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. Whenthe 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 thesetuckeredtraitors?” 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 amnotready; 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 thosetuckeredtraitors.” 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 manthatIwant!” 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 theeffects 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. Youspalpeen, don’t you know Denis Howlan?”
“Faith, Captain Dwyer,” said my companion, with the utmostsang 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, andI 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 enemiesare 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 areUnited Irishmen, sworn to promote the liberty of your country by all the means in your power.
“I have now relieved my bosom from a loadof 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 anEmmetis in existence, and the conspirator will see, that tens of thousands may know hissecret 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 Heveyv.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 onHis 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 heartrecoiled 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 warrantfrom 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 150l.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 somepersons, 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 lefther 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 Emmetin 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 declaredhis 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 theprosecution 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 neverhave 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.”
Robert Emmet.”
Robert Emmet.”
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.
What brought forth this wonderful effort of a young gentleman, unaided and unsupported by any rational system of organization, uncountenanced but by the humblest men in society,relying on his own great energies, and the thousand circumstances which chance might throw up on the surface of the political ocean? What animated the mind and spirit of Emmet, night after night, and day after day? What? His enemies will say it was ambition, a hope of personal aggrandizement, and a speculation of personal exaltation, a sanguinary purpose to raise himself on the ruins of all that was respected and cherished in society. To such enemies we will reply that, if ever an enthusiast was animated with a pure and unadulterated sentiment of the most disinterested anxiety for the freedom of his native country—if ever there was a human being who was ready to lay down his life for the comfort and happiness of his fellow-creatures—if ever there was a heart that sincerely sympathised with the sufferings of mankind, or that would cheerfully devote itself at the altar, if such a sacrifice could procure the liberty of Ireland—Robert Emmet was that man.
With an intellect of the highest order, eloquence powerful, commanding, and inexhaustible; an integrity which no force could bend; a spirit which no danger or suffering could intimidate; born of parents who were the pride and boast of their country; the brother of those men who in the birth-day of Ireland’s freedom, illuminated the political firmament, and gave their country a hope that her freedom would be immortal; the witness of her fall, and the spectator of her degradation, he gave himself up to the dreams of his own imagination,and thought he saw the liberties of his country achieved before he had formed his plan to secure them. With all the customary characteristics of an enthusiast, he seemed to disdain those humble calculations by which all human objects are to be obtained. But Emmet achieved what no other man but himself would have dared to attempt. With his single mind, and single arm, he organized thousands of his countrymen, and besieged the government of the country in their strongest position.
Mr. Emmet was executed on the day following that of his sentence, in Thomas-street, at the head of Bridgefoot Street, opposite Catherine’s church.
Robert Emmet, the lofty-minded patriot—the amiable enthusiast—the warm-hearted friend, and ardent lover is no more! The hand of the executioner extinguished the fire and energy of that soul, which burned for his country’s good; and that tongue, of the purest and sublimest eloquence, is now for ever mute.
He died as he lived, with heroic fearlessness, and decent fortitude. The amiable, though enthusiastic Emmet, however, we hope has not died in vain; our rulers must learn from his history that a people without confidence is a moral Hydra, never to be deprived of the means of doing mischief. The head of one rebellion is no sooner lopped off than another is generated. The Hercules, who is to annihilate the monster, can only be found in those acts of wisdom and justice, which are to reconcile the people to their rulers, by making them freemen.
The fate of Robert Emmet demanded something more than tears, and unprofitable as these may have been, we have continued to offer them still to his memory. But let our private sorrows pass; history one day will do him justice; we have thrown our mite in the scale in which his reputation yet trembles; and, inadequate as that may be, it is sincere and impartial. All ye who knew him in “his hour of pride,” go and do likewise.
