[Here he was interrupted by the court.]

"I have been charged with that importance in the emancipation of my country, as to be consided the key-stone of the combination of Irishmen; or, as your lordship expressed it, 'the life and blood of the conspiracy.' You do me honour over much; you have given to the subaltern all the credit of a superior. There are men engaged in this conspiracy who are not only superior to me, but even to your own conceptions of yourself, my lord—men before the splendour of whose genius and virtues I should bow with respectful deference, and who would think themselves disgraced by shaking your blood-stained hand."

[Here he was interrupted.]

"What, my lord, shall you tell me, on the passage to the scaffold, which that tyranny (of which you are only the intermediary executioner) has erected for my murder, that I am accountable for all the blood that has and will be shed in this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor—shall you tell me this, and must I be so very a slave as not to repel it? I do not fear to approach the Omnipotent Judge to answer for the conduct of my whole life; and am I to be appalled and falsified by a mere remnant of mortality here? By you, too, although if it were possible to collect all the innocent blood that you have shed in your unhallowed ministry in one great reservoir your lordship might swim in it."

[Here the judge interfered.]

"Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory, by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence; or that I could have become the pliant minion of power, in the oppression and misery of my country. The proclamation of the Provisional Government speaks for our views; no inference can be tortured from it to countenance barbarity or debasement at home, or subjection, humiliation, or treachery from abroad. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the foreign and domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and its enemy should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor, and the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country her independence, am I to be loaded with calumny, and not suffered to resent it? No; God forbid!"

Here Lord Norbury told Mr. Emmet that his sentiments and language disgraced his family and his education, but more particularly his father, Dr. Emmet, who was a man, if alive, that would not countenance such opinions. To which Mr. Emmet replied:—

"If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who were 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. My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim—it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are now bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to heaven. Be yet patient! I have but a few more words to say—I am going to my cold and silent grave—my lamp of life is nearly extinguished—my race is run—the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world, it is—THE CHARITY OF ITS SILENCE. Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me rest in obscurity and peace; and my tomb remain uninscribed, and my memory in oblivion, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done."

This affecting address was spoken—as we learn from the painstaking and generous biographer of the United Irishmen, Dr, Madden—"in so loud a voice as to be distinctly heard at the outer doors of the court-house; and yet, though he spoke in a loud tone, there was nothing boisterous in his manner; his accents and cadence of voice, on the contrary, were exquisitely modulated. His action was very remarkable, its greater or lesser vehemence corresponded with the rise and fall of his voice. He is described as moving about the dock, as he warmed in his address, with rapid, but not ungraceful motions—now in front of the railing before the bench, then retiring, as if his body, as well as his mind, were spelling beyond the measure of its chains. His action was not confined to his hands; he seemed to have acquired a swaying motion of the body when he spoke in public, which was peculiar to him, but there was no affectation in it."

At ten o'clock, p.m., on the day of his trial, the barbarous sentence of the law—the same that we have so recently heard passed on prisoners standing in that same dock, accused of the same offence against the rulers of this country—was passed on Robert Emmet. Only a few hours were given him in which to withdraw his thoughts from the things of this world and fix them on the next. He was hurried away, at midnight, from Newgate to Kilmainham jail, passing through Thomas-street, the scene of his attempted insurrection. Hardly had the prison van driven through, when workmen arrived and commenced the erection of the gibbet from which his body was to be suspended. About the hour of noon, on the 20th of September, he mounted the scaffold with a firm and composed demeanour; a minute or two more and the lifeless remains of one of the most gifted of God's creatures hung from the cross beams—strangled by the enemies of his country—cut off in the bloom of youth, in the prime of his physical and intellectual powers, because he had loved his own land, hated her oppressors, and striven to give freedom to his people. But not yet was English vengeance satisfied. While the body was yet warm it was cut down from the gibbet, the neck placed across a block on the scaffold, and the head severed from the body. Then the executioner held it up before the horrified and sorrowing crowd that stood outside the lines of soldiery, proclaiming to them—"This is the head of a traitor!" A traitor! It was a false proclamation. No traitor was he, but a true and noble gentleman. No traitor, but a most faithful heart to all that was worthy of love and honour. No traitor, but a martyr for Ireland. The people who stood agonized before his scaffold, tears streaming from their eyes, and their hearts bursting with suppressed emotion, knew that for them and for Ireland he had offered up his young life. And when the deed was finished, and the mutilated body had been taken away, and the armed guards had marched from the fatal spot, old people and young moved up to it to dip their handkerchiefs in the blood of the martyr, that they might then treasure up the relics for ever. Well has his memory been cherished in the Irish heart from that day to the present time. Six years ago a procession of Irishmen, fifteen thousand strong, hearing another rebel to his grave, passed by the scene of that execution, every man of whom reverently uncovered his head as he reached the hallowed spot. A few months ago, a banner borne in another Irish insurrection displayed the inscription—

"REMEMBER EMMET."

Far away "beyond the Atlantic foam," and "by the long wash of Australasian seas," societies are in existence bearing his name, and having for their object to cherish his memory and perpetuate his principles. And wherever on the habitable globe a few members of the scattered Irish race are to be found, there are hearts that are thrilled by even the faintest allusion to the uninscribed grave-stone and the unwritten epitaph.



* * * * *



THOMAS RUSSELL.

When Emmet was dead, and the plan to which he devoted his fortune, his talents, and his life, had sunk in failure, the cause of Irish independence appeared finally lost, and the cry, more than once repeated in after times, that "now, indeed, the last bolt of Irish disaffection has been sped, and that there would never again be an Irish rebellion," rung loudly from the exulting enemies of Ireland. The hearts of the people seemed broken by the weight of the misfortunes and calamities that overwhelmed them. The hopes which had brightened their stormy path, and enabled them to endure the oppression to which they were subjected by expectations of a glorious change, flickered no longer amidst the darkness. The efforts of the insurgents were everywhere drowned in blood; the hideous memories of '98 were brought up anew; full of bitter thoughts, exasperated, humiliated, and despondent, the people brooded over their wretched fate, and sullenly submitted to the reign of terror which was inaugurated amongst them. Little had the Irish patriots to look forward to in that dark hour of suffering and disappointment. A nightmare of blood and violence weighed down the spirits of the people; a stupor appeared to have fallen on the nation; and though time might be trusted to arouse them from the trance, they had suffered another loss, not so easily repaired, in the death and dispersion of their leaders. Where now should they find the Moses to lead them from the land of captivity? Tone, Fitzgerald, Emmet, Bond, M'Cracken, the Sheareses—all were dead. M'Nevin, Neilson, and O'Connor were in exile. Heavily and relentlessly the arm of vengeance had fallen on them one by one; but the list was not even then completed. There was yet another victim to fall before the altar of liberty, and the sacrifice which commenced with Orr did not conclude until Thomas Russell had perished on the gallows of Downpatrick.

The importance of the part which Thomas Russell fills in the history of the United Irishmen, the worth of his character, the purity and nobility of his sentiments, and the spirit of uncompromising patriotism displayed in his last address, would render unpardonable the omission of his name from such a work as this. "I mean to make my trial," said Russell, "and the last of my life, if it is to close now, as serviceable to the cause of liberty as I can," and he kept his word. To-day, we try in some slight way to requite that fidelity which endured unto death, by rescuing Thomas Russell's name from oblivion, and recalling his services and virtues to the recollection of his countrymen.

He was born at Betsborough, Dunnahane, in the parish of Kilshanick, county Cork, on the 21st November, 1767. His father was an officer in the British army, who had fought against the Irish Brigade in the memorable battle of Fontenoy, and who died in a high situation in the Royal Hospital at Kilmainham. Thomas, the youngest of his three sons, was educated for the Protestant Church; but his inclinations sought a different field of action, and at the age of fifteen he left for India as a volunteer, where he served with his brother, Ambrose, whose gallantry in battle called down commendation from the English king. Thomas Russell quitted India after five years' service, and his return is ascribed to the disgust and indignation which filled him on witnessing the extortions, the cruelties, the usurpations, and brutalities, which were carried out and sanctioned by the government under which he served. He left Ireland burdened with few fixed political principles and little knowledge of the world; he returned a full grown man, imbued with the opinions which he never afterwards abandoned. He was then, we are told, a model of manly beauty, one of those favoured individuals whom we cannot pass in the street without being guilty of the rudeness of staring in the face while passing, and turning round to look at the receding figure. Though more than six feet high, his majestic stature was scarcely observed, owing to the exquisite symmetry of his form. Martial in his gait and demeanour, his appearance was not altogether that of a soldier. His dark and steady eye, compressed lip, and some what haughty bearing, were occasionally strongly indicative of the camp; but in general the classic contour of his finely formed head, the expression of sweetness that characterised his smile, and the benevolence that beamed in his fine countenance, seemed to mark him out as one that was destined to be the ornament, grace, and blessing of private life. His manners were those of the finished gentleman, combined with that native grace which nothing but superiority of intellect can give; he was naturally reserved and retiring in disposition, and his private life was distinguished by eminent purity and an unostentatious devotion to the precepts of religion.

Such was Thomas Russell when he made the acquaintance of Theobald Wolfe Tone in Dublin. There is no doubt that the views and opinions of Tone made a profound impression on young Russell; it is equally certain, on the other hand, that Tone learned to love and esteem his new friend, whose sentiments were so much in accordance with his own. Throughout Tone's journal we find constant references to Thomas Russell, whom he always places with Thomas Addis Emmet at the head of his list of friends. Early in 1791 Russell proceeded to Belfast to join the 64th Regiment, in which he had obtained a commission; before leaving Dublin he appears to have become a member of the Society of United Irishmen, and in Belfast he soon won the friendship and shared the councils of the patriotic men who were labouring for Ireland in that city.

