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Title: Women of 'Ninety-Eight
Author: Concannon, Thomas, Mrs.
Language: English
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WOMEN OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PAMELA
The Wife of Lord Edward Fitzgerald
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WOMEN OF
’NINETY-EIGHT
BY MRS. THOMAS CONCANNON, M.A.
Author of “The Life of St. Columba,” “A Garden of Girls,” “The Sorrow of
Lycadoon,” Etc.
[Illustration]
M. H. GILL AND SON :: LTD.
50 UPPER O’CONNELL STREET, DUBLIN
1919
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PRINTED AND BOUND
[Illustration]
BY
M. H. GILL & SON, LTD.
DUBLIN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In Memory
OF
All the Dead Women
AND
In Homage
TO
All the Living Women
WHO HAVE GIVEN
Their Dear Ones
TO
Ireland
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
THE MOTHERS OF ’NINETY-EIGHT 3
_The Mother of the Emmets_ 6
_The Mother of Lord Edward Fitzgerald_ 28
_The Mother of the Sheareses_ 53
_The Mother of the Teelings_ 68
THE WIVES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT:
_The Wife of Theobald Wolfe Tone_ 103
_The Wife of Thomas Addis Emmet_ 146
_The Wife of Samuel Neilson_ 165
_The Wife of Lord Edward Fitzgerald_ 186
THE SISTER OF HENRY JOY MCCRACKEN 215
SOME OTHER SISTERS OF ’NINETY-EIGHT:
_Mary Anne Emmet_ 243
_Mary Tone_ 247
_Lady Lucy Fitzgerald_ 249
_Julia Sheares_ 253
_Miss Byrne_ 257
_Miss Teeling_ 259
_Miss Hazlett_ 259
SARAH CURRAN AND ANNE DEVLIN 267
SOME OTHER ROMANCES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT 297
SOME OBSCURE HEROINES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT 311
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
Alas! how sad by Shannon’s flood,
The blush of morning sun appears!
To men who gave for us their blood,
Ah! what can women give but tears!
—DRENNAN: _Lament of the Women after the Battle_.
“THEY tell a beautiful and poetical story about the croppies’ graves in
Wexford. Many of them carried in their coat pockets wheat seed gathered
in the fields to satisfy their hunger. When they were buried in their
shallow graves the seed sprouted and pushed its way up to the light, and
the peasants, seeing the patches of waving grain here and there by field
or wayside, knew that there a poor croppy slumbered. Was not the waving
grain an emblem that the blood they shed for Ireland would yet nurture
the harvest of Freedom?”
Twenty years ago, when in the pages of the _Shan Van Vocht_, that moving
and lovely tale was told to the faithful few whom the centenary of
’Ninety-Eight had rallied around the croppies’ graves, it needed a
poet’s vision, a patriot’s heart, to see in
“The grain that was fed on the dust of the dead”
a promise of the mighty harvest of freedom. To-day, we look around us,
and, lo!—even to the blindest and coldest of us—the fields are white.
Ere we go forth to the reaping, shall we not consider with ourselves
what culture the buried seeds of freedom received to ensure a yield so
rich? It is not alone the blood of the men who died for Ireland that has
nurtured the harvest of her freedom. The seed has been abundantly
watered by the tears of heartbroken women: mothers and wives,
sweethearts and sisters, daughters and comrades. Some of these grieving
women I have tried, in the following pages, to make better known to
their country-women of to-day, whose joy has been purchased, in such
large part, by their sorrow.
And not with their tears alone did our sisters of ’Ninety-Eight sprinkle
the red furrows of that tragic seed-time. In many a forgotten grave,
from Antrim to Wexford, lies the dust of the women who died victims of
the brutality of the yeomanry and military, let loose on the country to
goad its manhood into a rising. Beneath the unmarked site of many a
vanished cabin lie the charred bones of countless women who were burnt
to death when the drunken soldiery fired their homes. Among the outrages
tabulated by Cloney as having been perpetrated by the military in the
county of Wexford alone, we find record of seven young women violated
and murdered near Ballaghkeene by the Homperg Dragoons, after the
retreat from Vinegar Hill; of four women shot after the flight from
Wexford; and of three women bayonetted in Enniscorthy; of nine women and
six children slain by the yeomanry between Vinegar Hill and Gorey, on
the high road; of three women shot by the yeomanry in the village of
Aughrim; of four women murdered by “the supplementary yeomen” between
Gorey and Arklow.
Anne Devlin was not the only woman of those times who bore to the day of
her death on her tender skin the cicatrized marks of the wounds
inflicted by the bayonets of the soldiers in the design of extorting
from her information. Some of the atrocities suffered by women had not
even the excuse of any purpose—save that of satisfying a monstrous lust
of cruelty. A dreadful case is that of Mrs. O’Neill, whose son, a
clerical student, had been taken up and confined in New Geneva barracks,
preparatory to being shipped off to work in the salt-mines of the King
of Prussia. The poor woman had come all the way from Antrim, a distance
of one hundred and fifty miles, to take a last farewell of him. When she
reached her destination she was refused access to him, and only
succeeded in seeing him after she had bribed his guards. Unfortunately,
she yielded to the violence of her grief when the time to leave him
came, and the anguished cries of the poor mother betrayed her forbidden
presence in her boy’s cell. She was torn from his arms, hurried into the
presence of the colonel, and by him delivered to the tender mercies of
the soldiers, who dragged her into the courtyard, and proceeded to toss
her in a blanket. When the savage pastime of the soldiers ceased, a few
rags were thrown to the unfortunate woman; she crawled to a neighbouring
cabin, and there she died.
Those who are best entitled to speak of the causes of the Rising of
’Ninety-Eight are singularly unanimous in their exposition of them.
During Thomas Addis Emmet’s examination before the Secret Committee of
the House of Lords (August 10th, 1798) he stated in reply to Lord
Clare’s query as to what caused the late insurrection: “the free
quarters, the house-burnings, the tortures, the military executions in
the counties of Kildare, Carlow and Wicklow.” Mary McCracken used to
quote her brother, Henry Joy’s opinion that “if it had not been for the
free quarters and the flogging, there would have been no rebellion after
all, for it is not easy to get the people to turn out of their
comfortable homes, if they _have_ any comfort in them.” It was the sight
of his burning chapel and the blazing homesteads of his flock which
turned Father John Murphy from a man of peace into the intrepid leader
of fighting men. When his people fled to him in the woods from the
flames of their farmhouses and the outrages of the yeomanry, he told
them that “they had better die courageously in the field than be
butchered in their houses; that, for his own part, if he had any brave
men to join him, he was resolved to sell his life dearly and prove to
these cruel monsters that they should not continue their murders and
devastations with impunity.”
The same motives which urged the priest to become the soldier animated
many of the women. Better, it seemed to them, to die fighting side by
side with their men in the field than to be violated and butchered in
their houses. And so we find among the Women of ’Ninety-Eight more than
one Irish Joan of Arc. There was Molly Weston who fought at Tara, Betsy
Grey at Ballynahinch, Mary Doyle at New Ross and many a brave woman who
died fighting on Vinegar Hill.
Another _rôle_ filled by the Women of ’Ninety-Eight was that of
inspiring their men to patriotic action, aiding them by their counsels,
putting their women’s wit at the service of the patriots as messengers
and intelligence officers. Charles H. Teeling informs us that “the
enthusiasm of the females exceeded the ardour of the men; in many of the
higher circles, and in all the rustic festivities, _that_ youth met a
cold and forbidding reception from the partner of his choice, who,
either from apathy or timidity, had not yet subscribed to the test of
union.” “A green velvet stock, or a silk robe with a shamrock device,
were the emblems of national feeling; and the former was not
unfrequently presented to the youthful patriot by the fair daughter of
Erin, as the pledge of a more tender regard.” We see Pamela and Lady
Lucy Fitzgerald shedding the bright influence of their beauty over the
circle of patriotic and romantic young Irishmen whom Lord Edward
gathered around him in Kildare Lodge. Numerous women were so deep in the
secrets of the United Irishmen that it was considered necessary for them
to take the oath. Of these, the most notable, Miss Moore, will receive
more extended notice in subsequent pages of this book. Among others we
find mention of Mrs. Risk, whose husband having fallen a victim to his
patriotic principles in ’Ninety-Eight, devoted herself and all she had
in the world to the Cause for which he died. It was to her house in
Sandymount that Lord Edward was to have been removed the night of the
day on which he was arrested. We subsequently find her visiting the
prisoners at Fort George and carrying back messages from them to their
friends in Ireland. Rose McGladdery, wife of William McCracken, was “a
sworn United man,” and did good service to the cause for which her
husband was imprisoned and for which her brother-in-law, Harry, died, as
she passed out and in of Kilmainham jail to visit her captive husband.
It is very probable that Mrs. Oliver Bond was also “a sworn United man.”
Her name lives in their records for a clever device by which she enabled
the State prisoners of 1796 to keep in touch with the outside world. The
story is told by Charles Teeling, who was one of them:
“On that great festival, which is respected in every quarter of the
Christian world, this excellent lady, having addressed a polite message
to the first authority of the prison, requested through him to furnish a
dish for the table of the prisoners of State.... This dish was
accompanied by one of smaller dimensions, but of similar appearance,
which was presented to the good lady, the governor’s spouse. Never did
the governor or his gentle rib partake of a dish more agreeable to their
palates. It was a pasty of exquisite flavour, and seasoned by no
parsimonious hand. Dainties of this kind were novel to the captives, but
still more novel the design; choice, indeed, were the materials of which
our dish was composed, and most acceptable to those for whose
entertainment it was prepared. With the full permission of the governor,
the pie was placed on our table, the turnkey received his Christmas-box,
smiled as he turned the money in his hand, and retired. Under cover of
the encrustment, which was artfully, but with apparent simplicity,
arranged, the dish was filled with writing materials, foreign and
domestic newspapers, communications with friends.” Writing his
recollections thirty years later, Charles Teeling recalls, in all their
vivid freshness, the sensations to which this discovery gave birth, and
the happiness which the poor prisoners felt when they were thus made
acquainted with the true sentiments of their fellow-countrymen in their
regard.
One more pious duty the Women of ’Ninety-Eight took upon themselves, and
that was to guard the memory of the fallen, and to keep bright their
names. Again and again, Dr. Madden has found occasion to pay tribute to
the faithful women to whom his researches owe so much. “With few
exceptions,” he writes, “the materials collected for the memoirs of the
United Irishmen would in all probability have perished, had they not
fallen into the hands of women, who clung to the memories of their
departed friends with feelings of attachment commensurate with the
calamities which had overtaken the objects of their affection or regard.
It would seem that in man’s adversity, when his fellow-men fall away
from his sinking fortunes, or detach their thoughts from his maltreated
memory, there is a steadfastness in the nature of woman’s love, a
fidelity in her friendship, which gives to the misfortunes of her
kindred a new claim to her solicitude for everything that concerns their
interests or their fame.” Very touching instances are those of Mary
McCracken, the daughters of Samuel Neilson, the daughter of Dr.
MacNevin.
* * * * *
Finally, it is not to be forgotten that to a woman of ’Ninety-Eight we
are indebted for the first and, when all is said, perhaps, the best—the
most authentic, and vivid and enlightening—story of the Rising which
takes its name from that year. Charles Hamilton Teeling’s “Personal
Narrative,” published in 1828, three years before Moore’s “Life of Lord
Edward Fitzgerald,” was dedicated by the author in words, as touching as
they are noble, to “My wife and my children at whose request solely, it
has been undertaken.... Respected and beloved, they are entitled to this
mark of my remembrance, the only inheritance which the enemies of my
country have left me to bequeathe.” We are allowed to catch, in the
final page of the “Narrative,” a fleeting whisper of the romance of
Charles H. Teeling and Catherine Carolan. We know that when the
Insurrection was suppressed, young Charles Teeling, for true love’s
sake, preferred to take anew the outlaw’s track on the mountain rather
than to seek safety beyond the seas. We would fain know a little more of
the girl who won her place side by side with “the Little Black Rose” in
that most knightly and constant heart. We sense in her story one of the
most tender, and sweet, and pure of the romances of ’Ninety-Eight.
* * * * *
I cannot but feel proud of the fact that, in writing this book, I have
received the constant help of two of the grandsons of Charles Teeling,
and Catherine Carolan: Charles T. Waters, Esq., B.L., and Charles H.
Teeling, Esq., K.C. I wish I could acknowledge adequately, the
obligations under which I have been put by their kindness in lending me
the precious Teeling letters in their possession, and allowing me to use
them as I desired. I have been privileged also to consult Mr. Waters
constantly in many doubts and difficulties, to draw on his knowledge of
the period, to use his library, and to call on his help in a thousand
ways which it would be impossible to enumerate.
I am also under an obligation to F. J. Bigger, Esq., Belfast, and Denis
Carolan Rushe, Monaghan (another kinsman of Catherine Carolan) for their
patient answering of my many questions concerning a period on which they
are among the greatest of living authorities.
To Mrs. Patrick Semple, LL.D., and her sister, Mrs. MacCarthy, I owe
most warm thanks for their help in making extracts from books otherwise
inaccessible to me, and to Professor Mrs. Macken for the trouble she
took to procure certain books for me. I am also indebted to George
Taaffe, Esq., of Smarmore Castle, Ardee, for information furnished me
from the Taaffe family papers.
HELENA CONCANNON.
Lios na Mara,
Salthill, Galway,
_September, 1918_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MOTHERS OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
MOTHERS OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
“Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful,
The women of My keening are yet unborn, little Mother.”
—_The Keening of Mary._
TRULY it was of the Mothers of Ireland that Mary’s Son was thinking,
when from the Tree of His Passion He comforted His own Mother with
prophecy of the “keeners” yet unborn who, through the centuries, were to
bear her company in her anguish, and weep with her for her sorrow and
His most bitter death.
That knowledge—with so much else—we owe to the teaching of Padraic Mac
Piarais. He gave us the first part of the lesson when he gathered us
with him into the cottage of Mary Clancy, in Iar Chonnacht,[1] and bade
us listen to her “keening” with Mary for her dying, crucified Son, and
shuddering at the instruments of His Passion, and shedding floods of
tears at the thought of His gaping wounds. He made us realise what “a
precious thing it is for the world that in the homes of Ireland there
are still men and women who can shed tears for the sorrows of Mary and
her Son.” But did the teacher, himself, know then at what a price had
been won for the mothers of the Gael their “terrible and splendid
trust”? Or was it only revealed to him in the blinding flash of the
illumination which showed him that his own mother’s soul must be pierced
by the same sword which transfixed Mary’s? Certain it is that we had to
wait for the completion of the lesson, begun in Mary Clancy’s cottage,
till that most holy and solemn night when, as he waited, like King
Cellach in his prison cell, for “his love, the morning fair”—and the
flame-like gift it was to bring him—he wrote for his mother the
exquisite prayer, with which he would have her, on the morrow, lay his
own broken body in Mary’s outstretched arms. Then was it made plain to
us that the mothers of Ireland have won the right to stand thus close to
Mary, beneath the Cross, and to claim as their hereditary office, the
task to minister to her in her desolation, because they, above all the
other women of the world, have so often “seen their first-born sons go
forth,” even like Mary’s, “to die amid the scorn of men—For whom they
died.”
Footnote 1:
“Caoineadh Mhuire” (The Keening of Mary) was taken down by P. H.
Pearse from the singing of Mary Clancy in Moycullen, and first
published by him in the _Claidheamh Soluis_, October 24th, 1904.
Thus the Desolate Mother, even in a world which has so largely forgotten
the sorrows of her and of her Son, has always found, and will find, in
the homes of Ireland, her faithful company of keeners. And who shall say
that their ministering is less grateful to her, because while they weep
for her Son, they are weeping for their own, and the voice they raise in
woe is that of Rachel, who will not be comforted?
These poor mothers of our Irish martyrs! These poor Rachels! There is
something in their grief which makes it a thing apart. Wives, and
sisters, and sweethearts, who have given their dear ones to Ireland have
felt, even in their most anguished hour, something of that exaltation
which makes “the hard service _they_ take, who help the Poor Old Woman,”
a yoke more sweet and precious than any liberty. Like the men, of whose
sufferings it was their splendid privilege to partake, the women who
have shared their husband’s prison cell, like Jane Emmet, or who have
walked with their brothers, even to the foot of the scaffold, like Mary
Anne McCracken, or who have found death by their lover’s side on the
battlefield, like Betsy Gray, “think themselves well paid.” But not even
Ireland could pay the mother of the Emmets, or the mother of the
Shearses, or heal the hidden wound that bled until her death-night in
the heart of Bartholomew Teeling’s mother, or comfort Lord Edward’s poor
mother when the roses of each recurring June were redly tragic with the
memory of his blood-stained prison deathbed, and its sunshine was
darkened by the memory of her boy’s agony. For the greatness of their
sorrow, then, shall we not place them first, these broken-hearted
mothers, in our tale of the “Women of ’Ninety-Eight”?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mother of the Emmets
ELIZABETH MASON EMMET—(1740-1803)[2]
“My life was he,
My death his taking.”
—_Lament of Mothers of Bethlehem._
Footnote 2:
Authorities: Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Third Series, Second Ed.
(London and Dublin, 1860); Dr. Thos. Addis Emmet’s “The Emmet Family”
(New York, 1898); J. J. Reynolds’s “Footprints of Emmet” (Dublin,
1903); Smith’s “County and City of Cork,” edited by Day and Copinger
(Cork, 1893).
“ON Tuesday, September 20th (1803), the day of the execution of Robert
Emmet, he was visited at ten o’clock in the morning, by Mr. Leonard
McNally, the barrister, who, on entering the room where Emmet had the
indulgence of remaining all that morning in the company of the Rev. Dr.
Gamble, the ordinary of Newgate, found him reading the litany of the
service of the Church of England. Permission was given to him to retire
with McNally into an adjoining room, and on entering it, his first
enquiry was after his mother, whose health had been in a declining
state, and had wholly broken down under the recent afflictions which had
fallen on her. McNally, hesitating to answer the enquiry, Robert Emmet
repeated the question, ‘How is my mother?’ McNally, without replying
directly, said, ‘I know, Robert, you would like to see your mother.’ The
answer was, ‘Oh! what would I not give to see her?’ McNally, pointing
upwards, said, ‘Then, Robert, you will see her this day!’ and then gave
him an account of his mother’s death, which had taken place some days
previously. Emmet made no reply; he stood motionless and silent for some
moments, and said, ‘It is better so.’ He was evidently struggling hard
with his feelings, and endeavouring to suppress them. He made no further
allusion to the subject but by expressing ‘a confident hope that he and
his mother would meet in heaven.’”[3]
Footnote 3:
Madden, _op. cit._ p. 461. Madden’s account of this touching incident
was furnished him by John Patten, brother of Mrs. Thos. Addis Emmet,
and the devoted friend of the whole Emmet family, who was a prisoner
in Kilmainham at the time of Robert Emmet’s trial and execution.
I have known one woman who, having been able to read, with dry eyes, the
melting tale of Sarah Curran’s “Broken Heart,” and to listen, without a
sob, to the voice of Sarah’s young lover, so soon to be stilled for
ever, pleading from the brink of “the cold and silent grave,” for the
last charity of the world’s silence, broke into a passion of weeping as
the tragedy, which was Robert Emmet’s life-story, swept through every
stage of gathering pathos to the almost intolerable poignancy of its
climax—the picture, conjured up by Madden, of the mother who lay dead,
of a broken heart, in her widowed home in Donnybrook, while her
last-born son, her Benjamin, stood in the dock in Green Street on trial
for his life.
And yet is there not comfort to be found in the thought that the
mother’s loving spirit was liberated in time from the prison of the
suffering flesh, to be made free of all the places out of which her
boy’s anguish called to her? If, as was Robert Emmet’s fond hope, “the
dear shade of his venerated father” looked down upon him, where he stood
in the dock, ready to die for the principles which that father had first
taught him, surely the soul of the mother was not far away. Surely it
bore him company during the long nerve-wrecking, exhausting hours of the
trial,[4] giving him the refreshment which the brutality of his captors
and judges denied; surely it was close at hand when his poor body, on
which the fetters of death were so soon to be laid, had to submit for
the last time to the more galling fetters of the abominable gaoler of
Newgate. Could we bear to think of what Robert Emmet was made to suffer
during his last night on earth, if the conviction that his mother’s
spirit hovered near him, did not bring us comfort? Brought to Newgate
from Green Street about eleven o’clock at night, he was heavily ironed
by Gregg, the gaoler, and placed in one of the condemned cells. About an
hour after midnight an order came from the Secretary at the Castle that
the prisoner must be at once conveyed to Kilmainham. What a journey was
that through the darkness of the autumn night! What a journey back from
Kilmainham to Thomas Street the next day, when through the seething
crowds, the carriage which bore the young martyr to the place of his
execution moved in the midst of its strong guard of horse and foot! Even
his enemies, looking upon him, were fain to confess that never had they
seen a man go forth “to die like this”—with such “unostentatious
fortitude,” such marvellous absence of all signs of fear, such a
conviction of the glory of dying “for Ireland.” Did the dear Lord make
it easy for him “to die like this,” by permitting his mother to leave
her place in heaven for a time to be with her boy in the supreme hours?
Footnote 4:
The trial of Robert Emmet lasted from 9.30 _a.m._ until 10.30 _p.m._
During “these thirteen hours of mortal anxiety, of exertion, of
attention, constantly engaged, he had no interval of repose, no
refreshment.”
* * * * *
Set side by side two pictures. One is that drawn, in such tragic
intensity of black and white, by Madden, of a woman of sixty-three, who
having drained to the dregs the cup of life’s sorrows, lay down in the
home of her widowhood, from which all her children save one were absent,
to die of the malady, for which science has found no cure: a broken
heart. Nine months earlier her husband had been taken from her and now
she, “like the mother of the Shearses, was hurried to her grave by the
calamity which had fallen on her youngest son; who, it was vainly hoped,
was to have occupied one of the vacant places in the house, and in the
heart of his afflicted parents. Vainly had they looked up to Thomas
Addis Emmet to supply that place which had been left a void by the death
of their eldest and most gifted son, Christopher Temple Emmet. And when
Thomas Addis was taken away from them and banished, to whom had they to
look but to the younger son; and of that last life-hope of theirs they
might have spoken with the feelings which animated the Lacedemonian
mother, when one of her sons had fallen fighting for his country, and
looking on the last of them then living she said ‘_Ejus locum expleat
frater_.’ And that son was taken from them, incarcerated for four years,
and doomed to civil death. Thomas Addis Emmet was then a proscribed man
in exile. The father had sunk under the trial, although he was a man of
courage and equanimity of mind; but the mother’s last hope in her
youngest son sustained in some degree her broken strength and spirit;
and that one hope was dashed down never to rise again, when her
favourite child, the prop of her old age, was taken from her, and the
terrible idea of his frightful fate became her one fixed thought—from
the instant the dreadful tidings of his apprehension reached her till
the approaching term of the crowning catastrophe, when, in mercy to her,
she was taken away from her great misery.”
“Orangemen of Ireland ... these are your triumphs; the desolation of the
home of an aged, virtuous couple—the ruin in which all belonging to them
were involved, the ignominious death of their youngest and gifted
child.”[5]
Footnote 5:
Madden, _op. cit._ pp. 463-464.
The other picture is one we paint for ourselves of a fair young girl,
very slim and graceful in her riding habit, with a charming face,
usually a little too serious for its twenty summers, showing now a
dainty flush of excitement under the piquant riding hood, and clear
eyes, usually somewhat too grave for their youth, shining now with an
unwonted light. For background a stately eighteenth-century country
seat, set in a landscape of exquisite beauty—(What need to describe the
entrancing loveliness of woodland, lake and mountain, when it is
sufficiently summed up by the magic word, Killarney?) Over it all a sky
aflush with the colours of the summer dawn! The haze of summer over the
bird-filled, fragrant woods, that sway lightly to the breezes of the
virginal new day!
So we picture for ourselves Elizabeth Mason on that summer morning of
the year 1760 when she set forth, a charming and accomplished girl of
twenty, from the home of her father, James Mason, Esq., of Ballydowney,
Killarney, for the memorable visit to Cork, which was to prove an event
of such transcendent importance in her life.
We guess something of the hopes and dreams, which lay in James and
Catherine Mason’s mind when they yielded to the desires of their son,
James (who was a successful business man in Cork), and allowed their
only daughter, Elizabeth, to accompany him, on his return to Cork from
one of his visits home, for “a season” in the gay, little Southern
Capital. Among the country gentlemen of the neighbourhood there was
small likelihood of finding a suitable _parti_ for their beautiful girl.
Arthur O’Neill’s description of Lord Kenmare’s “Milesian Assembly,”
which took place in this identical year,[6] seems to point to a society
around Killarney of hard-riding, hard-drinking, jolly squires with few
of whom Elizabeth’s cultured and thoughtful mind would have enough in
common for the prospects of a very happy marriage. Amid the young
professional and business men in Cork, with their more intellectual
interests, the wider knowledge of life which their close and frequent
intercourse with the Continent fostered, their greater accessibility to
new ideas, she was, as her prudent, loving parents probably realised,
much more likely to find a husband calculated to make her happy.
Extraordinarily gifted by nature, her education had been such as to
foster her birthgifts. Her great-grandson, Dr. Thomas Addis Emmet, of
New York, who in his book, “The Emmet Family,” has done us the great
service of making us acquainted with the _choses intimes_ of his
illustrious stock, has published many of her letters, and they bear out
Dr. Madden’s verdict on her “as an amiable, exemplary, high-minded lady,
whose understanding was as vigorous as her maternal feelings were strong
and ardent.” In another place Madden speaks of her “noble disposition
and vigorous understanding,” and in conversation with Dr. Thos. Addis
Emmet in 1880 he stated that he considered that she, her husband, her
three sons, Christopher Temple, Thomas Addis, Robert, and her daughter,
Mary Anne (wife of Robert Holmes) “were the most talented family in
every respect he had ever known of.” It was felt, indeed, and not alone
by those who hold that “all distinguished men inherit their
characteristics rather from the mother than from the father,” that the
extraordinary brilliancy of the three sons of Dr. and Mrs. Emmet was
largely an inheritance from their mother. And it is impossible to read
her letters, with their exquisite precision and felicity of phrase,
their ease, and candour and absence of all straining after effect, their
expression of a philosophy of life, the noblest, and soundest (because
founded on the truest Christian principles) without feeling that they
have been penned by a woman rarely gifted in heart and mind.
Footnote 6:
Mrs. Milligan Fox’s “Annals of the Irish Harpers,” p. 147. It was on
this occasion that Arthur O’Neill, in reply to an apologetic remark of
Lord Kenmare’s concerning the place that the blind harper had found
near the foot of the table, made the famous assertion: “Where an
O’Neill sits, _there_ is the head of the table.”
With these rare gifts of heart and mind, and in all the freshness, and
charm, and beauty of her twenty summers, Miss Elizabeth Mason made
something of a sensation when she appeared in Cork society. She had
numerous relatives in the pleasant little city by the Lee, and each and
every one of them was determined that their beautiful visitor should
have “a good time.” So once or twice a week some kindly matron would
call at James Mason’s house, and carry off his sister to the concerts
and “assemblies” which were regular bi-weekly events in the Assembly
House near Hamond’s Marsh. Or a party of young people would beg her to
join them for a boating excursion on the river, or “a promenade” on the
Mall where the _beau monde_ loved to display its gay silk and satins,
its feathers and furbelows; or on the Bowling Green, where it took the
air under the quaintly cut trees, and listened to the band discoursing
sweet music for its delectation; or in Mr. Edward Webber’s gardens near
the Mardyke where it ate strawberries and cream, and all the other
delectable fruits of the earth, each in its proper season. In the
evenings there were theatre-parties, or “drums” at the Assembly House,
or in the hospitable and elegant homes of some of Cork’s merchant
princes, whose culture was not surpassed by their wealth. Here while the
young folk danced their minuets and country-dances, their elders played
cards; but both young and old were ready to leave dancing floor, and
card table, to take part in the delightful concerts of “Italic airs,”
which made one visitor to Cork imagine “the god of music had taken a
large stride from the Continent, over England to this island,” and
attribute “the humane and gentle disposition of the inhabitants, in some
measure, to the refinement of this divine art.” At supper one heard
supremely good conversation, for the men of Cork were, according to the
same witness, “well versed in public affairs,” fond of news and
politics, and diligent readers of the newest French and English books,
and the periodicals of the day—and their pretty partners made a
charmingly appreciative audience while the men talked over the foreign
and domestic news they had found in the Dublin and London newspapers,
which the two coffee-houses near the Exchange supplied for their
customers.[7]
Footnote 7:
Smith’s “County and City of Cork,” I., 388.
It began to be noticed by the observant matrons, who chaperoned these
delightful gatherings, that one brilliant talker seemed particularly
anxious to observe the effect his conversation made on clever Elizabeth
Mason, and how persistently he sought her out as a partner in ball and
supper rooms, or at pic-nic or promenade, whenever his professional
occupations allowed him to take part in these functions. They noticed,
with approval, that Elizabeth was not indifferent to the attentions of
the rising young physician, Dr. Robert Emmet,[8] who having studied
medicine and taken his degree with great _éclat_ at one of the most
famous medical schools in Europe, that of the University of
Montpelier,[9] had taken up practice in Cork some years previously.
Footnote 8:
Born in Tipperary in 1729, he was just thirty-one years old at the
date of his marriage.
Footnote 9:
His great-grandson, Dr. Thos. Addis Emmet of New York, himself a
distinguished specialist, records the publication of a book by Dr.
Robert Emmet, in 1753, on some of the diseases of women. It was
originally published in Latin and was afterwards translated into
French, with two editions printed in Paris (_op. cit._ p. 47).
In due course the good-natured gossips of Cork learned that Dr. Emmet
had sent proposals, through James Mason, jun., to Mr. and Mrs. James
Mason of Ballydowney, for the hand of their daughter, Elizabeth, and
that the parents, having satisfied themselves, after due enquiry, that
the connection was a suitable one, had given their consent to the
marriage. Dr. Emmet was the son of a physician, Dr. Christopher Emmet,
in Tipperary, and in addition to his professional earnings had inherited
a considerable fortune from his father. Through his mother, Rebecca
Temple, he was connected with one of the most aristocratic families in
England. Satisfactory marriage settlements were speedily arranged, and
preparations were pushed on for the wedding, which took place in Cork on
November 16th, 1760.
Dr. Madden informs us, on the authority of Elizabeth Mason’s nephew, Mr.