The following is extracted from a letter addressed to Mr. Rufus King from T. A. Emmet, brother to Robert Emmet, on the subject of Mr. King’s interference with the British government, as ambassador from the United States, to prevent the Irish state prisoners of 1798 from emigrating to America:—
“Sir,—In the commencement of our negociation, Lord Castlereagh declared, as a reason for acceding to government’s possessing a negative on our choice, that it had no worse place in view for our emigration than the United States of America. We had made our election to go there, and called upon him to have our agreement carried into execution. In that difficulty, you, sir, afforded very effectual assistance to the faithlessness of the British cabinet. On the 16th of September, Mr. Marsden, then Under Secretary, came to inform us that Mr. King had remonstrated against our being permitted to emigrate to America. This astonished us all, and Dr. M Neven very plainly said that he considered this as a mere trick between Mr. King and the British Government.This Mr. Marsden denied, and on being pressed to know what reason Mr. King could have for preventing us, who were avowed republicans, from emigrating to America, he significantly answered, ‘Perhaps Mr. King does not desire to have republicans in America.’ Your interference was then, sir, made the pretext of detaining us for four years in custody, by which very extensive and useful plans of settlement within these states were broken up. The misfortunes which you brought upon the objects of your persecution were incalculable. Almost all of us wasted four of the best years of our lives in prison. As to me, I should have brought along with me my father and his family, including a brother, whose name perhaps even you will not read without emotions of sympathy and respect. Others nearly connected with me would have come partners in my emigration. But all of them have been torn from me. I have been prevented from saving a brother, from receiving the dying blessings of a father, mother, and sister, and from soothing their last agonies by my cares; and this, sir, by your unwarrantable, unprecedented, and unfeeling interference. Your friends, when they accuse me of want of moderation towards you, are wonderfully mistaken. They do not reflect, or know, that I have never spoken of you without suppressing, as I do now, personal feelings that rise up within me, and swell my heart with indignation and resentment. The step you took was unauthorised by your own government. Whether our conduct in Ireland was right orwrong, you have no justification for yours. The constitution and laws of this country gave you no power to require of the British government that it should violate its faith, and withdraw from us its consent to the place we had fixed upon for our voluntary emigration; neither the president nor you were warranted to prevent our touching these shores.—These remarks I address, with all becoming respect, to ‘the first man in the country.’ Yet in fact, sir, I do not clearly see in what consists your superiority over myself. It is true you have been a resident minister at the court of St. James’; and, if what I have read in the public prints be true, and if you be apprised of my near relationship and family connexion with the late Sir John Temple, you must acknowledge that your interference as resident minister at the court of St. James’s, against my being permitted to emigrate to America, is a very curious instance of the caprice of fortune—but let that pass. To what extent I ought to yield to you for talents and information, is not for me to decide.—In no respect, however, do I feel your excessive superiority.—My private conduct and character are, I hope, as fair as yours—and even in those matters which I consider as trivial, but upon which aristocratic pride is accustomed to stamp a value, I should not be inclined to shrink from competition. My birth certainly will not humble me by the comparison; my paternal fortune was, probably, much greater than yours; the consideration in which the name I bear in my native country was held, was as great asyours is ever likely to be before I had an opportunity of contributing to its celebrity.
“As to the amount of what private fortune I have been able to save from the wreck of calamity it is unknown to you or to your friends; but two thingy I will tell you:—I never was indebted, either in the country from which I came, nor in any other in which I have lived, to any man, further than the necessary credit for the current expenses of a family; and am not so circumstanced that I should tremble “for my subsistence” at the threatened displeasure of your friends. So much for the past and present—now for the future. Circumstances which cannot be controlled, have decided that my name must be embodied into history. From the manner in which even my political adversaries, and some of my contemporary historians, unequivocally hostile to my principles, already speak of me, I have the consolation of reflecting, that when the falsehoods of the day are withered and rotten, I shall be respected and esteemed.—You, sir, will probably be forgotten, when I shall be remembered with honour, or if, peradventure, your name should descend to posterity, perhaps you will be known only as the recorded instrument of part of my persecutions, sufferings, and misfortunes.
Thomas Addis Emmet.”
Thomas Addis Emmet.”
Thomas Addis Emmet.”
Thomas Addis Emmet.”
New-York, April 9, 1807.
New-York, April 9, 1807.
New-York, April 9, 1807.
New-York, April 9, 1807.
MISS CURRAN.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they make her a glorious morrow;They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they make her a glorious morrow;They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.
He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they make her a glorious morrow;They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they make her a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow.
The evening before his death, Miss Curran was admitted into his dungeon to bid him her eternal farewell. He was leaning in a melancholy mood against the window of the prison, and the heavy clanking of his chains smote dismally on her heart. The interview was bitterly affecting, and melted even the callous soul of the jailor. As for Emmet himself, he wept, and spoke little; but as he pressed his beloved in silence to his heart, his countenance betrayed his emotions. In a low voice, half choked by anguish, he besought her not to forget him; he reminded her of their former happiness, of the long past days of their childhood, and concluded by requesting her sometimes to visit the scenes where their infancy was spent, and though the world might repeathis name with scorn, to cling to his memory with affection. In parting, she turned round, as if to gaze once more on her widowed love. He caught her eye as she retired—it was but for a moment—and as the door closed on him, it informed her too surely that they had met for the last time on earth, but that they should meet in a better world, where man could not separate them.
She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him—when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portal of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth—who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.
To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father’s displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from her paternal roof. But could the sympathy and offices of friends reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are proverbially a people of quick and generous sensibilities.
The most delicate and cherishing attentionswere paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. But it was all in vain.
There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.”
On the occasion of a masquerade at the Rotunda, her friends brought her to it. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay—to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that shewed insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sicklyheart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd, mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.
The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remark for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover.—He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependant situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s.
He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.