scene

at first might have appeared amusing to a careless spectator, from the

singular dubious character which the riot wore; but when the rocket

ascended, and burst over the heads of the people, the aspect of things

underwent an immediate and wonderful change. The impulse of the moment

was self-preservation; and those who, a few minutes before, seemed to

look on with vacant wonder, now assumed a face of horror, and fled with

precipitation. The wish to escape was simultaneous, and the eagerness

with which the people retreated from before us impeded their flight, as

they crowded upon one another in the entrance of alleys, courtways, and

lanes; while the screams of women and children were frightful and

heart-rending.

“To the Castle!” cried our enthusiastic leader, drawing his sword, and

his followers appeared to obey; but when we reached the Market-house our

adherents had wonderfully diminished, there not being more than twenty

insurgents with us.

“Fire the rocket!” cried Malachy.

“Hold awhile” said Emmet, snatching the match from the man’s hand who

was about applying it. “Let no lives be unnecessarily lost. Run back and

see what detains the men.”

Malachy obeyed; and we remained near the Market-house, waiting their

arrival until the soldiers approached.

“Our cause is lost!” exclaimed Emmet, snatching the rockets from the

man’s hand who carried them, and trampling them under his feet, he

continued, “Let our friends at a distance escape comrades, provide for

your own safety.”

A skirmish now ensued, and we succeeded in forcing our way into

Francis-street, but had not proceeded far before we saw another party of

soldiers advancing against us from the Coombe.

“This way sir!” cried a voice I had heard before, and Denis Howlan

seized my arms, and pulled me into a street (Plunket-street;) full of

old clothes shops. About a dozen doors down we turned into a shop, Denis

asked as we entered, “Friend or foe?” “Friend!” cried an old man,

hurrying us into a back parlour, and then up stairs. “The roof, the

roof,” he whispered; and accordingly we made our exit through a dorman

window. In the gutter, between the houses, we found three men, who had

sought that place of safety; and, having also danger to apprehend, we

took like them a recumbent posture.

Throughout the night our ears were assailed with noises like those of a

town suddenly attacked—bells ringing—drums beating, and all the clamor

of war—while an occasional shot announced that our danger was not over.

My companions sent up incessant prayers for the safety of their

enthusiastic leader, and, as I loved the man, I heartily joined in their

observations.

It was during the progress of the insurgents from the depot, that the

attention of the rear was diverted by the arrival of an equipage; a

moment’s enquiry satisfied the mob it was that of the lord chief justice

of Ireland. A halt was instantly called, disorder and tumult prevailed;

the heads of the advancing party immediately returned upon their steps,

and the massacre of the venerable Lord Kilwarden was called for and

committed by some cold-blooded ruffians amongst them!

It is universally agreed that the murder of this excellent man was the

unpremeditated act of a ferocious rabble; but there are various accounts

of their probable motives in wantonly sacrificing so upright and humane

a judge to their fury. A popular explanation of this is, that the

perpetrators mistook him for another person. There is also an account

which admits the mistake in the first instance, but sub-joins other

particulars, which appear sufficiently probable; and as some of the

facts, of which there is no doubt, reflect the highest honour upon Lord

Kilwarden’s memory, the whole shall be here given.