J. St. John Mason, that the doctor built a large house for his bride in
George’s Street. It seems probable that the _ménage_ included from the
beginning the doctor’s widowed mother, Mrs. Rebecca Temple Emmet, and
his widowed and childless sister-in-law, Mrs. Grace Russell Emmet,
relict of his brother Thomas, who died in 1754. At all events these two
ladies died under the doctor’s roof, after the family had moved to
Dublin; the elder in 1774, the younger in 1788. A bequest of the latter
to her “dear sister-in-law” of a gold watch, and ample legacies to the
children seem to betoken that Elizabeth Emmet had the secret of gaining
the hearts of her husband’s kin, and that as mistress of a large and
wealthy household she knew how to make all who sat by her hearth, or
gathered round her table, happy.
She was soon busy in her nursery. In 1761, her first-born son,
Christopher Temple Emmet, made his entry into it. The boy was destined,
like Cuchullin, to “a great name and a short life.” He was only
twenty-eight when he died, but he had already impressed his
contemporaries as one of the most brilliant men of his time. Grattan,
who disliked the Emmets intensely (because they had the courage of their
convictions, and he, in spite of his fiery rhetoric, was all for
compromise and security), has left on record his opinion of Temple
Emmet, and it is worth quoting at length:—
“Temple Emmet, before he came to the Bar, knew more law than any of the
judges on the bench; and if he had been placed on one side, and the
whole bench opposed to him, he could have been examined against them,
and would have surpassed them all; he would have answered better both in
law and divinity than any judge or any bishop in the land. He had a
wonderful memory—he recollected everything—it stuck to him with singular
tenacity. He showed this in his early youth, and on one occasion he gave
a strong instance of it. There existed at that time in Dublin College,
an institution called the Historical Society; there were subjects
selected for discussion, and prior to the debate there was an
examination in history. On one occasion the books happened to be
mislaid, and it was thought no examination could have taken place; but
Emmet, whose turn it was to be in the chair, and who had read the
course, recollected the entire, and examined in every part of it, and
with surprising ability.”[10]
Footnote 10:
Grattan’s “Life and Times.” By Henry Grattan, the younger. IV. 356.
In reading the records of eighteenth-century families, we are equally
astonished at the size of them, and the small proportion of their
members to survive infancy. Dr. and Mrs. Emmet had seventeen children in
seventeen years, and of these there only grew to manhood and womanhood
three sons, Christopher Temple, Thomas Addis (born 1764), Robert (born
1778), and one daughter, Mary Anne (born 1773). Of the other thirteen,
there remained only their names in Aunt Grace’s family bible, followed
by the pitiable record, “died young.”
One circumstance moves us strangely: four little Robert Emmets (the
first born in 1771, the others in 1774, 1776, 1777) came, and finding
the burden of life too heavy, laid it quickly down, until _he_ came, the
fifth, the destined one, who was to take it up and carry it, until his
hero-fate bade him lay it down—for Ireland.
Perhaps the little graves that multiplied so fast in the Cork cemetery
made that city a depressing place for Elizabeth Emmet; or perhaps her
husband was attracted to Dublin, by the promises of professional
advancement offered by the appointment to the Viceroyalty of his
kinsman, the Marquis of Buckingham. At all events it is a matter of
history that Dr. and Mrs. Emmet came to Dublin in 1771 and took up their
residence in Molesworth Street.[11] Here a number of their children were
born, including Mary Anne (1773) and Robert (1778).
Footnote 11:
The identification of the house is of much interest, as it was that in
which Robert Emmet was born. A writer in _Georgian Society Record_
(IV. 94) states that it is now numbered 22, and forms portion of
Kilworth House.
In this same year, 1771, Dr. Emmet was appointed State Physician, and
owing to his character and capacity, was soon in possession also, of a
large private practice. He was a charming, genial man, and a great
favourite with his patients. His wife’s nephew, St. John Mason,
described him to Dr. Madden as “a man of easy and gentlemanly manners,
remarkable for vivacity and pleasantry, but free from coarseness or that
exaggeration of expression in moments of hilarity called grimace. He
possessed humour but not of a caustic nature. In discourse he was fluent
and happy in the choice of words, and in the use of classical
quotations. He was remarkably punctual and precise in business and
professional affairs.” By his professional skill and business prudence
Dr. Emmet amassed a considerable fortune, and lived in a manner
commensurate with it, entertaining much good company, and taking a
leading part in the brilliant society of the day.
After the birth of their youngest child, Robert, in 1778, the Emmets
moved from their house in Molesworth Street, to a splendid new mansion
in Stephen’s Green. Those were the days of the Volunteers, and Ireland,
stirred to the depths by the example of America’s struggle for freedom,
was gathering her forces to make the same demand, which America had
already secured—and to back it by the same arguments. Less fortunate
than America—or less wisely and nobly led—Ireland did not force the
question to the decision of the field of battle, but accepted in full
settlement of her claim a something which only Grattan and his friends,
blinded by their own verbal fire-works, could have mistaken for liberty.
Dr. Robert Emmet was one of those who saw, from the beginning, the
inadequacy of the Settlement of 1782; and there is no doubt but that it
was from him that his sons learned that political creed—the doctrine of
“Absolute Independence”—for which one of them was to suffer the “white
martyrdom” of exile, and the other the “red martyrdom” of blood. Grattan
and Curran and others of their ilk who could never forgive those who had
the pluck and honesty to draw their logical conclusion from the premises
which they themselves had instituted, have tried to discredit Dr. Emmet
by throwing ridicule on him. Grattan’s son quotes his father as saying
that “Dr. Emmet had his pill and his plan, and he mixed so much politics
with his prescription, that he would kill the patient who took the one,
and ruin the country that listened to the other.” And Curran loved to
raise a laugh among his friends—Sir Jonah Barrington and other
high-minded gentlemen—by “taking off” the Doctor administering “their
morning draught” to his sons. “Well, Temple, what would you do for your
country? Addis, would you kill your brother for your country? Would you
kill your sister for your country? Would you kill me?” We can listen
with equanimity to the bitter epigrams of Grattan, or the monkey-like
buffoonery of Curran when we remember what his own sons thought of Dr.
Emmet: “Dear shade of my venerated father,” cried Robert as he stood in
the dock facing his iniquitous judges and accusers, “look down on your
suffering son, and see has he for one moment deviated from those moral
and patriotic principles which you so early instilled into his youthful
mind, and for which he has now to offer up his life.” And Thomas Addis
Emmet, writing to his mother from Brussels, on the receipt of the news
of his father’s death (December, 1802), has drawn for his own, and his
mother’s consolation, a noble portrait of him whom they had lost: “The
first comfort you can know must spring up from within yourself, from
your reflection and religion, from your recalling to memory that my
father’s active and vigorous mind was always occupied in doing good to
others. That his seventy-five years were unostentatiously but
inestimably filled with perpetual services to his fellow-creatures. That
although he was tried, and that severely, with some of those calamities
from which we cannot be exempt, yet he enjoyed an uncommon portion of
tranquillity and happiness, for, by his firmness and understanding, he
was enabled to bear like a man the visitations of external misfortunes,
and from within no troubled conscience or compunction of self-reproach
ever disturbed his peace.”
The years from 1778 to 1789 were, doubtless, the happiest years in
Elizabeth Emmet’s life. The elder boys, Christopher Temple and
Thomas Addis, were at the University, and a mother even less tender
than she, could not but be filled with pride and happiness at the
brilliant records they were making for themselves. In one of these
years there arrived from America kinsfolk of her husband’s, Sir John
and Robert Temple, and the latter’s family, and in the hospitable
eighteenth-century manner which its big houses and generous style of
living fostered, they became inmates of Dr. and Mrs. Emmet’s house.
The tie which bound the Emmets to the Temples was strengthened, when
in 1784 Christopher Temple Emmet married his cousin, Miss Anne
Western Temple, daughter of Robert. He had been called to the Bar a
short time previously and was in extensive practice. I have already
quoted Grattan’s opinion of his gifts. Even more significant was the
testimony—spoken of all places in the world—in the very Court
wherein Christopher’s youngest brother was awaiting the
death-sentence—and by the lips that were so soon to pronounce it,
the cruel lips of “Hanging Judge” Norbury. “You had an eldest
brother whom death snatched away, and who when living was one of the
greatest ornaments of the Bar. The laws of his country were the
study of his youth, and the study of his maturer years was to
cultivate and support them.” With Christopher marked out, by the
judgment of all the competent men of his time for high advancement;
with a charming and amiable new daughter added to her household in
the shape of Christopher’s wife; with her second son, Thomas Addis,
winning all sorts of distinctions for himself in the University of
Edinburgh, whither he had gone to study medicine; with Mary Anne,
growing into lovely womanhood, and showing a strength of character
and a breadth of intellect, which stamped her as a true Emmet; with
young Robert, earning praise from his masters and regard from his
comrades; with the spectacle of her husband’s delight in all this to
double her own—Elizabeth Emmet might well count herself, for one
golden moment at least, that rare thing: a perfectly happy woman.
Alas! Alas! how short the moment to which we may cry with Faust, “tarry
awhile, thou art so fair.” Very speedily, Elizabeth Emmet’s “fair
moment” passed. In February, 1789, her son, Christopher Temple, went
“circuit” in Munster—and one day to those who waited his return in the
pleasant home in Stephen’s Green there came the tragic news of his death
from smallpox. The blow was too severe for Christopher’s young wife. She
died a few months after her husband, leaving their little daughter,
Kitty, to the care of her grandparents. Elizabeth Emmet had to live
on—to face the sorrows that yet awaited her.
At the desire of Dr. Emmet, the second son, Thomas Addis, anxious “to
fill” as far as in him lay, “the place of his brother,” turned aside
from the profession of medicine, in which he had already graduated, and
took up that of law. He was called to the Bar in 1790. In 1791, he
married Miss Jane Patten, daughter of Rev. John Patten of Clonmel, his
choice of a bride giving the greatest satisfaction to his father and
mother.
At first the young couple lived with the old Doctor and his wife, as
part of the one household; but as the little grandchildren began to fill
the nursery, it was found desirable to provide separate establishments.
The Doctor, with this end in view, divided his house in Stephen’s Green,
West, into two portions. It stood (and still stands, divided as the
Doctor left it into two residences) at the corner of Lamb’s Lane and
Stephen’s Green, West,[12] and the Doctor kept the corner portion for
himself and assigned the inner to his son’s family. Thomas Addis Emmet
had, also, as we know from Tone’s “Autobiography,” “a charming villa” at
Rathfarnham, and doubtless the whole family were made welcome in it,
whenever the call of the countryside overbid the attractions of the
town, in the years previous to Dr. Emmet’s purchase of Casino—the
country residence where he spent his last years.
Footnote 12:
Mr. Reynolds identifies them as 124 and 125 Stephen’s Green, West. In
Dr. Emmet’s time the house was numbered 109.
The mention of Tone fitly introduces the years of Thomas Addis Emmet’s
public life—his efforts for Catholic Emancipation, his connection with
the United Irishmen. But, as we shall speak more fully of these years
when we come to tell the story of Thomas Addis Emmet’s wife, we shall
content ourselves here with a thought of the anxieties, which must have
been the constant companions of a woman so clever and far-sighted as his
mother. Where was all this leading to? Her son, himself with his clear
grave eyes and resolute heart, knew perfectly well—like the majority of
the leaders of the United Irishmen—that the course in which he was
embarked was one which would, most probably, call for the sacrifice of
all that men hold dear. Brilliant professional prospects; the elegance
and comfort of a home adorned by a charming wife and a band of lovely
children; property and position and the interest in a settled order of
things which they bring with them; life itself—all these Thomas Addis
Emmet saw himself called upon at any moment to renounce for the loyal
service of Ireland. “It is a hard service they take,” indeed, “who serve
the _Poor Old Woman_”! “But, for all that, they think themselves well
paid.”
On March the 12th, 1798, when the Government, acting on the information
of Thomas Reynolds, swooped down on the Leinster Directory of United
Irishmen, assembled in Oliver Bond’s house, Emmet was arrested in his
home in Stephen’s Green and committed to Newgate, from whence he was
afterwards conveyed to Kilmainham. Of his wife’s heroic conduct on that
occasion we shall have an inspiring tale to tell. While her
daughter-in-law shared her husband’s imprisonment, Elizabeth Emmet found
merciful occupation in the care of the five little grandchildren whom
they had confided to her: Robert, Margaret, Elizabeth, John Patten,
Thomas Addis.
In April, the authorities, alarmed by the spirit of patriotism which was
manifesting itself among the students of Trinity College, ordered the
“Visitation,” of which Moore gives an account in his “Memoirs.”
In anticipation of the verdict of Lord Chancellor Fitzgibbon, Robert
Emmet, who was looked on as the leader of the patriot youths, requested
the Board of Fellows to take his name off the books of the college.
During the wild excitement of the next few months: the bloody weeks of
“the Rising” in May and June; the executions and court-martials of July;
the French landing in August; the new executions which followed it, in
September; the capture of Tone in October; his court-martial and death
in November, all through the tragic calendar of the year 1798, Dr. Emmet
and his wife Elizabeth had, at least, the comfort of their younger son’s
constant presence with them.
In this year Dr. Emmet set the houses in Stephen’s Green, and took up
his residence with his family (which now included his grandchildren) in
a country house he had recently purchased for himself, Casino, Milltown.
This historic house still stands, and Mr. Reynolds’s indications make it
easy to locate: “at the corner of Bird Avenue on the eastern side of the
Dundrum Road, midway between Milltown and Windy Arbour.”
Two events of much importance mark the following year (1799) in
Elizabeth Emmet’s maternal calendar. The first was the removal of Thomas
Addis and the other State prisoners to Fort George in the North of
Scotland; the second was the marriage of her daughter, Mary Anne, to the
distinguished barrister, Robert Holmes.
Early in 1800, Robert Emmet visited his brother in Fort George, passing
from thence to the Continent where he remained until after the signing
of the Peace of Amiens in 1802.
Later in the year, Jane Emmet made good the design which her conjugal
affection had long inspired, and which no governmental rebuff could
weaken—that of joining her husband in Fort George. She went there in
July, escorted by her brother, John Patten, and accompanied by her three
elder children, Robert, Margaret, and Elizabeth. With the grandparents
at Casino were left John Patten, Thomas Addis, and a sturdy little chap
called Christopher Emmet, who had joined the goodly company since we
last made the enumeration of them.
During the years Thomas Addis and his wife spent in Fort George there
was a constant interchange of letters between Casino and the grim
northern keep in which the Irish State prisoners were so long interned.
Sometimes the Casino news is conveyed by Dr. Emmet—whose letters remind
us of St. John Mason’s description of his conversation; sometimes it is
Mary Anne Holmes who holds the pen; sometimes it is Kitty, the orphan
daughter of Christopher Temple and Anne Western Temple. But most
frequently it is the mother and in these letters we get our best picture
of the sort of woman Elizabeth Emmet was.[13] There are pleasant
glimpses, too, of the home-life in Casino. We see the father, seeking
solace for his anxieties in his labours in beautifying the house he
fondly hoped was to be the home of his children, and his children’s
children. The thirteen acres around Casino serve the purpose of
Penelope’s web, and the loving wife finds comfort in watching the
amusement he gets from his tree-planting and landscape gardening, his
industry in gravelling the walks and raking them when they have been
gravelled. Convinced that “the promises of hope are better than the
gifts of fortune,” he has built a fine nursery ’gainst the happy day
when all his grandchildren (and their parents) shall be gathered
together under his patriarchal roof; and a certain cherry tree in full
blossom makes him and his wife long to see Jane and her charming
children gathered under it. The Doctor’s craze for transplanting trees
which, to the rest of the family, seem to be perfectly well placed where
they are, has grown into a family joke; but his wife is too well pleased
to see the good effect the interest and occupation have on his health to
protest now, as she was wont to do, even “tho’ from the earliness of the
season and the age of the trees she despairs of ever seeing a leaf upon
any of them.” “As we have a great demand for pea-rods,” she remarks
jestingly, “they will not be useless.” She gathers up all the news she
can about their friends, knowing how welcome such items are to exiles.
Dr. Drennan, who has attended Mary Anne at the birth of her first-born
baby, is happily “married to a very amiable, pretty young woman”; “he
has waited to some good purpose.” We have a pretty etching of the author
of the “Wake of William Orr,” and the famous “Orellana Letters,”
“leaning over the cradle of his little heir, so anxious about it lest it
should die.” Other friends, like Lady Anne Fitzgerald, Ally Spring, the
Temples—and, above all, the Pattens and the Colvilles—find frequent
mention. She does not hesitate to inculcate certain “musty precepts” as
to health, which her knowledge of her son’s and her daughter-in-law’s
dispositions seems to her to call for. Jane must refrain from “the great
efforts of which she is so fond,” for “system is better than swiftness,”
and though “we may admire the speed and power of a racehorse, a steady
draft horse will in general be found as useful and much more durable.”
Both Thomas Addis and Jane are fond, she knows, of heated rooms and late
hours, and their prudent mother reminds them of the necessity of fresh
air in their bed-chamber and living room, and preaches the doctrine of
“early to bed and early to rise.”
Footnote 13:
They are published at length by Dr. Thomas Addis Emmet in his “Emmet
Family” (pp. 71-101). They are models of grace and style, and one
wishes they were in the hands of our women who have so largely lost
the old-world accomplishment of letter-writing.
But what most people will think the most delightful thing in the letters
are the pictures they give of the children. As has been already
mentioned, the three elder were with their parents in Fort George, and
almost all the State prisoners were lending a hand, each in his own
speciality, to their education. The accounts of their progress interests
their grandmother keenly, and she helps with comments on their
dispositions as she had studied them. She is proud of Elizabeth’s beauty
and goodness of disposition, of Margaret’s shrewdness of observation,
and liberality and directness in dealing; but “the tenderness of
Robert’s tones and the brightness of his countenance give him the
advantage over all the other children whatever.” It is easy to see that
Robert is his grandmother’s favourite, dear as all the children are to
her. A letter from him gives her “great pleasure, for it is a true
picture of his heart, overflowing with innocence, honesty, and good
nature.” She begs for “minute accounts of the three children ...,” she
and her husband “being glad to feed upon crumbs that fall from her son’s
table.” In return she is almost as minute as her son and daughter-in-law
could wish about the three from whom they are separated. She draws a
funny little sketch of the “little fellow,” two-year-old Christopher
Temple, “fighting hard in dumb show for his share in his grandfather’s
claret,” and a little later on “engaging in his elder brother’s plays,
and forcing himself into notice more than the others.” John is the other
grandmother’s favourite, and Tom is pronounced by Ally Spring “the
finest child you have,” but “the little fellow,” as Elizabeth always
calls the baby namesake of her dead first-born, is of all the three
confided to her care the nearest to her heart. We must, however, reserve
further quotations from the letters, as far as they regard her
grandchildren, until we come to discuss their education, at some length,
in our memoir of their mother.
The letters paint the writer as a grave and somewhat reserved nature.
She feels that she has not her husband’s “gracious manner,” which
perhaps prevents her daughter-in-law judging of the strength of her love
for her. She is inclined by nature to melancholy. “Solitude has through
life stuck to me like an inner garment, and I find that it exceeds even
those of the children of Israel; it is a habit that instead of wearing
by time, grows stronger by constant use.” But she has the great anchors
of Faith and Charity. She feels her blessings with a grateful heart, and
wishes to discern and adore the healing hand which has been held out to
her in the midst of trials and distresses, and without which her natural
infirmities must have sunk under the scenes she has gone through. The
most persistent note in this correspondence is that of deep and true
religious feeling and, as we catch it, we seem to understand how it came
about that in the midst of the corrupt society which was that of
eighteenth century Dublin, this woman’s sons were kept chaste and
undefiled—Moore’s tribute to the unspotted youth of Robert comes back to
us, bringing with it unconscious tribute to the pure and exalting
influence of Robert’s mother.
The letters end in 1802, when Thomas Addis Emmet was released from Fort
George and awaited in Brussels certain developments which were to
determine his future movements. Here the news of his father’s death
reached him, and his own letter on that occasion to his mother, which I
have already quoted, brought forth one from her which, apart from its
intrinsic interest, must have ever borne in the eyes of her son a
priceless value, for when he received it, the hand that had penned it
was long mouldering into dust. It was addressed to the _Poste Restante_,
New York, and only reached its addressee on his arrival in that city in
November 11th, 1804.
In the interval the race of Emmet had been practically exterminated in
the land for which they had given so much. The death of Elizabeth Emmet
on September 9th, 1803, was followed by her youngest son’s execution a
few weeks later. In 1804 Mary Anne Holmes died most tragically in the
arms of her husband, newly liberated from prison. One guesses that the
little children, John, and Tom, and Temple, were then taken care of by
their Grandmother Patten, until an opportunity could be found of sending
them across the Atlantic to their parents. They had gone with
Grandmother Emmet, when she left Casino, after her husband’s death, to
take up her residence in Blomfield, Donnybrook. And, no doubt, Mary Anne
Holmes and poor cousin Kitty did what they could to care for them and
comfort them. But if the pathos of the scene drawn by Madden of the
death chamber of Elizabeth Emmet could have borne any heightening,
doubtless he would have introduced in it the tiny figures of three
little frightened, sable-clad boys, standing hand in hand for comfort,
and weeping—though they knew it not—for the tragedy of the passing of
their house from Irish soil.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mother of Lord Edward Fitzgerald
EMILIA MARY, DUCHESS OF LEINSTER (1731-1814)[14]
“And the flower I held brightest of all that grew in soil or shall ever
grow
Is rotting in the ground, and will spring no more to lift up my heart.”
—_A Father’s Keen_, by Patrick O’Hegarty.
Footnote 14:
_Authorities_: Moore’s “Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald”; Campbell’s
“Edward and Pamela Fitzgerald,” “Letters of Horace Walpole,” works of
Mrs. Delaney, etc.
“GREATER love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for
his friends.”—(_John_ xv. 13). Ever since that June dawn, when its first
sweet rays, stealing through the bars of the prison window in Newgate,
fell on the form that lay rigid and still on the prison bed, we know
what was “the greatest love” in Lord Edward’s life. For on that sad bed,
still disordered from the tossings of his fever-racked limbs, still
stained with his life-blood, there lay one _who had died for Ireland_.
By the supreme test, therefore, vouched for by the Supreme Lover, we
know that the love of Ireland was Lord Edward’s “greatest love,” and
that all other loves of his had to yield to its supremacy. But we can
only measure the magnitude of his love for Ireland, if we have the
measure of his other loves to set beside it. And so it falls out, that
we have a particular need, if we would estimate Lord Edward aright, and
would understand what he had to offer to Ireland, to know something of
his other loves, and of those who inspired them. Above all we must know
something of his extraordinary love for his mother.
His letters are full of it: “I am never so happy as when with you,
dearest mother, you seem to make every distress lighter, and I bear
everything better, and enjoy everything more when with you.” And again:
“You cannot think how I feel to want you here. I dined and slept at
Frescati the other day, Ogilvie and I, _tête-à-tête_. We talked a great
deal of you. Though the place makes me melancholy, yet it gives one
pleasant feelings. To be sure, the going to bed without wishing you a
good night; the coming down in a morning, and not seeing you; the
sauntering about in the fine sunshine, looking at your flowers and
shrubs without you to lean upon one, was all very bad indeed. In
settling my journey that evening, I determined to see you in my way,
supposing you were even a thousand miles out of it.”
There is one letter to the “dearest of mothers,” in which he places his
love for her above all else: “I assure you I miss you very, very much. I
am not half so merry as I should be if you were here. I get tired of
everything, and want to have you to go and talk to. _You are, after all,
what I love best in the world._ I love you more than I think I do; but I
will not give way to such thoughts, for it always makes me grave. I
really made myself miserable for two days since I left you, by this sort
of reflections; and in thinking over with myself what misfortunes I
_could_ bear, I found there was one I _could not_; but God bless you.”
Was it Lord Edward’s surpassing love for his mother, that made her, on
her side, single him out among all her children to lavish her tenderness
on; or did she recognise in his great capacity for love a heritage from
her own nature which drew this son closer to her than any other child
she had ever borne? It is certain that of her numerous children—they
counted twenty-one in all—Lord Edward was his mother’s favourite, and
was accepted as such by the rest of the family. Mr. Gerald Campbell
thinks her very frankness in avowing her preference for him prevented
any jealousy among the others. Among the seventy or eighty letters of
the Duchess to her daughters and others which Mr. Campbell examined
before writing his charming book, “Edward and Pamela Fitzgerald,” there
is hardly one, he tells us, “in which she does not express her exceeding
love for him above all the rest.” He quotes: “Dear, dear Eddy! How
constantly he is in my thoughts!” “In Edward nothing surprises me, dear
angel; he has always loved me in an uncommon degree from childhood.” “I
do not pretend to say that Dearest Angel Edward is not the first object:
you have all been used to allow me that indulgence of partiality to him,
and none of you, I believe, blame me for it, or see my excessive
attachment to that Dear Angel with a jealous eye.” The truth is that
Lord Edward had to an extraordinary degree, the gift, so often accorded
as a birthright to persons with a great work to do in the world, of
winning hearts. And probably his own brothers and sisters were as ready
to succumb to his magnetism as the rest of the world.
It would not be surprising if Lord Edward inherited his power of winning
hearts, as well as his capacity for love, from his fascinating mother,
and she, in her turn, wielded it in virtue of her Stuart blood. For she
was the great-granddaughter of Charles II and the beautiful Louise de
Kérouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth. Of the numerous daughters of her
father and mother, the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, four grew to
womanhood, and of these Lady Emilia Mary was the second. All four were
famous for their great beauty and charm; and all four have played a
notable part in history. Lady Caroline, who married Stephen Fox,
afterwards Lord Holland, was the mother of the brilliant statesman,
Charles James Fox. Lady Louisa married Mr. Connolly, of Castletown. Lady
Sarah, some years after the unfortunate termination of her first
marriage with Sir Charles Bunbury, married Colonel Napier and became the
mother of many distinguished soldier sons, including Sir William Napier,
the historian of the Peninsular Wars, and Sir Charles Napier, the
conqueror of Scinde.
I do not know why the novelists who have found in the life romance of
the four beautiful Lennox girls such a wealth of material should have
passed over the love-story of their parents. It is, if possible, more
romantic than any of them. The story is told by their grandson, Mr.
Henry Napier, and published in the introduction to the “Life and Letters
of Lady Sarah Lennox” (pp. 85-87), his mother:
“My grandfather, the second Duke of Richmond, was one of the Lords of
the Bedchamber to King George the Second, who then resided at Kensington
Palace. He had been, as was the custom in those days, married while yet
a boy to Lady Sarah Cadogan.... This marriage was made to cancel a
gambling debt, the young people’s consent having been the last thing
thought of; the Earl of March[15] was sent for from school, and the
young lady from her nursery, a clergyman was in attendance, and they
were told they were immediately to become man and wife! The young lady
is not reported to have uttered a word; the gentleman exclaimed, ‘They
surely are not going to marry me to that dowdy!’ The ceremony, however,
took place; a postchaise was ready at the door, and Lord March was
instantly packed off with his tutor to make the ‘_grand tour_,’ while
his young wife was returned to the care of her mother, a Dutch woman,
daughter of William Munster, Counsellor of Holland. After some years
spent abroad Lord March returned, a well-educated handsome young man,
but with no very agreeable recollections of his wife. Wherefore, instead
of at once seeking his own home, he went directly to the Opera or
Theatre, where he amused himself between the acts in examining the
company. He had not long been occupied in this manner when a very young
and beautiful woman more especially struck his fancy, and turning to a
gentleman beside him he asked who she was. ‘You must be a stranger in
London,’ replied the gentleman, ‘not to know the toast of the town, the
beautiful Lady March.’ Agreeably surprised at this intelligence, Lord
March proceeded to the box, announced himself, and claimed his bride—the
very dowdy whom he had so scornfully rejected some years before, but
with whom he afterwards lived so happily that she died of a broken heart
within the year of his decease, which took place in Godalming, in
Surrey, in August, 1750, when my mother was only five years and a few
months old.”
Footnote 15:
The title borne by the hero of the story while his father, the first
Duke of Richmond, was still alive.
[Illustration:
EMILY, COUNTESS OF KILDARE
The Mother of Lord Edward Fitzgerald
]
The conjugal affection which ever afterwards united the hero and heroine
of this pretty romance receives emphatic testimony from Horace Walpole.
In the gossip he gathers up for his correspondents their names figure
frequently; and while he jests maliciously about the Duke’s “pride and
Stuartism,” and the Duchess’s “grandeur,” he is an enthusiastic admirer
of her Grace’s beauty, and his cynicism is not proof against the
spectacle of her love for her husband, and her devotion to her children.
Like her daughter, the Duchess of Leinster, she had an extraordinarily
large family—twenty-six, as we learn from Horace Walpole[16]—but as was
so often the case in these enormous eighteenth-century families—but a
small proportion of them survived their infancy. We have a pretty
picture of the Duchess and her husband (“who sat by his wife all night
kissing her hand”) at the ball given by “long Sir Thomas Robinson” for
“the Duke’s little girl,” Lady Caroline Lennox, in October, 1741. “The
beauties,” he informs his Florentine correspondent, Sir Horace Mann,
“were the Duke of Richmond’s two daughters,[17] and their mother, still
handsomer than they.” At the Duchess of Norfolk’s great “masquerade” of
February 17th, 1742, to which Royalty went, ablaze with diamonds, and
where “quantities of pretty Vandykes, and all kinds of old pictures
walked out of their frames,” the “two finest and most charming masks,”
in Mr. Walpole’s opinion, “were their Graces of Richmond, like Henry the
Eighth and Jane Seymour, excessively rich, and both so handsome!”[18]
Footnote 16:
“Letters,” II., 221.
Footnote 17:
“Letters,” I., 85. The editor of the Walpole “Letters,” identifies the
second of these girls as Lady Emily, our heroine, but it seems very
unlikely, as she was only ten years old at the date of this ball.
Footnote 18:
_Ibid._, p. 146.
Owing to their father’s position at Court, the little Lennox girls were
well known to the old king, George II, and prime favourites with him. He
was Lady Emily’s godfather, and the christening cup he gave her is still
preserved at Carton. He was delighted, beyond measure, when one day,
taking his constitutional on the broad walk at Kensington, he saw a
charming little maid rush from her French _bonne_ and come bounding up
to him with a saucy “_Comment vous portez vous Monsieur le Roi, vous
avez une grande et belle maison ici, n’est ce pas?_” It was little Lady
Sarah Lennox, and the king, having discovered her identity, invited her
_bonne_ to carry her often to see his “_grande et belle maison_.” The
children learned to speak French before they spoke English, and Lady
Emily, in particular, showed herself all through life an enthusiastic
admirer of French literature, and very accessible to the new ideas of
which that literature made itself the vehicle. Horace Walpole tells us
of the delight he experienced, on one occasion when he had invited her
and her sister, Lady Caroline, with their husbands, Lord Kildare and Mr.
