Miss Sarah Curran, youngest daughter of Curran the lawyer. Wickham has seen him and he professes entire ignorance of the connection; but I think he must decline being counsel for Emmet in a case in which his daughter may be implicated. It is a very extraordinary story, and strengthens the case against Emmet.

Emmet was indeed sorely stricken by the discovery of his sweetheart's association with him in his dreams and ambitions, his projects and efforts for the overthrow of the British power in Ireland. He appealed fervently to the authorities for the destruction of the papers. He offered to plead guilty to the charge of high treason and to walk to the gallows without a word-giving up his right to address the Court from the dock and the people from the scaffold-if, in return, Miss Curran and her relatives were spared the annoyance and the grief of the public disclosure of these documents. The Crown rejected the proposal. One day Major Sirr and a party of Yeomanry appeared at the Priory, Rathfarnham, armed with warrants to search the house and its owner's papers, and to arrest Sarah Curran. It was the first intimation that Curran received of the implication of his daughter in the insurrection. He was overwhelmed by the blow. His anger against Sarah was intense. This great lawyer, this orator with the tongue of fire, this wit, from whose recorded sallies the lapse of a century has not evaporated the spirit of laughter, was, with all his genius, a mean-souled creature. His conduct, as disclosed by the Hardwicke correspondence, was most despicable. It was not for his daughter, suffering from the cruellest pangs that can lacerate the ardent heart of a young girl in love, that he was concerned. He was fearful lest his prospects of promotion to the Bench might be imperilled. He hastened in a mad rage to

the Castle, saw the Attorney-GeneralStandish O'Grady-vituperated Emmet, denounced his daughter, tendered his person and his papers to the Government, to abide any inquiry they might deem it expedient to direct. Brought before the Privy Council, he was ex: amined, and dismissed without a stain on his mean and contemptible character. The Lord-Lieutenant-a kindly, generous man, as his correspondence shows-decided that no action was to be taken against Miss Curran. The poor girl for a time lost her reason, and could not in any circumstances have been removed to prison. The Home Secretary, writing to his Excellency from Whitehall, September 16, 1803, says: "Your delicacy and management with regard to the Curran family is highly applauded. The King is particularly pleased with it. It is a sad affair. Mademoiselle seems a true pupil of Mary Woollstonecraft." The King's own comment in a note to the Lord-Lieutenant is: "Emmet's correspondence with the daughter of Mr. Curran is certainly curious." What she told him in these letters was that he was her hero as well as her lover; that he had her prayers-all that she could give-for his success; and she hoped that when Ireland hailed him as her deliverer she should stand proudly by his side.

Curran threw up his brief for Emmet. The trial of the boy was consequently delayed in order that other counsel might be instructed. At last, on Monday, September 19, 1803, Robert Emmet was arraigned for high treason in Green Street Courthouse, before a Special Commission-at which Lord Norbury, Chief Justice of the Common Pleas (the "hanging judge" of '98), presided-and a jury of Dublin citizens. The Attorney-General (Standish O'Grady) and the Solicitor-General (William Conyngham Plunket) ap

peared for the Crown. The prisoner was defended by Leonard MacNally and Peter Burrowes. Witnesses were examined to prove that the prisoner--as the Attorney-General expressed it -was "the origin, the life, and the soul" of the insurrection. No evidence was produced for the defence. MacNally said the prisoner had no desire to take up the time of the Court by making a defence, and had instructed his counsel not to address the jury on his behalf. The death sentence-in Emmet's opinion-had already been pronounced at Dublin Castle. The jury, without leaving the box, found the prisoner guilty.

"Prisoner at the bar," said the Clerk of the Crown, "have you anything to say why judgment of death and execution should not be awarded against you, according to law?" Yes, he had something to say to vindicate the principles for which his young life was about to be sacrificed-and he said it in one of the noblest speeches that have ever been delivered from the dock under the shadow of the scaffold. Emmet looked death in the face with a fortitude and serenity that would have been astounding if we did not know that he was only twenty-five. He was young, and therefore indifferent to death. He was young, and therefore vain. He desired to play to the end the part of the hero of romance; to leave the world grandly, with flying colors. He had, therefore, in his mind a magnificent speech-a speech that would thrill the country-the preparation of which had filled with delight many an otherwise dreary hour in his prison cell. It was now half-past nine o'clock at night. The trial had begun at half-past nine o'clock in the morning. For ten hours Emmet had stood in the dock. There was no interruption for refreshment; no interval for rest. The proceedings had been pushed on pitilessly by the judges to their VOL. XXI. 1090

LIVING AGE.

grim and gruesome finish. A sprig of lavender, handed to the prisoner to relieve the oppression of the heated atmosphere of the crowded court, was snatched away by his guards. It was feared it might contain poison. Unworthy suspicion! The hangman's halter had no degradation for that serene, indomitable, young soul in the dock. So with exalted spirits Emmet delivered, in vindication of his policy, a deathless oration which alone would have preserved his memory green in Ireland for all time.