In the year 1795, when he was attorney general, a number of young men

(all of whom were between the ages of fifteen and twenty) were indicted

for high treason. Upon the day appointed for their trial, they appeared

in the dock wearing shirts with tuckers and open collars, in the manner

usual with boys. When the chief justice of the King’s Bench, before whom

they were to be tried, came into court. and observing them, he called

out, “Well, Mr. Attorney, I suppose you’re ready to go on with the

trials of these _tuckered_ traitors?” The attorney-general was ready,

and had attended for the purpose; but indignant and disgusted at hearing

such language from the judgment seat, he rose and replied, “No, my lord,

I am _not_ ready; and (added he, in a low tone to one of the prisoner’s

counsel who was near him) if I have any power to save the lives of these

boys, whose extreme youth I did not before observe, that man shall never

have the gratification of passing sentence upon a single one of those

_tuckered_ traitors.” He performed his promise, and soon after procured

pardons for them all, upon the condition of their expatriating

themselves for ever; but one of them obstinately refusing to accept the

pardon upon that condition, he was tried, convicted and executed. Thus

far the fact upon credible authorities; what follows is given as an

unauthenticated report. After the death of this young man, his

relatives, it is said, readily listening to every misrepresentation

which flattered their resentment, became persuaded that the

attorney-general had selected him alone to suffer the utmost severity of

the law. One of these, (a person named Shannon) was an insurgent on the

23d of July, and when Lord Kilwarden, hearing the popular cry of

vengeance, exclaimed from his carriage, “It is I Kilwarden, chief

justice of the King’s Bench!” “Then!” cried out Shannon, “you’re the man

that _I_ want!” and plunged a pike into his lordship’s body.

It was at this period, it is asserted, that Mr. Emmet, and the other

leaders, who had been somewhat more than an hour engaged in a task far

beyond their powers, retired in despair at finding all command

disregarded, all efforts to produce subordination ineffectual; and their

favorite project of seizing the castle rejected for the slightest

opportunity that occurred of indulging the predatory disposition of

their associates to rapine and murder. It has been urged in their

favour, that shocked and disgusted at the murder of Lord Kilwarden, the

chiefs instantaneously came to the resolution of abandoning their

unprincipled followers.

A detachment of the regular army coming up now, commenced a brisk fire

on the remaining insurgents, and obliged them, after a short resistance,

to seek safety in flight. A party of soldiers, stationed at the Coombe,

under Lieutenant Douglas, was attacked by the mob who were retiring from

Thomas-street, and made to give way after a severe skirmish. At this

attack the bravery of a venerable old man shone conspicuous; his son was

attacked and sorely pressed by the bayonet of one of the soldiers, and

would inevitably have been sacrificed, had not the parent, who saw his

danger, stept in and received the blow intended for the son.

The soldier suffered the fate he gave; he was piked instantaneously by

the infuriate youth, who retired with agonized feelings, leaving the two

bodies side by side,—sad mementos of the effects of bad laws and

misgovernment. It was never exactly known the numbers of lives lost on

this night; it is supposed, however, there could not be less than

eighty, including the loss on both sides. Emmet fled to the mountains;

he arrived in time to prevent a contemplated rising of the insurgents.

Immediately after, he and the other leaders in the conspiracy met in a

glen in the Wicklow mountains, to consult on plans of future operations.

“We had just gained the ascent of a lofty hill, on our way to the place

of meeting, when a shrill whistle, apparently not far distant, brought

us to a full stop, and in an instant, a dozen men started up, as if by

some magical agency from the heath around us. “Your name and business?”

demanded a gloomy-looking figure who stood before us, wrapped up in a

great cloak.

“Our names and business?” repeated Denis: ‘maybe we’ve neither; what

would you have then?’

“Your life!” replied our interrogator, approaching us with a pistol in

each hand. “Hold!” exclaimed a man rushing between us, “these are

friends. You _spalpeen_, don’t you know Denis Howlan?”

“Faith, Captain Dwyer,” said my companion, with the utmost _sang froid_,

“it just is Denis Howlan himself, and this is a real friend of Giniral

Emmet, though it is not himself that’s in it as he hasn’t got on his own

clothes.”

“No matter for that,” replied Dwyer, “hasten to the glen. The council

are meeting, and I am here to prevent intruders—pass on—good

night—Babes[5] to your cover.”

In the glen, as the outlaw had informed us, we found several persons

assembled; and when my name was announced, one of them advanced from a

circle formed round him, and seized my hand—it was the unfortunate

enthusiast, Robert Emmet. His manner was most kind and affectionate, and

he congratulated me, with every demonstration of sincerity, on my escape

from the slaughter of the preceding evening. He lamented the fate of

Malachy and Bryan, and seemed deeply affected at the discomfiture of his

scheme.