While in Belfast, Russell fell into pecuniary embarrassments. His generous and confiding nature induced him to go bail for a false friend, and he found himself one morning obliged to meet a claim for L200, which he had no means of discharging except by the sale of his commission. Russell sold out and retired to Dungannon, where he lived for some time on the residue of the money thus obtained, and during this period he was appointed a Justice of the Peace for the county of Tyrone. After a short experience of "Justices' justice" in the North, he retired from the bench through motives alike creditable to his head and heart. "I cannot reconcile it to my conscience," he exclaimed one day, "to sit on a bench where the practice exists of inquiring what religion a person is before investigating the charge against him." Russell returned, after taking this step, to Belfast, where he was appointed to a situation in the public library of the town, and where he became a regular contributor to the organ of the Ulster patriots, the Northern Star.

In 1796 he was appointed by the United Irishmen to the supreme military command in the county Down, a post for which his military experience not less than his personal influence fitted him, but his political career was soon afterwards interrupted by his arrest on the 26th of September, 1796. Russell was removed to Dublin, and lodged in Newgate Prison; his arrest filled the great heart of Tone, who was then toiling for his country in France, with sorrow and dismay. "It is impossible," he says in his journal, "to conceive the effect this misfortune has on my mind. If we are not in Ireland in time to extricate him he is lost, for the government will move heaven and earth to ensure his condemnation. Good God!" he adds, "if Russell and Neilson fall, where shall I find two others to replace them?" During the eventful months that intervened between the date of his arrest and the 19th of March, 1799, poor Russell remained chafing his imprisoned soul, filled with patriotic passion and emotion, in his prison cell in Kilmainham. On the latter date, when the majority of his associates were dead, and their followers scattered and disheartened, he was transferred to Fort George in Scotland, where he spent three years more in captivity. The government had no specific charge against him, but they feared his influence and distrusted his intentions, and they determined to keep him a prisoner while a chance remained of his exerting his power against them. No better illustration of Russell's character and principles could be afforded than that supplied in the following extract from one of the letters written by him during his incarceration in Fort George:—"To the people of Ireland," he writes, addressing an Irish friend and sympathiser, "I am responsible for my actions; amidst the uncertainties of life this may be my valedictory letter; what has occasioned the failure of the cause is useless to speculate on—Providence orders all things for the best. I am sure the people will never abandon the cause; I am equally sure it will succeed. I trust men will see," he adds, referring to the infidel views then unhappily prevalent, "that the only true basis of liberty is morality, and the only stable basis of morality is religion."

In 1802 the government, failing to establish any distinct charge against Russell, set him at liberty, and he at once repaired to Paris, where he met Robert Emmet, who was then preparing to renew the effort of Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone. Time had not changed, nor suffering damped, the patriotic impulses of Thomas Russell; he entered heartily into the plans of young Emmet, and when the latter left for Ireland in November, 1802, to prosecute his hazardous enterprise, it was with the full understanding that Russell would stand by his side in the post of danger, and with him perish or succeed. In accordance with this arrangement, Russell followed Robert Emmet to Dublin, where he arrived so skilfully disguised that even his own family failed to recognise him. Emmet's plans for the outbreak in Dublin were matured when Russell, with a trusty companion, was despatched northwards to summon the Ulster men to action. Buoyant in spirit, and filled with high expectation, he entered on his mission, but he returned to Dublin a week later prostrate in spirit and with a broken heart. One of his first acts on arriving in Belfast was to issue a proclamation, in which, as "General-in-Chief of the Northern District," he summoned the people of Ulster to action.

The North, however, refused to act. It was the old, old story. Belfast resolved on waiting "to see what the South would do," and the South waited for Belfast. Disgusted and disappointed, Russell quitted the Northern capital and proceeded to Antrim, where at least he thought he might expect to find cordial co-operation; but fresh disappointments awaited him, and with a load of misery at his heart, such as he had never felt before, Russell returned to Dublin, where he lived in seclusion, until arrested by Major Sirr and his myrmidons on the 9th of September, 1803. A reward of L1,500 had been offered for his apprehension. We learn on good authority that the ruffianly town-major, on arresting him, seized the unfortunate patriot rudely by the neck-cloth, whereupon, Russell, a far more powerful man than his assailant, flung him aside, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed—"I will not be treated with indignity." Sirr parleyed for a while; a file of soldiers was meanwhile summoned to his aid, and Russell was borne off in irons a prisoner to the Castle. While undergoing this second captivity a bold attempt was made by his friends to effect his liberation by bribing one of the gaolers; the plot, however, broke down, and Russell never breathed the air of freedom again. While awaiting his trial—that trial which he knew could have but one termination, the death of a felon—Russell addressed a letter to one of his friends outside, in which the following noble passage, the fittest epitaph to be engraved on his tombstone, occurs:—"I mean to make my trial," he writes, "and the last of my life, if it is to close now, as serviceable to the cause of liberty as I can. I trust my countrymen will ever adhere to it: I know it will soon prosper. When the country is free," he adds—that it would be free he never learned to doubt—"I beg they may lay my remains with my father in a private manner, and pay the few debts I owe. I have only to beg of my countrymen to remember that the cause of liberty is the cause of virtue, which I trust they will never abandon. May God bless and prosper them, and when power comes into their hands I entreat them to use it with moderation. May God and the Saviour bless them all."

Russell was taken to Downpatrick, escorted by a strong force of cavalry, where he was lodged in the governor's rooms, preparatory to being tried in that town by a Special Commission. While in prison in Downpatrick he addressed a letter to Miss M'Cracken, a sister of Henry Joy M'Cracken, one of the insurgent leaders of 1798, in which he speaks as follows: "Humanly speaking, I expect to be found guilty and immediately executed. As this may be my last letter, I shall only say that I did my best for my country and for mankind. I have no wish to die, but far from regretting its loss in such a cause, had I a thousand lives I would willingly risk or lose them in it. Be assured, liberty will in the midst of those storms be established, and God will wipe the tears from all eyes."

The sad anticipations expressed by Russell were but too fully borne out. There was short shrift in those days for Irishmen accused of treason, and the verdict of guilty, which he looked forward to with so much resignation, was delivered before the last rays of the sun which rose on the morning of the trial had faded in the gloaming. It was sworn that he had attended treasonable meetings and distributed green uniforms; that he asked those who attended them, "if they did not desire to get rid of the Sassanaghs;" that he spoke of 30,000 stands of arms from France, but said if France should fail them, "forks, spades, shovels, and pickaxes" would serve that purpose. It was useless to struggle against such testimony, palpably false and distorted as it was in some parts, and Russell decided on cutting short the proceedings. "I shall not trouble my lawyers," he said, "to make any statement in my case. There are but three possible modes of defence—firstly, by calling witnesses to prove the innocence of my conduct; secondly, by calling them to impeach the credit of opposite witnesses, or by proving an alibi. As I can resort to none of those modes of defence without involving others, I consider myself precluded from any." Previous to the Judge's charge, the prisoner asked—"If it was not permitted to persons in his situation to say a few words, as he wished to give his valedictory advice to his countrymen in as concise a manner as possible, being well convinced how speedy the transition was from that vestibule of the grave to the scaffold." He was told in reply, "that he would have an opportunity of expressing himself," and when the time did come, Russell advanced to the front of the dock, and spoke in a clear, firm tone of voice, as follows:—

"Before I address myself to this audience, I return my sincere thanks to my learned counsel for the exertions they have made, in which they displayed so much talent. I return my thanks to the gentlemen on the part of the crown, for the accommodation and indulgence I have received during my confinement. I return my thanks to the gentlemen of the jury, for the patient investigation they have afforded my case; and I return my thanks to the court, for the attention and politeness they have shown me during my trial. As to my political sentiments, I shall, in as brief a manner as possible (for I do not wish to engross the time of the court), say a few words. I look back to the last thirteen years of my life, the period with which I have interfered with the transactions of Ireland, with entire satisfaction; though for my share in them I am now about to die—the gentlemen of the jury having, by their verdict, put the seal of truth on the evidence against me. Whether, at this time, and the country being situated as it is, it be safe to inflict the punishment of death upon me for the offence I am charged with, I leave to the gentlemen who conduct the prosecution. My death, perhaps, may be useful in deterring others from following my example. It may serve, on the other hand, as a memorial to others, and on trying occasions it may inspire them with courage. I can now say, as far as my judgment enabled me, I acted for the good of my country and of the world. It may be presumptuous for me to deliver my opinions here as a statesman, but as the government have singled me out as a leader, and given me the appellation of 'General,' I am in some degree entitled to do so. To me it is plain that all things are verging towards a change, when all shall be of one opinion. In ancient times, we read of great empires having their rise and their fall, and yet do the old governments proceed as if all were immutable. From the time I could observe and reflect, I perceived that there were two kinds of laws—the laws of the State and the laws of God—frequently clashing with each other; by the latter kind, I have always endeavoured to regulate my conduct; but that laws of the former kind do exist in Ireland I believe no one who hears me can deny. That such laws have existed in former times many and various examples clearly evince. The Saviour of the world suffered by the Roman laws—by the same laws His Apostles were put to the torture, and deprived of their lives in His cause. By my conduct I do not consider that I have incurred any moral guilt. I have committed no moral evil. I do not want the many and bright examples of those gone before me; but did I want this encouragement, the recent example of a youthful hero—a martyr in the cause of liberty—who has just died for his country, would inspire me. I have descended into the vale of manhood. I have learned to estimate the reality and delusions of this world; he was surrounded by everything which could endear this world to him—in the bloom of youth, with fond attachments, and with all the fascinating charms of health and innocence; to his death I look back even in this moment with rapture. I have travelled much, and seen various parts of the world, and I think the Irish are the most virtuous nation on the face of the earth—they are a good and brave people, and had I a thousand lives I would yield them in their service. If it be the will of God that I suffer for that with which I stand charged, I am perfectly resigned to His holy will and dispensation. I do not wish to trespass much more on the time of those that hear me, and did I do so an indisposition which has seized on me since I came into court would prevent my purpose. Before I depart from this for a better world I wish to address myself to the landed aristocracy of this country. The word 'aristocracy' I do not mean to use as an insulting epithet, but in the common sense of the expression.