Here is the memorable peroration, answering to Burke's description of perfect oratory-"half poetry, half prose":

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.

The boy spoke for an hour. His voice was clear and distinct, its cadences being modulated to suit the sentiments, and as he warmed to his address he moved rapidly but not ungracefully about the dock.

Norbury sentenced him to be executed in Thomas Street-the scene of the insurrection-the next afternoon. He passed for a wit, this judge. Yet he was a callous, indeed a brutal man. There are stories told of his unseasonable jests at the expense of men whom he was consigning to the gallows.

"Give me a long day, me lord!" exclaimed one poor wretch as Norbury put on the black cap. "You shall have it, my boy," replied the judge, "for tomorrow is the 21st of June, the longest day of the year." But the pathos, the tragedy, of the present scene touched him deeply, and on concluding the sentence he burst into tears. As Emmet was being removed from the dock his counsel, Leonard MacNally, flung his arms about him and kissed him on the forehead. It was the kiss of a Judas! It is ever thus in the records of Irish conspiracy-the vilest treachery walks hand in hand with the noblest heroism. Years after "MacNally the incorruptible," as he was called, had gone to his rest in all the odor of sanctity, Nationalist and Catholic, it was discovered that he had been in the receipt of a salary of 300l. a year as a secret agent of the Government.

Him

self a United Irishman, he entertained the leaders of the conspiracy right royally at his hospitable table-and reported their conversations to Dublin Castle. The black-hearted scoundrel, retained for the defence of most of the prisoners charged with high treason, sold the secrets of his briefs to the Crown. It is believed it was he who betrayed Emmet's hiding-place at Harold's Cross. Surely, in the black record of human baseness and treachery, there is no viler name than that of

"Leonard MacNally the incorruptible."

The Lord-Lieutenant, writing that night from Dublin Castle to the Home Secretary acquainting him of Emmet's conviction, says:

It is a most fortunate circumstance that the evidence against this man was so complete, for singular as it may appear, though we were in possession of several letters and papers that were written by him, it was impossible to obtain proof of his handwriting. He seems to have practiced the writing of different hands; and though he was educated at the College, and had re

sided so much in Dublin, there was no person to be found who could prove his handwriting in a legal manner.

Emmet was brought back to Kilmainham gaol at midnight. He stayed up most of the night writing. He wrote for his brother, Thomas Addis Emmet, one of the leaders of the United Irishmen and at the time an exile in Paris for his complicity in the rebellion of 1798, a long description of his military plans for the seizure of Dublin-very coherent, very lucidand a defence of his policy-very vigorous, very buoyant-for a youth with Death waiting at his elbow. Could there be a more striking proof of his amazing courage? There was a communication to "the Right Hon. W. Wickham, Chief Secretary for Ireland," acknowledging the delicacy with which he had been treated by the authorities, admitting the mildness of the Irish Administration, the interest of the Lord-Lieutenant in the well-being and contentment of the people, but justifying, nevertheless, his attempt to overthrow the British Government in Ireland. The communication concludes with elaborate courtesy-"I have the honor to be, sir, with the greatest respect, your most obedient servant, Robert Emmet." There was a letter also to John Philpot Curran,

humbly pleading for forgiveness for the trouble he had brought upon him and his household. Another pathetic epistle addressed to his friend and companion, the brother of her whom he so dearly loved, was intended, surely, for her:

My dearest Richard,-I find I have but a few hours to live; but if it was the last moment, and that the power of utterance was leaving me, I would thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous expressions of affection and forgiveness to me. If there was anyone in the world in whose

I

breast my death might be supposed not to stifle every spark of resentment, it might be you. I have deeply injured you-I have injured the happiness of a sister that you love, and who was formed to give happiness to everyone about her, instead of having her own mind a prey to affliction. Oh! Richard, I have no excuse to offer, but that I meant the reverse; I intended as much happiness for Sarah as the most ardent love could have given her. never did tell you how much I idolized her. It was not with a wild or unfounded passion, but it was an attachment increasing every hour, from an admiration of the purity of her mind and respect for her talents. I did dwell in secret upon the prospect of our union. I did hope that success, while it afforded the opportunity of our union, might be a means of confirming an attachment which misfortune had called forth. I did not look to honors for myself-praise I would have asked from the lips of no man; but I would have wished to read in the glow of Sarah's countenance that her husband was respected.