I soon learned that my friend, with some others, had escaped to these

hills on Saturday night, in time to prevent a contemplated rising of the

insurgents; and had met, this evening, the leaders in the conspiracy, to

consult on plans of future operations. Most of them recommended vigorous

measures; and strenuously advised an immediate attack on Wicklow,

Arklow, &c. stating that all the kingdom was ripe for revolt. The time

had passed for Emmet to credit such sweeping assertions, and though he

did not contradict his friends, he unhesitatingly condemned the having

any further recourse to hostilities. “For,” said he, “defeated in our

first grand attempt, all further endeavours must be futile. Our enemies

are armed; our friends are dispirited; and our only hope is now in

patience. The justice of our cause must one day triumph, and let us not

indiscreetly protract the period by any premature endeavours to

accelerate it. No doubt I could, in forty-eight hours, wrap the whole

kingdom in the flames of rebellion; but as I have no ambition beyond the

good of my country, best study her interest, and the interest of

freedom, by declining to elevate my name upon the ruin of thousands, and

afford our tyrants an apology to draw another chain around unhappy

Ireland. In revolts, the first blow decides the contest,—we have aimed

one, and missing the mark, let us retire unobserved, and leave the enemy

ignorant of the hand that was raised for their destruction. Impenetrable

secrecy surrounds all our measures; the loss we have sustained is

inconsiderable; and, unacquainted with their own danger, and the extent

of our resources, the tyrants of Ireland will relapse into false

security, and afford us, perhaps, sooner than we imagine, another

opportunity to attack the hydra of oppression. Let me, therefore, my

friends, advise you to act with that prudence which becomes men engaged

in the grandest of all causes, the liberation of their country. Be

cautious, be silent, and do not afford our enemies any ground for either

tyranny or suspicion; but, above all, never forget that you are _United

Irishmen_, sworn to promote the liberty of your country by all the means

in your power.

“I have now relieved my bosom from a load of apprehension, and in

preventing the revolt of last night from assuming the form of rebellion,

I am conscious of having saved the lives of thousands of my

fellow-countrymen. When the libeller of my name and intentions shall

charge the blood of yesterday to my memory, I hope there will not be

wanting some one to recollect, that if a little has been shed through my

means, I have saved the effusion of one hundred times as much, on which

I might have floated to a disreputable notoriety.

“Over my future destiny Fate has thrown a veil which mortal eyes cannot

penetrate. Should I succeed in evading the pursuit of my enemies, you

may expect to see me once more armed in the cause of Ireland; but should

I fall on the scaffold, let not the coward or the knave intimidate you

from again and again appealing to Heaven in behalf of your rights and

liberties by appealing to my recent failure. Oh! I beseech you, as

friends and fellow-patriots, to believe me, and in the name of our

common country I charge you to transmit it to your children, that, had I

only one thousand pounds more, and another thousand men, I had

overthrown the temple of despotism, and given liberty to Ireland. My

plan was an admirable one, but there was failure in every part, and from

these defects let future patriots learn to prevent similar consequences.

Our attempt will not be unproductive of good; our government will learn

from it, that they will never be secure while an _Emmet_ is in

existence, and the conspirator will see, that tens of thousands may know

his secret without even one being found capable of betraying it.

Gentlemen, you will now look to your own safety, and as for me, I shall

do the best I can to quit the country, in the hope of again meeting you

under more happy auspices.”

He spoke in a subdued and feeling tone, and as he bade them all

farewell, he appeared deeply affected. After some hesitation, his advice

was acquiesced in, and the assembly began to separate, two and three at

a time.

Emmet was now pressed to make his escape before government obtained

information respecting his place of concealment; an opportunity then

offered of his doing so, as several fishing smacks lay off the coast,

the owners of which were insurgents. He replied to his friends who were

pressing him:—

“I shall follow your advice in a few days; but I cannot yet quit

Ireland. Excuse my obstinacy, but there is one to whom I must bid an

eternal farewell, before the terrors of government shall force me into

exile. Why should I refuse to acknowledge the cause? for I am not

ashamed of a weakness that compels me to do an act of justice—to beg,

and, if possible, to obtain forgiveness from a woman whom I have

unintentionally injured—whom I have loved so well, that I must once more

see her, hear her, and converse with her, though ten thousand deaths

awaited on the interview. You now see, my friends, the cause of my not

complying with your advice, and though you should condemn my notions as

extravagant, I cannot consent to forego my resolution.