"Perhaps, as my voice may now be considered as a voice crying from the grave, what I now say may have some weight. I see around me many, who during the last years of my life have disseminated principles for which I am now to die. Those gentlemen, who have all the wealth and the power of the country in their hands, I strongly advise, and earnestly exhort, to pay attention to the poor—by the poor I mean the labouring class of the community, their tenantry and dependents. I advise them for their good to look into their grievances, to sympathize in their distress, and to spread comfort and happiness around their dwellings. It might be that they may not hold their power long, but at all events to attend to the wants and distresses of the poor is their truest interest. If they hold their power, they will thus have friends around them; if they lose it, their fall will be gentle, and I am sure unless they act thus they can never be happy. I shall now appeal to the right honourable gentleman in whose hands the lives of the other prisoners are, and entreat that he will rest satisfied with my death, and let that atone for those errors into which I may have been supposed to have deluded others. I trust the gentleman will restore them to their families and friends. If he shall do so, I can assure him that the breeze which conveys to him the prayers and blessings of their wives and children will be more grateful than that which may be tainted with the stench of putrid corpses, or carrying with it the cries of the widow and the orphan. Standing as I do in the presence of God and of man, I entreat him to let my life atone for the faults of all, and that my blood alone may flow.

"If I am then to die, I have therefore two requests to make. The first is, that as I have been engaged in a work possibly of some advantage to the world, I may be indulged with three days for its completion; secondly, that as there are those ties which even death cannot sever, and as there are those who may have some regard for what will remain of me after death, I request that my remains, disfigured as they will be, may be delivered after the execution of the sentence to those dear friends, that they may be conveyed to the ground where my parents are laid, and where those faithful few may have a consecrated spot over which they may be permitted to grieve. I have now to declare, when about to pass into the presence of Almighty God, that I feel no enmity in my mind to any being, none to those who have borne testimony against me, and none to the jury who have pronounced the verdict of my death."

The last request of Russell was refused, and he was executed twelve hours after the conclusion of the trial. At noon, on the 21st of October, 1803, he was borne pinioned to the place of execution. Eleven regiments of soldiers were concentrated in the town to overawe the people and defeat any attempt at rescue; yet even with this force at their back, the authorities were far from feeling secure. The interval between the trial and execution was so short that no preparation could be made for the erection of a scaffold, except the placing of some barrels under the gateway of the main entrance to the prison, with planks placed upon them as a platform, and others sloping up from the ground, by which it was ascended. On the ground hard by, were placed a sack of sawdust, an axe, a block, and a knife. After ascending the scaffold, Russell gazed forward through the archway—towards the people, whose white faces could be seen glistening outside, and again expressed his forgiveness of his persecutors. His manner, we are told, was perfectly calm, and he died without a struggle.

A purer soul, a more blameless spirit, than Thomas Russell, never sunk on the battle-field of freedom. Fixed in principles, and resolute in danger, he was nevertheless gentle, courteous, unobstrusive, and humane; with all the modesty and unaffectedness of childhood, he united the zeal of a martyr and the courage of a hero. To the cause of his country he devoted all his energies and all his will; and when he failed to render it prosperous in life, he illumined it by his devotion and steadfastness in death. The noble speech given above, and the passages from his letters which we have quoted, are sufficient in themselves to show how chivalrous was the spirit, how noble the motives of Thomas Russell. The predictions which he uttered with so much confidence have not indeed been fulfilled, and the success which he looked forward to so hopefully has never been won. But his advice, so often repeated in his letters, is still adhered to; his countrymen have not yet learned to abandon the cause in which he suffered, and they still cherish the conviction which he so touchingly expressed—"that liberty will, in the midst of these storms be established, and that God will yet wipe off the tears of the Irish nation."

Russell rests in the churchyard of the Protestant church of Downpatrick. A plain slab marks the spot where he is laid, and there is on it this single line—

"THE GRAVE OF RUSSELL."

* * * * *

We have now closed our reference to the portion of Irish history comprised within the years 1798 and 1803, and as far as concerns the men who suffered for Ireland in those disastrous days our "Speeches from the Dock" are concluded. We leave behind us the struggle of 1798 and the men who organized it; we turn from the records of a period reeking with the gore of Ireland's truest sons, and echoing with the cries and curses of the innocent and oppressed; we pass without notice the butcheries and outrages that filled the land, while our countrymen were being sabred into submission; and we leave behind us, too, the short-lived insurrection of 1803, and the chivalrous young patriot who perished with it. We turn to more recent events, less appalling in their general aspect, but not less important in their consequences, or less interesting to the present generation, and take up the next link in the unbroken chain of protests against British rule in Ireland with the lives and the fortunes of the patriots of 1848. How faithfully the principles of freedom have been handed down—how nobly the men of our own times have imitated the patriots of the past—how thoroughly the sentiments expressed from the Green-street dock nineteen years ago coincide with the declarations of Tone, of Emmet, and of Russell—our readers will shortly have an opportunity of judging. They will see how all the sufferings and all the calamities that darkened the path of the martyrs of '98 were insufficient to deter others, as gifted, as earnest, and as chivalrous as they, from following in their footsteps; and how unquenchable and unending, as the altar light of the fire-worshipper, the generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm was transmitted through generations, unaffected by the torrents of blood in which it was sought to extinguish it.

The events of our own generation—the acts of contemporary patriots—now claim our attention; but we are reluctant as yet to turn over the page, and drop the curtain on the scenes with which we have hitherto been dealing, and which we feel we have inadequately described. We have spoken of the men whose speeches from the dock are on record, but we still linger over the history of the events in which they shared, and of the men who were associated with them in their endeavours. The patriots whose careers we have glanced at are but a few out of the number of Irishmen who suffered during the same period, and in the same cause, and whose actions recommend them to the admiration and esteem of posterity. Confining ourselves strictly to those whose speeches after conviction have reached us, the list could not well be extended; but there are many who acted as brave a part, and whose memories are inseparable from the history of the period. We should have desired to speak, were the scope of our labours more extended, of the brave Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the gallant and the true, who sacrificed his position, his prospects, and his life, for the good old cause, and whose arrest and death contributed more largely, perhaps, than any other cause that could be assigned to the failure of the insurrection of 1798. Descended from an old and noble family, possessing in a remarkable degree all the attributes and embellishments of a popular leader, young and spirited, eloquent and wealthy, ardent, generous, and brave, of good address, and fine physical proportions, it is not surprising that Lord Edward Fitzgerald became the idol of the patriot party, and was appointed by them to a leading position in the organization. Lord Edward Fitzgerald was born in October, 1763; being the fifth son of James Duke of Leinster, the twentieth Earl of Kildare. He grew up to manhood, as a recent writer has observed, when the drums of the Volunteers were pealing their marches of victory; and under the stirring events of the period his soul burst through the shackles that had long bound down the Irish aristocracy in servile dependence. In his early years he served in the American War of Independence on the side of despotism and oppression—a circumstance which in after years caused him poignant sorrow. He joined the United Irishmen, about the time that Thomas Addis Emmet entered their ranks, and the young nobleman threw himself into the movement with all the ardour and energy of his nature. He was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the National forces in the south, and laboured with indefatigable zeal in perfecting the plans for the outbreak on the 23rd of May. The story of his arrest and capture is too well known to need repetition. Treachery dogged the steps of the young patriot, and after lying for some weeks in concealment, he was arrested on the 19th day of May, 1798, two months after his associates in the direction of the movement had been arrested at Oliver Bond's. His gallant struggle with his captors, fighting like a lion at bay, against the miscreants who assailed him; his assassination, his imprisonment, and his death, are events to which the minds of the Irish nationalists perpetually recur, and which, celebrated in song and story, are told with sympathising regret wherever a group of Irish blood are gathered around the hearth-stone. His genius, his talents, and his influence, his unswerving attachment to his country, and his melancholy end, cast an air of romance around his history; and the last ray of gratitude must fade from the Irish heart before the name of the martyred patriot, who sleeps in the vaults of St. Werburgh, will be forgotten in the land of his birth.