My love, Sarah! it was not thus that I thought to have requited your affection. I did hope to be a prop round which your affections might have clung, and which would never have been shaken; but a rude blast has snapped it, and they have fallen over a grave.

night." As he pointed upward, Emmet knew that death had visited his sorrow-stricken mother-the mother who was so proud of him, the mother to whom he was so devoted-killed by the news of the doom of her son. "It is better so!" Emmet cried, bowing his head.

The Rev. Thomas Gamble, and another Protestant clergyman named Grant, brought him the consolations of religion. After the execution these gentlemen waited upon the Lord-Lieutenant at the Castle and gave him an account of Emmet's last hours, which his Excellency, in turn, conveyed to the Home Secretary. They urged the prisoner to acknowledge, in submission and in sorrow, the crime for which he was about to suffer. "They were not successful," says the Viceroy, "in persuading him to abjure those principles by which he was actuated in his conspiracy to overthrow the Government." He said he was aware that persons entertaining his democratic and republican opinions were supposed to be Deists. But he protested that "he was a Christian in the true sense of the word," and expressed a wish to receive the Sacrament. The clergymen explained to the Lord-Lieutenant that although Emmet would not confess himself guilty, and in fact remained impenitent to the last, they decided, charitably, to consider him "a vision ary enthusiast"'-a person, in a word, not responsible for his actions-and as such to join him in prayer and administer the Sacrament. The Lord-Lieutenant endorsed their action as humane and wise. At one o'clock a coach left the prison with Emmet and the two clergymen, surrounded by a strong guard of infantry and cavalry.

On their way to the place of execution (the Lord-Lieutenant reports). they conversed with him on the same topics, but could never persuade him to admit that he had been in the

Ꭺ

As Emmet emerged from Marshalsea Lane, on the evening of July 23, in his green and gold and white uniform, and with drawn sword, on his way, as he fondly hoped, to make Ireland a nation, straight before him, in Thomas Street, loomed St. Catherine's Church, a severe and gloomy edifice. In front of this Protestant place of worship a scaffold had been erected during the night for the execution of the boy. It was a simple and rude structure. platform was made by laying a few planks across a number of empty barrels. From this platform rose two posts, fifteen feet high, with another beam placed across them, from which hung a rope with a running noose. Immediately beneath this beam and rope was a single narrow plank, supported on two ledges, on which the condemned youth was to stand to be launched into eternity. The main platform, being about six feet from the ground, was ascended by a ladder. A large force of military, horse and foot, surrounded the scaffold. Outside their lines was a mass of sorrowing spectators.

Emmet, on alighting from the coach at the foot of the gallows, mounted alertly to the platform. In the demeanor of the youth there was not the slightest trace of fear. He was desirous of addressing the people, as was the custom at public executions. Asked what he intended to say, he replied that he wished to declare he had

never taken any oath but that of the United Irishmen, and by that oath he meant to abide. "The clergymen who were present," the Lord-Lieutenant writes, "explained to him that an address to that effect might possibly produce tumult and bloodshed, and that it ought not to be permitted. He was, therefore, obliged to acquiesce, and did so without appearing to be disturbed or agitated." One sentence only did he say addressing the weeping and moaning crowd, and that he uttered in a firm and far-reaching voice: "My friends, I die in peace, with sentiments of universal love and kindness towards all men."

Then he stepped on to the single plank beneath the crossbeam. The masked executioner adjusted the rope round his neck. The thin, sad face of the boy-the face of a fanatic and enthusiast-was aflame with the glory of his sacrifice. But quickly its light -the light, surely, that never was on sea or land-was quenched by the black cap the hangman drew over the youth's head. In his pinioned hands was placed a handkerchief, the fall of which was to be the signal to the executioner to tilt over the plank which stood between him and death. "Are you ready, sir?" asked the hangman. "Not yet," was the reply. There was a momentary pause. The handkerchief still fluttered from the boy's hands. "Are you ready, sir?" once again the executioner asked, and again came the reply-"Not yet." The youth was reluctant to loose his grasp of the handkerchief, and thus bring the agony of this most harrowing scene to its inevitable end. What was the reason? Up to that moment never had the courage, the enthusiasm of Emmet-his exaltation in the glorious triumph of death for a great causebeen so magnificently exemplified. Did the sublime fortitude of the boy collapse at the last moment? Was his.