Fox, to Strawberry Hill, and the weather turned out too wet to show his
company the wonders of his castle and grounds, to find that Lady Kildare
was “_a true Sévignist_.” “You know,” he remarks to his correspondent,
Richard Bentley, “what pleasure I have in any increase in our sect”
(_i.e._ the cult of Madame de Sévigné). “I thought she looked handsomer
than ever, as she talked of _Notre Dame des Rochers_.”[19] Later on, we
hear from Mrs. Delany of her admiration for Rousseau, and his theories
of education; and we know from one of her daughters that her great
interest in education made her a diligent reader of Madame de Genlis.
She seems to have spent much time in her girlhood with her mother’s
relations in Holland, and this fact, together with the French influences
which presided over her education, gave her a European point of view,
which was in striking contrast with the insularity of the majority of
English-women of her class and generation. Doubtless, this
cosmopolitanism of his mother’s was, also, not without its effect on
Lord Edward.
Footnote 19:
A name given by Horace Walpole to Madame de Sévigné, of whose
“Letters” he was a devoted enthusiast. He sometimes calls her “_Notre
Dame de Livry_”—_Les Rochers_ and _Livry_ were the names of her
country seats.
In 1744, her elder sister, Lady Caroline, eloped with Mr. Henry Fox, to
the great displeasure of the Richmonds. “The town,” writes Horace
Walpole to his namesake in Florence (May 27th, 1744) “has been in a
great bustle about a private match; but which by the ingenuity of the
ministry, has been made politics. Mr. Fox fell in love with Lady
Caroline Lennox, asked her, was refused, and stole her. His father was a
footman;[20] her great grandfather, a king: _hinc illae lacrymae_.”
Footnote 20:
Sir Stephen Fox was said originally to have been a choir-boy in
Salisbury Cathedral. He died, after a romantic career, and having held
office under four sovereigns—Charles II, James II, King William, and
Queen Anne—one of the wealthiest men in England.
It was only after some years, and when the birth of Lady Caroline’s
eldest little boy made the struggle between tenderness and pride in her
parents’ hearts incline overwhelmingly towards the former, that they
consented to a reconciliation. The touching letter which the Duke
addresses to his daughter on this occasion has been published by the
Princess Liechtenstein in her book on “Holland House” (pp. 68-72), and
will be read with interest by all who have learned to like Lord Edward’s
maternal grandfather and grandmother, from Horace Walpole’s account of
them.
One consequence of Lady Caroline’s runaway marriage was to make the Duke
and Duchess of Richmond extra careful about the chaperonage of their
second daughter, Lady Emily. Horace Walpole has an amusing story to tell
in this connection of a little “set-to” between the Duchess of Richmond
and the witty but eccentric Duchess of Queensberry. “There is a very
good quarrel on foot between two duchesses: she of Queensberry sent to
invite Lady Emily Lennox to a ball: her Grace of Richmond, who is
wonderfully cautious since Lady Caroline’s elopement, sent word ‘she
could not determine.’ The other sent again the same night: the same
answer. The Queensberry then sent word, that she had made up her
company, and desired to be excused from having Lady Emily’s; but at the
bottom of the card wrote, ‘Too great a trust.’”[21]
Footnote 21:
Letter to Sir Horace Mann, March 29, 1745.
Carefully guarded as Lady Emily might be, the town was soon busy with
her name. When Prince Lobkowitz arrived in England in the beginning of
1745 and was observed to pay great attention to the Duke of Richmond’s
charming daughter, it was immediately reported that they would make a
match of it. The gossip even reached Mrs. Dewes, deep in the provinces,
and in reply to a question she puts her sister, Mrs. Delany, about it,
the latter gives the accepted version of the story:[22] “You were not
quite misinformed about Lady Emily Lennox and Prince Lobkowitz; he _was_
in love with her and made proposals of marriage, but the Emperor would
not consent on some foolish reason of State. I never heard that Lady
Emily was in any way engaged to him, and everything is agreed on between
her and Lord Kildare, and my Lady Kildare is come over for the wedding.
Prince Lob. was in England last year.”
Footnote 22:
Letter to Mrs. Dewes, November 7, 1746.
Well informed as Mrs. Delany prided herself on being, it is not to be
expected that she would know as much about the matter as Lady Emily
herself; and fortunately we have in a letter of the latter’s addressed
to her friend, Hon. Anne Hamilton,[23] her version of the incident. As
the letter gives a vivid idea of our heroine as a lively girl, of
fourteen or fifteen, and of the sort of society in which she moved, it
is worth reproducing.
Footnote 23:
Afterwards Countess of Roden. The letters of Lady Emily to Miss
Hamilton are in the possession of the Earl of Roden and have been
published by the Marquis of Kildare in his “Earls of Kildare,” Second
Addenda, 1866, p. 76 _et seq._
“Prince Lobkowitz, who I believe you remember a giddy, good-natured wild
young man, as any in the world, was coming to Goodwood, and has had a
fall off his horse, so that I fancy he won’t be here this good while; _a
propos_ to him I must make you laugh and tell you what the Town says,
_he is in love with me_, I very much so with him, but his relatives
don’t care he should marry a Protestant, though as he is his own master
that would be no objection, but that Papa and Mamma, great as he is,
won’t part with me, and besides have other views for me; is not this a
pretty story. I assure you ’tis told for certain all over the Town, and
several of my friends have told me of it. The truth of the matter is, he
is vastly fashionable, and as I happen to speak French and to know most
of his acquaintances in Holland, he takes it into his head to talk a
good deal to me, and you know in London two people can never talk
together a quarter of an hour but they must immediately either be in
love or to be married. They say also that the Venetian ambassadrice is
in love with him and with rather more truth, for she really behaves very
ridiculously about him.[24] As you love these sort of things I must tell
you a ridiculous thing enough. Prince Lobkowitz was one night at supper
at the Venetian ambassadrice’s and the Prince of Wales sent for him,
upon which he went and she was excessively angry with him for leaving
her to go; in joking she said since he would go she would keep his hat.
Accordingly the next morning she cut the hat into a million of little
pieces and sent it to him with her compliments. About a week after he
told her a pye which he had promised her had come from Germany, upon
which she invited a vast deal of company to dinner, and when she came to
open the pye, behold it was the bits of hat which she had sent him. I
think it gives one a very good notion of them both.”
Footnote 24:
Some of the pranks of this lady, which created a sensation, even in
the irresponsible society of the period, are related with great
_verve_ by Horace Walpole.
Very soon after, “the Town” had given her a new suitor—and this time
with more reason. As early as April 15th, 1746, Mr. Horace Walpole was
able to report to Sir Horace Mann that the Duke of Richmond “has refused
his beautiful Lady Emily to Lord Kildare, the richest and first peer of
Ireland, on a ridiculous notion of the King’s evil being in the family.”
The Earl persisted in his suit, and the Duke’s objections were finally
overcome so that by the end of the year we find Lady Emily writing to
her friend “Nancy” Hamilton to announce her betrothal. “In short, in
order that the whole town of London should not tell a lye, Lord Kildare
desires to make them speak truth, and as Papa and Mamma have no
objection to it. I am willing to save them from this and heartily wish
they would tell no more.” A little after the announcement of the
engagement, Mrs. Delany met the beautiful bride-elect at the Prince of
Wales’s “Birthday” in Leicester House, and waxes enthusiastic in a
letter to her sister, Mrs. Dewes (January 21, 1747), over her
loveliness. Even the hideous dress of the moment (“hoops of enormous
size and most people wear vast winkers to their heads”), which make
other women look like “blown bladders,” could not destroy Lady Emily’s
exquisite beauty. “The reigning beauty I think among the young things is
Miss Carpenter, Lord Carpenter’s daughter, and since Lady Dysart was
fifteen I have never seen anything so handsome; but the prize of beauty
is disputed with her by Lady Emily Lennox. She is indeed ‘like some tall
stately tower’; the other is ‘some Virgin Queen’s delicious bower!’”
The marriage took place on February 7th, 1747, when the bride was a
little over sixteen. Horace Walpole has the record of the event in the
chronicle he sends his friend in Florence on February 23rd, 1747. “Lord
Kildare is married to the charming Lady Emily Lennox, who went the very
next day to see her sister, Lady Caroline Fox, to the great
mortification of the haughty Duchess-mother. They have not given her a
shilling, but the King endows her by making Lord Kildare a
Viscount-Sterling[25] and they talk of giving him a pinchbeck dukedom,
too, to keep him always first peer of Ireland.”
Footnote 25:
That is an _English_ viscount, in contrast to the “pinchbeck” of an
Irish title.
It was quite true that Lady Kildare (who, in common with the rest of the
family, had been forbidden all intercourse with Lady Caroline since the
latter had married Mr. Fox in opposition to their parents’ wishes) made
immediate use of the liberty conferred by her new position to visit her
sister. Lord Kildare and she urged a reconciliation, with more zeal
perhaps than discretion. In the letter of the Duke to Lady Caroline to
which I have already referred, he complains very bitterly of the tone
adopted by the Kildares, “who instead of makeing entreatys, were pleas’d
to tell your mother that wee _ought_ to forgive you, and were blamed by
the world, and by themselves for not doing it, which is a language I
would hear from nobody, and indeed when they saw how it was received,
they did not think fit to repeat it. And I assure you my reconcilement
to you has been defer’d upon this account, for I will have both them and
yourselves know that it proceeds from the tenderness arising in our own
breasts for you, and not from their misjudg’d aplication.”
The first few months after the marriage were spent by Lord and Lady
Kildare in England and the young wife’s letters to her girl friend are
full of bridal happiness. But her “dearest Nanny” is not to think that
when she says she is happy, “it is from being her own mistress, doing
just what she please, and all the fuss and racket.” “No, believe me,
that my happiness, thank God, is upon a better foundation. It is from
being marry’d to the person I love best in the world, and who is the
best and kindest of husbands.”
James, twentieth Earl of Kildare, was just twenty-five at the time of
his marriage, and had succeeded his father, Robert, nineteenth Earl,
three years previously. His young Countess might well find him “the best
and kindest of husbands,” for he was one of the best and kindest of men,
much concerned for the welfare of his people and his country, and taking
a serious view of the duties and responsibilities of his great position.
He was the leader of the popular party in the Irish House of Lords, and
when the corrupt administration under the Duke of Dorset and Primate
Stone had become intolerable to the people he took the bold step of
presenting a memorial against them to King George II. His brave fight
with tyranny and corruption made him the idol of the populace, and on
one occasion “he was an entire hour passing through the crowd from
Parliament House to Kildare House, and a medal was struck to commemorate
the memorial, representing the Earl, sword in hand, guarding a heap of
money on a table from a hand which attempted to take it, with the motto,
‘Touch not, says Kildare.’”
By July, 1747, the young Earl and Countess were back in Ireland settled
for the moment at Dollardstown. The Dowager Countess and Lady Margot,
the Earl’s sister, came on a visit to them, and these with Miss
Brudenell, the young Countess’s companion, and a couple of men friends
of the Earl’s, make up a party very much to the bride’s taste. “We read,
work, write and walk,” she informs her confidante Miss “Nanny.” They are
presently to take up residence in Carton, which the Dowager Lady Kildare
has given over to her son and his bride, having completed it after her
husband’s death and furnished it for the young people from top to
bottom—even to “the table linen.” It would be ungrateful of the new
Countess—after this generosity on the part of her mother-in-law—to seem
indifferent about Carton, but in truth she leaves the simplicity of
Dollardstown for the grandeur of Carton with much regret.
A few weeks later we find our young people in residence at Carton, with
the elder Lady Kildare and her daughter, Lady Margot, as their guests.
The young wife, one gathers, stands a little in awe of her grave,
reserved mother-in-law, whose manner “until ye are well acquainted with
it, is not very taking.” But she is quite in love with Lady Margot,
“whom she [_i.e._ the Dowager] is very strict with.” She is “really
charming, and I find I shall grow vastly fond of her. She is vastly
lively, very sensible and a very open heart, for she always speaks her
mind, and has a very open heart.” In a later letter she makes merry over
the compassion she received from those friends who thought it “a very
dismal thing for her” to have to leave London—the new London house the
Earl had bought for her in Whitehall—“to come with the person in the
world I love best, who studies how to please me and make me happy more
and more every day, to a very pretty country where I meet with nothing
but civilities from everybody, to a whole family who are agreeable and
cheerful and vastly fond of me, and to a country where I have a charming
house building [Leinster House], a sweet place [Leinster Lodge] which
you know I always delight in, and another pretty place [Carton].
Certainly I deserve great compassion for all this.”
While “her charming great house” was a-building, the Earl took a town
house for his bride’s first winter in Dublin in Stephen’s Green, and she
did the honours of her great position by giving some large parties in
it. She enters with great zest into her Lord’s building and improvement
schemes. Beautiful Leinster House, perhaps the most perfect creation of
Richard Castle’s architectural genius, was nearing its completion, and
although her health does not permit her to share her Lord’s weekly visit
to Carton, she keeps _au courant_ with all that is being done there.
“Lord Kildare has cut down the avenue, which I am sure makes it
charming, and has made a very fine lawn before the House, which I think
is the greatest beauty a place can have.”
A few weeks after the date of this letter, her first child George, Lord
Offaly, was born (January 15th, 1748) and the young mother’s cup of
happiness seemed full to overflowing. She was one of those women who
have the genius and the passion of maternity, and much of her sweetness
was due to this characteristic. During the following years her letters
to her friend are full of the pretty children who have followed George
into her nursery at quick intervals. William, her second son, afterwards
Duke of Leinster, was born in March, 1749, and the Countess’s first
little girl arrived in August of the following year. Her friend receives
an entertaining account of the small bundle of femininity: “in the first
place her name is Caroline Elizabeth Mabel. Caroline after my sister,
Elizabeth after the old Lady Kildare in London, and Mabel to please Mr.
Fox, who had entertained himself while he was here in reading over old
manuscripts and letters belonging to the Kildare family, in which he
found there had been a great many Mabels, and therefore begged we would
tack it on to the other two, which was done accordingly. And now ye have
the history of her name. I will tell you she is in the first place fat
and plump, has very fine dark long eyes which I think a great beauty,
don’t you? and her nose and mouth like my mother’s, with a peaked chin
like me. As for her complexion she is so full of red gum that there is
no judging of it, but what is best of all is that she is in perfect
health and has been so ever since she was born. But it’s not fair to her
brothers to entertain you only about her without mentioning them.” And
so we get a charming picture of the two little boys, and incidentally a
glimpse of their pretty young nineteen year-old mother in the midst of
them: “To begin with George. He is in the first place much improved as
to his beauty, but the most entertaining, comical arch little rogue that
ever was, chatters incessantly, is immensely fond of me, and coaxes me
not a little, for he is cunning enough, very sweet tempered and easily
governed by gentle means, in short if I was to sit down and wish for a
child it would be just such a sort of boy as he is now. William is a
sweet child, too, in a different way, he is not so lively or active as
George is by a good deal, but is forward enough both as to his walking
and talking, for he says several words and walks quite alone. As for his
little person it is fat, round and white as he was when you saw him, and
does not improve as to that; he is the best-natured creature that can
be, and excessively passionate already, but puts up his mouth to kiss
and be friends the very next moment. He is vastly fond of his nurse and
does not care twopence for me, so you may imagine I cannot for my life
be as fond of him (though in reality I love him as well) as of George,
who is always coaxing and kissing me, and does not care for anybody
else.”
The poor young mother was to have the great grief of seeing two of these
pretty children die young. Lord Offaly died in 1765 at the age of
seventeen, and was succeeded as heir, by William. Little Caroline died
in 1754 at the age of four. The fatality which, as has been already
observed, pursued the large eighteenth-century families, did not spare
our beautiful Countess’s. Of the nineteen children (nine sons and ten
daughters) she bore her lord during the twenty-six years of their
married life there only survived the years of childhood six sons:
William, Charles, Henry, Edward, Robert, Gerald; and four daughters:
Emily (afterwards Countess of Bellamont), Charlotte (afterwards Baroness
Rayleigh), Sophia, and Lucy.
In the meantime, knowing nothing of what the future has in store for
her, the Countess is a very happy woman. The improvements at Carton, in
which she is so interested, have been a great success, and no wonder she
longs to go there and see how “her spotted cows” look on the new lawn
from which the Earl has cleared some hedges since she was there last.
Did she ever tell her friend of her passion for spotted cows? She
believes not: “You have no notion what a delightful beautiful collection
of them I have got in a very short time, which indeed is owing to my
dear Lord Kildare, who ever since I took this fancy into my head has
bought me every pretty cow he saw. It’s really charming to see them
grazing on the lawn.”
So, with her children, the part she took in her husband’s plans for the
improvement of his estate, and his tenantry, her social duties, her
frequent visits to England, the years of the Countess’s married life
passed swiftly and happily. Mrs. Delany meets her occasionally in Dublin
society, but one gets the impression that Lady Kildare keeps the Dean of
Down’s lady at some little distance, and that may account for the rather
bitter tone in which the latter speaks of the Countess. The Dowager
Countess was a great friend of Mrs. Delany’s, by whom she was frequently
visited in London, and whom she visited at Delville. But it is
significant enough that the mistress of Delville, having invited to
breakfast Mrs. Vesey and Lady Kildare, “Lord Kildare would not let his
lady venture so far.” On another occasion Mrs. Delany went with Mrs.
Vesey and their friend Letitia Basle to visit Carton, and call on Lady
Kildare and Lady Caroline Fox. But they found nobody but the Dowager “at
home,” and were not even invited to dinner. These experiences are
probably at the bottom of Mrs. Delany’s evident acrimony against the
Countess. Writing to her sister, Mrs. Dewes about Rousseau, who, during
a sojourn of his in England, was the guest of their brother, Bernard
Grenville, Mrs. Delany warns her of the danger he may be “to young and
unstable minds ... as under the guise of pomp and virtue he does advance
very erroneous and unorthodox sentiments. It is not the _bon ton_ who
say this, but I am too near _the day of trial_ to disturb my mind with
fashionable whims. Lady Kildare said she would ‘offer Rousseau an
elegant retreat, if he would educate her children.’ I own I differ
widely with her ladyship, and would rather commit that charge to a
downright honest person. I mean as far as religious principles; but
perhaps that was a part that did not enter into her schemes at all.”
When the Duchess, as she then was, startled her friends by her second
marriage to Mr. Ogilvie, Mrs. Delany’s observations on the event were in
the worst possible taste. After a little tilt at her as “one of the
proudest and most expensive women in the world,” this typical Mrs. John
Bull, with all the unctuous priggishness and fondness for innuendo of
her class, quotes a horrid jest of Lady Brown’s, and proceeds to bestow
her quite uncalled-for pity on the Duchess’s “poor children.” It is easy
to suppose that our charming and clever Lady Kildare found herself bored
to death with Mrs. Delany, and her hideous shell-work, and the other
atrocities on which she lavished her time (with the profound conviction
that she was setting an example for all womanhood), and that she
committed the unforgivable offence of avoiding her as much as she could.
At the Coronation of King George III, in September, 1761, our Countess,
then the mother of ten children, walked in the procession of the
peeresses and, according to Horace Walpole’s account of the proceedings
to Hon. H. S. Conway, was with her sister-in-law, the Duchess of
Richmond, and Lady Pembroke, “the chief beauties.” To the Countess of
Ailesbury he compares this trio to “the Graces.” To George Montagu he
speaks of “Lady Kildare, still beauty itself, if not a little too
large.” It is clear that her Ladyship’s beauty was not the transient
thing which passed with the passing of youth. She was forty-eight when
Sir Joshua Reynolds painted the portrait of her, which is still in
Kilkee Castle. “What a beautiful head!” cried Edmund Burke in a rapture
of admiration, when he saw the portrait in his friend’s studio. “Sir
Joshua with much feeling replied: ‘It does not please me yet; there is a
sweetness of expression in the original which I have not been able to
give to the portrait, and therefore cannot think it finished.’”
In 1766 the Earl, who had been made to suffer as much as the
administration dared for the bold stand he had taken in Irish politics,
received at last the “_pinchbeck dukedom_” which had been promised him
nearly twenty years ago. Government was as kind to him now, as it had
been averse to him before; and lucrative offices were offered him in
quick succession. But death took him from the midst of his splendour,
and one November day in the year 1773 he was carried from the beautiful
home he had built for himself in Leinster House to the family vault in
Christ Church, where his ashes await the resurrection.
The Duchess, after a short widowhood, married, to the consternation of
most of her friends, and the scandal of the Mrs. Delanys, her sons’
Scotch tutor, Mr. Ogilvie. The marriage, contrary to expectation, turned
out extremely well. Under a rather dry and unattractive exterior Mr.
Ogilvie had a kind heart, and was most devoted to his step-children,
who, on their side (and this is true of Lord Edward in a special
degree), were very fond of him. Lady Sarah Bunbury,[26] writing from her
brother-in-law, Mr. Connolly’s place at Castletown, to her friend, Lady
Susan O’Brien, shortly after the marriage took place, hints that the
Duchess had been forced to the step she had taken, by “the impertinence”
of her daughter, Lady Emily, who had recently married the dissipated
Earl of Bellamont, to her mother’s intense displeasure. It further
appears, she told her son (William, Duke of Leinster), her
mother-in-law, and her sister (Lady Louise Connolly) that she thought it
very possible she should marry Mr. Ogilvie. They all agreed in the same
thing for answer, that they could not _wish it_, but if she was happy it
was all they wished; and that she could not choose a person she had a
better opinion of and had more regard for. With such a sanction, you
would perhaps think there was nothing for her to do, but to inform her
brother (the Duke of Richmond) of her marriage _tout simplement_, but I
wish you had seen the affectionate, the reasonable manner in which she
wrote to my brother, and indeed to all her friends. One of her
expressions to him is, ‘I am content that you should call me a fool, and
an _old fool_, that you should blame me, and say you did not think me
capable of such a folly; talk me over, say what you please, but remember
that all I ask of you is your affection and tenderness.’ My brother says
there is no resisting her owning herself in the wrong, and begging so
hard to be loved, so you see the good effect of meekness; I assure you
my sister _gains_ friends instead of losing any by her manner.
Footnote 26:
Letter of July 29th, 1775, “Letters,” I., pp. 240-241.
After her second marriage the Duchess and her husband, Mr. Ogilvie,
taking the younger children with them, went to live in France, where her
grace’s brother, the Duke of Richmond, had put his house at Aubigny at
their service. Here the two little Ogilvie girls were born, Cecilia and
Emily, and were made heartily welcome to the family circle by their
kind-hearted half-brothers and sisters, the Fitzgeralds. In the meantime
these boys and girls were going on with their studies under Mr.
Ogilvie’s direction, and the successful careers of Lord Charles and Lord
Gerald in the navy, Lord Edward in the army, Lord Henry in politics, and
Lord Robert in diplomacy were largely due to the skill and prudence with
which Mr. Ogilvie directed their preparatory studies.
In 1780 the family returned to Ireland, and the Duchess saw her brood of
boys scatter for their first flight. For the next six or seven years
she, with her girls, divided her time between Ireland and England. But
from 1785 to 1787 she was settled in Dublin with Lord Edward, back for a
portion of the time, under her wing, and her girls going out a good deal
under the chaperonage of the young Duchess of Leinster, and their aunt,
Lady Louisa Connolly. In the summer of 1787 we learn from Lady Sarah
Napier that the Duchess was in Barège for the sake of Lady Lucy’s
health, and she was looking forward to the pleasure of being joined by
three of her sons, when news of Lord Gerald’s death at sea reached her.
From 1788 the Duchess took up her permanent abode in London, probably
with the idea of getting her daughters suitably settled. As regards Lady
Charlotte these expectations were fulfilled the following year when she
married Mr. Strutt.
In 1788 and 1789 Lord Edward was in Canada and his letters to his mother
describing his adventures, “deep in Canadian woods” and on the banks of
Canadian lakes and rivers, were looked forward to with great eagerness
by the Duchess, and passed from hand to hand among the family circle,
even finding their way from London to Castletown, for Lady Louisa
Connolly’s and Lady Sarah Napier’s delectation. “He writes,” the latter
informs her friend, “the most natural and pretty account of his journey
you ever read, comments on the spirit of the chase, the melancholy end
of it, the inferior passions of hunger driving away pity, his low
spirits when he thinks of all his friends, and ends: ‘My dear mother, I
fear we are all beasts and love ourselves best.’” Lord Edward was a
special favourite of his aunt, Lady Sarah, and nothing that befel “this
dear spirited boy” left her cold. One of the most delightful spectacles
in the world was to see how he brought his love-troubles to her and to
“his dearest mother” with the full certainty of their sympathy and help,
and understanding.
He had been for some time deeply in love with his cousin, Georgina,
daughter of Lord George Lennox, but the young lady’s father would not
consent to the match and married the girl to Henry Bathurst, Lord
Apsley. By an unfortunate chance Lord Edward, arriving in England,
unexpectedly from Canada, drove up to his mother’s house in Harley
Street at the very moment she was giving a dinner-party in honour of the
bridal pair.
Disappointed in love, Lord Edward threw himself eagerly into politics,
and devoted his time to his duties in the Irish Parliament. On the
outbreak of the French Revolution he hurried to Paris, and in the
enthusiasm with which he adopted revolutionary principles, he took the
extreme step of “renouncing” his title, and in consequence of this he
was dismissed from the English army.
In December, 1792, Lord Edward married Pamela, who was generally
believed to be the daughter of the Duke of Orleans and Madame de Genlis.
The marriage cannot have been much to the liking of the Duchess. But,
like the wise woman she was, she offered no opposition to her son’s
choice, once she saw his heart was set on it, and when he came to her a
few weeks later to present his bride to her, she opened wide her heart
and arms to “the dear, little, pale, pretty wife.”
* * * * *
During the five years that followed, Lord Edward and Pamela kept in the
closest possible touch with the Duchess through a constant
correspondence and frequent visits. But it was only one portion of his
existence which her son revealed to his loving mother. There is no hint
of politics, of the stern business which was to be wound up in the
bloody liquidation of “’Ninety-Eight,” in the letters which “Eddy”
writes in the open bay window of the little book-room in Frescati, with
the birds pouring out their song and the perfumed garden its fragrance
all around him. It is of her flowers and shrubs he tells the Duchess, “I
believe there never was a person who understood planting and making a
place as you do. The more one sees of Carton and this place [Frescati]
the more one admires them; the mixture of plants and the succession of
them are so well arranged.” He gladdens her heart with a description of
Frescati and the shrubs she had planted, in all their June loveliness.
“All the shrubs are out, lilac, laburnum, syringa, spring roses, and
lily of the valley”—in short the whole is heavenly. He seeks her
approval for his own gardening plans and labours: he has had the little
green full mowed and rolled, the little mound of earth that is round the
bays and myrtle before the house planted with tufts of gentianellas and
primroses, and lily of the valley, and they look beautiful, peeping out
of the dark evergreen; close to the root of the great elm he has put a
patch of lily of the valley. A fine February morning finds him “digging
round roots of trees, raking ground and planting laurels,” and planning
to have hyacinths, jonquils, pinks, cloves, narcissi in little beds
before the house and in the rosery. If his mother will trust him to
prune the trees, in the long round, he thinks he can do it prudently.
Later on he tries very hard to make his mother see the home he has made
for his wife in Kildare—the little white house with bay windows, all
covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle—the “dear wife” herself in
her little American jacket planting sweet peas and mignonette—her
work-box with the little one’s caps on the table in the open window.
The expected “little one,” “the little young plant that was coming,”
filling its young father with proud joy, arrived in October, 1794, in
the shape of another little Eddy, and the Duchess was very glad to
accede to her big Eddy’s request, and to be its godmother. The little
Eddy was subsequently left with his grandmother for good, after his
parents’ visit to Hamburg in 1796, which was to have such momentous
political consequences. Little did the poor Duchess know for what his
father was preparing when “the precious Babe” was left with her! She is
full of gratitude for the gift, and full of appreciation of the
sacrifice the “dear Edwards” have made in parting with it—they “who
adore it and delight in its pretty ways.” We get charming glimpses of
the Duchess and the pretty boy in some letters to Lady Lucy. Now he is
at play among the sheep on the green hill beneath her window; now at her
elbow while she is writing, and full of messages for her to give to Papa
and Mamma. “Eddy, dood boy, Eddy, happy boy. Papa ride horseback, Mama
dance.” which shows, the Duchess remarks, “that he remembers them.”
Again, the Duchess is showing him a lock of Papa’s hair which Lady Lucy
has sent her mother, and Eddy is kissing it a thousand times: “Papa’s
hair, Eddy’s own Papa’s hair!” She loves to gather up his comical
remarks. “I told him something he was eating was _enough_ and that more
was _too much_. ‘But Eddy don’t like _enough_, Eddy like _too much_.’”
In October, 1797, Lord Edward saw his mother for the last time. After
that, events moved with tragical swiftness to the catastrophe of May
19th, 1798.
It was ten days after Lord Edward had got his fatal wound in the
altercation with Major Ryan that his mother was told of his condition.
As soon as the news was broken to her, she declared that she must go to
her boy at once. They kept her in London, persuading her that it was
there she might serve his cause, seeing great people, using all the
influence she could command to have his trial put off. Only poor Lucy,
more closely in sympathy with Lord Edward than any of the others, feels
how useless all this is. “All that human foresight could point out they
are doing, but alas! Edward is dying and alone!”
It was only on June 6—when Lord Edward had been two days dead—that the
Duchess, Mr. Ogilvie, Lady Sophia, Lady Lucy, and “Mimi” Ogilvie set out
at length for Ireland. They were met on the road by the messenger
bearing the fatal news.
* * * * *
Lord Edward’s daughter, Pamela, shall tell us the end of the story: “The
Fourth of June, when the guns fired for the King’s birthday, was always
a dark day in the house; poor Grandmamma appeared in deeper mourning,
and somehow there was a sort of stillness; we spoke with bated breath,
and went softly ... it was the anniversary of my father’s death.
Grandmamma wore his coloured handkerchief next her heart, and it was put
into the coffin with her.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mother of the Sheareses
JANE ANNE SHEARES, _née_ BETTESWORTH (-1803)[27]
“Come to me, O Christ,
Take swiftly my soul
Alike with my sons.”