In less than a fortnight after Lord Edward expired in Newgate another Irish rebel, distinguished by his talents, his fidelity, and his position, expiated with his life the crime of "loving his country above his king." It is hard to mention Thomas Russell and ignore Henry Joy M'Cracken—it is hard to speak of the Insurrection of '98 and forget the gallant young Irishman who commanded at the battle of Antrim, and who perished a few weeks subsequently, in the bloom of his manhood, on the scaffold in Belfast. Henry Joy M'Cracken was one of the first members of the Society of United Irishmen, and he was one of the best. He was arrested, owing to private information received by the government, on the 10th of October, 1796—three weeks after Russell, his friend and confidant, was flung into prison—and lodged in Newgate Jail, where he remained until the 8th of September in the following year. He was then liberated on bail, and immediately, on regaining his liberty, returned to Belfast, still bent on accomplishing at all hazards the liberation of his country. Previous to the outbreak in May, '98, he had frequent interviews with the patriot leaders in Dublin, and M'Cracken was appointed to the command of the insurgent forces in Antrim. Filled with impatience and patriotic ardour, he heard of the stirring events that followed the arrest of Lord Edward Fitzgerald; he concentrated all his energies in preparing the Northern patriots for action, but circumstances delayed the outbreak in that quarter, and it was not until the 6th of June, 1798, that M'Cracken had perfected his arrangements for taking the field, and issued the following brief proclamation, "dated the first year of liberty, 6th June, 1798," addressed to the Army of Ulster:—

"To-morrow we march on Antrim. Drive the garrison of Randalstown before you, and hasten to form a junction with your Commander-in-Chief."

Twenty-one thousand insurgents were to have rallied at the call of M'Cracken, out not more than seven thousand responded to the summons. Even this number, however, would have been sufficient to strike a successful blow, which would have filled the hearts of the gallant Wexford men, then in arms, with exultation, and effected incalculable results on the fate of Ireland, had not the curse of the Irish cause, treachery and betrayal, again come to the aid of its enemies. Hardly had the plans for the attack on Antrim been perfected, when the secrets of the conspirators were revealed to General Nugent, who commanded the British troops in the North, and the defeat of the insurgents was thus secured. M'Cracken's forces marched to the attack on Antrim with great regularity, chorusing the "Marseillaise Hymn" as they charged through the town. Their success at first seemed complete, but the English general, acting on the information which had treacherously been supplied him, had taken effective means to disconcert and defeat them. Suddenly, and as it seemed, in the flush of victory, the insurgents found themselves exposed to a galling fire from a force posted at either end of the town; a gallant resistance was offered, but it was vain. The insurgents fled from the fatal spot, leaving 500 of their dead and dying behind them, and at nightfall Henry Joy M'Cracken found himself a fugitive and a ruined man. For some weeks he managed to baffle the bloodhounds on his track, but he was ultimately arrested and tried by court-martial in Belfast, on the 17th July, 1798. On the evening of the same day he was executed. We have it on the best authority that he bore his fate with calmness, resolution, and resignation. It is not his fault that a "Speech from the Dock" under his name is not amongst our present collection. He had actually prepared one, but his brutal judges would not listen to the patriot's exculpation. He was hung, amidst the sobs and tears of the populace, in front of the Old Market place of Belfast, and his remains were interred in the graveyard now covered by St. George's Protestant church.

Later still in the same year two gallant young officers of Irish blood, shared the fate of Russell and M'Cracken. They sailed with Humbert from Rochelle; they fought at Castlebar and Ballinamuck; and when the swords of their French allies were sheathed, they passed into the power of their foes. Matthew Tone was one of them; the other was Bartholomew Teeling. The latter filled the rank of Etat-major in the French army; and a letter from his commanding officer, General Humbert, was read at his trial, in which the highest praise was given to the young officer for the humane exertions which he made throughout his last brief campaign in the interest of mercy. "His hand," he said, "was ever raised to stay the useless effusion of blood, and his protection was afforded to the prostrate and defenceless." But his military judges paid little heed to those extenuating circumstances, and Teeling was condemned to die on the day of his trial. He perished on the 24th September, 1798, being then in his twenty-fourth year. He marched with a proud step to the place of execution on Arbour Hill, Dublin, and he died, as a soldier might, with unshaken firmness and unquailing mien. No lettered slab marks the place of his interment; and his bones remain in unhallowed and unconsecrated ground. Hardly had his headless body ceased to palpitate, when it was flung into a hole at the rere of the Royal Barracks. A few days later the same unhonoured spot received the mortal remains of Matthew Tone. "He had a more enthusiastic nature than any of us," writes his brother, Theobald Wolfe Tone, "and was a sincere Republican, capable of sacrificing everything for his principles." His execution was conducted with infamous cruelty and brutality, and the life-blood was still gushing from his body when it was flung into "the Croppy's Hole." "The day will come," says Dr. Madden, "when that desecrated spot will be hallowed ground—consecrated by religion—trod lightly by pensive patriotism—and decorated by funeral trophies in honour of the dead whose bones lie there in graves that are now neglected and unhonoured."

There are others of the patriot leaders who died in exile, far away from the land for which they suffered, and whose graves were dug on alien shores by the heedless hands of the stranger. This was the fate of Addis Emmet, of Neilson, and of M'Nevin. In Ireland they were foremost and most trusted amongst the gifted and brilliant throng that directed the labours and shaped the purposes of the United Irishmen. They survived the reign of terror that swallowed up the majority of their compatriots, and, when milder councils began to prevail, they were permitted to go forth from the dungeon which confined them into banishment. The vision of Irish freedom was not permitted to dawn upon them in life; from beyond the sandy slopes washed by the Western Atlantic they watched the fortunes of the old land with hopeless but enduring love. Their talents, their virtues, and their patriotism were not unappreciated by the people amongst whom they spent their closing years of life. In the busiest thoroughfare of the greatest city of America there towers over the heads of the by-passers the monument of marble which grateful hands have raised to the memory of Addis Emmet. In the centre of Western civilization, the home of republican liberty, the stranger reads in glowing words, of the virtues and the fame of the brother of Robert Emmet, sculptured on the noble pillar erected in Broadway, New York, to his memory. Nor was he the only one of his party to whom such an honour was accorded. A stone-throw from the spot where the Emmet monument stands, a memorial not less commanding in its proportions and appearance, was erected to William James M'Nevin; and the American citizen, as he passes through the spacious streets of that city which the genius of liberty has rendered prosperous and great, gazes proudly on those stately monuments, which tell him that the devotion to freedom which England punished and proscribed found in his own land the recognition which it merited from the gallant and the free.

[Footnote: The inscriptions on the Emmet monument are in three languages—Irish, Latin, and English. The Irish inscription consists of the following lines:—

Do mhiannaich se ardmath Cum tir a breith Do thug se clu a's fuair se moladh An deig a bais.

The following is the English inscription:

In Memory of THOMAS ADDIS EMMET,

Who exemplified in his conduct, And adorned by his integrity. The policy and principles of the UNITED IRISHMEN—

"To forward a brotherhood of affection, A community of rights, an identity of interests, and a union of power Among Irishmen of every religious persuasion, As the only means of Ireland's chief good, An impartial and adequate representation IN AN IRISH PARLIAMENT."

For this (mysterious fate of virtue) exiled from his native land, In America, the land of Freedom, He found a second country, Which paid his love by reverencing his genius. Learned in our laws, and in the laws of Europe, In the literature of our times, and in that of antiquity, All knowledge seemed subject to his use. An orator of the first order, clear, copious, fervid, Alike powerful to kindle the imagination, touch the affections, And sway the reason and will. Simple in his tastes, unassuming in his manners, Frank, generous, kind-hearted, and honourable, His private life was beautiful, As his public course was brilliant. Anxious to perpetuate The name and example of such a man, Alike illustrious by his genius, his virtues, and his fate; Consecrated to their affections by his sacrifices, his perils, And the deeper calamities of his kindred, IN A JUST AND HOLY CAUSE; His sympathising countrymen Erected this Monument and Cenotaph.]



* * * * *



JOHN MITCHEL

Subsequent to the melancholy tragedy of 1803, a period of indescribable depression was experienced in Ireland. Defeat, disaster, ruin, had fallen upon the national cause; the power on whose friendly aid so much reliance had been placed was humbled, and England stood before the world in the full blaze of triumph and glory. Her fleet was undisputed mistress of the ocean, having swept it of all hostile shipping, and left to the enemy little more than the small craft that sheltered in narrow creeks and under the guns of well-defended harbours. Her army, if not numerically large, had proved its valour on many a well-fought field, and shown that it knew how to bring victory to light upon its standards; and, what was not less a matter of wonder to others, and of pride to herself, the abundance of her wealth and the extent of her resources were shown to be without a parallel in the world. Napoleon was an exile on the rock of St. Helena; the "Holy Alliance"—as the European, sovereigns blasphemously designated themselves—were lording it over the souls and bodies of men by "right divine;" the free and noble principles in which the French Revolution had its origin were now sunk out of sight, covered with the infamy of the Reign of Terror and the responsibility of the series of desolating wars which had followed it, and no man dared to speak for them. Those were dark days for Ireland. Her parliament was gone, and in the blighting shade of the provincialism to which she was reduced, genius and courage seemed to have died out from the land. Thousands of her bravest and most devoted children had perished in her cause—some on the scaffold, and others on the field of battle—and many whose presence at home would have been invaluable to her were obliged to seek safety in exile. So Erin, the crownless Queen, sat in the dust with fetters on her limbs, her broken sword fallen from her hand, and with mournful memories lying heavy on her heart. The feelings of disappointment and grief then rankling in every Irish breast are well mirrored in that plaintive song of our national poet, which open with these tristful lines:—-

"'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead, When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Looked upward and blessed the pure ray ere it fled. 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee."