The lady to whom poor Emmet was so enthusiastically attached, was the

youngest daughter of the celebrated Curran; and, if report may be

credited, she was every way worthy of a heart so fond, so gentle and so

noble, as that of Robert Emmet.

Emmet returned towards Dublin on this very romantic business. To bring

about the wished-for interview, he wrote several letters from his

lodgings at Harold’s Cross, which he again took on this occasion.

While anxiously expecting an answer to his letter, the house he was in

was suddenly surrounded by police officers, headed by Major Sirr, who,

rushing into the apartment, seized him as he was sitting down to dinner.

Mr. Curran, in the case of Hevey _v._ Sirr, thus characterizes this

notorious individual:—

It was at this sad crisis (1798) that Major Sirr, from an obscure

individual, started into notice and consequence. It is in the hot-bed of

public calamity that such inauspicious products are accelerated without

being matured. From being a town-major, a name scarcely legible in the

list of public incumbrances, he became all at once invested with all the

real powers of the most absolute authority.

With this gentleman’s extraordinary elevation began the story of the

sufferings and ruin of Hevey. A man was prosecuted by the state; Hevey,

who was accidently present at the trial, knowing the witness for the

prosecution to be a person of infamous character, mentioned the

circumstance in court. He was sworn, and on His evidence the prisoner

was acquitted. In a day or two after, Major Sirr met Hevey in the

street, asked how he dared to interfere in his business? and swore, G—d,

he would teach him how to meddle with ‘his people.’ On the following

evening poor Hevey was dogged in the dark into some lonely alley—there

he was seized, he knew not by whom, nor what authority—his crime he soon

learned: it was treason he had committed against the majesty of Major

Sirr. He was immediately conducted to a place of imprisonment in the

castle yard, called the provost. Of this mansion of misery, Major Sandys

was the keeper. Here Hevey lay about seven weeks, he was at last

discovered among the sweepings of the prison. ‘Hevey,’ said the Major,

‘I have seen you ride, a smart bit of a mare—you can’t use her here—you

had better give me an order for her.’ Hevey, induced by hopes and by

fear, gave the order. The major accepted the order, saying, ‘your

courtesy will not cost you much—you are to be sent down to-morrow to

Kilkenny, to be tried for your life—you will most certainly be hanged,

and you can scarcely think that your journey to the other world will be

performed on horseback. Hevey was accordingly transmitted to Kilkenny,

tried by a court martial, and convicted upon the evidence of a person

under sentence of death, who had been allured by a proclamation,

offering a reward to any man who would come forward and give any

evidence against the traitor Hevey. Lord Cornwallis read the transmiss

of Hevey’s condemnation—his heart recoiled from the detail of stupidity

and barbarity. He dashed his pen across the odious record, and ordered

that Hevey should be forthwith liberated. On his return to Dublin, Hevey

met Major Sandys, and demanded his mare: ‘Ungrateful villain,’ says the

Major, ‘is this the gratitude you show to his majesty and to me, for our

clemency to you—you shan’t get possession of the beast.’ Hevey brought

an action for the mare; the major, not choosing to come into court and

suggest the probable success of a thousand actions, restored the

property.

Three years had elapsed since the deliverance of Hevey—the public

atmosphere has cleared—the private destiny of Hevey seemed to have

brightened, but the malice of his enemies had not been appeased. On the

8th of September, 1801, Mr. Hevey was sitting in a public coffee

house—Major Sirr was there—Mr. Hevey was informed that Major Sirr had at

that moment said, that he (Hevey) ought to have been hanged. Mr. Hevey

was fired at the charge; he fixed his eye on Sirr, and asked if he had

dared to say so? Sirr declared that he had, and had said truly. Hevey

answered, that he was a slanderous scoundrel. At the instant Sirr rushed

upon him, and assisted by three or four of his satellites, who had

attended him in disguise, secured him, and sent him to the castle guard,

desiring that a receipt might be given for the villain.—He was sent

thither. The officer of the guard chanced to be an Englishman, but

lately arrived in Ireland—he said to the bailiffs, ‘If this was in

England, I should think this gentleman entitled to bail, but I don’t

know the laws of this country—however, I think you had better loosen

those irons on his wrists, or they may kill him.’