—_Lament of Mothers of Bethlehem._
Footnote 27:
_Authorities_: Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Fourth Series, Second
Edition.
ON Saturday, May 19th, 1798, Lord Edward, desperately wounded in the
gallant fight he had put up—one man against the multitude of his
assailants—was taken prisoner and lodged in Newgate. Wounded and alone
he lay in his gloomy cell, and on his hard prison bed through the long
hours of the hot May Sunday that followed, and none of those who loved
him was near at hand to bring healing to his fevered body, or comfort to
his tortured heart.
On that same May Sabbath, when, from every open space that the
retreating country had left behind her, in her flight before the city’s
advance, there came the smell of the lilac and hawthorn, the honeyed
fragrance of lime trees and chestnut blossoms—“all the sweetness of the
May”—a different scene was taking place in another part of the city. In
a handsome house at the corner of Baggot Street and Pembroke Street, a
dinner-party was in progress. The _cuisine_ was irreproachable, the wine
excellent, the conversation of a high order. The master of the house, a
tall finely-built man of about forty-five, with something of the soldier
in his bearing, sat at one end of the table. His countenance, usually
somewhat stern and forbidding, owing to the haughty glance of his dark
eyes, and the curious blood-red birth-mark which stained the lower part
of his face, was softened now into geniality as his eyes swept the
little circle of relatives and guests gathered around his hospitable
board. His brother, a man of about thirty-two, of a singularly open and
pleasing countenance, blue-eyed, clear-complexioned, with well-formed
features and a clever mobile mouth, that showed, as the frequent smile
parted it, a row of perfect teeth—sat opposite. An old lady—their
mother—very stately and handsome in her rich dark dress and priceless
lace, sat near her eldest son. Beside her was that son’s beautiful wife.
On the opposite side of the table was the host’s sister, and beside her
his daughter by an earlier marriage. By the side of the younger brother
sat a tall man in the uniform of a Captain in the King’s County Militia.
Presently, dinner being ended, the ladies left the men of the party to
their wine, and retired to the drawing-room. A knock at the front door,
followed by the _frou-frou_ of silks and the murmur of feminine voices
in the hall, announced the advent of after-dinner visitors. At the
proposal of the younger brother of the host, the political discussion
which the three men had inaugurated over their port was postponed, and a
dish of tea with the ladies in the drawing-room was suggested. The dark
eyes of the master of the house were full of merriment, while he
explained to the guest what the magnet was that drew John from his
politics. As the voices floated past them in the hall there had been
clearly discernible the silvery tones of their beautiful neighbour, Miss
Maria Steele. “You should hear some of the poetry he addresses to his
Stella, Captain Armstrong!” said the host in laughing tones.
Captain Armstrong! Captain Warneford Armstrong! We know now, with that
name ringing in our ears, that darker than the tragedy of Lord Edward,
lying wounded to death in his prison cell at Newgate, is the tragedy
that is being enacted before our eyes in this pleasant hospitable house.
In this handsome dining-room, around the gleaming mahogany with its
genial burden of fruit and wine, there sit—the informer, Captain John
Warneford Armstrong, and his victims, Henry and John Sheares! And
presently, if we have the courage to face it, and will follow the three
men in their passage to the ladies in the drawing-room, we shall see an
even more harrowing spectacle. For in that charming eighteenth-century
room, all full of May sweetness from the tall open windows, all full of
lovely ladies and beautiful children in their picturesque
eighteenth-century costume, we shall presently see the traitor gather
the two little children of Henry Sheares upon his knee, while their
mother tunes her harp, and sings in her glorious voice, some exquisite,
moving strain for his delectation.[28] It is the picture which the
genius of Curran has made immortal: “I am disposed to believe, shocking
as it is,” he cried, while he turned to the Jury, in the dim light of
the ghastly midnight court where the Sheareses stood, two months later,
on trial for their lives, “that this witness had the heart, when he was
surrounded by the little progeny of my client—when he was sitting in the
mansion in which he was hospitably entertained—when he saw the old
mother, supported by the piety of her son, and the children basking in
the parental fondness of the father—that he saw the scene, and smiled at
it—contemplated the havoc he was to make, consigning them to the storms
of a miserable world, without having an anchorage in the kindness of a
father. Can such horror exist, and not waken the rooted vengeance of an
eternal God?”
Footnote 28:
The incident of Mrs. Henry Sheares singing to her harp for the
entertainment of Armstrong was related to Madden by Miss Maria Steele,
the friend of John Sheares. In Curran’s “Life,” written by his son, it
is stated on the authority of a gentleman who had dined with the
Sheareses, on the day in question that “he observed Armstrong, who was
one of the guests, taking his entertainer’s little children upon his
knee, and as it was then thought, affectionately caressing them.”
Armstrong denied to Madden the truth of these statements, but his
denials were not considered convincing.
* * * * *
The poor old lady, on whom the diabolical treachery of the guest of that
Sunday dinner-party was to bring such suffering that the whole annals of
“’Ninety-Eight” have nothing to surpass it, had already tasted in a
fuller measure, than is the lot of common women, the joys and the
sorrows of life. The near kinswoman of the distinguished lawyer,
Sergeant Bettesworth, and a relation of the Earl of Shannon, she had
been married, while still very young, to a wealthy Cork banker, Mr.
Henry Sheares, son of Henry Sheares, Esq., M.P., of Goldenbush. At
Goldenbush, by the pleasant Bandon river, the young couple resided for
some time, and here a number of their children were born. But at a later
date the family lived at Glasheen, about a mile and a half from Cork,
and their abundant means allowed them to keep up another establishment
in the city—a house which has been identified by Dr. Madden as situated
at the corner of Moore Street and Nile Street.
The young wife was highly accomplished, and it is rare to find a couple
so perfectly matched, as were she and her husband, in every noble
quality of heart and mind. She entered into his philanthropic schemes
with the greatest zeal. Out of the abundance with which God had blessed
them it was their joy to help all those in need. One of the spectacles
which moved their compassion most keenly was that of decent poor people
who, having fallen into debt, were by the barbarous law of the time,
liable to be hauled off to prison for it, and to be herded with
criminals, by whom they were too frequently contaminated. To help these
unfortunates, whose only crime was poverty, Mr. Sheares instituted “the
Society for the Relief of Persons Confined for Small Debts,” and in
about nine months the secretary, Rev. Dr. Pigott, was able to report
that “more than seventy poor wretches have been relieved by this
institution from the depths of misery, and all the horrors of loathsome
confinement—by which, at the same time, above 240 children (besides
wives and other poor dependent relations) have had those restored to
them from whose labour they derive their bread, and the community has
been enriched by the replacing of many useful and industrious members.”
We have already spoken of the culture which marked the merchant princes
of Cork in the eighteenth century. Even in their cultured ranks Mr.
Henry Sheares stood prominently forth. He was a clever writer, and his
contributions over the pen-name “Agricola,” to the Cork periodicals of
his day were keenly appreciated by their readers. It was held by some of
them that “no moralist—not even Mr. Addison—excelled him in the
composition” of the little moral essay, which was his favourite vehicle
of instruction. Two of his essays, one “On Forgiveness,” the other “On
Man in Society, and at His Final Separation from it,” are reproduced by
Madden; and they show, beneath the somewhat stilted and formal style
which was so much to the taste of their day—and so little to that of
ours—a depth of religion, feeling, a noble philosophy of life which can
never be out of date. He was the founder of a Club, somewhat in “the
Spectator” style, “where popular and literary subjects were debated, and
his speeches at this Club were long remembered by his friends as
pleasing memorials of great historical knowledge, a fine taste and
graceful elocution.” He sat as member of Parliament for the borough of
Clonakilty—which was in the patronage of his wife’s kinsman, the Earl of
Shannon—in the Irish House of Commons from 1761 to 1767; and the
_Parliamentary Debates_ for these years show that he took an active part
in the proceedings of the House.
Mr. Sheares died in 1776, leaving his widow and family in very
comfortable circumstances. Nine children are mentioned in his will:
Henry, Robert Bettesworth, Richard, John, and Christopher Humphrey;
Letitia, Mary, Jane Anne Bettesworth, and Julia. Of these it was their
mother’s tragic fate to survive all but the youngest, Julia.
The greatest pains had been taken with their education, and for their
settlement. Of the four daughters, all were married except Julia: one to
Mr. Gubbins, of Limerick, another to Mr. Henry Westropp, another to Dr.
Payne of Upton. “The sons,” writes one who knew the family, “had the
best masters to attend them in their father’s house, under their
father’s eye; he narrowly inspected what company they kept, and at a
proper age they were sent to the University, where, being young men of
good natural parts, they acquired a considerable degree of reputation.”
The high hopes that had been built on these boys were overturned, in the
case of three of them, by very early deaths. One day Robert and John
were out bathing together, when John got into difficulties, in saving
him poor Robert was drowned. A little later, Christopher, who had chosen
the army for his profession, went out to the West Indies, on John’s
advice. A few months later there came to his loving mother in Ireland
the news of his death by yellow fever. Richard, who had entered the
navy, perished on the _Thunderer_, which went down, with all hands, off
the West Indies, in the great hurricane of October, 1779.
The eldest son, Henry, who inherited his father’s real and personal
property, estimated at about £1,200 a year, was educated at Trinity
College, Dublin, and first chose the army for his profession. In 1782,
when he was scarcely twenty years of age, he eloped with Miss Swete, of
Cork, whose father, Alderman Swete, was considered one of the wealthiest
men in the City. Young Councillor Fitzgibbon (afterwards Lord Clare) had
been among Miss Swete’s suitors, and it is said that he never forgave
the man whom she preferred to him—and that thoughts of this early
rivalry in love were at the bottom of the implacable hostility which
drove Henry Sheares to his doom. Shortly after the marriage, Alderman
Swete became bankrupt, and his daughter’s fortune having vanished with
the rest of his assets, Henry Sheares was obliged to give up the army
and take up the study of law. He was called to the Bar in 1790, his
brother John, thirteen years younger than he (born 1766) having been
called the preceding year. The brothers began practice together, taking
up their residence in Dublin—at first in a house on Ormond Quay, and
from 1796 in Baggot Street (now 128).
A little after the move to Dublin the young wife of Henry Sheares died
(December 11th, 1791) leaving her husband four little children. Three of
the children were taken by the grandparents, the Swetes, and educated by
them in France. The youngest child, Jane, appears to have been put in
charge of Grandmother Sheares and Aunt Julia.
In 1792 Henry Sheares, accompanied by his brother, John, went to France
to visit his children. The stirring events which were taking place in
Paris drew the brothers to the capital, and here they made the
acquaintance of some of the most prominent men of the Revolution;
notably Roland and Brissot. The influences under which they found
themselves in this atmosphere were to give the most decisive direction
to their political philosophy, and ultimately to seal their fate. The
ardent spirit of John was irresistibly attracted to the new doctrines,
and where John led, Henry, who loved him with a love surpassing the love
of ordinary brothers, was fain to follow. Left to himself, poor Henry
would have felt little call to republicanism; he liked dignified
splendour; a fine house, a good table, a choice library. He loved
society in which from his conversational powers, and his charming
deferential way with women, he was a great favourite. He was a devoted
family man—a loving son, and husband and father—and his happiest hours
were spent in his own beautiful home in Baggot Street in the years which
followed his second marriage with Miss Sarah Neville, a lady of good
family in the County Kilkenny. In this home, with its rich furniture and
fine library, he was soon joined by his mother and Julia and little
Jane; and Sarah Sheares, who was a woman of character, as well as of
accomplishments and charm, lived on the happiest footing with her
people-in-law. John was also a permanent member of the household.
Shortly after their return from France the brothers became members of
the newly instituted Society of United Irishmen, which at that time, had
perfectly “constitutional” objects: Catholic Emancipation and
Parliamentary Reform. But in the eyes of the Lord Clares and others of
the Ascendancy the advocating of the most moderate measures of reform
was “treason.” During all the brothers’ professional career, the enmity
of Lord Clare, which was first that of an unsuccessful rival in love of
Henry’s, pursued them, and as they, in their turn, put no restraint on
the language they used with regard to the Lord Chancellor, every day
that passed fanned the flame.
It was only after the arrest of the chief leaders of the United Irishmen
on March 12th, 1798, that the Sheareses became prominent in the
organisation. John Sheares was appointed to the Directory, and given
special charge of operations in Cork. In April the brothers went circuit
in the South-West, and were present at a memorable dinner-party in the
house of Bagnal Harvey, Bargey Castle. Another guest was (unfortunately
for the majority of those present) Sir Jonah Barrington. By some curious
presentiment—which he took good care should be verified by immediately
communicating with Mr. Secretary Cooke—he _knew_ that a tragic fate was
reserved for most of the guests. An excellent prophet was Sir Jonah—of
the same “authentic class” as Major Sirr[29]—every member of that jovial
dinner-party (with the exception of himself, a certain barrister and Mr.
Hatton) was executed within three months!
Footnote 29:
“There are two sorts of prophets—one that derives its source from real
or fancied inspiration, yet are sometimes mistaken; the other class
composed of persons who prophesy what they are determined to bring
about themselves; of this second, and by far the most authentic class
was Major Sirr.”—Curran’s “Speech in Hevey’s Trial.”
With Sir Jonah Barrington and other “honourable” gentlemen of his class
drawing up “for their own amusement,” lists of those among their fellow
guests at friendly dinner parties “whom they considered likely to fall
victims” to the coming disaster, and these lists finding themselves
wafted by some marvellous agency from Wexford Bridge to the office of
Mr. Secretary Cooke in Dublin Castle—it is not to be supposed that
Government was in ignorance of the movements and designs of the
Sheareses. They were carefully watched and “set,” but they were left at
large for some time, according to Madden, “to allow the premature
explosion of the rebellion to take place, for the same reason that Lord
Edward was left at large after the arrests at Bond’s for several weeks,
during which time Messrs. Hughes and Reynolds (the informers) visited
him in his places of concealment, at Cormick’s in Thomas Street, and at
Dr. Kennedy’s in Aungier Street.”
At length the time was ripe for their destruction. Government had found
the proper tool.
On Thursday, May 10th, Captain John Warneford Armstrong took a little
jaunt to town from his camp at Lehaunstown and called—as he was in the
habit of doing—at Byrne’s, the bookseller’s, in Grafton Street. Though
Captain Armstrong wore the king’s uniform, he was, if his conversation
was any indication, by no means a fanatical adherent of a militarist and
royalist government. He talked republicanism; and was a diligent reader
of republican and deistical books, like Paine’s “Age of Reason” and
“Common Sense.”
During one of his many conversations with Byrne the names of the
Sheareses cropped up, and Byrne, completely deceived by the Captain’s
specious professions, proposed to make them known to each other. In the
afternoon of May the 10th, Captain Armstrong was seated in Byrne’s shop
when Henry Sheares came in, and Byrne immediately made the introduction.
Henry, however, was unwilling to enter into any conversation with the
Captain and shortly afterwards made an excuse to leave him.
Presently entered John, with his head full of plans for the Rising,
which was fixed for the 23rd of the month. One of his greatest objects
was to gain over the soldiers, and when Captain Armstrong was made known
to him by the unsuspecting Byrne “as a true brother on whom he might
depend,” it is not to be wondered at, if John looked on this meeting as
the direct answer to his ardent prayers. The Captain professed to be as
eager as John to secure the soldiers for the good cause, and after some
preliminary discussion it was arranged to meet at the brother’s house in
Baggot Street the following Sunday.
At eleven o’clock on Sunday, May 13th, Captain Armstrong saw the
brothers as arranged; at this interview he got from them the names of
some soldiers in his regiment who were known to be United Irishmen.
On Wednesday, May 16th, Captain Armstrong called once more at the house
of his victims but found neither of them at home. A second call about
six o’clock in the evening was more fruitful. He was shown in to John in
the library, and learned from him that he was on the eve of his
departure for Cork to organise the Rising there, and that his friend,
Surgeon Lawless, would take his place in Dublin and consult and advise
with Armstrong as to the matters they had in hand. It would appear that
poor Henry Sheares was on his guard against Armstrong for at this
interview he did not appear.
On the morning of the following day Armstrong was again in Baggot
Street, and made the acquaintance of Surgeon Lawless, who according to
the Captain, “informed him that he had lately attended a meeting of
deputies from almost all the militia regiments in Ireland, at which
meeting there were two of his (the Captain’s men).” At this interview
Captain Armstrong found, what he had hitherto sought in vain, evidence
to implicate Henry Sheares “in the knowledge of the military
organisation” of the United men.
After each interview with his victims Armstrong, according to his own
evidence, “returned to the camp and communicated the business that
passed to Colonel L’Estrange and Captain Clibborn.” Sometimes he
communicated it to Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Cooke. It was Lord
Castlereagh who persuaded him to go to the house of the Sheareses. “He
would not,” he told Dr. Madden himself, “have gone there if he had not
been thus urged to do so. It was wrong, he believed—indeed, he felt it
was wrong to have gone there and to have dined with them. _It was the
only part of the business he had any reason to regret._”
* * * * *
Early in the morning of Monday, May 21st, the day following the pleasant
dinner-party at which Armstrong had been so hospitably entertained, the
inhabitants of Baggot and Pembroke Streets, and the neighbouring
Squares, were startled by seeing a party of military take possession of
the front and rear entries to the house of Mr. Henry Sheares. A loud
rapping at the door roused the inmates, and procured for the police
magistrate in charge of the party, Alderman Alexander, and the Chief
Constable, Mr. Atkinson, the entrance they demanded “in the king’s
name.” Alexander made his way to the library, where he was presently
joined by Mr. Henry Sheares. The master of the house was immediately
made cognisant of the object of this early visit, and informed that his
papers must be searched. Henry Sheares, who was perfectly easy in mind
as to this, in the consciousness of having no treasonable papers in his
possession, acquiesced without protest. The search was nearly ended,
without anything incriminating having been found, when Henry Sheares
directed the Alderman’s attention to a small writing box, belonging to
his brother, which lay unlocked on the study table.
In this box was found a scrawled production, all blots and erasures,
which John Sheares, who had the dramatic temperament developed in the
highest possible degree, had passed the time in writing, after the rest
of the household had gone to bed the previous night. It was written in
the character of one addressing the Irish people after a successful
rising, and on its evidence, supported by the perjured “parole” of
Armstrong, not only John Sheares who wrote it, but Henry, who was asleep
when it was written, and as innocent of its contents as his little
child, whom Armstrong had fondled the evening before, were launched into
eternity.
“Can such things be, and not awaken the vengeance of an eternal God?”
What were the feelings of the poor ladies, old Mrs. Sheares and her
daughters when all this was going on? Was their privacy respected while
the house was being searched for John and more “incriminating”
documents? Was Henry allowed to bid them farewell before he was marched
off to the Castle, and to whisper to them that there was no need for
anxiety? Did any dim foreboding warn them as they saw him leave the home
he loved so well, and where they had all been so happy that _never,
never more_ should he enter it again?
Later in the same day John Sheares was arrested by Major Sirr at the
home of Surgeon Lawless. Lawless, himself, having received timely
warning from Surgeon General Stuart, had made his escape on the previous
Saturday.
The two brothers, after examination at the Castle, were committed to
Kilmainham and here they lay in close confinement until they came up for
trial on July the 4th. A postponement was secured until July the 12th.
Then the trial was hurried on with the most indecent haste.
The truth was that Lord Clare was in terror of his enemies escaping from
his hands—for the most powerful influences were at work for their
rescue, and the evidence against Henry Sheares was not sufficient, as
the common phrase goes, “to hang a dog on.” Miss Maria Steele used her
influence with her devoted admirer, Captain Horatio Cornwallis, nephew
of the Lord Lieutenant, to secure the brothers’ pardon; and to his
nephew’s pleading, supported by that of Julia Sheares, Lord Cornwallis,
“anxious that his first act in Ireland should not be a sanguinary one,”
was about to yield, when Lord Clare, who was present, intervened. All
day long on July 13th, while the trial dragged its weary length through
the hot and crowded court, Sarah Sheares, poor Henry’s wife, sat in a
sedan-chair at Lord Clare’s hall door; when at length she saw him, she
fell at his feet on the steps of his door, clasping his knees and
begging her husband’s life from his hands. It was all in vain.
And what of the mother all these dreadful weeks? They had not dared to
tell her that Henry was in any danger. They told her that he had been
advised to keep away, and would return when all was safe again. For
John’s fate she was in some measure prepared, but she hoped, with all
her mother’s heart, that it might be averted. A heart-breaking incident
was related to Dr. Madden by a relation of the Sheareses:
“The Earl of Shannon was a relation and intimate friend of old Mrs.
Sheares, and the day of her sons’ execution, of which she was then
ignorant, his lordship went to see her. A most melancholy scene, as may
be supposed, occurred between them. She threw herself on her knees to
implore his mediation for her younger son, at the time not knowing that
her son Harry was implicated, or had been imprisoned, having been told
that he had been advised to keep out of the way for some time, and was
actually expecting him home that evening. The Earl left the house, not
being able to tell her that they had _been both executed that morning_.”
When poor heart-broken Julia, poor widowed “Sally” could bear no longer
to hear her ask, “_When_ will Harry come back,” they burst into a storm
of weeping and then the desolate mother knew that no son had been spared
to her out of the calamity that had swept them all away. For a time they
feared her reason would give way before the shock of that knowledge.
Her two daughters—for Sarah’s devotion was not less ardent than that of
Julia—took the poor old mother far away from the scene of her
sufferings, and made a new home for her in Clifton, England. Here she
passed the short and sad remainder of her days—grieving ever for those
she had lost, having no joy but in the thought of death which would give
them back to her once more. Some time in 1803, the same year which
witnessed the death of her fellow mourner, Elizabeth Emmet, she passed
through “the strait and narrow gate”—and stood with her beloved amid the
multitude “clothed with white robes, and (having) palms in their hands,
before the throne and in the sight of the Lamb.” For she and the sons,
who welcomed her, had indeed “come out of great tribulation, and _had_
washed their robes and made them white in the Blood of the Lamb.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mother of the Teelings
MARY TEELING (_née_ TAAFFE—1753[?]-1830[?])[30]
“He will not be seen on a swift young horse
Clearing a road over fosse and fence,
His comeliness is forever changed,
On his majesty has fallen a mist.”
—_Lament for Oliver Grace._
Footnote 30:
_Authorities_: “Memoir of Bartholomew Teeling,” by (his nephew)
Bartholomew Teeling, Jun., B.L. in Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Third
Series, Vol. I. (Dublin, 1846); Charles Hamilton Teeling’s “History of
the Irish Rebellion of 1798,” “A Personal Narrative,” and Sequel to
same; Unpublished Correspondence of the Teeling Family; “The
Teelings,” by Albi Norman (article in _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for
October, 1905).
“I MUST now say a word or two of the excellent mother of Bartholomew
Teeling—not so much because of the well-formed opinion that almost all
distinguished men inherit their characteristics rather from the mother
than from the father, as because I myself have the liveliest
recollection of the amiable and endearing qualities of this venerated
being; of her ardent piety; of her active benevolence; of her cheerful
spirit; and her most graceful presence.
“Whilst she was still a child, she had been seen by him who was to be
her husband, and who, struck with her girlish beauty, had resolved ‘to
wait for her.’ She, consequently, at the very earliest age, united her
fate to his; and at the end of fifty years, during which they journeyed
together through all the vicissitudes of life—
“‘In all their wanderings round this world of care,
In all their griefs, and they had had their share.’
The romance of this early attachment continued fresh and unabated. The
contrast, perhaps, of her bright and buoyant spirit with the stern and
unbending one of the haughty politician ... was more calculated to give
endurance to their love than the most perfect similarity could have
done; and to the last hour of her existence, she was the pride and idol
of her family.
“It was matter of astonishment how she contrived, after the severe
trials she had met with, to push the badge of grief away from her, in
the society of those she loved, and to enter into the sports of her
grandchildren, as mirthful as the youngest of them. She was proud of her
high birth, and used to recount to her grandchildren the bright deeds of
her ancestors—the loyal efforts of the noble commander of the Irish
forces; of the unhappy Charles; and the heroic defence of her castle, by
the Lady Cathleen, against the ruthless Cromwell and his adventurers.
“But she scarcely ever touched upon the untimely fate of her own sons,
slaughtered or scattered over the world. Once only did I hear her
mention her gallant son, or allude to his dark fate, and then came a
gush of anguish, which showed, indeed, the sources of her grief were far
from being dried up, and, under a bright exterior, how much of
heart-rending suffering she had put up within her bosom; but, as I have
already said, she turned from her own woes to alleviate those of others,
and to spread joy around.
“By rich and poor, she was admired and she was loved. I have been told,
by those whom I myself saw adorn the most brilliant circles of the
metropolis of the empire, that in childhood they were taught to regard
her as a model of grace and excellence; and I speak a fact, which will
be testified by thousands, when I say, that in the hearts of all the
poor of the neighbourhood, in which she resided, her memory remains
enshrined, and that children born since her death have been taught to
love it, and in their dear petitions to give her name a place.”[31]
Footnote 31:
Extract from “Memoir of Bartholomew Teeling,” by his nephew, and
namesake, in Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Third Series, Vol. I. (First
Edition, 1846).
Is it true, as men say, that the woman by whose cradle the kind,
gift-bearing fairies have laid that most rare and precious gift called
“charm,” is immortally dowered? Mary Teeling was an old woman, and one
who had drained to its dregs the cup of life’s bitterest sorrows—when
(knowing it not) she sat for the portrait which her grandson has left us
of her; and she had been many years in her grave, when it was finished
and hung in its place in the gallery of portraits collected by Dr.
Madden of the men and women who gave their all for Ireland in ’98. But
from the canvas there comes forth, stealing into the heart of each of
us, the same charm which, in her radiant girlhood, won the devotion of
her stately young lover, and in her beautiful old age made captive his
little grandson. Neither age had power to wither, nor death to destroy,
the gift which was hers to draw all hearts under her sweet sway.
We would fain know something of the training and education which,
fostering her innate charm, made the mother of Bartholomew and Charles
Teeling such an exquisite type of the Irish Catholic gentlewoman. “A
nation is what its women make its men”; and if we want boys in the
Ireland of the future like the gallant boy, who on his noble grey
charger galloped alone against the cannon of Park’s Hill, and saved the
fortunes of the day at Carricknagat, or like that other gallant boy, his
younger brother, who rode forth—a lad of seventeen—on a yet more
perilous quest: to slay unaided the dragon of Orangeism, we must take
care to provide “mothers of men” like her who bore these young heroes.
And not alone for the men they will make, will Ireland need such women.
She will want them for their own dear selves; and she will want them,
whatever be her destiny—whether she is to enter at last on the reward of
her long sorrows, or whether she must tread the roadway of thorns yet a
little longer. If the future of our land is to be one of peace and
prosperity she will need in her homes women to “look well to the paths
of their house,” as Mary Teeling did in the days of her prosperity amid
the elegance and comforts of the home in Lisburn which her husband’s
wealth had enabled him to provide for his family, exercising the sweet
and lovely rule of the mistress of a Catholic home, training her
children to the noblest ideals of life and conduct, directing her
servants with gentle authority, practising a gracious hospitality,
“opening her hands to the needy, and stretching out her hands to the
poor.” And if, on the other hand, the whole price is not paid yet, and
the era of persecution is to open again—ah! then it is that Ireland will
need her Mary Teelings to stand by their husbands’ side while “they
suffer persecution for justice’ sake,” as she did by Luke Teeling’s
during the long years of his martyrdom; keeping in the midst of all
misfortunes, loss of home and children, of wealth and ease, the same
exquisite sweetness of nature and charm of manner which made her in
happier days the delight of her friends, “the pride and idol of her
family.”
* * * * *
It has seemed worth while to go to some pains to discover, if possible,
the details of an education which “in the dead vast and middle” of the
Penal night, produced a type of womanhood, presenting nothing less than
the “fine flower” of Catholic culture. “Who shall find a valiant woman?”
Have we not found her—with every exquisite trait of her immortal
prototype reproduced—in this dear Irish lady, whose radiant personality,
and high-bred grace, no less than her sweetness, and saintliness, and
charity, survive, through her grandson’s portrait of her, even the
destruction of the tomb? “Far and from the uttermost coast would be the
price of her,” whatever land produced her. If it were France during the
age when the education of girls was considered a subject of sufficient
importance for the grave debates of a King’s Council Chamber, or a
brilliant treatise from a learned and saintly prelate’s pen;[32] or
Italy, in the days when wealthy and powerful princes like those of
Mantua co-operated with great teachers and scholars like Vittorino da
Feltre in the foundation of the schools, where the Cecilia Gonzagas won
their culture; or Germany in the years when illustrious humanists like
Celtes and Reuchlin were proud of the share they had taken in forming
the minds of women like Caritas Pirckheimer—if it were any of these
lands or these ages that claimed the “price of her” it would be a matter
of small wonder. But let us try to realise that it was Ireland in the
middle of the eighteenth century, when education was, for Catholics, a
thing banned and barred by statute. In other countries little Catholic
boys and girls were enticed to their books by every loving and ingenious
device. Great statesmen, great churchmen, great scholars gave their best
thought to the subject of their education. In the Ireland into which
little Mary Taaffe was born about 1753, “statesmen” also _had_ given
their thought to the subject of education for Catholic children—but the
legislation which was the result amounted simply in Lecky’s famous
phrase, to “universal, unqualified and unlimited proscription.”
Footnote 32:
Witness the interest of Louis XIV in Madame de Maintenon’s foundation
of St. Cyr, and Fénélon’s treatise on “L’Education des Filles.”
Nevertheless Catholic parents managed to get their children educated,
and the nation which its lawgivers doomed to ignorance and degradation
produced, by some miracle, scholars like Charles O’Connor of Belanagare
and high-bred, charming women like her whose life-story we are now
studying. How was it accomplished? What a stirring and splendid chapter
the full answer to that question would add to the history of human
endeavour! How one longs for the coming of the long-delayed historian of
the Irish people who shall tell, in all its fullness, the story of how
they educated their children during the Penal Days.