In this gloomy condition of affairs there was nothing for Irish patriotism to do except to seek for the removal, by constitutional means, of some of the cruel grievances that pressed on the people. Emancipation of the Catholics from the large remainder of the penal laws that still degraded and despoiled them was one of the baits held out by Mr. Pitt when playing his cards for the Union; but not long had the Irish parliament been numbered with the things that were, when it became evident that the minister was in no hurry to fulfil his engagement, and it was found necessary to take some steps for keeping him to his promise. Committees were formed, meetings were held, speeches were made, resolutions were adopted, and all the machinery of parliamentary endeavour was put in motion. The leaders of the Catholic cause in this case, like those of the national cause in the preceding years, were liberal-minded Protestant gentlemen; but as time wore on, a young barrister from Kerry, one of the old race and the old faith, took a decided lead amongst them, and soon became its recognised champion, the elect of the nation, the "man of the people." Daniel O'Connell stood forth, with the whole mass of his Catholic countrymen at his back, to wage within the lines of the constitution this battle for Ireland. He fought it resolutely and skilfully; the people supported him with an unanimity and an enthusiasm that were wonderful; their spirit rose and strengthened to that degree that the probability of another civil war began to loom up in the near future—inquiries instituted by the government resulted in the discovery that the Catholics serving in the army, and who constituted at least a third of its strength, were in full sympathy with their countrymen on this question, and could not be depended on to act against them—the ministry recognised the critical condition of affairs, saw that there was danger in delay, yielded to the popular demand—and Catholic Emancipation was won.

The details of that brilliant episode of Irish history cannot be told within the limits of this work, but some of its consequences concern us very nearly. The triumph of the constitutional struggle for Catholic Emancipation confirmed O'Connell in the resolution he had previously formed, to promote an agitation for a Repeal of the Union, and encouraged him to lay the proposal before his countrymen. The forces that had wrung the one measure of justice from an unwilling parliament were competent, he declared, to obtain the other. He soon succeeded in impressing his own belief on the minds of his countrymen, whose confidence in his wisdom and his powers was unbounded. The whole country responded to his call, and soon "the Liberator," as the emancipated Irish Catholics loved to call him, found himself at the head of a political organization which in its mode of action, its extent, and its ardour was "unique in the history of the world." Every city and great town in Ireland had its branch of the Repeal Association—every village had its Repeal reading-room, all deriving hope and life, and taking direction from the head-quarters in Dublin, where the great Tribune himself "thundered and lightened" at the weekly meetings. All Ireland echoed with his words. Newspapers, attaining thereby to a circulation never before approached in Ireland, carried them from one extremity of the land to the other—educating, cheering, and inspiring the hearts of the long downtrodden people. Nothing like this had ever occurred before. The eloquence of the patriot orators of the Irish parliament had not been brought home to the masses of the population; and the United Irishmen could only speak to them secretly, in whispers. But here were addresses glowing, and bold, and tender, brimful of native humour, scathing in their sarcasms, terrible in their denunciations, ineffably beautiful in their pathos—addresses that recalled the most glorious as well as the saddest memories of Irish history, and presented brilliant vistas of the future—addresses that touched to its fullest and most delicious vibration every chord of the Irish heart—here they were being sped over the land in an unfailing and ever welcome supply. The peasant read them to his family by the fireside when his hard day's work was done, and the fisherman, as he steered his boat homeward, reckoned as not the least of his anticipated pleasures, the reading of the last report from Conciliation Hall. And it was not the humbler classes only who acknowledged the influence of the Repeal oratory, sympathised with the movement, and enrolled themselves in the ranks. The priesthood almost to a man, were members of the Association and propagandists of its principles; the professional classes were largely represented in it; of merchants and traders it could count up a long roll; and many of the landed gentry, even though they held her Majesty's Commission of the Peace, were amongst its most prominent supporters. In short, the Repeal Association represented the Irish nation, and its voice was the voice of the people. The "Monster Meetings" of the year 1843 put this fact beyond the region of doubt or question. As popular demonstrations they were wonderful in their numbers, their order, and their enthusiasm. O'Connell, elated by their success, fancied that his victory was as good as won. He knew that things could not continue to go on as they were going—either the government or the Repeal Association should give way, and he believed the government would yield. For, the Association, he assured his countrymen, was safe within the limits of the law, and not a hostile hand could be laid upon it without violating the constitution. His countrymen had nothing to do but obey the law and support the Association, and a Repeal of the Union within a few months was, he said, inevitable. In all this he had allowed his own heart to deceive him; and his mistake was clearly shown, when in October, 1843, the government, by proclamation and a display of military force, prevented the intended monster meeting at Clontarf. It was still more fully established in the early part of the following year, when he, with a number of his political associates, was brought to trial for treasonable and seditious practices, found guilty, and sentenced to twelve months' imprisonment. The subsequent reversal of the verdict by the House of Lords, was a legal triumph for O'Connell; but nevertheless, his prestige had suffered by the occurrence, and his policy had begun to pall upon the minds of the people.

After his release the business of the Association went on as before, only there was less of confidence and of defiance in the speeches of the Liberator, and there were no more monster meetings. He was now more emphatic than ever in his advocacy of moral force principles, and his condemnation of all warlike hints and allusions. The weight of age—he was then more than seventy years—was pressing on his once buoyant spirit; his prison experience had damped his courage; and he was haunted night and day by a conviction—terrible to his mind—that there was growing up under the wing of the Association, a party that would teach the people to look to an armed struggle as the only sure means of obtaining the freedom of their country. The writings of the Nation—then a new light in the literature and politics of Ireland—had a ring in them that was unpleasant to his ears, a sound as of clashing steel and the explosion of gunpowder. In the articles of that journal much honour was given to men who had striven for Irish freedom by other methods than those in favour at Conciliation Hall; and the songs and ballads which it was giving to the youth of Ireland—who received them with delight, treasuring every line "as if an angel spoke"—were bright with the spirit of battle, and taught any doctrine except the sinfulness of fighting for liberty. The Liberator grew fearful of that organ and of the men by whom it was conducted. He distrusted that quiet-faced, thoughtful, and laborious young man, whom they so loved and reverenced—the founder, the soul, and the centre of their party. To the keen glance of the aged leader it appeared that for all that placid brow, those calm grey eyes and softly curving lip of his, the man had no horror of blood-spilling in a righteous cause, and was capable not only of deliberately inciting his countrymen to rise in arms against English rule, but also of taking a foremost place in the struggle. And little less to be dreaded than Thomas Davis, was his friend and collaborateur, Charles Gavan Duffy, whose sharp and active intellect and resolute spirit were not in the least likely to allow the national cause to rest for ever on the peaceful platform of Conciliation Hall. Death removed Davis early from the scene; but in John Mitchel, who had taken his place, there was no gain to the party of moral force. Then there was that other young firebrand—that dapper, well-built, well-dressed, curled and scented young gentleman from the Urbs Intacta—whose wondrous eloquence, with the glow of its thought, the brilliancy and richness of its imagery, and the sweetness of its cadences, charmed and swayed all hearts—adding immensely to the dangers of the situation. O'Brien, too, staid and unimpulsive as was his character, deliberate and circumspect as were his habits, was evidently inclined to give the weight of his name and influence to this "advanced" party. And there were many less prominent, but scarcely less able men giving them the aid of their great talents in the press and on the platform—not only men, but women too. Some of the most inspiriting of the strains that were inducing the youth of the country to familiarize themselves with steel blades and rifle barrels proceeded from the pens of those fair and gifted beings. Day after day, as this party sickened of the stale platitudes, and timid counsels, and crooked policy of the Hall, O'Connell, his son John, and other leading members of the Association, insisted more and more strongly on their doctrine of moral force, and indulged in the wildest and most absurd denunciations of the principle of armed resistance to tyranny. "The liberty of the world," exclaimed O'Connell, "is not worth the shedding of one drop of human blood." Notwithstanding the profound disgust which the utterance of such sentiments caused to the bolder spirits in the Association, they would have continued within its fold, if those debasing principles had not been actually formulated into a series of resolutions and proposed for the acceptance of the Society. Then they rose against the ignoble doctrine which would blot the fair fame of all who ever fought for liberty in Ireland or elsewhere, and rank the noblest men the world ever saw in the category of fools and criminals. Meagher, in a brilliant oration, protested against the resolutions, and showed why he would not "abhor and stigmatize the sword." Mr. John O'Connell interrupted and interfered with the speaker. It was plain that freedom of speech was to be had no longer on the platform of the Association, and that men of spirit had no longer any business there—Meagher took up his hat and left the Hall, and amongst the crowd that accompanied, him, went William Smith O'Brien, Thomas Devin Reilly, Charles Gavan Duffy, and John Mitchel.