Major Sirr, the defendant, soon arrived, went into his office, and

returned with an order which he had written, and by virtue of which Mr.

Hevey was conveyed to his old friend and gaoler, Major Sandys. Here he

was flung into a room of about thirteen feet by twelve—it was called the

hospital of the provost—it was occupied by six beds, in which were to

lie fourteen or fifteen miserable wretches, some of them sinking under

contagious disorders. Here he passed the first night without bed or

food. The next morning his humane keeper, the major, appeared. Mr. Hevey

demanded why he was so imprisoned, complained of hunger and asked for

the gaol allowance. Major Sandys replied with a torrent of abuse, which

he concluded by saying,—your crime is your insolence to Major Sirr;

however, he disdains to trample on you,—you may appease him by proper

and contrite submission; but unless you do, you shall rot where you are.

I tell you this, that if government will not protect us, by G—d, we will

not them. You will probably (for I know your insolent and ungrateful

hardiness) attempt to get out by an habeas corpus, but in that you will

find yourself mistaken as much as a rascal deserves.’ Hevey was insolent

enough to issue an habeas corpus, and a return was made on it, ‘That

Hevey was in custody under a warrant from General Graig, on a charge of

high treason.’ That the return was a gross falsehood, fabricated by

Sirr, I am instructed to assert. The judge, before whom this return was

brought, felt that he had no authority to liberate the unhappy prisoner;

and thus, by a most inhuman and malicious lie, my client was again

remanded to the horrid mansion of pestilence and famine. Upon this, Mr.

Hevey, finding that nothing else remained, signed a submission dictated

by Sandys, was enlarged from confinement, and brought the present

action.

The jury awarded Mr. Hevey 150_l._ damages.

The unfortunate Emmet betrayed no tokens of fear or perturbation, but

evinced the same calm and dignified aspect which ever distinguished this

extraordinary young man.

A few days after, he wrote Mr. Curran the following letter.

_From Mr. Robert Emmet to John Philpot Curran, Esq._

“I did not expect you to be my counsel. I nominated you, because not

to have done so might have appeared remarkable. Had Mr. —— been in

town, I did not even wish to have seen you, but as he was not, I wrote

to you to come to me at once. I know that I have done you a very

severe injury, much greater than I can atone for with my life; that

atonement I did offer to make before the privy council, by pleading

guilty, if these documents were suppressed. I offered, if I were

permitted to consult some persons, and if they would consent to an

accommodation for saving the lives of others, that I would only

require for my part of it the suppression of those documents, and that

I would abide the event of my own trial. This also was rejected, and

nothing but individual information, (with the exception of names)

would be taken. My intention was, not to leave the suppression of

those documents to possibility, but to render it unnecessary for any

one to plead for me, by pleading guilty to the charge myself.

“The circumstances that I am now going to mention, I do not state in

my own justification. When I first addressed your daughter, I expected

that in another week my own fate would be decided. I knew that in case

of success, many others might look on me differently from what they

did at that moment; but I speak with sincerity, when I say that I

never was anxious for situation or distinction myself, and I do not

wish to be united to one who was. I spoke to your daughter, neither

expecting, nor, in fact, under such circumstances, wishing that there

should be a return of attachment; but wishing to judge of her

dispositions, to know how far they might not be unfavourable or

disengaged, and to know what foundation I might afterwards have to

count on. I received no encouragement whatever. She told me she had no

attachment for any person, nor did she seem likely to have any that

could make her wish to quit you. I staid away till the time had

elapsed when I found that the event to which I allude was to be

postponed indefinitely. I returned by a kind of infatuation, thinking

that to myself only was I giving pleasure or pain. I perceived no

progress of attachment on her part, nor anything in her conduct to

distinguish me from a common acquaintance. Afterwards I had reason to

suppose that discoveries were made, and that I should be obliged to

quit the kingdom immediately: and I came to make a renunciation of any

approach to friendship that might have been formed. On that very day

she herself spoke to me to discontinue my visits; I told her it was my

intention, and I mentioned the reason. I then, for the first time,

found I was unfortunate, by the manner in which she was affected, that

there was a return of affection, and that it was too late to retreat.