For the boys we know in part how it was done. They were smuggled off to
the Continent with other forbidden “cargoes,” and at the great colleges
in Spain, and France and the Low Countries found “bourses” provided by
the pious generosity of their wealthier countrymen, or were supported by
remittances from home which no threatened penalty could prevent their
devoted parents from sending.[33] Or a tutor was provided for them in
some hunted bishop, perhaps, or friar, who found safety in the lowly
disguise of a gardener or farm-servant working on their father’s
place,[34] or who came there for a time, as one of the Bishops of
Clogher is recorded to have made the rounds of his diocese, in the
character of a wandering harper. Or they would get a course of lessons
from some of the numerous scribes, who perambulated the country,
stopping for a season at the houses of the gentry of the old race, and
copying out manuscripts for them—Keating’s History of Ireland,[35] tales
of the Red Branch and the Fenians, pseudo-historical accounts of the old
families—as Sean MaGauran did for Brian Maguire.[36]
Footnote 33:
The statute dealing with their case runs thus: “In case any of his
Majesty’s subjects of Ireland shall _go_ or send any person to any
public or private Popish school, in parts beyond the seas, in order to
be educated in the Popish religion, and there be trained in the Popish
religion, or shall send money or other thing towards the maintenance
of such person gone or sent, and trained as aforesaid, or as a charity
for relief of a religious house, every person so going, sending or
sent, shall, on conviction, be disabled to sue, in law or in equity,
or to be guardian, executor, or administrator, or take a legacy or
deed of gift, or bear any office, and shall forfeit goods and chattels
for ever, and lands for life.”—7th William III, ch. 4, s.), 1694.
Footnote 34:
See “Religious Songs of Connacht,” _passim_.
Footnote 35:
It is instructive to note the dates of the MSS. of Keating in the
British Museum. The larger number were written during the Penal Days.
Footnote 36:
See “Maguires of Fermanagh,” edited by Fr. Dinneen, p. 140.
The girls in some instances shared the lessons of their brothers. Dr.
Costello of Tuam tells me that his great-grandmother was taught Latin by
a man working on her father’s farm—a disguised friar. The scribes put
aside their copying for a time to form the little maidens’ hands to the
delicate Italian script which was the admiration of the time. The
wandering harper, who honoured their father’s house with a visit, could
sometimes be induced to give the daughters of the family a course of
lessons on his sweet instrument. Arthur O’Neill tells us of teaching the
harp to two young ladies in Longford, Miss Farrell and Miss Plunkett.
“Miss Farrell played handsomely; Miss Plunkett middling.”[37] Most of
the old Catholic families had members settled abroad, and intercourse
with the Continent was therefore so close and intimate that the outlook
of the Irish at home was far less insular than it is at present.
Occasionally uncles and cousins, who had won fame as soldiers in foreign
services, came home to visit their people, and as they liked to have
their nephews and nieces able to converse with them in French, or
Spanish, or German, as the case might be, the little ones were
stimulated to learn as much as they could in expectation of their
kinsmen’s coming. Little Mary Ann McCracken had to learn her French from
an old weaver, but little Mary Taaffe and her sisters had all around
them priests, who had studied abroad, and were only too anxious to keep
up their practice of foreign languages by speaking them with their
little parishioners. And so when the Taaffe uncle who had fought at
Fontenoy, or his son, who witnessed the dispersal of the Brigade, came
home to Ireland, their fastidious ears were not tortured by the halting
French or vile accents of their young kinswomen. In many a country
house, as in that of the O’Connors of Belanagare, were living ladies,
like Madame O’Rorke, Charles O’Connor’s grandmother, widows of
distinguished Irish officers in the French, or Spanish or Imperial
service, who had spent their youth in the most brilliant circle in
Europe, had been the friends and _confidantes_ of Queens, and who now
took delight in forming their little grandchildren and nieces to the
exquisite manners and gracious bearing which, in their own case, had won
the admiration of the most polished society on the Continent. In other
houses were other ladies who under the secular garb which the
necessities of the time imposed on them, carried out as well as they
could, in their kinsmen’s homes, the religious rule of life to which
they had bound themselves in their suppressed convents. When the
convents were closed, and the nuns scattered, those who, instead of
going abroad, found refuge with their relatives and friends, devoted
themselves largely to the education of the little girls of the
household. They trained them to their own exquisite skill in needlework,
they taught them something of the art of healing, and above all they
filled their minds with sweet and lovely images through their stories of
the girl saints who had been their own unseen but constant companions in
cell, and garden, and church; they turned them steadily to the imitation
of the virtues by which the Elizabeths, the Cecilias, the Catherines,
the Agneses had won their place as hand-maidens of the Heavenly Queen.
Footnote 37:
“Annals of Irish Harpers,” p. 179.
There is no story more beautiful in our national annals than the
story—yet untold in its completeness—of the Irish nuns during the ages
of persecution. We see them avail themselves of the slightest lull in
the storm to found their convents, and carry out the _Magnum Opus_ to
which they had vowed their life. The days of the Confederation of
Kilkenny saw the foundation of the Dominican Convent at Galway,[38] the
days of James II saw its restoration, and the establishment of the
Benedictines in Dublin. To such institutions the Catholic gentry sent
their daughters to be educated, and we have only to turn to the pages of
O’Heyne[39] to learn what manner of women these were who had the
training of their young compatriots.
Footnote 38:
O’Heyne states that the convent was established at the end of the
reign of James I. but it was only in 1644 that the church was built
and a house arranged in conventural style. The foundation was
confirmed by Rinuccini in 1647.
Footnote 39:
Admirably edited by Rev. Ambrose Coleman, O.P., who has contributed an
Appendix full of the most valuable historical information (Dundalk,
1902).
We see the heroic and saintly Prioress of the Dominican Nuns in Galway,
Juliana Nolan, “a woman of heroic fortitude in bearing every kind of
adversity, and very firm in observance and the gaining of virtues”; her
successor, Mary Lynch, who taught school in Spain before her return to
Galway, “a most religious woman and of great capacity for ruling and
instructing”; and above all Mary O’Halloran, than whom, O’Heyne
declares, he had never known a woman of stronger intellect. “She had a
more accurate acquaintance with the Spanish tongue than the Spaniards
themselves, and was well versed in sacred and profane history.”
It was not alone the young girls of the “Tribes” or the chieftainly
families of the West who were sent to the Convent in Galway to be
trained by the women we have described. Even right across the country
from Drogheda pupils came to them. One of these, Catherine Plunkett,
daughter of Thomas Plunkett, of Drogheda, and a relation of the martyred
Archbishop, Oliver Plunkett, passed from the school room, at an early
age, to the novitiate and received her religious training under Mary
Lynch. “She shared in all the vicissitudes of that Community, who were
several times compelled by religious persecution to quit their convent.
Some sought shelter in the homes of their relations or friends, whilst
not a few experienced the utmost vigours of poverty. Father Hugh
O’Callaghan, who was Prior Provincial of the Dominicans from 1709 to
1718, having during the course of his Visitation, found the Sisters in
this lamentable condition, and without any hope of their being permitted
to return to their Convent, obtained for them from the Archbishop of
Dublin, Most Rev. Dr. Edmund Byrne, permission to settle in his diocese;
accordingly in March, 1717, eight of them (of whom Catherine Plunkett
was one) arrived in the Metropolis and took up their abode first in
Fisher’s Lane, from which they soon afterwards removed to the ancient
Benedictine Convent, Chancel Row (now North Brunswick Street).”[40]
Footnote 40:
Memoir of Mother M. Catherine Plunkett, compiled from the Archives of
Sienna Convent, Drogheda, very kindly furnished me by Mother Prioress
and Community.
After a little time, Catherine Plunkett obtained the permission of her
Superiors to go to Belgium, where she was received into the Convent of
the English Dominican Sisters, called the _Spillikens_, from its
proximity to a pin factory. Here she remained about three years until at
the urgent request of the Primate Hugh MacMahon, she was recalled in
1721, by the Provincial, Dr. Stephen MacEgan, to found a convent in her
native town of Drogheda.
It reads like a chapter of the _Fioretti_—the record of the early days
of Catherine Plunkett’s foundation in Drogheda. The first home of the
nuns was a little mud cabin on the Meath side of the Boyne. Long before
day broke over the shining sands and thin line of Eastern sea, the
Dominican Father who ministered to their spiritual wants, used to row
himself over in a little boat to say Mass and give them holy Communion.
Dressed in secular garb, with their real character known only to a few
discreet friends, the ladies from Brussels obtained, without much
difficulty, leave from the Protestant Primate to open a school, and the
Drogheda merchants were very glad to send their daughters to them.
Later, they moved to a house in Dyer Street, and opened a boarding
school, and an establishment for lady boarders. All the _noblesse_ of
the Pale, the Plunketts, the Bellews, the Balfes, the Dillons, the
O’Reillys, the Drakes, the Fortescues, the Taaffes are represented among
the first pupils—and it is not at all unlikely that our heroine, Mary
Taaffe, received her education in this Dyer Street Convent, which
welcomed so many of her kinswomen. The nuns of Sienna very kindly
searched their old account books for her name, but unfortunately the
books were missing for the years 1762 to 1765, which are the very years
when we might expect to find her there—if we are right in assuming that
she was born about 1753.[41]
Footnote 41:
The date has only been arrived at by inference. She was married in
1771, and we know from her grandson’s narrative that she was
considered to have married early, say about eighteen. Her mother died
in 1753, which set a posterior limit to her conjectured birth year.
So while it is not improbable that Catherine Plunkett’s Convent in
Drogheda had the credit of the education which produced so charming a
result, we cannot attain any certainty in the matter. Nor do we know
much about Mary Taaffe’s childhood. Her father, Mr. George Taaffe,
representative of that branch of the Taaffes who held the Earldom of
Carlingford under the Stuarts, lived in Ardee on the remnant of the
ancestral estates which was all the family’s devotion to the “Lost
Cause” of the Stuarts had left them, and within sight of the ancestral
castle of Smarmore, which his son was to purchase back for the family.
His young wife, Elizabeth Keappock, died in 1753 at the early age of
thirty, leaving him with one son, John, and four daughters. Of these,
one married Terence Kiernan; another, a member of the Scurly family, a
third, Alice, James Lynch of Drogheda. John, the only son, was twice
married, first to Anne Plunkett of Portmarnock, and after her death in
1786 to Catherine Taaffe.
The ease with which Mr. George Taaffe got his girls married (an ease
which anxious parents of the present day might well envy) to young men
who in respect of fortune and family were among the most eligible
_partis_ in the Pale, suggests that the Taaffe girls were very
attractive. Doubtless their father’s house, when his four charming
daughters still graced it, was an extremely pleasant place; and it is
not to be wondered at that the girls’ clever young kinsman, Mr. Luke
Teeling, found himself often taking in Ardee[42] on his journeys between
his father’s place near Balbriggan and the establishment of the linen
merchant in Lisburn with whom he was serving his apprenticeship.
Footnote 42:
It would be quite in his way if we are justified in assuming that the
route taken by Thomas Molyneux in 1707 was the ordinary one.
As is so often the case with serious-minded young men, there was a
strong, if hidden, vein of romance in Luke Teeling’s nature, and he soon
discovered that he had lost his heart irrevocably, to his pretty cousin,
Mary. She was young, hardly more than a child at the time, and her
father was loth to part with his little maid so soon; but he recognised
the sterling qualities of her suitor and gave his consent to an
engagement, which terminated in the marriage of the young couple at
Ardee on April 6th, 1771.
There had been an old connection between the Taaffes and the Teelings,
and we learn from Bartholomew Teeling’s Memoir of his uncle that Luke
Teeling’s mother was of the house of Taaffe. After the record of the
marriage of Luke and Mary (still kept at Smarmore Castle) the words are
inserted, “obtenta dispensatione in consanguinitate.”
Like the Taaffes, the Teelings had suffered much during the long wars
which devastated Ireland in the seventeenth century, and of the broad
acres which their forefathers had held in Meath for over five hundred
years there remained after the “Third Breaking” of Aughrim, in the
pathetic phrase of one of the family’s present-day representatives,
little more than “the semi-circular arched vault in the churchyard of
Rathkenny.” But even before Father Teeling, who came back from his
College on the Continent about the beginning of the eighteenth century,
to endure the life of suffering, and labour, and peril of a missionary
priest in Ireland under the Penal Régime, was gathered to his fathers in
that vault, the fortunes of the family were already in the ascent. In
truth there was something in the Teelings which forced them to the front
in whatever walk of life they might choose for themselves, whether as
soldiers, like the old knightly Teelings of the Middle Ages, whose names
survive in many an ancient deed of gift to religious houses; or
churchmen, like Father Ignatius Teeling, S. J., or scholars like
Theobald Teeling, the correspondent of Justus Lipsius, and that other
Teeling, who has been described by Archbishop Peter Talbot as “_urbis et
orbis miraculum_.”[43] And this something—call it personality, force of
character, or what you will—was peculiarly evident in Bartholomew
Teeling whom we find settled in the neighbourhood of Balbriggan about
the middle of the eighteenth century.
Footnote 43:
These particulars concerning the Teeling family are taken from an
excellent article in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ (October, 1905), by a
writer signing himself “Albi Norman.”
It was in the days when Balbriggan, under the fostering care of its
landlord, Baron Hamilton, of Hampton Hall,[44] was developing from a
miserable little fishing hamlet into a prosperous trading town. With the
assistance of a small grant from the Irish Parliament, the Baron built
the pier, in the sixties of the eighteenth century, and thus fostered a
lively carrying trade with Wales. Ships of two hundred tons could unload
in the new harbour, and such craft crowded the quay, unloading cargoes
of slates, coal and culm, as well as rock salt and bark, and carrying
back corn and cattle. In 1780 the Baron established extensive cotton
works here, for the promotion of which parliament granted the sum of
£1,250, but this manufacture was subsequently almost abandoned for that
of hosiery.[45] When Arthur Young visited Ireland in 1776, he spent a
few days with the Baron, and we learn from him[46] much of the latter’s
improvements; of the one hundred and fifty acres of mountain land he
reclaimed; of the agricultural methods he adopted, and of their
financial results; of the local fishing industry and how he worked it.
It seems the Baron had boat-building works, and out of these came his
fleet of “23 boats each carrying seven men, who were not paid wages, but
divided the produce of the fishery. The vessel took one share, and the
hands one each, which amounts on an average to 16s. a week. A boat costs
from £130 to £200, fitted out ready for the fishery; they make their own
nets.”
Footnote 44:
He was M.P. for Belfast, Solicitor General and Baron of the Exchequer
(D’Alton’s “History of County Dublin,” p. 477).
Footnote 45:
D’Alton, _op. cit._, p. 468.
Footnote 46:
“Tour in Ireland,” Vol. I.
With the agricultural experiments of the Baron, and his industrial and
trading enterprises, Bartholomew Teeling was closely identified. He held
the lands in Walshetown, Gardiner’s Hill, Kilbrickstown, etc., and some
family documents, which I have been privileged to examine, have
reference to business transactions with Baron Hamilton, which would seem
to indicate that Bartholomew Teeling helped to finance the Baron’s
schemes.
At all events Bartholomew prospered, and when he died the provisions he
was able to make for his sons and the education he gave them, show that
he had accumulated a comfortable fortune. He was married twice, it would
appear, his first wife being of the Taaffe family, and his second a Miss
Grace. By these he had a numerous family of sons. In addition to Luke,
the eldest son, we find mention in the family papers of Christopher, a
well-known doctor in Dublin; James, who seems to have remained in his
father’s place near Balbriggan and combined manufacturing and farming;
Joseph, and Robert, afterwards merchants in Dublin; and Bartholomew.
There was also a Patrick, but if he was one of these brothers, he must
have died soon, as his name early falls out of the family record.
Luke had been early apprenticed to the linen trade—and that fact in
itself indicates that his father was a man of means. For in the
endeavour to keep the trade “exclusive,” a high fee was charged, and a
fairly long apprenticeship insisted on.
After the repeal of the Edict of Nantes many French Protestant refugees
settled in Ireland. Some of these were highly skilled in the linen
manufacture and a settlement of them under Louis Crommelin in Lisburn, a
town on the Marquis of Hertford’s estate, made that place a thriving
centre of the industry. After Luke Teeling had completed his
apprenticeship, he stayed on in Lisburn, got a lease from the Marquis of
Hertford, and started a bleachyard of his own; and he was so successful,
that Mr. George Taaffe needed to have no misgiving about the future when
he gave his beloved daughter to him.
The early years of the married life of Luke and Mary Teeling were years
of unclouded happiness. A little Elizabeth, called perhaps after the
mother Mary Teeling had never known, came to them the following year.
She was followed by a goodly train of brothers and sisters: Bartholomew,
George, Charles, Luke and John were the boys. The girls, in addition to
Elizabeth, were Mary, Alice (called after Alice Taaffe who had married
James Lynch, of Drogheda), and Millicent.
Fortunate families, like fortunate nations, “have no history,” and there
is little to record of Mary Teeling during the years when her boys and
girls were growing up. In 1782 her husband acquired the lease of some
building ground on Church Hill and built a residence for his family in
keeping with his wealth and position; and a decade and a half of happy
years passed swiftly under its dignified roof. The large family party
which gathered permanently round the Teelings’ board was seldom without
a reinforcement of guests: business correspondents like Mr. Sam Wall, of
Worcester, or merchants from Dublin and Belfast, were sure of a hearty
welcome there. Old Mr. George Taaffe loved to come from Ardee, and spend
a month or two with his beloved grandchildren. Aunt “Ally” Lynch from
Drogheda, and kind Uncle James were frequent visitors. The elder boys,
Bartle and George and Charles, who were attending Mr. Saumarez
Dubourdieu’s famous classical school in the town, had frequent
permission to bring home their schoolfellows to dinner or supper, and
Mrs. Teeling’s “parties” were voted the most delightful in Lisburn. As
the boys grew older other guests were much in evidence—young officers
from the camp at Blaris-Moor with whom the Teeling lads fenced, or went
fishing or shooting, or rode to hounds, liked to be asked when the day’s
sport was over to accompany them to the hospitable mansion on Church
Hill, where a pleasant supper and a dance would wind up many a
delightful evening. The Teelings were noted horsemen—an hereditary
trait. The writer in _The Gentlemen’s Magazine_, having quoted the
younger Bartholomew Teeling’s description of his father and uncles as
“the best horsemen and the most accomplished swordsmen in the province,”
tells us that the Teelings “were proverbial for their love of small,
perfectly shaped, high-bred horses,” and refers to stories, still
current in the County of Meath, of the incredibly short time in which
they used to ride from their home to Dublin, on their beautiful little
horses.
“White with green facings their retainers did wear
And the young cavaliers were beloved of the fair.”[47]
Footnote 47:
Luke Teeling was looked on as a remarkably good judge of a horse, and
I find among the family papers not a few in which his friends seek his
advice on that all important subject.
The young men were born soldiers, and more than one effort was made by
officers and others of the highest rank to induce them to enter the
English army. The Marquis of Hertford, dining one day with Mr. Teeling,
promised his influence to get Charles into the Guards, and pledged his
powerful support towards his advancement. Luke Teeling replied that, as
far as he was concerned, his son was free to accept the flattering
offer—but to the surprise of the Marquis, it was declined by Charles
himself.
In truth, the boy, who though younger in years than Bartholomew or
George, had ripened earlier than they, had turned his thoughts in a
direction not very likely to end in a Commission in the English Army.
While Bartle still dallied in the pleasant ways of youth, and George was
away in Dublin,[48] Charles was thrown largely into his father’s
company, and imbibed the political views which the circumstances of the
time forced on a man of Mr. Teeling’s logical and just mind. Though it
is not said in so many words, we gather that Bartle and his father did
not quite understand each other. The younger Bartle tells us that his
namesake “scarcely brooked the restraint which the stoical and somewhat
severe principles of his father imposed upon him; but to his mother,
whose idol he was, and to his sisters, he was warmly and tenderly
attached. There was no youthful adventure too daring or even extravagant
for him; but nothing which inflicted pain, or which trifled with human
misery ever had his countenance.” He was fond of books, too, a diligent
student of the Classics, and a devotee of Shakespeare and perhaps these
tastes helped to keep him for a longer time than his brother a sojourner
in those regions of the Ideal where the call of the Real resoundeth not.
The day was to come, indeed, and speedily, too, when the cry of his
suffering country was to ring as loudly in Bartle’s ear as it had long
rung in that of Charles. And how he was to answer it all men know.
Footnote 48:
They were both apprenticed in the linen trade. Bartle with his father,
and George with the MacDonnells in Dublin.
In 1790 Mr. Teeling gave very active support to the parliamentary
candidature of Hon. Robert Stewart—afterwards Lord Castlereagh—who stood
in the Reform interest against the Downshire _clique_. Being a Catholic,
Mr. Teeling had no vote himself, but he spared neither his money nor his
personal exertions in favour of one who advocated so eloquently the
causes dear to Mr. Teeling’s heart: Catholic Emancipation and
Parliamentary Reform. The Teeling boys were enthusiastic admirers of the
young candidate, who indeed had been the idol of every patriotic heart
in the north since the day he rode—a lad of thirteen—at the head of a
company of boy Volunteers in the Review in Belfast, and made men think
of Cuchullin and the boy troop of Emain Macha, by the martial skill and
daring of their exploits. We know from Charles’s own assurance that the
tenderest ties bound him to his father: “He was to me,” he says, in one
of the most moving passages of his narrative, “not only the affectionate
parent, but also the companion and friend.” And doubtless, in the long
rides which father and son delighted to take in each other’s company,
Charles imbibed his father’s political opinions and learned to feel the
wrongs which the Catholics of Ireland were suffering as intolerable.
The Catholic Convention of 1792, in which Mr. Teeling took a leading
part, was a turning point in the history of the family. We know from
Tone’s account of the proceedings that Luke Teeling was _the_ man of the
Convention. When the counsels of the more pusillanimous seemed likely to
prevail, his commanding spirit and ability won the day for the bolder
measures advocated by Tone, and it was due to him that there went forth
from the great assembly a Petition to the King demanding (instead of the
partial relief for Catholic disabilities to which the Sub-Committee that
drew up the Petition had originally limited their request) Total
Emancipation. “My instructions from my constituents,” said Mr. Luke
Teeling in a speech which produced the most profound impression on his
audience, “are to require nothing short of total emancipation; and it is
not consistent with the dignity of this meeting and much less of the
great body which it represents, to sanction by anything which could be
construed into acquiescence on their part, one fragment of that unjust
and abominable system, the penal code. It lies with the paternal wisdom
of the Sovereign to ascertain what he thinks fit to be granted, but it
is the duty of this meeting to put him fully and unequivocally in
possession of the wants and wishes of his people.” The effect of Mr.
Teeling’s attitude was to win to his views even the most cautious—not to
say timid—members of the assembly, and his amendment was passed
unanimously. We cannot help feeling, as we read Tone’s “Diary,” and
follow the events subsequent to the return from London of the Delegate
who had gone from the Convention with the Petition to the King, that if
Mr. Teeling had been living in Dublin, instead of in distant Antrim,
things would have taken a different course for the Catholic Cause, and
the whole Cause of Ireland. His influence would have prevented the
spirit of compromise which had such disastrous results.
The years that followed the Catholic Convention were marked by a great
increase in bigotry—fomented with nefarious designs by the Irish
Government of the day. The new activities of the new men at the head of
the Catholic movement—wealthy and progressive merchants, like John Keogh
and E. Byrne; young professional men, fresh from Continental
Universities, like Dr. MacNevin—were countered by increased activities
on the part of the bigots. The Grand Juries sent in to Parliament
Petitions against the Catholic claims, and when these fell flat owing to
the clever pamphleteers like Tone and Emmet, other methods were resorted
to. The chief was the fostering of party spirit, which was first
evidenced in the enormous increase in sectarian associations. Against
the aggressions of the “Peep o’ Day Boys” (who got their name from their
custom of repairing at that hour to the houses of their Catholic
neighbours, dragging them from their bed and otherwise maltreating them,
while they searched their houses for arms) the Catholics, who not only
had no protection from the law or the armed forces of the crown, but
saw, on the contrary, both these mights used against them, formed
themselves into an association called “Defenders.” In those quarters
where the contending parties were nearly balanced, the peace was kept by
their wholesome fear of each other, but where the Catholics were in the
minority they were obliged to adopt a system of nightly patrols, each
townland or parish furnishing its proportion of armed men. But this
system was intolerably burdensome, and at length some of the young men
decided that there was nothing for it but to meet their opponents in the
open field, and have done with the matter there and then.
News of this impending conflict came to the ears of young Charles
Teeling, and although he was only a lad of seventeen at the time, he
determined to try and prevent it. He was well aware, he tells us in his
pamphlet on “The Battle of the Diamond,” that whether the Catholics won
or lost in the fight the result would be equally disastrous for them; if
they lost, they would be still more at the mercy of their savage
opponents than before; if they won, Government, which was undisguisedly
in favour of their enemies, would exact the severest penalties from
them. He hoped that the influence which his family enjoyed both with the
Catholics and the Protestants would make the opposing parties ready to
listen to his proposals for peace between them. Without saying a word to
anyone he set out therefore from Lisburn to the disturbed districts, but
he had not gone far when he saw that the task was too serious and
responsible for his seventeen years. He sent, therefore, to Belfast for
Samuel Neilson, then editor of the _Northern Star_, who for many years
had been the warm friend of his father in the causes of Reform and
Catholic Emancipation.
Before Neilson could reach him, the Battle of the Diamond had been
fought and won by the Protestants, and the Catholics were, as he
anticipated, in a worse condition than before.
The “Peep o’ Day Boys,” on the very day of the Battle of the Diamond
(September 21st, 1795) formed themselves into the famous association of
“Orangemen,”[49] and these immediately set themselves to exterminate the
Catholics. “They would no longer permit a Catholic to exist in the
county.[50] They posted up on the cabins of these unfortunate victims
this pithy notice, ‘To Hell or Connaught,’ and appointed a limited time
in which the necessary removal of persons and property was to be made.
If after the expiration of that period, the notice had not been complied
with, the Orangemen assembled, destroyed the furniture, burned the
habitations and forced the ruined families to fly elsewhere for
shelter.... While these outrages were going on, the resident magistrates
were not found to resist them, and in some instances were even more than
inactive spectators.” Many fearful murders were committed on the
unresisting Catholics, and it is estimated that seven thousand Catholics
were either killed or driven from their homes by the Orangemen in the
County Armagh alone. But the unhappy outcasts, even when they escaped
with their lives, had no shelter to fly to. In most cases they could
only wander on the mountains until either death relieved them, or they
were arrested and imprisoned; while the younger men were sent without
ceremony to one of the “tenders” then lying in various seaports, and
thence transferred on board British men-of-war. During the years 1796
and ’97 the Orange magistrates, aided by troops, established a reign of
terror over the greater part of Leinster and portions of Ulster and
Munster. They arrested and imprisoned, without any charge, multitudes of
innocent persons, and many of these were only removed from prison to be
sent to serve in the navy.
Footnote 49:
The first Orange lodge was formed on September 21, 1795, at the house
of a man called Sloan, in the village of Loughgall, Co. Armagh.
Footnote 50:
James Hope says that in reality what the Orangemen aimed at was to get
the farms of the Catholics who had recently, by their industry in the
linen trade, acquired the means of renting desirable farms.
Parliament—the famous Irish Parliament, Grattan’s Parliament, came to
the rescue of the oppressed by passing the Insurrection Acts and the
Indemnity Acts—the objects of which were to give the magistrates a free
hand to commit the most illegal outrages against the people without fear
of any unpleasant consequences for themselves. It is true that Grattan
fought gallantly against these measures, and to his splendid speech in
opposition to them we owe much of our information concerning the
outrages perpetrated by the “banditti of persecution.”
It was felt by the most far-seeing and patriotic of the Irishmen who
deplored this appalling state of affairs that the one hope of the
country lay in the system of the United Irishmen, which aimed at a real
union of Irishmen of all denominations in the bonds of love and loyalty
to their common country. In the North, especially, the urgency of this
union of hearts was keenly felt, and hence we find the younger men of
the advanced party like Henry Joy MacCracken and Lowry, working
strenuously with Charles H. Teeling and his brother-in-law, John
Magennis, to get “the Defenders” into the ranks of the United Irishmen.
Government showed its appreciation of their labours by an unexpected
_coup_. The most active protagonists of the policy were suddenly
arrested on a charge of high treason and clapped into prison in Dublin.
* * * * *
On a delightful September morning of the year 1796, Mary Teeling stood
on the doorstep of her beautiful home in Lisburn waving a farewell
greeting to her husband and her son Charles ere they rode off together
on one of those business expeditions—of which the extraordinary
affection uniting this father and son always made a pleasure excursion.
As she gazed on her stately husband, now in the pride of his years and
his honourable prosperity, making a superbly gallant figure, as he
always did on horseback, and saw how fine a pendant Charles’s dashing
youth and fresh good looks, offered to his father’s, can we wonder if
her heart swelled with wifely and maternal pride, and she turned to her
home duties with a prayer of thankfulness to God for all the good things
that were hers.
Alas! Alas! Sorrows and crosses beyond all telling were to follow that
radiant moment, and ere the day was over, the fair structure of her
life’s peace was to be laid in ruins.
Not very long afterwards she was startled by seeing the old groom who
had ridden out with Luke and Charles return with Charles’s riderless
horse. What dreadful thing had happened?
It was not _the worst_ at all events. No fatal accident had taken her
boy from her—but what really had happened it was difficult enough to
make out from the servant’s narrative. She could hardly believe that
Lord Castlereagh, an old friend of the Teeling family, who was under the
most real obligations to Mr. Teeling for his help and support on many
occasions, could really have her boy now under arrest in the house of
his father-in-law, the Marquis of Hertford. Lord Castlereagh, according
to the groom, had with his usual appearance of cordiality and friendship
joined the master and Master Charles as they rode up the main street of
the town, but when they came to the Marquis’s gates, Master Charles had
been asked by his lordship to accompany him. As soon as he had entered
the gates, these were closed and an armed guard had suddenly appeared.
The master had demanded admission, and this, after a time, was granted.
He was only allowed a few minutes with his son. Then he had come out,
and leaving orders with the groom to lead home Master Charles’s horse,
he had continued his journey alone.
She was not left long in doubt of the truth of the old servant’s
extraordinary tale. Very shortly afterwards she saw Lord Castlereagh
himself enter her house, accompanied by a military guard. Her youngest
son, John, a boy of fourteen, daring to demand by what authority the
house was thus forcibly entered, saw a pistol presented at his breast,
and himself compelled to accompany Castlereagh and his minions in their
search through the house for treasonable (?) papers. “My brother,”
Charles tells us in his “Narrative,” “conducted himself on this occasion
with a firmness and composure that could hardly have been expected from
a lad of his years.” It is regrettable that he does not mention the name
of the sister “who evinced the most heroic courage; she was my junior,
and, with the gentlest, possessed the noblest soul; she has been the
solace of her family in all subsequent afflictions, and seemed to have
been given as a blessing by Heaven, to counterpoise the ills they were
doomed to suffer.” One guesses, however, from the deep affection
entertained for her by Charles all through the after years, that this
heroic sister was her mother’s namesake, Mary.