After this disruption, which occurred on the 28th of July, 1846, came the formation of the "Irish Confederation" by the seceders. In the proceedings of the new Society Mr. Mitchel took a more prominent part than he had taken in the business of the Repeal Association. And he continued to write in his own terse and forcible style in the Nation. But his mind travelled too fast in the direction of war for either the journal or the society with which he was connected. The desperate condition of the country, now a prey to all the horrors of famine, for the awfully fatal effects of which the government was clearly responsible—the disorganization and decay of the Repeal party, consequent on the death of O'Connell—the introduction of Arms' Acts and other coercive measures by the government, and the growing ardour of the Confederate Clubs, were to him as signs and tokens unmistakable that there was no time to be lost in bringing matters to a crisis in which the people should hold their own by force of arms. Most of his political associates viewed the situation with more patience; but Mr. Mitchel was resolved that even if he stood alone, he would speak out his opinions to the people. In the latter part of December, 1847, he withdrew from the Nation. On the 5th of February, 1848, at the close of a debate, which had lasted two days, on the merits of his policy of immediate resistance to the collection of rates, rents, and taxes, and the division on which was unfavourable to him, he, with a number of friends and sympathisers withdraw from the Confederation. Seven days afterwards, he issued the first number of a newspaper, bearing the significant title of The United Irishman, and having for its motto the following aphorism, quoted from Theobald Wolfe Tone: "Our independence must be had at all hazards. If the men of property will not support us, they must fall; we can support ourselves by the aid of that numerous and respectable class of the community, the men of no property."

The Nation had been regarded as rather an outspoken journal, and not particularly well affected to the rulers of the country. But it was mildness, and gentleness, and loyalty itself compared to the new-comer in the field of journalism. The sudden uprising of a most portentous comet sweeping close to this planet of ours could hardly create more unfeigned astonishment in the minds of people in general than did the appearance of this wonderful newspaper, brimful of open and avowed sedition, crammed with incitements to insurrection, and with diligently prepared instructions for the destruction of her Majesty's troops, barracks, stores, and magazines. Men rubbed their eyes, as they read its articles and correspondence, scarcely believing that any man in his sober senses would venture, in any part of the Queen's dominions, to put such things in print. But there were the articles and the letters, nevertheless, on fair paper and in good type, published in a duly registered newspaper bearing the impressed stamp of the Customs—a sign to all men that the proprietor was bound in heavy sureties to the government against the publication of "libel, blasphemy, or sedition"!—couched, moreover, in a style of language possessing such grace and force, such delicacy of finish, and yet such marvellous strength, rich with so much of quiet humour, and bristling with such rasping sarcasm and penetrating invective, that they were read as an intellectual luxury even by men who regarded as utterly wild and wicked the sentiments they conveyed. The first editorial utterance in this journal consisted of a letter from Mr. Mitchel to the Viceroy, in which that functionary was addressed as "The Right Hon. the Earl of Clarendon, Englishman, calling himself her Majesty's Lord Lieutenant-General and General Governor of Ireland." The purport of the document was to declare, above board, the aims and objects of the United Irishman, a journal with which, wrote Mr. Mitchel, "your lordship and your lordship's masters and servants are to have more to do than may be agreeable either to you or me." That that purpose was to resume the struggle which had been waged by Tone and Emmet, or, as Mr. Mitchel put it, "the Holy War, to sweep this island clear of the English name and nation." "We differ," he said, "from the illustrious conspirators of '98, not in principle—no, not an iota—but, as I shall presently show you, materially as to the mode of action." And the difference was to consist in this—that whereas the revolutionary organization in Ninety-Eight was a secret one, which was ruined by spies and informers, that of Forty-Eight was to be an open one, concerning which informers could tell nothing that its promoters would not willingly proclaim from the house-tops. "If you desire," he wrote, "to have a Castle detective employed about the United Irishman office in Trinity-street, I shall make no objection, provided the man be sober and honest. If Sir George Grey or Sir William Somerville would like to read our correspondence, we make him welcome for the present—only let the letters be forwarded without losing a post." Of the fact that he would speedily be called to account for his conduct in one of her Majesty's courts of law, the writer of this defiant language was perfectly cognizant; but he declared that the inevitable prosecution would be his opportunity of achieving a victory over the government. "For be it known to you," he wrote, "that in such a case you shall either publicly, boldly, notoriously pack a jury, or else see the accused rebel walk a free man out of the court of Queen's Bench—which will be a victory only less than the rout of your lordship's red-coats in the open field." In case of his defeat, other men would take up the cause, and maintain it until at last England would have to fall back on her old system of courts-martial, and triangles, and free quarters, and Irishmen would find that there was no help for them "in franchises, in votings, in spoutings, in shoutings, and toasts drank with enthusiasm—nor in anything in this world, save the extensor and contractor muscles of their right arms, in these and in the goodness of God above." The conclusion of this extraordinary address to her Majesty's representative was in the following terms:—

"In plain English, my Lord Earl, the deep and irreconcilable disaffection of this people to all British laws, lawgivers, and law administrators shall find a voice. That holy Hatred of foreign dominion which nerved our noble predecessors fifty years ago for the dungeon, the field, or the gallows (though of late years it has worn a vile nisi prius gown, and snivelled somewhat in courts of law and on spouting platforms) still lives, thank God! and glows as fierce and hot as ever. To educate that holy Hatred, to make it know itself, and avow itself, and, at last, fill itself full, I hereby devote the columns of the United Irishman."

After this address to the Lord Lieutenant, Mr. Mitchel took to addressing the farming classes, and it is really a study to observe the exquisite precision, the clearness, and the force of the language he employed to convey his ideas to them. In his second letter he supposes the case of a farmer who has the entire produce of his land in his haggard, in the shape of six stacks of corn; he shows that three of these ought, in all honour and conscience, be sufficient for the landlord and the government to seize upon, leaving the other three to support the family of the man whose labour had produced them. But what are the facts?—the landlord and the government sweep all away, and the peasant and his family starve by the ditch sides. As an illustration of this condition of things, he quotes from a southern paper an account of an inquest held on the body of a man named Boland, and on the bodies of his two daughters, who, as the verdict declared, had "died of cold and starvation," although occupants of a farm of over twenty acres in extent. On this melancholy case the comment of the editor of the United Irishman was as follows:—

"Now what became of poor Boland's twenty acres of crop? Part of it went to Gibraltar, to victual the garrison; part to South Africa, to provision the robber army; part went to Spain, to pay for the landlord's wine; part to London, to pay the interest of his honour's mortgage to the Jews. The English ate some of it; the Chinese had their share; the Jews and the Gentiles divided it amongst them—and there was none for Boland."

As to the manner in which the condition and fate of poor Boland were to be avoided, abundant instructions were given in every number. The anti-tithe movement was quoted as a model to begin with; but, of course, that was to be improved upon. The idea that the people would not venture on such desperate movements, and had grown enamoured of the Peace policy and of "Patience and Perseverance," Mr. Mitchel refused to entertain for a moment:—

"I will not believe that Irishmen are so degraded and utterly lost as this. The Earth is awakening from sleep; a flash of electric fire is passing through the dumb millions. Democracy is girding himself once more like a strong man to run a race; and slumbering nations are arising in their might, and 'shaking their invincible locks.' Oh! my countrymen, look up, look up! Arise from the death-dust where you have long been lying, and let this light visit your eyes also, and touch your souls. Let your ears drink in the blessed words, 'Liberty! Fraternity! Equality!' which are soon to ring from pole to pole! Clear steel will, ere long, dawn upon you in your desolate darkness; and the rolling thunder of the People's cannon will drive before it many a heavy cloud that has long hidden from you the face of heaven. Pray for that day; and preserve life and health that you may worthily meet it. Above all, let the man amongst you who has no gun sell his garment and buy one."

So Mr. Mitchel went on for some weeks, preaching in earnest and exciting language the necessity of preparation for an immediate grapple with "the enemy." In the midst of his labours came the startling news of another revolution in France, Louis Philippe in full flight, and the proclamation of a Republic. Yet a few days more and the Berliners had risen and triumphed, only stopping short of chasing their king away because he conceded all they were pleased to require of him; then came insurrection in Sicily, insurrection in Lombardy, insurrection in Milan, insurrection in Hungary—in short, the revolutionary movement became general throughout Europe, and thrones and principalities were tumbling and tottering in all directions. Loud was the complaint in the United Irishman because Dublin was remaining tranquil. It was evident, however, that the people and their leaders were feeling the revolutionary impulse, and that matters were fast hurrying towards an outbreak. John Mitchel knew that a crisis was at hand, and devoted all his energies to making the best use of the short time that his newspaper had to live. His writing became fiercer, more condensed, and more powerful than ever. Lord Clarendon was now addressed as "Her Majesty's Executioner General and General Butcher of Ireland," and instructions for street warfare and all sorts of operations suitable for an insurgent populace occupied a larger space than ever in his paper. But the government were now resolved to close with their bold and clever enemy. On Tuesday, the 21st of March, 1848, Messrs. O'Brien, Meagher, and Mitchel were arrested, the former for seditious speeches, uttered at a meeting of the Confederation held on the 15th of that month, the latter for three seditious articles published in the United Irishman. All were released on bail, and when the trials came on, in the month of May, disagreements of the jury took place in the cases of O'Brien and Meagher. But before the trial of Mr. Mitchel could be proceeded with, he was arrested on a fresh charge of "treason-felony"—a new crime, which had been manufactured by Act of Parliament a few weeks before. He was, therefore, fast in the toils, and with but little chance of escape. Little concern did this give the brave-hearted patriot, who only hoped and prayed that at last the time had come when his countrymen would launch out upon the resolute course of action which he had so earnestly recommended to them. From his cell in Newgate, on the 16th of May, he addressed to them one of his most exciting letters, of which the following are the concluding passages:—

"For me, I abide my fate joyfully; for I know that, whatever betide me, my work is nearly done. Yes; Moral Force and 'Patience and Perseverance' are scattered to the wild winds of heaven. The music my countrymen now love best to hear is the rattle of arms and the ring of the rifle. As I sit here and write in my lonely cell, I hear, just dying away, the measured tramp of ten thousand marching men—my gallant confederates, unarmed and silent, but with hearts like bended bow, waiting till the time comes. They have marched past my prison windows, to let me know there are ten thousand fighting men in Dublin—'felons' in heart and soul.