My own apprehensions, also, I afterwards found, were without cause,

and I remained. There has been much culpability on my part in all

this, but there has also been a great deal of that misfortune which

seems uniformly to accompany me. That I have written to your daughter

since an unfortunate event has taken place, was an additional breach

of propriety, for which I have suffered well; but I will candidly

confess, that I not only do not feel it to have been of the same

extent, but that I consider it to have been unavoidable, after what

had passed; for though I will not attempt to justify, in the smallest

degree, my former conduct, yet when an attachment was once formed

between us—and a sincerer one never did exist—I feel that, peculiarly

circumstanced as I then was, to have left her uncertain of my

situation would neither have weaned her affections, nor lessened her

anxiety; and looking upon her as one whom, if I had lived, I hoped to

have had my partner for life, I did hold the removing her anxiety

above every other consideration. I would rather have had the

affections of your daughter in the back settlements of America, than

the first situation this country could afford without them. I know not

whether this would be any extenuation of my offence—I know not whether

it will be any extenuation of it to know, that if I had that situation

in my power at this moment, I would relinquish it to devote my life to

her happiness—I know not whether success would have blotted out the

recollection of what I have done—but I know that a man, with the

coldness of death in him, need not be made to feel any other coldness,

and that he may be spared any addition to the misery he feels not for

himself, but for those to whom he has left nothing but sorrow.”

The original, from which the above has been copied, is not signed or

dated. It was written in the interval between Mr. Emmet’s conviction and

execution.

Upon the arrest of Mr. Emmet, some papers were found upon his person,

which shewed that subsequent to the insurrection, he had corresponded

with one of Mr. Curran’s family: a warrant accordingly followed, as a

matter of course, to examine Mr. Curran’s house, where some of Mr.

Emmet’s letters were found, which, together with the documents taken

upon his person, placed beyond a doubt, his connection with the late

conspiracy, and were afterwards used as evidence upon his trial.

At the instance of the attorney-general, Mr. O’Grady, Mr. Curran

accompanied him to the privy council. Upon his first entrance, there was

some indication of the hostile spirit which he had originally

apprehended. A noble lord, who at that time held the highest judicial

situation in Ireland, undertook to examine him upon the transaction

which occasioned his attendance. To do this was undoubtedly his duty. He

fixed his eye upon Mr. Curran, and was proceeding to cross-examine his

countenance, when (as it is well remembered by the spectators of the

scene) the swell of indignation, and the glance of stern dignity and

contempt which he encountered there, gave his own nerves the shock which

he had meditated for another’s, and compelled him to shrink back in his

chair, silent and disconcerted at the failure of his rash experiment.

With this single exception, Mr. Curran was treated with the utmost

delicacy.

A special commission was opened to try Emmet and nineteen other

prisoners in Dublin, on the thirty-first of August, 1803, under Lord

Norbury, Mr. Finucane, and Barons George and Daly. Mr. Standish O’Grady

was the attorney general.

Of these nineteen, one was acquitted, and another reprieved; the rest

were convicted and executed on the evidence of various witnesses.

Amongst the unfortunate men convicted were some of the principle

associates of Emmet in the insurrection. Mr. Russel was the son of an

officer of reputation in his majesty’s service, and who, having retired,

enjoyed an honourable retreat in the situation of master of the royal

hospital for veterans at Kilmainham, near Dublin. He was placed early in

the army, and served at Bunker’s Hill, and the subsequent campaigns in

North America. After the peace, he either retired on half pay, or his

corps was reduced. He was affectionate and tender-hearted, and possessed

every feeling and sentiment of the gentleman. After the arrest of Emmet,

Russel introduced himself clandestinely into Dublin, with a view to

rescue his friend, if possible, under favour of some commotion. About

two days after his arrival, it became known that some person was

mysteriously secreted in the immediate vicinity of the castle.

Information to this effect having been conveyed to Major Sirr, that

officer proceeded to the examination of a house in Parliament-street,

where he was found, and to whom Mr. Russel, though well armed,

surrendered without resistance. It was supposed that he was, in this

act, influenced by a religious scruple. He was immediately transmitted

to Down Patrick, in the north of Ireland, where he was shortly after

brought to trial, and upon the clearest evidence of his treason,

convicted.—After his trial, he manifested all that wildness of religious

enthusiasm, which had for some time formed the prominent feature of his

character. On conviction, he addressed the court at great length, and

with remarkable firmness. He declared his adherence to the political

opinions for which he was about to suffer, and touched, in a tender

point, the gentlemen of the county of Down, by whom he was surrounded.