As for the mother herself, she was “totally overpowered by the scene.
She had just been informed of my arrest, and now saw our peaceful home
in possession of a military force. Maternal affection created imaginary
dangers, and in the most energetic language she prayed Lord Castlereagh
to permit her to visit my prison, and to grant even a momentary
interview with her son. This he had the good sense and firmness to
decline, and in communicating the matter to me in the course of our
evening’s conversation, I expressed my approval of his decision. But my
mother felt otherwise; the afflicted state of her mind precluded that
reflection which should have rendered her sensible of the propriety of
Lord Castlereagh’s refusal. Agitated and disappointed, her gentle but
lofty spirit was roused, and burying maternal grief in the indignant
feeling of her soul, ‘I was wrong,’ she exclaimed, ‘to appeal to a heart
that never felt the tie of parental affection—your Lordship _is not a
father_.’ She pronounced these words with a tone and an emphasis so
feeling and so powerful, that even the mind of Castlereagh was not
insensible to its force, and he immediately retired with his guard.”
That night, Charles and the other prisoners, arrested on the same day in
Belfast, (including Neilson and Russell) were taken in coaches, under an
armed escort, to Dublin, and thrown into prison, where he remained for
about two years, without trial, until the breakdown of his health
procured his release.
In the meantime all sorts of misfortunes had befallen the happy
household on Church Hill. Some months after the arrest of Charles, the
Orangemen, in broad daylight, had entered Mr. Teeling’s premises,
wrecked his bleach-yard, looted his house, and in the course of a few
hours’ deliberate devastation left the entire establishment “a desolate
ruin.” And all this, as Charles points out in his narrative, “in the
blush of open day, within the immediate vicinity of two garrisoned
towns, an active magistrate, and an armed police.” It is quite clear
that the Orangemen were the agents of vengeance of the Government, who
thus designed to punish Mr. Teeling’s temerity in acting as Secretary of
a meeting of the Freeholders of Co. Antrim, convened by public notice at
Ballymena on May 8th, 1797, from which had gone forth a Petition to the
King setting forth the intolerable grievances under which the Irish
people were suffering, and praying his Majesty to dismiss the ministers
responsible for them.
As their lives were no longer safe in Lisburn, Mr. Teeling moved his
family to Union Lodge, near Dundalk, which had been previously used by
Bartle as his headquarters, But even here they were not safe. He got
private notice from a well-wisher that he was about to be arrested. He,
therefore, found an asylum for Mrs. Teeling and the girls with her
brother, Mr. John Taaffe, at Smarmore Castle, Ardee, while he looked
around him to make fresh provision for them.
It is not very clear at what date Bartle began to identify himself with
the United Irishmen; but it seems to have been about the same time as
Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Arthur O’Connor joined them, that is to say
early in 1796. He became the fast friend of Lord Edward, and before
Charles’s arrest on September 16th, 1796, the two brothers were frequent
guests at Kildare Lodge. It was here that Bartle met and loved the fair
Lady Lucy Fitzgerald, Lord Edward’s favourite sister, and who shall say
that he loved Ireland the less, because his vision of Kathleen Ni
Houlihan borrowed the lovely ardent face, and the bright eyes, veiled
with long dark drooping lashes of “Lucia.” While Lord Edward and
O’Connor were on the Continent negotiating with the French Government,
Bartle Teeling, under a plausible plea of a business journey, made a
complete tour of Ireland on foot. His object, according to his nephew,
was to make himself “perfectly acquainted with Ireland’s resources, with
her capabilities of entering upon, and maintaining an internal war, with
the intellectual and physical qualities, the habits and the manners of
her people, with their wants and their endurance, their hopes and their
resolves; as well as with the natural features of the country—her
rivers, her coasts, and her harbours.” The fact shows that Bartle
Teeling, for all his youth, was amongst the most far-sighted of the
leaders.
After his return from this journey he took up his residence in Union
Lodge, with his friend, John Byrne, of Worcester, who having served his
apprenticeship to the linen trade in Lisburn had established extensive
bleaching mills on the banks of the river at Dundalk.
It is from the evidence of the informers, John Hughes and Samuel Turner,
that we gather our scanty information as to Bartle’s activities about
this period. Hughes, a Belfast bookseller, arrested in October, 1797,
turned king’s evidence in order to secure liberation. Being brought
before the Lords’ Committee in 1798, he stated amongst other things,
that in November, 1796, he had been sent by Bartle Teeling (then settled
as a linen merchant in Dundalk) to Dublin to extend the United Irishmen
societies there. Hughes seems to have been a sort of organiser for the
Society, for again in June, 1797, he was sent for to come to Dublin.
Before he left the north, John Magennis (Betty Teeling’s husband)
administered an oath to him that he would not communicate the names of
those to whom he should be introduced. In Dublin he was present at a
breakfast given by Bartle Teeling, at his lodgings in Aungier Street,
where the other guests were John Magennis, Anthony MacCann, of Dundalk;
Samuel Turner; Messrs. John and Patrick Byrne, of Dundalk; Colonel James
Plunkett; A. Lowry; Mr. Cumming, of Galway; and Dr. MacNevin. The object
of the conference was to discuss the fitness of the country for an
immediate rising. Teeling, Lowry and MacCann were in favour of an
immediate effort; the others were afraid the people were not
sufficiently prepared for it.
Shortly afterwards, before the month of June was up, Bartle Teeling,
Turner, MacCann, Tennant, Lowry, etc., seeing the “Rising” postponed,
fled to Hamburg; and some of the others, including John Magennis, found
refuge in Scotland.
Bartle Teeling must have remained in Hamburg a very short time, for his
brother states that he joined the French army under the name of
Biron[51] and served a campaign under Hoche, whose death occurred on
September 8th of that year. He may have returned to Hamburg after the
death of Hoche, for in October of 1797 Turner reports to his friend,
Lord Downshire, a letter Teeling was sending from that place to Arthur
O’Connor. In November, Turner’s information shows Bartle in Paris. At a
date of the same year which it is difficult to determine, he paid a
stolen visit to Ireland, bearing messages from the Irish leaders on the
Continent to those at home. It is said that on this occasion Lady Lucy
gave him the ring which is still treasured in the Teeling family—and
which he wore until the eve of his execution, when he sent it to his
brother “as the dearest pledge he had to leave, of fraternal love.”
Footnote 51:
In the Castlereagh papers the assumed name of B. Teeling is stated to
have been Byrne.
* * * * *
All this time Mary Teeling was without news of him, and to the burden
which she already had to bear was added that of intolerable anxiety for
her eldest son, and great uneasiness about Charles, of whose health his
father brought back discouraging reports from his visits to Kilmainham.
The kindness of her brother John and his wife Catherine, and the
hospitality they so gladly offered her and her girls, could not make her
forget the wreck of her own beautiful home, and the irreparable damage
done to her husband’s fortune. Moreover, his health was much affected by
the condition of his affairs, and the fatigues he had undergone to
re-establish them. A trip to a Donegal Spa, followed by a horseback
journey to Connacht (where he hoped to establish a new bleach-green) had
exhausted him, and in the spring of ’98, he had been sent by his doctor
to Cushendall for sea-bathing. His frequent changes of abode were
represented to Government as connected with treasonable activities, and
accordingly on June 16th, 1798, he was arrested, and committed to prison
in Belfast, no charge being made against him.
For four years Luke Teeling was kept in prison, and was only liberated
in 1802. And during all that time no charge was brought against him, nor
did his repeated requests to be brought to trial bring any result. From
the provost prison in Belfast, he was moved to the _Postlethwaite_
tender, lying in Belfast Lough, one of the prison ships which were among
the horrors of the day; from that to Carrickfergus Castle, and finally
back to the prison in Belfast. It has been my privilege to read many of
the letters addressed by Luke Teeling from his various prisons to
members of his family, and truly it was with a great stirring of the
heart that one held them in one’s hands, and read the story they tell of
sufferings heroically borne; of a devotion to honour and principle which
counted no cost too great; of a Faith and Hope, and love of God and
God’s Church intense enough to make the writer free of the ardent and
heroic company of the saints. There is one letter written from the
_Postlethwaite_, where the firm hand trembles, and the strong heart
shows nigh to breaking—which it is impossible to read without tears. It
is the letter in which the father writes to Bartle’s old friend, Sam
Wall, the news of Bartle’s execution.
For in the days when Luke Teeling was enduring the horrors of the prison
ship in the sweltering summer heat,[52] Bartle’s brief but glorious day
had come to its heroic close on the “martyr’s mound” at Arbour Hill,
Dublin. It is not here that may be fully told the gallant story of
Bartle Teeling and the part he played in the Humbert Expedition. On his
white charger he rides for ever amid the “fair chivalry” of the
boy-heroes of Ireland amid the
“White horsemen with Christ their Captain—forever he.”
Footnote 52:
“The _Postlethwaite Tender_, on which my father was confined,
contained within the limits of one small apartment, thirty-four
gentlemen, of respectable rank in life and independent circumstances.
In this miserable prison-house, its inmates could never stand erect,
and crowded together in a circumscribed space not fourteen feet
square, they could only enjoy a partial and unrefreshing slumber in
succession. Here, entombed on the ocean, during the sultry heat of a
summer the most oppressive that has been remembered for thirty years,
they inhaled the pestiferous atmosphere of a tender; in the depth of
winter, when their numbers were reduced to a few, they were exposed
with open port-holes to all the inclemency of the chilling blast. Nor
were they permitted to receive a supply of wholesome food from their
friends; nothing was allowed them beyond what the parsimonious bounty
of Government afforded. At four o’clock in the evening the hatches
were locked down, and the prisoners remained in darkness until nine on
the following morning. Sometimes, forgetful of his situation, the
prisoner would raise his form to stand erect ... when the hard
repelling beam, in contact with his head, reminded him that the hand
of man had prescribed his limits. My father, whose fine-formed head
and silver locks are still present to my imagination, presented on his
removal from this prison, a perfect encrustment of festered wounds
from forehead to nape.”—C. H. Teeling’s “Narrative.”
And the day shall come, please God, when no Irish boy shall be ignorant
of the lines he wrote in the Golden Annals of their knightly company.
* * * * *
Was it given to his mother to see her idolised son once more before he
mounted the scaffold on Arbour Hill on September the 24th, 1798? To this
question we can find no answer. We know, from her husband’s letter to
Sam Wall, that for a time it was feared Mary Teeling would die, so
completely did she break down under the agonising load of her conjugal
and maternal sorrows. Bartle was not the only son whom Ireland claimed
from her. Charles and John were now on their keeping. A few months after
the consummation of Bartle’s sacrifice, John, her youngest son, her
Benjamin, was taken from her—and of him, as truly as of Bartle, she
might say, he gave his life for Ireland.
During her husband’s continued imprisonment, she tried to keep as close
to him as she could, and for a time, it would appear she was permitted
to share it in Carrickfergus Castle. Stifling her own sorrows she found
strength to comfort him, and to lend him courage. His affairs had been
reduced to ruin, by the vindictive action of Government, and to all his
other woes was now added that which must have been of a peculiarly
galling character to a man of his fastidious sense of honour: his
inability to pay his creditors in full.
In 1802 Mr. Teeling was liberated, and after a time spent with Charles,
now married to Catherine Carolan, and settled at the Naul, near
Balbriggan, he made a home for his wife and girls in Belfast. Though an
elderly man—older than his years, indeed, from the hardships of his
imprisonment—he made a characteristically gallant effort to make a new
start in life. His sons, George and Charles and Luke, helped as far as
they could to re-establish the family fortunes, but the times were
against them. George and Luke went finally to America and died there.
On a certain day in 1822 a letter arrived, re-directed from Belfast to
Castlecomer, where Mr. and Mrs. Teeling and their unmarried daughters,
Mary and Milly, had gone on a visit to Charles and his family. It was in
an unknown hand-writing, and was signed by an unknown correspondent,
William Cullen, from the City of Natchez, State of Mississippi. It
contained the sad tidings of the death of George, and enclosed a ring
which had been given to Bartle by Hoche, and to George by Bartle on the
eve of his execution. It was Mary Teeling’s destiny to read the letter
containing the news of her son’s death, by the coffin which contained
the mortal remains of her husband. In the bitterness of her grief her
wifely devotion could find comfort in the knowledge that this last
earthly sorrow had been spared her beloved Luke—and that from the
heavenly vantage ground whence he now looked, it was turned for him into
a joy.
The few remaining years of Mary Teeling’s life were spent with Charles
and his wife and little ones. And it is to the loving memories of these
years, cherished by her grandson Bartholomew, that we owe the vivid
portrait of her which I have borrowed to adorn my pages.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WIVES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wife of Theobald Wolfe Tone
MATILDA TONE _née_ WITHERINGTON (1769-1849)[53]
“I thought, O my Love! you were so—
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain.
And I thought after that you were snow,
The cold snow on top of a mountain;
And I thought after that, you were more
Like God’s grace shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.”
—Hyde’s “Love Songs of Connacht.”
Footnote 53:
_Authorities_: “Autobiography of Wolfe Tone,” edited by R. Barry
O’Brien; Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Second Series, Second Edition,
1848.
IT was where a man should always find the Ladye of his Dreams that
Theobald Wolfe Tone found his sky-woman—above the crowded ways of life,
and yet not so far above them but that a man might, by raising his eyes,
see her leaning towards him, bending upon his path the star-like
radiance of her beauty, or that by climbing to her, a man might reach
her side.
On a certain day, early in the year 1785, young Tone, then in his
twenty-second year, and a scholar of the University of Dublin, went out,
as his custom was after commons, with a fellow student for a stroll in
Grafton Street. They were on the way to Byrne’s, the bookseller’s—a
favourite _rendezvous_ of intellectual and political Dublin—when,
happening to glance up, they saw leaning from the window of a house near
Byrne’s, as once “the Blessed Damozel leaned out from the gold bar of
Heaven”—an exquisite young girl.
It was a case of mutual love “at first sight.” The passionate adoration
which the romantic young student of Trinity—with his head full of love
poetry from his rehearsals for private theatricals, and dreams of
military glory from his constant attendances at parades and field days
in Phoenix Park—brought to the young loveliness of sixteen-year-old
Matilda Witherington, was fully returned. Every day he passed her window
and every day he found her there watching for his coming; and so it fell
out that these two, who were to endure so much together, whose
love-story was to be remembered, as long as Ireland keeps a place in her
faithful heart for the constancy, and heroism and gallantry of her sons
and daughters, had given their hearts irrevocably to each other before
ever they knew the sound of each other’s voices.
He might be a dreamer, this slightly built, pock-marked young man with
the keen eyes, and resolute, soldierly gait, who haunted Grafton Street
so persistently through the spring and early summer of 1785. But he had
an astonishingly practical turn for making his dreams come true. The
time was to come when the dream of French aid for Ireland was to
materialise through his instrumentality, in an expedition composed of
fifteen thousand of the finest troops of the Republic, incomparably
equipped, and commanded by one of the foremost generals in Europe. The
secret of his success was that he always knew perfectly what he wanted,
and having decided on the best road to reach his goal, walked it with
that light but resolute soldier’s step of his, humming a gay tune, and
allowing nothing to turn him aside. Having ascertained, now, that the
house where his lady dwelt, and to which he desired an introduction,
belonged to a rich old clergyman, called Fanning, and that the lady
herself was the Rev. Mr. Fanning’s grandaughter, he contrived to make
the acquaintance of her brother, and “as _he_ played well on the violin,
and I was myself a musical man, we grew intimate, the more so as it may
well be supposed I neglected no fair means to recommend myself to him
and the rest of the family with whom I soon grew a favourite. My affairs
now advanced prosperously; my wife and I grew more passionately fond of
each other; and in a short time I proposed to her to marry me without
asking consent of any one, knowing well that it would be in vain to
expect it; she accepted the proposal as frankly as I made it, and one
beautiful morning in the month of July we ran off together and were
married. I carried her out of town to Maynooth for a few days, and when
the first _éclat_ of passion had subsided, we were forgiven on all
sides, and settled in lodgings near my wife’s grandfather.”
It non-plussed the Duke of Wellington at a later date, to think of Tone
arriving in Paris “with a hundred guineas in his pocket, unknown and
unrecommended,” and, by mere force of personality, obtaining from the
French Government the wherewithal to overturn the British Government in
Ireland. But I doubt if that achievement was any more remarkable in its
own way than to find him, as we do now, winning the pearl of all
women—and a happiness such as it is given to few mortals to taste—with
nothing better to back up his suit than his flute—on which, we are given
to understand, he was an indifferent, if enthusiastic performer!
For a time all went well with the young couple. The husband resumed for
a short time his studies at the University, from which he graduated in
February, 1786, and the girl-wife was happy not only in his love but in
the restored favour of her relatives. “But,” as Tone himself says, “it
was too good to last.” The Fannings and Witheringtons suddenly began to
make themselves as disagreeable as possible, and to escape from them it
was necessary for the young _ménage_ to take refuge with old Mr. and
Mrs. Tone, who were, for the moment, farming near Clane in Co. Kildare.
The Tones received their new daughter with open arms. Peter Tone, the
father, idolised his clever eldest son, and if Matthew was the mother’s
favourite, she, too, was proud of brilliant, fascinating Theobald. Mary
Tone, the only girl of the family, lost her heart at once to her
charming sister-in-law, and henceforth the bond that united them was
only to grow closer with every danger and sorrow shared together through
all the passing years. Unfortunately old Peter Tone’s finances were not
in a very flourishing condition at this time—but, whatever was going,
his son and his daughter-in-law were perfectly welcome to share.
It was in her father-in-law’s place at Clane that Matilda Tone’s first
baby was born, a lovely little girl, whom they called Maria. Little
Maria was but a few months old when her seventeen-year-old mother gave
evidence of that marvellous courage and heroic devotion to her husband,
which were so often to be displayed during her married life.
One October night a band of six robbers burst into the home of Peter
Tone, armed with pistols and having their faces blackened. “Having tied
the whole family, they proceeded to plunder and demolish every article
they could find, even to the unprofitable villainy of breaking the
china, looking-glasses, etc. At length, after two hours, a maid-servant
whom they had tied negligently, having made her escape, they took the
alarm, and fled with precipitation, leaving the house such a scene of
horror and confusion as can hardly be imagined. With regard to myself,
it is impossible to conceive what I suffered. As it was early in the
night I happened to be in the courtyard, where I was seized and tied by
the gang, who then proceeded to break into the house, leaving a ruffian
sentinel over me, with a case of pistols cocked in his hand. In this
situation I lay for two hours, and could hear distinctly the devastation
which was going on within. I expected death every instant, and I can
safely and with great truth declare that my apprehension for my wife had
so totally absorbed the whole of my mind that my own existence was then
the least of my concerns. When the villains, including my sentry, ran
off, I scrambled to my feet with some difficulty, and made my way to a
window where I called, but received no answer. My heart died within me.
I proceeded to another and another, but still no answer. It was
horrible. I set myself to gnaw the cords with which I was tied, in a
transport of agony and rage, for I verily believed that my whole family
lay murdered within, when I was relieved from my unspeakable terror and
anguish by my wife’s voice, which I heard calling on my name at the end
of the house. It seems that, as soon as the robbers fled, those within
had untied each other with some difficulty, and made their escape
through a back window; they had got a considerable distance from the
house, before, in their fright, they recollected me, of whose fate they
were utterly ignorant as I was of theirs. Under these circumstances, my
wife had the courage to return alone, and, in the dark, to find me out,
not knowing but she might again fall in to the hands of the enemy, from
whom she had scarcely escaped, or that I might be lying a lifeless
carcase at the threshold. I can imagine no greater act of courage; but
of what is not a woman capable for him she truly loves? She cut the
cords which bound me, and at length we joined the rest of the family at
a little hamlet within half a mile of the house, where they had fled for
shelter.”[54]
Footnote 54:
“Autobiography of Wolfe Tone,” pp. 14, 15.
It will easily be believed that during the rest of that dreary winter
none of Peter Tone’s household—except perhaps Baby Maria—slept sound o’
nights. “I slept,” says Theobald, “continually with a case of pistols at
my pillow, and a mouse could not stir that I was not on my feet and
through the house from top to bottom. If any one knocked at the door
after nightfall we flew to our arms, and in this manner, we kept a most
painful garrison through the winter.”
Fear of external enemies was not the only trouble the little garrison
suffered. Within there was an ever-growing poverty, an ever increasing
load of financial troubles. Theobald could bear no longer to be a
useless “mouth” in the hunger-besieged citadel of his father’s home—and
so he scraped together in some way a little money and went off to London
to keep his terms as a law student of the Middle Temple.
During the period of his absence in London (January, 1787, to December,
1788) Matilda Tone and her little girl remained with her father-in-law
in Clane. Her husband tells us that she and little Maria were treated by
his father with great affection. But the situation was very painful. Old
Peter Tone’s affairs grew every day more involved, and the letters she
got from her husband in London brought little comfort. She knew how he
hated Law, and how unwillingly he drudged at the study of it. If, as was
his habit in later years, he made her at this period the _confidante_ of
all his schemes and dreams, it is certain that she must have had many an
anxious moment at the prospects they presented to her. Now it was a
project for establishing a colony on a military plan, in one of Captain
Cook’s newly-discovered islands in the South Sea. Fascinating as Captain
Cook’s description of these islands might be, it was not to be expected
that a young mother of eighteen could picture herself and her little one
exiled to one of them from the fair hills of Ireland without dismay. But
at least if that project materialised she should have her husband with
her. Not so with the second project—conceived in a fit of black
despondency when everything else seemed hopeless. It was to “list” as a
soldier in the East India Company’s service: “to quit Europe for ever,
and to leave my wife and child to the mercy of her family who might, I
hoped, be kinder to her when I was removed.”[55] Brave as Matilda Tone
was, it is not surprising to learn that her health broke down under the
strain of her anxieties.
Footnote 55:
“Autobiography,” p. 19.
At length a friend, touched by the hapless condition of the young pair,
made intercession for them with old Mr. Fanning. The grandfather was
induced to give Matilda £500 of the dower he had promised her—and on the
strength of this advance, Theobald returned to Ireland.
There was a joyful re-union in his father’s house at Blackhall on
Christmas Day, 1788. Matilda’s wan countenance brightened into its old
beauty when she had her husband by her side again, and the pride of the
young father in his charming little daughter was a subject of great
delight to her. Now the world was a delightful place once more.
They left Blackhall after New Year’s Day, 1789, and after a short stay
with Mr. Fanning in Grafton Street, took up their residence in Clarendon
Street. Theobald was soon after called to the Bar, and went circuit in
Leinster. His success was surprising—especially to himself who
considered that he knew exactly as much of law as he did of necromancy.
“I was, modestly speaking,” he confesses in his pleasant way, “one of
the most ignorant barristers in the Four Courts.” But it is plain that
if he had cared to succeed he could have succeeded brilliantly.
As it was, he soon gave up law for politics—his first venture in which
was a pamphlet in the interests of the Whig Club. This procured for him
the favour of Grattan, Forbes and Ponsonby, and put a little profitable
law business in his way. But the prospects which were held out to him of
a seat in Parliament did not materialise; and very soon, Tone, whose
opinions matured rapidly under an “intensive” method of political
culture, found he had so far outgrown “Whig” principles that he could
enter into no alliance with them. Briefly put, the points of difference
were these: Tone held that “the influence of England was the radical
vice of the Irish Government, and consequently that Ireland would never
be either free, prosperous or happy until she was independent, and that
independence was unobtainable whilst the connection with England
existed.” Grattan and those who thought with him were attached to the
connection with England, and considered that if certain grievances
(which they could not see were inherent in the system) were removed, all
would be for the best, in the best of all possible worlds. In the
illumination of his discovery Tone “began to look on the little politics
of the Whig Club with great contempt: _their peddling about petty
grievances instead of going to the root of the evil_,” and he rejoiced
that with his poverty he had kept his independence and could develop his
political creed without being bound by the tenets of the Whigs.
One afternoon Theobald brought home to dinner a new acquaintance whom he
had met the previous day in the gallery of the House of Commons. Mrs.
Tone was as much taken as her husband by the fascinating address of this
tall soldierly man with the dark eyes, coal black silky hair, and olive
complexion, whom Theobald introduced to her as Thomas Russell. Long
afterwards these three who dined together then for the first time,
remembering the date of their first re-union, felt inclined to keep its
anniversary as a festival. As Tone, on the eve of the most momentous
crisis of his life, the departure of the Bantry Bay expedition, sat in a
quiet corner of Paris reviewing his past, he counted the day he made
Russell’s acquaintance as one of the most fortunate in his life. He
joins the name of the passionately loved wife with that of the beloved
friend. “I frame no system of happiness for my future life on which the
enjoyment of his society does not constitute a most distinguishing
feature, and if I am ever inclined to murmur at the difficulties
wherewith I have so long struggled, I think on the inestimable treasure
I possess in the affection of my wife, and the friendship of Russell,
and I acknowledge that all my labours and sufferings are overpaid. I may
truly say, that, even at this hour when I am separated from both of
them, and uncertain whether I may ever be so happy as to see them again,
there is no action of my life, which has not a remote reference to their
opinion which I equally prize. When I think I have acted well, and that
I am likely to succeed in the important business wherein I am engaged, I
say often to myself: ‘My dearest love and my friend Russell will be glad
of this.’”[56]
Footnote 56:
“Autobiography,” p. 29.
A short time after they had made the acquaintance of Russell, the Tones
went to spend the summer by the seaside at Irishtown, the doctor having
prescribed sea-bathing as a cure for Mrs. Tone’s continued delicacy.
Thither came Russell every day to visit them, and thither came also very
frequently in his company Russell’s venerable father and his delightful
brother, Captain John. Room was found, too, in “the little box of a
house” for Mary Tone, and for William whenever he could spare a week
from Matthew’s cotton factory at Prosperous. As Tone writes of these
happy days he grows lyrical in his praise of them. “I recall with
transport the happy days we spent during that period; the delicious
dinners, in the preparation of which my wife, Russell and myself were
all engaged; the afternoon walks, the discussions we had, as we lay
stretched on the grass.... If I may judge we were none of us destitute
of the humour indigenous in the soil of Ireland; ... add to this I was
the only one who was not a poet, or at least a maker of verses, so that
every day produced a ballad, or some poetical squib, which amused us
after dinner; and as our conversation turned upon no ribaldry, or
indecency, my wife and sister never left the table. These were delicious
days. The rich and great, who sit down every day to the monotony of a
splendid entertainment, can form no idea of the happiness of our frugal
meal, nor of the infinite pleasure we found in taking each his part in
the preparation and attendance. My wife was the centre and the soul of
all. I scarcely knew which of us loved her best; her courteous manners,
her never-failing cheerfulness, her affection for me and for our
children, rendered her the object of our common admiration and delight.
She loved Russell as well as I did. In short, a more interesting society
of individuals, connected by purer motives, and animated by a more
ardent attachment and friendship for each other, cannot be
imagined.”[57]
Footnote 57:
“Autobiography,” pp. 29, 30.
During these long days of summer leisure and talk, Tone’s old project of
a military colony in the South Sea was revived, and a memorial on the
subject was drawn up by him and Russell and sent to the Duke of
Richmond. Both the Duke and Lord Grenville, Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, showed an interest in the scheme, and it is possible
that it might have led to something had not the threatened wars between
England and Spain been averted by “a kind of peace called a convention.”
Shortly after this disappointment Russell was appointed to an Ensigncy
on full pay in the 64th Regiment of foot and sent to Belfast where his
regiment was then quartered. The last day he dined at Irishtown he
arrived in a “very fine suit of laced regimentals,” and was set by his
irreverent friends to cook the dinner in this attire.
The Tones did not remain long in their seaside cottage after Russell’s
departure for Belfast. They returned to town for the winter, and here
their eldest son William was born.
The winter found Theobald pursuing his political studies and founding a
political club, consisting of literary friends of his who had already
attained eminence; they included Dr. Drennan, the poet; Whitley Stokes
and John Stack, Fellows of Trinity College; Joseph Pollock, Peter
Burrowes and Thomas Addis Emmet. In spite of the distinguished talents
each member brought to the re-union, the Club was anything but a success
and it was soon dissolved.
At this time all Ireland was in a ferment owing to the influence of the
French Revolution. The partisans of a settled order of things, including
Grattan and his Whig friends, had followed Edmund Burke in their
opposition to the new principles on which the French had set out to
remodel the world. But those in Ireland who felt themselves “an
oppressed, insulted and plundered nation” were heart and soul with the
French people in their struggle for freedom. “In a little time the
French Revolution became the test of every man’s political creed, and
the nation was fairly divided into two great parties, the Aristocrats
and the Democrats.”
Tone, of course, was an ardent Democrat, and these views of his, being
speedily known, injured beyond any possibility of repair his prospects
of success at the Bar—but brought him into close touch with two bodies
of men who were each in their own way, struggling to be free—and nerved
by the fight in France “to do or die” for liberty. These were the
Catholics of Ireland, and the Dissenters of the North.
Russell’s stay in Belfast had brought him into close touch with the
leaders of advanced thought in the northern city, whose programme of
freedom embraced freedom not for themselves only but for the Catholics
still enslaved by the Penal Laws. On the occasion of some Volunteer
celebration in Belfast a resolution in favour of Catholic Emancipation
was to be put forward, and Russell undertook to get Tone to draw it up.
The commission was willingly accepted, and though the resolution was
eventually not put to the meeting in the form Tone had given it, the
circumstance had the result of setting him thinking more seriously than
he had yet done on the state of Ireland. “I soon formed my theory, and
on that theory I have invariably acted ever since!”
What was that theory which was to give a new impetus to Irish
nationality, which was to be upheld at the cost of so much bloodshed and
suffering, which was to be a dogma as living and peremptory in 1916 as
in 1798—and in defence of which Patrick Pearse and his men were to face
the guns of General Maxwell, as proudly as Wolfe Tone took command of
the battery of the _Hoche_, in the glorious fight she put up, one little
vessel against a whole fleet, on an October morning one hundred and
eighteen years earlier. Here it is in Wolfe Tone’s own words: “To
subvert the tyranny of our execrable Government, to break the connection
with England, the never-failing source of all our political evils, and
to assert the independence of my country—these were my objects. To unite
the whole people of Ireland, to abolish the memory of all past
dissensions, and to substitute the common name of Irishman in place of
the denominations of Protestant, Catholic and Dissenter—these were my
means.”[58]
Footnote 58:
“Autobiography,” pp. 50, 51. Pearse held “all Irish Nationalism to be
explicit in these words. Davis was to make explicit certain things
here implicit, Lalor certain other things; Mitchel was to thunder the
whole in words of apocalyptic wrath and splendour. But the Credo is
here: ‘I believe in One Irish Nation and that Free.’”—(“Ghosts,” p.