"I thank God for it. The game is afoot at last. The liberty of Ireland may come sooner or later, by peaceful negotiation or bloody conflict—but it is sure; and wherever between the poles I may chance to be, I will hear the crash of the downfall of the thrice-accursed British Empire."

On Monday, May 22nd, 1848, the trial of Mr. Mitchel commenced in the Commission Court, Green-street, before Baron Lefroy. He was eloquently defended by the veteran lawyer and uncompromising patriot, Robert Holmes, the brother-in-law of Robert Emmet. The mere law of the case was strong against the prisoner, but Mr. Holmes endeavoured to raise the minds of the jury to the moral view of the case, upon which English juries have often acted regardless of the letter of the Act of Parliament. With a jury of Irishmen impartially chosen it would have been a good defence, but the Castle had made sure of their men in this case. At five o'clock on the evening of the 26th, the case went to the jury, who, after an absence of two hours, returned into court with a verdict of "Guilty."

That verdict was a surprise to no one. On the day the jury was empanelled, the prisoner and every one else knew what it was to be. It was now his turn to have a word to say for himself, and he spoke, as was his wont, in plain terms, answering thus the question that had been put to him:—

"I have to say that I have been found guilty by a packed jury—by the jury of a partizan sheriff—by a jury not empanelled even according to the law of England. I have been found guilty by a packed jury obtained by a juggle—a jury not empanelled by a sheriff but by a juggler."

This was touching the high sheriff on a tender place, and he immediately called out for the protection of the court. Whereupon Baron Lefroy interposed, and did gravely and deliberately, as is the manner of judges, declare that the imputation which had just been made on the character of that excellent official, the high sheriff, was most "unwarranted and unfounded." He adduced, however, no reason in support of that declaration—not a shadow of proof that the conduct of the aforesaid official was fair or honest—but proceeded to say that the jury had found the prisoner guilty on evidence supplied by his own writings, some of which his lordship, with a proper expression of horror on his countenance, proceeded to read from his notes. In one of the prisoner's publications, he said, there appeared the following passage "There is now growing on the soil of Ireland a wealth of grain, and roots, and cattle, far more than enough to sustain in life and comfort all the inhabitants of the island. That wealth must not leave us another year, not until every grain of it is fought for in every stage, from the tying of the sheaf to the loading of the ship; and the effort necessary to that simple act of self-preservation will at one and the same blow prostrate British dominion and landlordism together." In reference to this piece of writing, and many others of a similar nature, his lordship remarked that no effort had been made to show that the prisoner was not responsible for them; it was only contended that they involved no moral guilt. But the law was to be vindicated; and it now became his duty to pronounce the sentence of the court, which was—that the prisoner be transported beyond the seas for a term of fourteen years. The severity of the sentence occasioned general surprise; a general suspiration and low murmur were heard through the court. Then there was stillness as of death, in the midst of which the tones of John Mitchel's voice rang out clearly, as he said:—

"The law has now done its part, and the Queen of England, her crown and government in Ireland are now secure, pursuant to act of parliament. I have done my part also. Three months ago I promised Lord Clarendon, and his government in this country, that I would provoke him into his courts of justice, as places of this kind are called, and that I would force him publicly and notoriously to pack a jury against me to convict me, or else that I would walk a free man out of this court, and provoke him to a contest in another field. My lord, I knew I was setting my life on that cast, but I knew that in either event the victory should be with me, and it is with me. Neither the jury, nor the judges, nor any other man in this court presumes to imagine that it is a criminal who stands in this dock."

Here there were murmurs of applause, which caused the criers to call out for "Silence!" and the police to look fiercely on the people around them. Mr. Mitchel resumed:—

"I have shown what the law is made of in Ireland. I have shown that her Majesty's government sustains itself in Ireland by packed juries, by partizan judges, by perjured sheriffs."

Baron Lefroy interposed. The court could not sit there to hear the prisoner arraign the jurors, the sheriffs, the courts, and the tenure by which Englands holds this country. Again the prisoner spoke:—

"I have acted all through this business, from the first, under a strong sense of duty. I do not repent anything that I have done, and I believe that the course which I have opened is only commenced. The Roman who saw his hand burning to ashes before the tyrant, promised that three hundred should follow out his enterprise. Can I not promise for one, for two, for three, aye for hundreds?"

As he uttered these words, Mr. Mitchel looked proudly into the faces of the friends near him, and around the court. His words and his glance were immediately responded to by an outburst of passionate voices from all parts of the building, exclaiming—"For me! for me! promise for me, Mitchel! and for me!" And then came a clapping of hands and a stamping of feet, that sounded loud and sharp as a discharge of musketry, followed by a shout like a peal of thunder. John Martin, Thomas Francis Meagher, and Devin Reilly, with other gentlemen who stood close by the dock, reached over it to grasp the hand of the new made felon. The aspect of affairs looked alarming for a moment. The policemen laid violent hands on the persons near them and pulled them about. Mr. Meagher and Mr. Doheny were taken into custody. Baron Lefroy, in a high state of excitement, cried out—"Officer! remove Mr. Mitchel!" and then, with his brother judges, retired hurriedly from the bench. The turnkeys who stood in the dock with Mr. Mitchel motioned to him that he was to move; he took a step or two down the little stairs under the flooring of the court-house, and his friends saw him no more.

He was led through the passages that communicated with the adjoining prison, and ushered into a dark and narrow cell, in which, however, his detention was of but a few hours' duration: At four o'clock in the evening of that day—May 27th, 1848—the prison van, escorted by a large force of mounted police and dragoons, with drawn sabres, drove up to the prison gate. It was opened, and forth walked John Mitchel—in fetters. A heavy chain was attached to his right leg by a shackle at the ankle; the other end was to have been attached to the left leg, but as the jailors had not time to effect the connexion when the order came for the removal of the prisoner, they bade him take it in his hand, and it was in this plight, with a festoon of iron from his hand to his foot, he passed from the prison into the street—repeating mayhap to his own heart, the words uttered by Wolfe Tone in circumstances not dissimilar:—"For the cause which I have embraced, I feel prouder to wear these chains, than if I were decorated with the star and garter of England." Four or five police inspectors assisted him to step into the van, the door was closed after him, the word was given to the escort, and off went the cavalcade at a thundering pace to the North-wall, where a government steamer, the "Shearwater," was lying with her steam up in readiness to receive him. He clambered the side-ladder of the steamer with some assistance; on reaching the deck, the chains tripped him and he fell forward. Scarcely was he on his feet again, when the paddles of the steamer were beating; the water, and the vessel was moving from the shores of that "Isle of Destiny," which he loved so well, and a sight of which has never since gladdened the eyes of John Mitchel.

The history of Mr. Mitchel's subsequent career, which has been an eventful one, does not rightly fall within the scope of this work. Suffice it to say that on June the 1st, 1848, he was placed on board the "Scourge" man-of-war, which then sailed off for Bermuda. There Mr. Mitchel was retained on board a penal ship, or "hulk," until April 22nd, 1849, when he was transferred to the ship "Neptune," on her way from England to the Cape of Good Hope, whither she was taking a batch of British convicts. Those convicts the colonists at the Cape refused to receive into their country, and a long struggle ensued between them and the commander of the "Neptune," who wished to deposit his cargo according to instructions. The colonists were willing to make an exception in the case of Mr. Mitchel, but the naval officer could not think of making any compromise in the matter. The end of the contest was that the vessel, with her cargo of convicts on board, sailed on February 19th, 1850, for Van Dieman's Land, where she arrived on April 7th of the same year. In consideration of the hardships they had undergone by reason of their detention at the Cape, the government granted a conditional pardon to all the criminal convicts on their arrival at Hobart Town. It set them free on the condition that they should not return to the "United Kingdom." Mr. Mitchel and the other political convicts were less mercifully treated. It was not until the year 1854 that a similar amount of freedom was given to these gentlemen. Some months previous to the arrival of Mr. Mitchel at Hobart Town, his friends William Smith O'Brien, John Martin, Thomas F. Meagher, Kevin Izod O'Doherty, Terence Bellew MacManus, and Patrick O'Donoghue, had reached the same place, there to serve out the various terms of transportation to which they had been sentenced. All except Mr. O'Brien, who had refused to enter into these arrangements, were at that time on parole—living, however, in separate and limited districts, and no two of them nearer than thirty or forty miles. On his landing from the "Neptune," Mr. Mitchel, in consideration of the delicate state of his health, was allowed to reside with Mr. Martin in the Bothwell district.

In the summer of the year 1853, a number of Irish gentlemen in America, took measures to effect the release of one or more of the Irish patriots from Van Dieman's Land, and Mr. P.J. Smyth sailed from New York on that patriotic mission. Arrived in Van Dieman's Land, the authorities, who seemed to have suspition of his business, placed him under arrest, from which he was released after three days' detention. The friends soon managed to meet and come to an understanding as to their plan of future operations, in conformity with which, Mr. Mitchel penned the following letter to the governor of the island:—

"Bothwell, 8th June, 1853.