These gentlemen, although latterly become more anxious to secure their

property than to preserve the circle of their liberties, had been

foremost in the outcry for parliamentary reform and political

independence. Russel reminded them of this circumstance, and declared

that he was doomed to suffer for endeavoring to put into execution the

lessons imbibed amongst them.

A man of a different stamp was Dwyer. This man, at the head of a gang of

deserters and banditti, had remained in arms from the period of the

rebellion of 1798, obstinately rejecting repeatedly proffered mercy, and

who dexterously eluding all pursuit, had sustained himself under the

protection of the almost inaccessible fastnesses of the Wicklow

Mountains. His party did not ostensibly exceed twenty, but he was

supposed to possess unbounded influence over the peasants of the

district, so that a large body, on any notable undertaking, was within

his means of command. Dwyer and his band of outlaws afterwards

submitted, on the stipulation that their lives should be spared.

On Mr. Emmet’s trial, the several facts and circumstances already

narrated, were fully proved. He called no witnesses, and was found

guilty. Previous to the judge’s charge to the jury, Lord Conyngham

Plunket, who was then king’s counsel, and conducted the prosecution

against Mr. Emmet, made a speech of considerable length, and in the

severest tone of legal and political asperity, detailed the consequences

that would affect all social order, were such opinions as Emmet

entertained allowed to have any countenance from the mildness of the

laws, or the mistaken lenity, which is often exercised by the authority

vested in the sacred person of majesty.

When Mr. Emmet was put to the bar, and called upon by Lord Norbury to

offer what he had to say why sentence of death and execution should not

be awarded against him according to law, he rose with great firmness and

composure, and delivered a speech of remarkable force and ability. His

appeal to the memory of his parent was most affecting:—“If the spirits

of the illustrious dead participate in the cares of those who are dear

to them in this transitory life, oh! ever dear and venerated shade of my

departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your

suffering son, and see if I have even for a moment, deviated from those

principles of morality and patriotism, which it was your care to instil

into my youthful mind, and for which I am now about to offer up my

life.”

In remarking on the language of the counsel for the crown, Mr. Emmet

said, that “In their early intimacy, he had actually inculcated into his

mind those principles for which he was now about to suffer.”

The following is the copy of a letter from Mr. Emmet to Mr. Richard

Curran:—

“My dearest Richard:—I find I have but a few hours to live, but if it

was the last moment, and that the power of utterance was leaving me, I

would thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous

expressions of affection and forgiveness to me. If there was any one

in the world in whose breast my death may be supposed not to stifle

every spark of resentment, it might be you. I have deeply injured

you—I have injured the happiness of a sister that you love, and who

was formed to give happiness to every one about her, instead of having

her own mind a prey to affliction. Oh! Richard, I have no excuse to

offer, but that I meant the reverse: I intended as much happiness for

Sarah as the most ardent love could have given her. I never did tell

you how much I idolized her: it was not with a wild or unfounded

passion, but it was an attachment increasing every hour, from an

admiration of the purity of her mind, and respect for her talents. I

did dwell in secret upon the prospect of our union. I did hope that

success, while it afforded the opportunity of our union, might be the

means of confirming an attachment, which misfortune had called forth.

I did not look to honours for myself; praise I would have asked from

the lips of no man; but I would have wished to read in the glow of

Sarah’s countenance, that her husband was respected.

“My love, Sarah! it was not thus that I thought to have requited your

affections. I did hope to be a prop round which your affections might

have clung, and which would never have been shaken, but a rude blast

has snapped it, and they have fallen over a grave.

“This is no time for affliction. I have had public motives to sustain

my mind, and I have not suffered it to sink; but there have been

moments in my imprisonment when my mind was so sunk by grief on her

account, that death would have been a refuge.

“God bless you, my dearest Richard. I am obliged to leave off

immediately.