16.)
Considering the Protestants hopeless, Tone first directed his efforts to
an attempt to unite the Catholics and Dissenters. He accordingly sat
down and wrote a pamphlet,[59] over the signature of a “Northern Whig,”
in which he sought “to convince the Dissenters that they and the
Catholics had but one common interest and one common enemy; that the
depression and slavery of Ireland was produced and perpetuated by the
divisions existing between them, and that, consequently, to assert the
independence of their country, and their own individual liberties, it
was necessary to forget all former feuds, to consolidate the entire
strength of the whole nation, and to form for the future but one
people.”[60]
Footnote 59:
“Argument on behalf of the Catholics of Ireland.”
Footnote 60:
“Autobiography,” p. 50.
The pamphlet had an immense success and its results a very decisive
influence on the Tones’ fortunes. On the one hand, the Catholics, who
under the capable leadership of John Keogh, were developing a new
“forward” policy, sought out this champion of theirs and loaded him with
attentions. Through John Keogh, Tone made the acquaintance of the
principal Catholic leaders in Dublin, Richard MacCormick, John Sweetman,
Edward Byrne, Thomas Braughall. During the winter of 1791 the Catholic
leaders, who were for the most part men of great wealth, got into the
fashion of giving splendid dinners to their political friends, and Tone
was invariably a guest at these functions. Eventually he was offered,
through the influence of Keogh, the position of assistant secretary to
the Catholic Committee, with a salary of £200 a year. In those days one
could live very comfortably on £200 a year, and poor Matilda Tone, who
must have known many an anxious moment up to this, must have looked on
it as affluence. Tone earned his salary well; and the astonishing
success of the Catholic Convention was largely due to his energy and
splendid power of organisation. In his efforts on behalf of the
Catholics, and in his fidelity to their cause, Tone was greatly
stimulated by his wife’s sympathy. He pays her, in this connection, one
of the noblest compliments a wife ever received: “In these sentiments I
was encouraged and confirmed by the incomparable spirit of my wife, to
whose patient suffering under adversity, for we had often been reduced,
and were now well accustomed to difficulties, I know not how to render
justice. Women, in general, I am sorry to say, are mercenary, and,
especially if they have children, they are ready to make all sacrifices
to their establishment. But my dearest love had bolder and juster views.
On every occasion of my life I consulted her; we had no secrets one from
the other, and I unvaryingly found her think and act with energy and
courage, combined with the greatest courage and discretion. If ever I
succeed in life or arrive at anything like station or eminence I shall
consider it as due to her counsels and her example.”[61]
Footnote 61:
“Autobiography,” p. 66.
The pamphlet had made an equally favourable impression on the Dissenters
of the North, and especially on the advanced thinkers of Belfast. Its
author was elected an honorary member of the first “or green” company of
the Belfast Volunteers (an honour never before accorded to any one
except Henry Flood) and invited to spend a few days in Belfast to make
the personal acquaintance of the republican leaders there. He set off
for the North about the beginning of October, accompanied by his friend
Russell, who had left the army and happened to be in Dublin on his
private affairs.
Of this trip Tone kept for his wife’s amusement a diary, a practice
which he continued, when he was absent from her, to the end of his life.
He and she were diligent readers of Swift, and he invokes the memory of
Swift and Stella when he writes to tell her of all the news he has
“journalised” for her, and which he looks forward to reading over with
her when he gets home. He has christened his friend, Russell, “P.P. or
Clerk of this Parish”—another reminiscence of Swift,[62] and he promises
his wife she will be much amused by said P.P.’s “exploits in my journal,
which is a thousand times wittier than Swift’s, as in justice it ought,
for it is written for the amusement of one a thousand times more amiable
than Stella.”
Footnote 62:
In the “Memoirs of the Clerk of the Parish,” Swift parodied Bishop
Burton’s “History of His Own Times.”
Little, perhaps, did this dear lady, “a thousand times more amiable than
Stella,” think, as her charming face dimpled over her husband’s
ludicrous account of his own and his friend’s adventures, that she was
reading one of the most important chapters in Irish history. For the
business afoot in Belfast—the aim and object of Tone’s and Russell’s
embassy was nothing less than the establishment of the United
Irishmen—the union of Irish Catholics, Irish Protestants and Irish
Dissenters under the common name of Irish _men_ against the common
enemy. But perhaps she did, for nobody can have known better than she
what a serious aim, what strength of will and tenacity of purpose, what
a steel-like grip of principles and logical fidelity to their
consequences lay under the light surface of her husband’s wit and
drollery. The best minds in Ireland were the quickest to grasp Tone’s
greatness and genius: Thomas Addis Emmet, John Keogh, Plunkett—to take
three, out of three very different types. The best minds in France
showed, afterwards, a like readiness of appreciation: Carnot, the
Organiser of Victory, and General Hoche.
One thing, however, it is certain, Matilda Tone never dreamed of: the
way in which the Journal’s family jokes—bad, if you like, as family
jokes always are, except to the “family” itself, to whom they seem
irresistibly funny—were to be interpreted against the diarist and his
friend. It was one of the favourite jests of the merry little party of
holiday-makers at Irishtown to represent “Tom” Russell, who was dignity
and solemnity itself, something like a Spanish Don, in his courtesy and
punctilio,[63] as a desperate character, a regular Jonah Barrington type
of “Irishman.” It tickled their sense of the ludicrous, something in the
same way as when they found Tone setting his dignified friend to cook
the dinner in his “fine suit of laced regimentals.” “If you do not know
who P.P. was, the joke will be lost on you,” writes Tone _à propos_ to
the incidents in which solemn “P.P.” is made to figure as a regular
“hell of a fellow.”
Footnote 63:
We have, among a host of other witnesses on this point, Charles
Hamilton Teeling, himself a man of the finest courtesy, most
fastidious sense of honour and highest breeding. When Lord
Castlereagh, on the day of his own arrest, informed him that Russell
was also among those arrested, Charles exclaimed: “Russell! then the
soul of honour is captive.” (“Personal Narrative,” p. 19). He tells
further on how Russell, when the prisoners were brought to Judge
Boyd’s house for their committment, was pained by Neilson’s levity.
“No man regarded etiquette and the punctilios of politeness more. He
looked solemn, stroked up his fine black hair, and with a sweetness of
countenance peculiarly his own, and in a gently modulated but
sufficiently audible tone of voice he begged of his friend Neilson to
respect the dignity of the Bench.” Russell was a deeply religious
character, with that combined humility, consciousness of his own
weakness, and striving after perfection which is the foundation of
saintliness. There is nothing nobler, more touching, or more edifying
in our history than the story of how he went to his death.
Unfortunately, later readers of the Journal, not knowing “P.P.,” nor the
incorrigible practical joker who was his friend, have missed the point
of the jokes and have taken the Journal’s accusations of excessive
drinking and other peccadilloes as literal transcripts of facts. I do
not here merely speak of Froude, who treats the Journal with his usual
absence of all honesty in handling documents, detaches all the
references to hard drinking, omits, _as a matter of course_, all
reference to the fact that this Journal was written by Tone for his
wife’s amusement, and on the strength of the diarist’s jokes against
himself and his friend, makes out Russell and Tone as a pair of
“ne’er-do-wells,” who, on a drunken spree, set out “to measure swords
against the British Empire.”[64] We expect nothing better from Froude;
but it is disconcerting to find Lecky and Barry O’Brien equally misled
by Tone’s flippancy.
Footnote 64:
Froude, “English in Ireland,” III., 19.
* * * * *
We pass over a year or two, during which Tone was fully occupied by his
work for the Catholic Committee, and the organisation of the first
branches of the United Irishmen, and come to the year 1795, which was to
be a turning point in his own life and in that of his dear ones—the
beloved wife, their little nine-year-old daughter, and the two small
sons, William, now aged four, and three-year-old Frank.
Tone was spending a pleasant musical evening with a friend of his in
Merrion Square, when a servant was introduced bearing a letter which he
had strict orders to deliver only into Mr. Tone’s hands. The latter read
the letter and then said quietly to his friend, “Phil, we must finish
this duet; I must go when it is done.” It transpired afterwards that the
letter had come from Tone’s good friend of the old Temple days in
London, Hon. George Knox, Lord Northland’s son, and its purport was to
warn Tone that the Government had information of his connection with
Jackson, the emissary of the French Government, and that it would be
advisable for him to get out of the country as quickly as possible.
We know, now (what poor Tone went to his grave without suspecting) that
the horrible treachery of Cockayne, the spy who had been set by Pitt to
lead Jackson to destruction, was being outmatched by the treachery of
Leonard MacNally, who had spared no trouble to implicate Tone and others
with Jackson. Urged on by MacNally, though, as it appears, against his
own instincts, Tone drew up a paper on the state of Ireland, “the
inference from which was, that circumstances in Ireland were favourable
to a French invasion.” Of this paper MacNally obtained possession, and
there is no doubt at all that through him it fell into the hands of
Government.
The friendship of two persons, with considerable influence in Government
circles, saved Tone. These were George Knox—and of all persons in the
world—Marcus Beresford! Through the powerful machinery which they were
able to put in motion Tone escaped the consequences of his indiscretion,
on the condition that he should leave the country.
He determined to go to America. But he had no intention of remaining
there. Before he left Dublin, Russell and he walked out to see Thomas
Addis Emmet in his charming villa at Rathfarnham. The master of the
house showed his guests “a little study of an elliptical shape which he
said he would consecrate to their meetings, if ever they lived to see
their country emancipated.” Even in that solemn moment, Tone could not
resist the temptation to rally poor Russell, who was doubtless looking
more solemn than usual, in his grief at the near parting. But, though
Emmet entered into the spirit of the jest, they all felt as much as
Russell the seriousness of the moment, and it was a very thoughtful trio
who walked back to town together, listening to Tone’s plans. Both
Russell and Emmet agreed with the latter that his promise to Government
was fulfilled by his going into exile. As to his future conduct after
his landing in America he had given no guarantee. His intention was
“immediately on his arrival in Philadelphia to wait on the French
Minister, to detail to him fully, the situation of affairs in Ireland,
to endeavour to obtain a recommendation to the French Government, and if
he succeeded so far, to leave his family in America, and to set off
instantly for Paris, and apply in the name of his country for the
assistance of France in order to assert Ireland’s independence.”[65] The
three friends were standing in a little triangular field while this
conversation took place, and when they had shaken hands over the
resolution that was implied in it, Emmet pointed out that “it was in one
exactly like it in Switzerland, William Tell and his associates planned
the downfall of the tyranny of Austria.”
Footnote 65:
“Autobiography,” p. 212.
When public excitement was at its height in consequence of Jackson’s
trial and his tragic death in the dock, Tone, unwilling to incriminate
any of his friends, abstained from paying any visits. But his friends
sought him out, and for the short time Mrs. Tone and he were in Dublin
after that they were never an instant alone. John Keogh and Richard
MacCormick were among the kindest and most assiduous. Tone told these
men of his plans, and received from them the most emphatic assurances of
their approval.
On May the 20th, 1795, the Tones left Dublin. Matilda Tone and her
children were never to see that city again, and Theobald was to enter it
again only in the irons of the arch-enemy.
Mary Tone, who was devotedly attached to her beautiful sister-in-law and
her charming children, made up her mind to leave Ireland with Theobald’s
family. Her departure left old Peter Tone and his wife very desolate, as
all their other children, William, Matthew, and Arthur were far away.
The grief of the old couple was the hardest thing the emigrants had to
endure. With his little property of 600 books, and £700 in money,
Theobald felt himself sufficiently equipped “to make good”—and Matilda
was not the woman to weaken his courage with any undue display of her
own feelings. “We kept our spirits admirably. The great attention
manifested to us, the conviction that we were suffering in the best of
causes, the hurry attending so great a change, and perhaps a little
vanity in showing ourselves superior to fortune, supported us under what
was certainly a trial of the severest kind.”
The attentions of the kind friends in Dublin, great as they were, were
far surpassed by those they found awaiting them in Belfast. The
MacCrackens, the Simmses, the Neilsons, Dr. MacDonnell, and a host of
others vied with each other in getting up entertainments for them;
parties and excursions were the order of the day. Tone tells us of some
of these in his Journal. He remembers particularly two days passed on
Cave Hill. On the first, Russell, Neilson, Simms, MacCracken, and he
climbed to McArt’s fort and took a solemn obligation never to desist in
their efforts until they had subverted the authority of England, over
their country, and asserted their independence. Another day they had a
pic-nic in the Deer Park, for which the Belfast ladies, Mary Anne and
Margaret MacCracken, Mrs. Neilson, Miss Simms, etc., exerted all their
culinary talents; another day, even more delicious yet, was spent in a
pic-nic party to beautiful Ram’s Island in Lough Neagh. After their
return to town there were suppers and dances and a little music in these
friends’ houses. Many, many years after, Mary Anne MacCracken, then a
very old woman, told Dr. Madden of what she felt when she heard little
Maria Tone sing in her clear voice, to the air of “The Cruiskeen Lawn,”
her father’s spirited words: “When Rome by dividing had conquered the
world.”
The last evening of their stay came all too quickly. They were spending
it at the MacCracken’s home, of which Bunting was an inmate. The talk
turned, as it was bound to do among such ardent lovers of music, as
these were, on Bunting’s collection of Irish Melodies which was well on
its way to completion, and Bunting was asked to play some air from it.
He chose that called “The Parting of Friends,” and as the poignant grief
of the old air sought out all their hearts, Matilda Tone’s fortitude,
for the first time, gave way. She burst into tears and left the room.
The next morning they went aboard the _Cincinnatus_, accompanied by
their kind friends who had come to take the last farewell of them. When
Matilda Tone went down to see her quarters she found the little
state-room her husband had taken for his family full of the good things
these friends had provided for their comfort: sea-stores, wine, porter
and spirits, fresh provisions, sweetmeats, and so on. The foresight of
Dr. MacDonnell had also provided a small medicine chest with written
directions. This was to be of the greatest service, not for the Tones
alone, but for their unfortunate fellow-passengers during the trying
weeks ahead of them.
A voyage across the Atlantic in those days, in a small sailing vessel of
230 tons, was a most horrible experience. There were three hundred
passengers on board this boat and they were “crowded to a degree not to
be conceived by those who had never been aboard a passenger ship.” “The
slaves who are carried from Africa,” Tone writes, “have much more room
allowed them than the miserable emigrants who pass from Ireland to
America.” The captains were out to make as much money as possible and
they loaded their vessels with as little care for the accommodation of
their passengers as of any other lumber aboard. The Tones had a small
state-room eight feet by six. In this Tone fitted up three berths. One
was occupied by Matilda and little Frank; the second by the two Maries;
the third by Tone himself and the elder boy William. Tone took on
himself the “policing” of the ship, and tried to introduce some
cleanliness. Moreover, with the aid of Dr. MacDonnell’s medicine chest
and “written directions,” he doctored the passengers—his prescriptions
drawing also on his own sea-stores, and the wines and spirits provided
by his Belfast friends. He had the satisfaction of landing all his
patients safe and sound; and his own family, wonderfully fortunate, had
not known one hour’s sickness.
But strait quarters, overcrowding and all the other horrors we have
described did not exhaust the sufferings endured by Irish emigrants in
the eighteenth century. “About the 20th July ... we were stopped by
three British frigates, the _Thetis_, Captain Lord Cochrane; the
_Hussar_, Captain Rose, and the _Esperance_, Captain Wood, who boarded
us, and after treating us with the greatest insolence, both officers and
sailors, they _pressed_ every one of our hands, save one, and near fifty
of my unfortunate fellow-passengers, who were most of them flying to
America to avoid the tyranny of a bad government at home, and who thus,
most unexpectedly, fell under the severest tyranny, one of them at least
which exists. As I was in a jacket and trousers, one of the lieutenants
ordered me into the boat, as a fit man to serve the king, and it was
only the screams of my wife and sister which induced him to desist. It
would have been a pretty termination to my adventure if I had been
pressed and sent on board a man-of-war. The insolence of these tyrants,
as well to myself as to my poor fellow-passengers, in whose fate a
fellowship in misfortune had interested me, I have not since forgotten,
and I never will.”[66]
Footnote 66:
“Autobiography,” p. 217.
With such gracious sway did great Britannia “rule the waves” in the good
old days!
On August the 1st the Tones landed in Wilmington, their voyage having
lasted from June the 13th. They found the principal tavern of the place
kept by an Irishman, Captain O’Byrne O’Flynn, a veteran of the American
War of Independence. Here they rested for a few days, and made a useful
and agreeable acquaintance in the person of General Humpton, an old
Englishman, of the best type (“a beautiful, hale, stout old man of near
seventy, perfectly the soldier and the gentleman”) who had fought on the
American side in the late war. He took a great liking to Tone, and his
charming wife, and sister and pretty children, and showed himself very
eager to serve them.
The Tones left Wilmington, as soon as the ladies and children had
recruited from the fatigue of the sea-voyage and reached Philadelphia on
August the 8th. Here Tone met two old friends—Hamilton Rowan and Dr.
Reynolds, both of whom had, like himself, got into trouble with the
Irish Government over the “_affaire Jackson_.” They had a great time
telling each other their adventures since they had last met in Hamilton
Rowan’s cell in Newgate fourteen months previously. Reynolds and Rowan
were athirst for news from Ireland, and eagerly listened to all Tone had
to tell them.
Tone lost no time in approaching the French Minister, Adet, in
Philadelphia. Bearing a letter of introduction from Rowan, he waited the
very day after his arrival on Adet, and signified in as clear a way as
was possible under the circumstances (“_he_ spoke English very
imperfectly, and I French a great deal worse”) the desires of himself
and his friends in Ireland for French aid to shake off the English yoke.
Adet requested him to draw up a memorial, and promised to transmit this
to his Government. He also promised to use his influence to procure the
enlargement of Matthew Tone, who was a prisoner at Guise. But this was
as far as he would go.
Poor Tone, much disheartened by the Minister’s attitude, found little
ground for hope that the French Government would pay any attention to
his memorial. It seemed to him that the only result of his exertions was
the satisfaction of having discharged his conscience to his country. But
as for anything being likely to come of them, he could see no prospects
at all.
This being so, he bent his mind to making some provision for his family.
Living in Philadelphia being enormously dear, he moved his family to
Donningstown, near General Humpton’s place, and leaving them there under
the General’s kind supervision, he roamed the country in search of a
suitable farm. After some disappointments he found one about two miles
from Princeton. He took a small house in that town, furnished it
frugally and decently, moved his family into it, and having fitted up
his study, determined to settle down, as contentedly as he could, to the
life of an American farmer.
Then suddenly all was changed. One day Matilda came into the little
study, where her husband dreamed his time away, waiting for the legal
formalities attending the purchase of his plantation to be completed,
and in her hand was a bundle of letters from Ireland. John Keogh had
written; Tom Russell had written; the two Simmses had written—and each
of them in the same strain, telling Tone that the public mind in Ireland
was advancing towards republicanism faster than even he could believe,
and pressing him in the strongest manner to fulfil the engagement he had
made with them at his departure, and to move heaven and earth to force
his way to the French Government in order to supplicate their
assistance. Wm. Simms, at the end of a most friendly and affectionate
letter, desired Tone to draw upon him for £200 sterling.
Tone immediately handed the letters to his wife and sister and desired
their opinion which he foresaw would be that he should immediately, if
possible, set out for France. “My wife, especially, whose courage and
whose zeal for my honour and interests were not in the least abated by
all her past sufferings, supplicated me to let no consideration of her
or our children stand for a moment in the way of my engagements to our
friends and my duty to my country, adding, that she would answer for our
family during my absence, and that the same Providence which had so
often, as it were, miraculously preserved us would, she was confident,
not desert us now. My sister joined her in those entreaties, and it may
well be supposed I required no great supplication to induce me to make
one more attempt in a cause to which I had been so long devoted.”
It was Tone’s way never to lose time about any business he might have on
hand; and accordingly, the very next morning he set off from Princeton
for Philadelphia to see Minister Adet. He now found Adet as eager to
forward his design, as he had formerly found him lukewarm. The Minister
promised him letters for the French Government recommending him in the
strongest manner, and offered him money for his expenses. Tone
gratefully accepted the letters but declined the monetary assistance. He
next sent a messenger to Ireland in the person of the young brother,
Arthur, who had in the meantime turned up at Princeton, and charged him
to tell only Neilson, Simms and Russell in Belfast, and Keogh and
MacCormick in Dublin, that he was sailing for France as soon as he could
get a vessel. Everybody else in Ireland—especially his father and
mother—was to be left under the impression that he was farming in
Princeton. Tone then settled up his financial affairs; allowed himself
one day’s holiday in Philadelphia with his old friends Reynolds,
Hamilton Rowan and Napper Tandy (who had recently arrived there). By
December the 13th—that is to say exactly within a fortnight from his
departure—he was back in Princeton with Hamilton Rowan to take leave of
his family.
He has given us a graphic account of the last night in the American
home. “We supped together in high spirits, and Rowan retiring
immediately after, my wife, sister and I sat together till very late,
engaged in that kind of animated and enthusiastic conversation which our
characters and the nature of the enterprise I was embarked in may be
supposed to give rise to. The courage and firmness of the women
supported me, and them, too, beyond my expectations; we had neither
tears nor lamentations, but, on the contrary, the most ardent hope, and
the most steady resolution. At length, at four the next morning, I
embraced them for the last time, and we parted with a steadiness that
astonished me.”
But Tone had not yet gauged the depths of his wife’s heroic devotion to
him—and to Ireland. It was only when he had reached New York and was on
the eve of embarkation—too late to have his determination weakened by
any anxiety for her condition—that she told him of the little life that
stirred beneath her heart.
* * * * *
We have but a scanty record of the life of Matilda and Mary Tone and the
children during the months when Theobald (having landed at Havre de
Grace on February 1st, 1796) was making his way by the mere force of his
will and personality to the cabinets of the most powerful ministers in
France. But our thoughts are turned to them constantly. We know how as
Tone came home from interviews with De La Croix, the Minister of Foreign
Affairs, or the American Minister, Monroe, or Carnot, or Hoche, he was
concerned above all for what his “dearest love” would think of how he
had comported himself. “I mention these little circumstances because I
know they will be interesting to her whom I prize above my life ten
thousand times. There are about six persons in the world who will read
these detached memorandums with pleasure; to every one else they would
appear sad stuff. But they are only for the women of my family, for the
boys if ever we meet again, and for my friend, P.P.” When he sees
Lodoïska, wife of J. B. Loubet, and records her heroism when her husband
was a fugitive from the vengeance of Robespierre, he wishes his dearest
love could see her, too. “I think she would behave as well in similar
circumstances. Her courage and her affection have been tried in some,
very nearly as critical.” When in a fit of self-examination he seeks out
his own motives, he finds it difficult to decide whether it is his
country or his wife he must put first. “I hope (but I am not sure) my
country is my first object, at least she is my second. If there be one
before her, as I rather believe there is, it is my dearest life and
love, the light of my eyes and spirit of my existence. I wish more than
for anything on earth to place her in a splendid situation. There is
none so elevated that she would not adorn, and that she does not
deserve, and I believe that not I only, but every one who knows her,
will agree as to that. Truth is truth! She is my first object. But would
I sacrifice the interests of Ireland to her elevation? No, that I would
not, and if I would, she would despise me, and if she were to despise
me, I would go hang myself like Judas. Well there is no regulator for
the human heart like the certainty of possessing the affections of an
amiable woman, and, if so, what unspeakable good fortune is mine.”
He compares French women and English women in point of charm and
attractiveness—and awards the palm to the French. But both of them must
yield to Irish women. “Give me Ireland for women to make wives and
mothers of.... The more I see of this wide world, the more I prize the
inestimable blessing I possess in my wife’s affection, her virtues, her
courage, her goodness of heart, her sweetness of temper, and besides she
is very pretty, a circumstance which does not lessen her value in my
eyes. What is she doing just now, and what would I give to be with her,
and the little _fanfans_ for half-an-hour.” But one would need a whole
book for Tone’s charming love-making to his wife.
In May, 1796, Tone wrote to Matilda desiring her to come to France. She
sold out their little property in America, turned the proceeds into
_louis d’or_, and set off with Mary and the children. On the voyage they
met two men who were to be intimately connected with their fate. One was
a Scotchman, Mr. Wilson, of Dullatur; the other, a young Swiss merchant
called Giacque. M. Giacque fell deeply in love with Mary Tone, and his
love being returned, the first letter Theobald received from his wife,
announcing their safe arrival in Hamburg, contained also a request for
his consent to Mary’s marriage.
Tone received that letter after his return from the unfortunate
expedition to Bantry Bay. The prospect of seeing his dear ones again
consoled him for the terrible disappointment of the expedition. But
alas! There was news in the letter which disturbed him deeply. Mrs.
Tone’s health had suffered gravely from all she had undergone. For this
reason her husband considered it unwise for her to undertake the journey
from Hamburg in the depth of winter. He, therefore, instructed her to
stay in Hamburg for the present, more especially as Mary and her husband
were likely to set up house there, pending the arrangements he would be
able to make for her.
To some of Matilda Tone’s letters written from Hamburg while her husband
was serving under Hoche in the Army of _Sambre et Meuse_ were attached
postscripts from Maria. The first line he had ever seen of his little
daughter’s writing moved Tone strangely, and there were tears in his
eyes as he sat down to write her the following answer:
“Dearest Baby,—You are a darling little thing for writing to me,
and I doat upon you, and when I read your pretty letter, it
brought the tears into my eyes, I was so glad. I am delighted
with the account you give me of your brothers; I think it is
high time that William should begin to cultivate his
understanding,[67] and therefore I beg you may teach him his
letters, if he does not know them already, that he may be able
to write to me by and by. I am not surprised that Frank is a
bully, and I suppose he and I will have fifty battles when we
meet. Has he got into a jacket and trousers yet? Tell your mamma
from me, ‘_we do defer it most shamefully, Mr. Shandy_.’[68] I
hope you will take great care of your poor mamma, who, I am
afraid, is not well; but I need not say that, for I am sure you
do, because you are a darling good child, and I love you more
than all the world. Kiss your mamma and your two little
brothers, for me, ten thousand times, and love me, as you
promise, as long as you live.
“Your affectionate _Fadoff_,
J. Smith.”[69]
Footnote 67:
William had then reached the mature age of six, and Frank was a year
younger.
Footnote 68:
One of the favourite games in the family circle was matching and
identifying quotations. Tone’s Journal is full of them.
Footnote 69:
This was the name under which Tone served in the French army.
It was not until May 7th, 1797, that Tone and his family were re-united.
He got leave of absence from his regiment, and wrote to them to meet him
at Gröningen. He arrived here on May the 2nd and for the next five days
he haunted the canal—“tormented with the most terrible apprehensions on
account of the absence of my dearest love, about whom I hear nothing;
walked out every day to the canal, two or three times a day to meet the
boats coming from Nieuschans when she will arrive. No love! No love! I
never was so unhappy in my life.... At last, this day (May 7th), in the
evening, as I was taking my usual walk along the canal, I had the
unspeakable satisfaction to see my dearest love and our little babies,
my sister and her husband, all arrive safe and well; it is impossible to
describe the pleasure I felt.”
A fortnight was spent very delightfully travelling through Holland and
Belgium. After that Tone went to Germany, and Matilda and her charge
proceeded to Paris under the escort of M. Giacque.
In the new home in Paris, to which Theobald returned as often as his
military duties permitted, Matilda Tone devoted herself to the education
of her children while the fateful months from the end of May, 1797, to
the beginning of September, 1798, sped by. During that “crowded hour” of
her husband’s glorious life much history was a-making; and now, as
always, his wife performed her woman’s part: to watch and wait, and
suffer and sacrifice herself to her husband’s—a splendidly tragic
destiny—with incomparable and heroic devotion.
She had need of all her woman’s resources to comfort him as one after
another his dearest hopes were blighted. There was first the death of
Hoche; then the defeat of the Dutch fleet at Camperdown, and the
consequent abandonment of the Dutch expedition to Ireland. Then there
was the rise to supreme military power in France of Bonaparte, whom
Thomas Addis Emmet later pronounced to be “the greatest enemy the Irish
people ever had.”
When Bonaparte, on the eve of the Irish Insurrection, sailed to Egypt
with the army which had been ostensibly collected for an attack on
England through Ireland, Tone gave up all hope. It was in this frame of
mind he joined Hardy’s expedition which sailed (in the wake of Humbert’s
failure, and the fiasco of Napper Tandy’s descent on Rutland Island)
from the Bay of Cameret on September 20th, 1798. William Tone relates
that “at the period of this expedition he was hopeless of its success,
and in the deepest despondency at the prospect of Irish affairs. Such
was the wretched indiscretion of the [French] Government, that before
his departure he read himself, in the _Bien Informé_, a Paris newspaper,
a detailed account of the whole armament, where his own name was
mentioned in full letters with the circumstance of his being on board
the _Hoche_. There was therefore no hope of secrecy. He had all along
deprecated the idea of these attempts on a small scale. But he had also
declared repeatedly that if the Government sent only a corporal’s guard,
he felt it his duty to go along with them.... His resolution was,
however, deliberately and inflexibly taken, in case he fell into the
hands of the enemy, never to suffer the indignity of a public
execution.” Of this resolution of her husband’s, Matilda Tone was fully
informed. For he spoke of it quite plainly in her presence on the
occasion of a dinner-party given at their house in Paris a few days
before the departure of the expedition.
And so she let him go from her—knowing full well that she would never
see him again. How truly had he judged of her—and of himself—when he
wrote the words: “She is my first object. But would I sacrifice the
interest of Ireland to her elevation? No that I would not, and if I
would, she would despise me, and if she were to despise me I would go
hang myself like Judas.”
* * * * *
His body was lying under the green sod in Bodenstown Churchyard when his
last message to her was delivered. How did she ever bear to read the
lines he penned in his prison cell, when even now at this distance of
time, we who knew him not at all can hardly see them for our tears?
“Provost Prison—Dublin Barracks,
“_Le 20 Brumaire, an 7_ (10 Nov.’98).