"SIR—I hereby resign the 'comparative liberty,' called 'ticket-of-leave,' and revoke my parole of honour. I shall forthwith present myself before the police magistrate of Bothwell, at his police office, show him this letter, and offer myself to be taken into custody. I am, sir, your obedient servant,

"JOHN MITCHEL."

On the next day, June the 9th, Mr. Mitchel and Mr. Smyth went to the police office, saw the magistrate with his attending constables; handed him the letter, waited until he had read its contents, addressed to him a verbal statement to the same effect, and while he appeared to be paralyzed with astonishment, and uncertain what to do, touched their hats to him and left the office. Chase after them was vain, as they had mounted a pair of fleet steeds after leaving the presence of his worship; but it was not until six weeks afterwards that they were able to get shipping and leave the island. On the 12th of October, 1853, Mr. Mitchel was landed safe in California—to the intense delight of his countrymen throughout the American States, who celebrated the event by many joyful banquets.

Since then, Mr. Mitchel has occupied himself mainly with the press. He started the Citizen in New York, and subsequently, at Knoxville, Tennessee, the Southern Citizen. As editor of the Richmond Examiner during the American civil war, he ably supported the Southern cause, to which he gave a still stronger pledge of his attachment in the services and the lives of two of his brave sons. One of these gentlemen, Mr. William Mitchel, was killed at the battle of Gettysburg; the other, Captain John Mitchel, who had been placed in command of the important position of Fort Sumter, was shot on the parapet of that work, on July 19th, 1864. Shortly after the close of the war, Mr. John Mitchel was taken prisoner by the Federal government; but after undergoing an imprisonment of some months his release was ordered by President Johnson, acting on the solicitation of a large and influential deputation of Irishmen. In the latter part of the year 1867, turning to the press again, he started the Irish Citizen at New York, and in that journal, at the date of this writing, he continues to wield his trenchant pen on behalf of the Irish cause. To that cause, through all the lapse of time, and change of scene, and vicissitude of fortune which he has known, his heart has remained for ever true. He has suffered much for it; that he may live to see it triumphant is a prayer which finds an echo in the hearts of all his fellow-countrymen.

We have written of Mr. Mitchel only in reference to his political career; but we can, without trenching in any degree on the domain of private life, supply some additional and authentic details which will be of interest to Irish readers. The distinguished subject of our memoir was born at Camnish, near Dungiven, in the county of Derry, on the 3rd of November, 1815. His father was the Rev. John Mitchel, at that time Presbyterian Minister of Dungiven, and a good patriot, too, having been—as we learn from a statement casually made by Mr. Mitchel in Conciliation Hall—one of the United Irishmen of 1798. The maiden name of his mother, who also came of a Presbyterian and county Derry family, was Mary Haslitt. At Newry, whither the Rev. Mr. Mitchel removed in the year 1823, and where he continued to reside till his death in 1843, young John Mitchel was sent to the school of Dr. David Henderson, from which he entered Trinity College, Dublin, about the year 1830 or 1831. He did not reside within the college, but kept his terms by coming up from the country to attend the quarterly examinations. Though he did not distinguish himself in his college course, and had paid no more attention to the books prescribed for his studies than seemed necessary for passing his examinations respectably, John Mitchel was known to his intimate friends to be a fine scholar and possessed of rare ability. While still a college student, he was bound apprentice to a solicitor in Newry. Before the completion of his apprenticeship, in the year 1835, he married Jane Verner, a young lady of remarkable beauty, and only sixteen years of age at the time, a daughter of Captain James Verner. Not long after his marriage he entered into partnership in his profession, and in conformity with the arrangements agreed upon, went to reside at Banbridge, a town ten miles north of Newry, where he continued to practice as a solicitor until the death of Thomas Davis in 1845. He had been an occasional contributor to the Nation almost from the date of its foundation; its editors recognised at once his splendid literary powers, and when the "Library of Ireland" was projected, pressed him to write one of the volumes, suggesting as his subject the Life of Hugh O'Neill. How ably he fulfilled the task is known to his countrymen, who rightly regard the volume as one of the most valuable of the whole series. When death removed the amiable and gifted Thomas Davis from the scene of his labours, Mr. Duffy invited John Mitchel, as the man most worthy of all in Ireland, to take his place. Mr. Mitchel regarded the invitation as the call of his country. He gave up his professional business in Banbridge, removed with his wife and family to Dublin, and there throwing himself heart and soul into the cause, fought it out boldly and impetuously until the day when, bound in British chains, "the enemy" bore him off from Ireland.



* * * * *



JOHN MARTIN.

When the law had consummated its crime, and the doom of the felon was pronounced against John Mitchel, there stood in the group that pressed round him in the dock and echoed back the assurances which he flung as a last defiance at his foes, a thoughtful, delicate looking, but resolute young Irishman, whose voice perhaps was not the loudest of those that spoke there, but whose heart throbbed responsively to his words, and for whom the final message of the unconquerable rebel possessed a meaning and significance that gave it the force of a special revelation. "Promise for me, Mitchel," they cried out, but he had no need to join in that request; he had no need to intimate to Mr. Mitchel his willingness to follow out the enterprise which that fearless patriot had so boldly commenced. On the previous day, sitting with the prisoner in his gloomy cell, John Martin of Loughorne had decided on the course which he would take in the event of the suppression of the United Irishman and the transportation of its editor. He would start a successor to that journal, and take the place of his dear friend at the post of danger. It was a noble resolve, deliberately taken, and resolutely and faithfully was it carried out. None can read the history of that act of daring, and of the life of sacrifice by which it has been followed, and not agree with us that while the memories of Tone, of Emmet, and of Russell, are cherished in Ireland, the name of John Martin ought not be forgotten.

A few days subsequent to that memorable scene in Greenstreet court-house, John Martin quitted his comfortable home and the green slopes of Loughorne, separated himself from the friends he loved and the relatives who idolized him, and entered on the stormy career of a national leader and journalist, at a time when to advocate the principles of nationality was to incur the ferocious hostility of a government whose thirst for vengeance was only whetted by the transportation of John Mitchel. He knew the danger he was braving; he knew that the path on which he entered led down to suffering and ruin; he stood in the gap from which Mitchel had been hurled, with a full consciousness of the perils of the situation; but unflinchingly and unhesitatingly as the martyr goes to his death, he threw himself into the thinning ranks of the patriot leaders; and when the event that he anticipated arrived, and the prison gates opened to receive him—then, too, in the midst of indignities and privations—he displayed an imperturbable firmness and contempt for physical suffering, that showed how powerless persecution is to subdue the spirit that self-conscious righteousness sustains.

His history previous to the conviction of his friend and school-fellow, John Mitchel, if it includes no events of public importance, possesses for us all the interest that attaches to the early life of a good and remarkable man. John Martin was born at Loughorne, in the lordship of Newry, Co. Down, on the 8th of September, 1812; being the eldest son of Samuel Martin and Jane Harshaw, both natives of that neighbourhood, and members of Presbyterian families settled there for many generations. About the time of his birth, his father purchased the fee-simple of the large farm which he had previously rented, and two of his uncles having made similar investments, the family became proprietors of the townland on which they lived. Mr. Samuel Martin, who died in 1831, divided his attention between the management of the linen business—a branch of industry in which the family had partly occupied themselves for some generations—and the care of his land. His family consisted of nine children, of whom John Martin—the subject of our sketch—was the second born. The principles of his family, if they could not be said to possess the hue of nationality, were at least liberal and tolerant. In '98, the Martins of Loughorne, were stern opponents of the United Irishmen; but in '82, his father and uncles were enrolled amongst the volunteers, and the Act of Union was opposed by them as a national calamity. It was from his good mother, however, a lady of refined taste and remarkable mental culture, that young John derived his inclination for literary pursuits, and learned the maxims of justice and equality that swayed him through life. He speedily discarded the prejudices against Catholic Emancipation, which were not altogether unknown amongst his family, and which even found some favour with himself in the unreflecting days of boyhood. The natural tendency of his mind, however, was as true to the principles of justice as the needle to the pole, and the quiet rebuke that one day fell from his uncle—"What! John, would you not give your Catholic fellow-countrymen the same rights that you enjoy yourself?" having set him a thinking for the first time on the subject, he soon formed opinions more in consonance with liberality and fair play.

When about twelve years of age, young Martin was sent to the school of Dr. Henderson at Newry, where he first became acquainted with John Mitchel, then attending the same seminary as a day scholar. We next find John Martin an extern student of Trinity College, and a year after the death of his father he took out his degree in Arts. He was now twenty years old, and up to this time had suffered much from a constitutional affection, being subject from infancy to fits of spasmodic asthma. Strange to say, the disease which troubled him at frequently recurring intervals at home, seldom attacked him when away from Loughorne, and partly for the purpose of escaping it, he took up his residence in Dublin in 1833, and devoted himself to the study of medicine. He never meditated earning his living by the profession, but he longed for the opportunity of assuaging the sufferings of the afflicted poor. The air of the dissecting-room, however, was too much for Martin's delicate nervous organization; the kindly encouragement of his fellow-students failed to induce him to breathe its fetid atmosphere a second time, and he was forced to content himself with a theoretical knowledge of the profession. By diligent study and with the assistance of lectures, anatomical plates, &c., he managed to conquer the difficulty; and he had obtained nearly all the certificates necessary for taking out a medical degree, when he was recalled in 1835 to Loughorne, by the death of his uncle John, whose house and lands he inherited.