Chapter II: Part 2

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.

ROBERT EMMET.”

This letter was written at twelve o’clock on the day of Mr. Emmet’s execution, and the firmness and regularity of the original hand-writing contains a striking and affecting proof of the little influence which the approaching event exerted over his frame. The same enthusiasm which allured him to his destiny, enabled him to support its utmost rigour. He met his fate with unostentatious fortitude; and although few will be found bold enough to justify his projects since they were unsuccessful, yet his youth, his talents, the great respectability of his connections, and the evident delusion of which he was the victim, have excited more general sympathy for his unfortunate end, and more forbearance towards his memory, than is usually extended to the errors or sufferings of political offenders.