“Dearest Love,—The hour is at last come when we must part. As no
words can express what I feel for you and our children, I shall
not attempt it; complaint of any kind would be beneath your
courage and mine; be assured I will die as I have lived, and
that you will have no cause to blush for me.”
“I have written on your behalf to the French Government, to the
Minister of Marine, to General Kilmaine and to Mr. Shee. With
the latter I wish you especially to advise. In Ireland I have
written to your brother Harry, and to those of my friends who
are about to go into exile, and who, I am sure, will not abandon
you.
“Adieu, dearest love: I find it impossible to finish this
letter. Give my love to Mary; and above all things, remember
that you are now the only parent of our dearest children, and
that the best proof you can give of your affection for me will
be to preserve yourself for their education. God Almighty bless
you all.
“Yours ever,
“T. W. TONE.”
“P.S.—I think you have found a friend in Wilson who will not
desert you.”
SECOND LETTER
“Dearest Love,—I write just one line to acquaint you that I have
received assurance from your brother Edward of his determination
to render every assistance and protection in his power; for
which I have written to thank him most sincerely. Your sister
has likewise sent me assurances of the same nature, and
expressed a desire to see me, which I have refused, having
determined to speak to no one of my friends, not even my father,
from motives of humanity to them and myself. It is a very great
consolation to me that your family are determined to support
you; as to the manner of that assistance, I leave it to their
affection for you, and your own excellent good sense, to settle
what manner will be most respectable for all parties.
“Adieu, dearest love. Keep your courage as I have kept mine; my
mind is as tranquil at this period as at any period of my life.
Cherish my memory; and especially preserve your health and
spirits for the sake of our dearest children.
“Yours ever affectionately.”
* * * * *
There still remained to Matilda Tone more than fifty years of painful
pilgrimage on this earth, before she was re-united to the husband—who
had never ceased to be the lover—of her youth. The story of twenty-eight
of these years has been told by her son William, and we may fittingly
leave the tale to his telling, only taking it up again when his voice,
too, was silenced—and to use her own pathetic phrase, his mother was
left widowed and childless for twenty years more,
“=Lonely and desolate to mourn her dead.=”
* * * * *
“At the close of this last expedition [_i.e._ Hardy’s], a strict
embargo reigned on the coasts of England, and no news could
reach to France but through the distant and indirect channel of
Hamburg. It was not till the close of November that the report
of the action of October 11th, of the capture, trial, defence
and condemnation of Tone, and of the wound which he was reported
to have inflicted upon himself, reached all at once to Paris. It
was also stated at first that this wound which he was reported
to have inflicted upon himself was slight, that the law courts
had claimed him, that all proceedings were therefore stopped,
and that there were strong hopes of his recovery. My mother,
then in the most delicate and precarious state of health, a
stranger in the land (of which she scarcely spoke the language)
and without a friend and adviser (for she had ever lived in the
most retired privacy) rallied, however, a courage and spirits
worthy of the name she bore. Surmounting all timidity and
weakness of body as well as of mind, she threw herself instantly
into a carriage, and drove to the minister of foreign affairs
(Tallyrand Perigord). She knew that he spoke English and had
been acquainted with my father both in America and in France. He
received her with the most lively interest. Cases of this kind
did not belong to his department, but he promised all the
support of his credit with the Government, and gave her an
introduction to the Directory. She immediately called on La
Reveilliere Lepaux, then president of the Directory, and met
with a reception equally favourable and respectful. He gave the
most solemn assurances that my father should be instantly
claimed; and mentioned in the demand by the name of Tone, by
that of Smith, and individually as a French officer, lest his
assumed name should occasion any diplomatic delay; he added that
the English officers then in the French prisons should be
confined as hostages to answer for his safety; and that, if none
were equal to him in rank, the difference should be made up in
numbers. It was unfortunate that Sir Sidney Smith had then
escaped from the Temple. As soon as these papers were drawn, La
Reveilliere Lepaux addressed her with them to the minister of
marine, Bruix, who assured her that preliminary steps had
already been taken, and that these despatches should be
forwarded in the course of the same day. From thence she called
on Schimmelpennick, the Dutch ambassador, who gave her similar
assurances that my father should be claimed in the name of the
Batavian republic, in whose service he bore the same rank as in
the French. She wrote for the same purpose to his friend,
Admiral Dewinter, and to General Kilmaine, commander-in-chief of
the army in which he served; they both gave the same promises in
return.
“To the French ministers, my mother expressed, at the same time,
her determination to join and nurse her husband in his prison,
taking my young sister along with her, and leaving my brother
and myself to the care of my aunt [_i.e._ Mary Tone, now Madame
Giacque]. For she did not expect that even these efforts would
obtain his release, but probably a commutation of his fate to a
confinement which she wished to share. It may well be believed
that these reclamations excited the most lively and universal
interest. All the credentials and all the means which she could
wish, were furnished to her, and she was already on her way to
embark for Ireland, when the news of his death arrived and put a
stop to all further proceedings. It would be needless to dilate
upon, and impossible to express, her feelings on the occasion.
* * * * *
“In the first moments after the death of my father the interest
excited by his fate, and by the state of his family was
universal. The Directory instantly passed a decree by which an
immediate aid of 1,200 francs, from the funds of the navy, and
three month’s pay from the war department, were assigned to his
widow, and she was requested to produce her titles to a regular
pension. At the same time, Bruix and Tallyrand (to the latter of
whom, whatever character be assigned him in history, we
certainly owe gratitude for the lively and disinterested part he
took in our fate, on the few but important occasions on which we
addressed him) proposed, the first, to take charge of my
brother, and the other of me. Kilmaine, who had no children,
proposed to adopt us both. But, grateful as my mother felt for
those offers, she declined them, determined never to part from
her children; and to fulfil, to the last, the solemn engagement
under which she considered herself bound, to superintend their
education; she did not wish them to be bred as favourites and
dependants in great families; and trusted rather to the
gratitude of the nation to give them a public, simple and manly
education, as an homage to their father’s services. These
gentlemen entered into her views; and on their demand, the
Directory decreed that the sons of Theobald Wolfe Tone, adopted
by the French republic, should be educated at the national
expense, in the Prytaneum.
“The pensions which the executive had, constitutionally, a power
to grant to the widows and families of officers killed on the
field of battle, were limited by law according to the rank of
these officers, and to the length of time during which they had
served. According to this law, the pension to which my mother
was entitled, amounted only to 300 francs, or little more than
£12 sterling a year. This she refused either to demand or
accept. But in special cases the legislature had reserved to
itself the right of granting pensions to any amount. Ours was a
very special case; but it was necessary to address the council
of four hundred on the subject. Official delays intervened; it
was difficult to collect at once all the legal proofs required;
the business was therefore dropped for the present; and indeed
in the varying and shifting movement of that most unstable of
governments, no single object, however interesting at first,
could fix the public attention for a period of any duration. In
a few months three of the directors were expelled by their
colleagues, and replaced by others; the affairs of Ireland, Tone
and his family, and the fatal indiscretion of Humbert, who now
returned from captivity, were all forgotten in the disasters of
Italy and Germany, and the victories of Suwarrow and Prince
Charles of Austria.
“In the meantime, withdrawing from the interest she had excited,
my mother retired almost in the precincts of the university, to
be near her children, and superintend their education. This was
the most quiet and distant quarter of Paris, and farthest from
the bustle of the great and fashionable world. On the style in
which we lived, I will only observe, that we saw no company,
English nor French; and that my mother, attending exclusively to
the education of her daughter, and to the superintendence of her
two boys, who dwelt in the college beneath her eyes, was under
the protection of that body as much as if she had been a member
of it. Such was the esteem, confidence and, I would almost say,
veneration with which she inspired its director and professors,
that contrary to the severe regulations of French discipline,
they trusted us entirely to her care. Indeed, we were all so
young and so helpless, that we were general favourites, and the
whole of our little family seemed adopted by the establishment.
“It was nearly a year from my father’s fate; our permanent
provision was yet unsettled, and our slender means could not
last many months longer; when my mother, reading some old papers
in her solitude, fell on a beautiful speech pronounced some
months before in the council of five hundred, by Lucien
Buonaparte. He proposed to simplify the forms of paying the
pensions of the widows and children of military and naval
officers; he represented in the most noble and feeling terms the
hardship of high-spirited females and mothers of families, whose
claims were clear and undoubted, obliged, in the affliction and
desolation of their hearts, to solicit and go through numberless
delays in the public offices. He also proposed to augment these
pensions, which were too small. The sons of warriors killed on
the field of battle ceased to receive them when they reached
their fourteenth year; he proposed to extend this period to the
age when they might, in their turn, enter the service.
“Several months had been necessary, to collect the proofs,
certificates and documents required by law, for making an
application to the legislature; or, indeed, before my mother was
able to attend to it. Nor did she know one member of the Council
of five hundred, to present them to when they were ready. In
reading this speech of Lucien, she felt that he was the person
she ought to address. My father had been known to his brother,
when he commanded the army of England; and he was one of the
representatives. She immediately wrote a note to him, to know
when she might have the honour of waiting upon him on particular
business? He answered that his public duties left only the hours
of ten in the morning or seven in the evening, unemployed; but
that at either of these, he would be happy to receive her. In
consequence, next morning, taking with her, her children, her
papers and the report of his speech, she called upon him and
presented to him that speech as her letter of introduction. He
was highly touched and flattered. She gave him all her papers
and showed him her children. He was much moved, and said he knew
the story well, and had been deeply affected by it, which
sentiment he only shared in common with every one who had heard
of it; that it was the duty of the French legislature to provide
for the family of Tone honourably; and thanked her for the
distinction conferred upon him, by choosing him to report on the
case. My mother mentioned the difficulties she lay under, an
unconnected stranger, scarcely understanding the language. He
stopped her by requesting her to take no more trouble; that he
would charge himself with it entirely, and get the permission of
the executive which would be necessary; and if he wanted any
particulars from her, would write to her for them. Nothing could
be more delicate or generous than his whole manner.
“Next morning, Madame Lucien Buonaparte called upon my mother,
and introduced herself.... An acquaintance commenced which only
terminated at her death a few months afterwards.
“The report of Lucien Buonaparte was still delayed for some
time. He had some papers to collect to prove my father’s
services. Carnot was in banishment; Hoche was dead; poor
Kilmaine, who ever since my father’s death had expressed a warm
interest in our fate, was dying. In the ravings of fever he
would insist on putting horses to his carriage, and driving with
us to the Directory and council of five hundred, to reproach
them with their delays in providing for the widow and children
of Tone. General Simon ... gave the necessary attestations. The
permission of the Directory was obtained; but Lucien, in order
to produce a greater effect, still delayed till the period of
his own Presidency....
“On the 9th of Brumaire, only nine days before the revolution
which put an end to the Directory and placed his brother at the
head of affairs, Lucien, then president of the council of five
hundred, pronounced at length a beautiful speech, which may be
called the funeral oration of my father. At the close of which a
committee was immediately appointed, to report on the subject of
a pension and permanent provision for the widow and family of
General Tone.”
We will interrupt William Tone’s narrative, for a moment, in
order to reproduce, in part, Lucien Buonaparte’s oration, and to
show the reverence the name of Tone inspired in France, and the
enthusiasm the lofty spirit and heroism, the conjugal and
maternal devotion of Matilda aroused in generous Gallic breasts.
“Representatives of the People,—I rise to call your attention to
the widow and children of a man whose memory is dear and
venerable to Ireland and to France—the Adjutant-General Theobald
Wolfe Tone, founder of the United Irish Society, who, betrayed
and taken in the expedition to Ireland, perished in Dublin,
murdered by the illegal sentence of a court-martial.
“Wolfe Tone only breathed for the liberty of his country. After
attempting every means to break the chains of British oppression
at home, he was invited by our Government to France, where from
the beginning of the fifth year of the Republic, he bore arms
under our colours. His talent and his courage announced him as
the future Washington of Ireland; his arm, whilst assisting in
our battles, was preparing to fight for his own country....
“It is precisely one year ago to the very day of the month that
a court-martial was assembled in Dublin to try a general officer
in the service of our Republic. Let us examine the papers of
that day.” [Here the orator read the account of the trial and
defence of General Tone. He then resumed.]
“You have heard the last word of this illustrious martyr of
liberty. What could I add to them? You see him, dressed in your
own uniform, in the presence of this murderous tribunal, in the
midst of this awe-struck and affected assembly. You hear him
exclaim: ‘After such sacrifices in the cause of liberty it is no
great effort, at this day, to add the sacrifice of my life. I
have courted poverty; I have left a beloved wife unprotected,
and children whom I adored, fatherless.’ Pardon him, if he
forgot, in those last moments that you were to be the fathers
and protectors of his Matilda and his children.
“Sentenced amidst the tears and groans of his country, Wolfe
Tone would not leave to her tyrants the satisfaction of seeing
him expire by a death which the prejudices of the world call
ignominious.... The day will yet, doubtless, come, when, in that
same city of Dublin, and on the spot where the satellites of
Britain were rearing that scaffold where they expected to wreak
their vengeance on Theobald the free people of Ireland will
erect a trophy to his memory, and celebrate, yearly, on the
anniversary of his trial, the festival of their union, around
his funeral monument. For the first time this anniversary is now
celebrated within these walls. Shade of a hero! I offer to thee,
in our name, the homage of our deep, of our universal emotion.
“A few words more—on the widow of Theobald, on his children.
Calamity would have overwhelmed a weaker soul. The death of her
husband was not the only one she had to deplore. His brother was
condemned to the same fate, and perished on the scaffold.
“If the services of Tone were not sufficient of themselves to
rouse your feelings, I might mention the independent spirit and
firmness of that noble woman, who, on the tomb of her husband
and of his brother, mingles with her sighs aspirations for the
deliverance of Ireland. I would attempt to give you an idea of
that Irish spirit which is blended in her countenance with the
expression of her grief. Such were those women of Sparta, who on
the return of their countrymen from battle when, with anxious
looks, they ran over the ranks, and missed amongst them their
sons, their husbands, and their brothers, exclaimed: ‘He died
for his country; he died for the republic.’”
* * * * *
Strangely enough, the revolution which placed Napoleon in power as First
Consul, instead of helping the fortunes of Matilda Tone and her
children, had an adverse effect on them. Lucien broke with his brother,
as soon as he saw the true direction of the latter’s aims, and in
consequence a cause to which he lent his support had little chance of
finding favour with the First Consul. For the next five years Tone’s
widow and orphans might have died of starvation had it not been for the
generosity of Mr. Wilson, of Dullatur. “He was,” says William Tone, “to
my mother a brother, an admirer and a friend; he managed her slender
funds; and when sickness and death hovered over our little family, he
was our sole support.” Lucien Buonaparte also did what he could out of
his personal resources—and Theobald’s brother, William, who had cut a
way for himself with his sword in India, sent his sister-in-law and
nephews and niece a generous draft. He would have provided for them had
not his death prevented the accomplishment of his plans.
The arrival of some of the Fort George prisoners in France, including
Tom Russell, Thomas Addis Emmet, and Dr. MacNevin—all Tone’s dear
friends—reminded Napoleon of the existence of Tone’s wife and children.
As if in answer to Emmet’s reproachful question: “how could they trust
that government when they saw the widow of Tone unprovided for?”
Napoleon (who was anxious to use the Irish in his new war with England
and was organising his Irish Brigade) granted Matilda a pension of 1,200
livres, and 400 to each of her three children until their twentieth
year. In this same year a subscription was got up for the family in
Ireland—to which John Keogh and the Earl of Moira, among others of
Tone’s old friends, ostentatiously refused to subscribe.
So starvation was kept off a little longer. But the privations of the
preceding years had told heavily on poor Maria Tone, now a beautiful
girl of sixteen. In 1804, her mother had the great grief of losing her
through consumption.
In 1806 poor little Frank died—and now no one was left to console his
mother but William.
Mother and son were all in all to each other. As he moved from the
Lyceum to the Imperial Cavalry School of Saint Germains, she moved her
lodgings at the same time to be near him. All his academic successes
were valued by him only in so far as they gave pleasure to his mother.
In the essay with which, in leaving the Lyceum, he competed for the
“Prize of the Institute,” he pays a noble and touching tribute to all he
owes to her, to all she has done for him. On her part, her thoughts were
occupied entirely by his advancement and his interests. For his sake she
surmounted her natural timidity, and sought out an interview with the
Emperor, in order to recommend her son to his favour.
Young Tone served under the Imperial Colours during three campaigns. On
the fall of Napoleon he resigned his commission, and in the following
year, passed over to America.
Before he left Paris he induced his mother to accept the offer of
marriage made her by their faithful friend and benefactor of so many
years, Mr. Wilson, of Dullatur. On August the 19th, 1816, they were
married in the chapel of the British Ambassador at Paris; and shortly
after set sail, _via_ Scotland, for America.
Mr. Wilson bought an estate at Georgetown, near Washington, and here
there was always a home for William when the duties of his military
career allowed it—for he had been appointed to a captaincy in the United
States Army. In 1825 he married the daughter of William Sampson, and
after retiring from the army, his wife and he took up their abode with
his mother in Georgetown. Mr. Wilson had died a little before.
Alas! Sorrow had not yet done with Matilda Tone, on October the 10th,
1828, she lost her son.
We know little of her for the twenty-one years of life that still
remained to her. We learn from Madden that every year her
daughter-in-law and grand-daughter paid her a visit; and we know that up
to extreme old age she retained that strength and energy of mind, that
vigour of intellect, that passionate devotion to the husband of her
youth which had characterised her in the long ago. A letter she wrote to
the _Truth-Teller_, on the appearance of the first edition of Madden’s
_United Irishmen_ (1842) gives evidence of this.
She died in Georgetown on March 18th, 1849.
Shall the day ever come when Ireland a Nation, remembering this woman
and all she suffered for her, shall claim her remains from America, and
lay them to rest in the place where her husband lies lonely: in his
green grave in Bodenstown Churchyard?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wife of Thomas Addis Emmet
JANE EMMET, _née_ PATTEN (1771-1846)[70]
“And the track of my true love’s feet is the track that my heart
would follow.”—_Old Irish Love Song._
Footnote 70:
_Authorities_: Madden’s “United Irishmen” (Third Series, Second
Edition); Dr. T. A. Emmet’s “Emmet Family.”
SO exquisitely has the story of “the Broken Heart” been told, to such
haunting strains of melodious sorrow has it been sung, that the whole
world has wept over the tragic loves of Robert Emmet and Sarah Curran,
But even in Ireland, it is rare to find anyone familiar with the romance
of Thomas Addis Emmet; and—to our shame be it told!—the heroic devotion
and self-sacrifice of his wife, Jane Emmet, which ought to be a
household tale, a constant inspiration to our womanhood, is less known
than the tale of some alien queen—Philippa or another. What’s Philippa
to us, or we to Philippa? Or why should the heroism of our own women be
forgotten, while our voices swell the chorus that praises the heroism of
the stranger?
We have already learned in our memoir of Elizabeth Emmet, that her son,
Thomas Addis, shortly after having been called to the Bar, married, in
1791, Miss Jane Patten, the twenty-year-old daughter of Rev. John
Patten, of Annerville (near Clonmel), and his wife Margaret Colville.
After Rev. Mr. Patten’s death in 1787, his widow, with her children,
Jane and John, came to live in Dublin where her brother, Mr. Colville
was a wealthy merchant, and in this city Thomas Addis Emmet met Miss
Patten. It is probable enough that the intimacy between the
families—which was very affectionate—was of longer standing; for both
the Colvilles and the Emmets were Tipperary folk.
In a letter to his daughter Elizabeth, written on the eve of the
latter’s marriage to Mr. Le Roy, Thomas Addis Emmet recalls the
happiness it gave him when, as a young husband, he witnessed the
tenderness with which his father and mother took to their hearts, as a
veritable new daughter, the bride he had brought home to them: “To this
day,” he writes (and “this day” was forty years after the event to which
his memory goes back) “I remember I never loved your Mother so much, or
looked at her with so much delight, as when I saw from my father’s and
mother’s actions that they cherished her as their own daughter.”
The tender little phrase throws a pleasing light on the relations that
existed between the two _ménages_, which shared between them Dr. Emmet’s
fine mansion on Stephen’s Green. Shortly after his son’s marriage the
doctor divided his house (No. 109 Stephen’s Green, West) into two
separate dwellings, keeping the corner house for himself, and assigning
the other to the young couple. In this inner house Jane Emmet’s elder
children, Robert (September 8th, 1792), Margaret (September 21st, 1793),
Elizabeth (December 4th, 1794), John Patten (April 8th, 1796), Thomas
Addis (May 29th, 1797) were born.
During the years when her nursery was thus rapidly filling, Jane Emmet’s
husband was making his mark at the Bar. He was engaged as counsel (with
Hon. Simon Butler and Leonard MacNally) in the celebrated case of Napper
Tandy against the Lord Lieutenant, the Lord Chancellor and some members
of the privy council, who had signed a proclamation offering a reward
for the apprehension of Tandy. The object of the whole proceedings on
the part of Tandy’s advisers was “to contest the validity of the Lord
Lieutenant’s patent, as having been granted under the great seal of
England, instead of that of the Chancellor of Ireland.” In the course of
Emmet’s address he caused a sensation by boldly asserting that there had
been “no legal viceroy in Ireland for the last ten years, and not only
the counsel for Lord Westmoreland will not deny that fact, but they will
not dare to let his patent come under a train of legal investigation.”
Other notable cases in which Emmet was engaged included the trial at
Tralee in 1793 of Lieutenant Carr who had shot a Mr. O’Connell in a
duel, and the trial of a Mr. O’Driscoll, at Cork assizes in the same
year, on a charge of seditious libel. In this case Emmet was associated
with the Sheareses and Leonard MacNally. So successful was he, according
to his cousin, St. John Mason’s statement to Dr. Madden, that the first
year of his practice he realised £700.
In 1795 he took the oath of the _United Irishmen_ under very sensational
circumstances, thus detailed by Madden: “A case occurred before Prime
Serjeant Fitzgerald, in which a conviction was obtained on a charge of
administering the United Irishmen’s oath, then a capital offence. Emmet
appeared for the prisoners on a motion in arrest of judgment. He took up
the pleadings in which the words of the oath were recited, and he read
them in a very deliberate manner, and with all the gravity of a man who
felt that he was binding his soul by the obligations of a solemn oath.
‘I, Thomas Addis Emmet, in the presence of God, do pledge myself to my
country that I will use all my abilities and influence in the attainment
of an impartial and adequate representation of the Irish nation in
parliament; and as a means and absolute and immediate necessity in the
establishment of this chief good of Ireland, I will endeavour, as much
as lies in my ability, to forward a brotherhood of affection, an
identity of interests, a communion of rights and an union of power,
among Irishmen of all religious persuasions, without which, every reform
in parliament must be partial, not national, inadequate to the wants,
delusive to the wishes, and insufficient to the freedom and happiness of
this country.’
“Having read the text, and defended its obligations with a power of
reasoning and a display of legal knowledge, in reference to the subject
of the distinction between legal and illegal oaths, which the counsel
for the prosecution described as producing an extraordinary impression,
he said:
“‘My lords, here in the presence of this legal court, this crowded
auditory, in the presence of the Being that sees, and witnesses, and
directs this judicial tribunal—here, my lords, I, myself, in the
presence of God, declare I take the oath.’ He then took the book, kissed
it, and sat down. No steps were taken by the court against the
newly-sworn United Irishman; the amazement of its functionaries left
them in no fit state of mind either for remonstrance or reproval. The
prisoners received a very lenient sentence.”
Though Emmet took the oath thus publicly, he was not publicly identified
with the United Irishmen until a period considerably later. He was
rarely engaged as their counsel in the trials of 1797 and 1798—acting
rather as chamber lawyer to their committees. He became a member of the
directory in 1797 after the arrest of Arthur O’Connor.
But long before that date he had worked for the objects for which the
United Irishmen were founded, Reform and Emancipation; and he had been
associated, in the closest manner with their founder. He was a member of
the political club which Tone formed in the winter of 1790, and Tone
found him a man completely after his own heart: “of a great and
comprehensive mind, of the warmest and sincerest affection for his
friends, and of a steady adherence to his principles, to which he has
sacrificed much, as I know, and would, I am sure, if necessary,
sacrifice his life. His opinions and mine square exactly.”
In the autumn of 1792 when Tone was working strenuously for the Catholic
cause, Emmet gave him invaluable help. His pen was ever ready to assist
Tone’s in preparing replies on the Catholic side to the bigotry of the
Grand Juries, or drawing up addresses in which the Catholic position was
admirably stated. But he did all this work in the shade, so to speak,
neither seeking nor desiring any reward for it.
We have already learned from Tone how fully Emmet entered into the
scheme for enlisting French aid towards Irish independence, which Tone
carried with him on his departure for America in the early summer of
1795. The “charming villa” which Emmet occupied then at Rathfarnham and
“the little study of an elliptical form” which he was building at the
bottom of his lawn, and the “little triangular field” on the way between
Rathfarnham and Dublin became, from the meeting of the three friends,
Emmet and Russell and Tone, and the solemn pledge wherewith they bound
themselves to each other, among the “holy places” of Irish history.
On March 12th, 1798, Government which had already been long in complete
possession of the plans of the United Irishmen, through the treachery of
Thomas Reynolds and others, and had allowed them to develop as suited
its own purposes, suddenly swooped down on the leaders. The arrest of
the country deputies at the house of Oliver Bond was followed the same
day by the apprehension of Emmet, Dr. MacNevin, Jackson (Bond’s
father-in-law) and John Sweetman at their several abodes.
Jane Emmet had just tucked her little ones into their cots and given
them their good-night kiss, when Alderman Carletown and his escort of
soldiers invaded the quiet house in Stephen’s Green to carry off her
children’s father. The loud knocking at the door, the peremptory demand
for admission “in the king’s name” which heralded the entrance of those
unbidden guests heralded also the closing of the peaceful happy years of
Jane Emmet’s young wifehood and maternity. A new life was opening up
before her, full of sorrows, and hardships and privations, and the
gently nurtured lady was to discover in the reserves of her character
the unsuspected materials of a heroine.
The call which roused the heroine in her was brutal enough. In the
search which the soldiers immediately instituted all through the house
in quest of documents the nursery was not spared. The children were
roughly roused from their sleep, and we may judge of the impression
produced in them by the fact that as long as they lived they never
forgot it. Thomas Addis Emmet, jun., was only a year-old baby when his
father was arrested; he was an old man when Dr. Madden knew him, but he
remembered, as if it had been but yesterday, how, waking suddenly, he
saw a number of soldiers standing at the window with fixed bayonets
presented at him and the little brother who was his bed fellow. Nor was
this the only occasion on which the nursery was invaded by the gallant
yeomanry. John Patten Emmet told his son, the present Dr. Thomas Addis
Emmet, that after his father’s arrest, the house was frequently searched
by the military for the seal of the United Irishmen. During one of these
searches he and his little brothers were wakened by a bright light in
the nursery, and became greatly frightened on seeing a soldier stand
guard within the door. “As soon as the man saw the child was awake, with
the instinct of a brute he pointed his musket at him as if about to
shoot. The children naturally got under the bed-clothing as quickly as
possible, and in their terror did not dare to move, being more dead than
alive, until the soldiers had left the house and their grandmother could
come to them.”[71]
Footnote 71:
“The Emmet Family,” pp. 64-65. The seal, which was designed by Robert
Emmet, and is still in the possession of the Emmet family, was carried
by Mrs. T. A. Emmet on her person during the whole time Government was
in search of it.
The poor grandmother had to take for the frightened children the place
of both father and mother. The father after being brought to the Castle,
was committed to Newgate where about twenty of the other leaders were
confined. Here his wife managed to gain admission to him—“by stealth,”
and “against the most positive orders,” as Lord Castlereagh told Lady
Louisa Connolly when, a couple of months later, she sought permission
for Pamela to see Lord Edward. “The cell in which Thomas Addis Emmet was
confined,” we learn from Dr. Madden, was about twelve feet square. Jane
Emmet managed to secrete herself in this wretched abode for some days,
one of the turnkeys who had charge of Emmet’s cell being privy to her
concealment. Her husband shared his scanty allowance with her; and there
a lady, bred in the lap of luxury, accustomed to all the accommodations
that are possessed by one in her sphere in life, used to all the
comforts of a happy home, familiarised to the affectionate care and kind
attentions of an amiable family, daily blessed with the smiling faces of
her dear children—“one who had slept with full content about her bed,
and never waked but to a joyful morning”—shared the dungeon of her
husband: its gloom, its dreary walls, its narrow limits, its dismal
aspect—things and subjects for contemplation which her imagination a few
weeks before would have sickened at the thought of—were now endured as
if they affected her not; her husband was there, and everything else in
this world, except her fears for his safety and for separation from him,
were forgotten; her acts said to him:
“Thou to me
Art all things under heaven, all places thou.”
“The gaoler at length discovered that Mrs. Emmet was an inmate of her
husband’s cell. She was immediately ordered to quit the place; but to
the astonishment of the officers of the prison who were not accustomed
to have their orders disobeyed, she told them ‘_her mind was made up_’
to remain with her husband, and she would not leave the prison. The
gaoler, whom Emmet speaks of as a man of unfeeling and ruffianly
deportment, stood _awestricken_ before a feeble, helpless creature whom
he had only to order one of his myrmidons to tear from the arms of her
husband, and his bidding would have been obeyed. The power of a
brave-spirited woman is seldom put forth that it does not triumph....
The gaoler retired; and Emmet was given to understand that the man had
orders from his superiors not to employ force, but the first time that
Mrs. Emmet left the prison she was not to be permitted to return. No
such opportunity for her exclusion was afforded by that lady. She
continued to share her husband’s captivity for many months. But once in
that time she left the prison and then only to visit her sick child,
when she appealed to the wife of the gaoler ‘as the mother of a family’
to take pity on her wretchedness, struggling as she was between her duty
to her husband and the yearnings of nature towards her sick child.... It
cheers one to find that this appeal was not made in vain. At midnight
this woman conducted Mrs. Emmet through the apartments of the gaoler to
the street. The following night, after remaining with her child at the
house of Dr. Emmet during the day, she returned to the gaol, gained
admittance by the same means, and “was on the point of entering her
husband’s cell when one of the keepers discovered her; but too late to
exclude her from prison. From that time she availed herself no more of
the same facility for leaving or entering prison. During her absence her
room had been visited by one of the keepers, a not infrequent
occurrence; the curtains had been drawn round the bed, some bundles of
clothing placed under the coverlid, and the keeper was requested to
tread lightly, as Mrs. Emmet was suffering from headache. Shortly after
this occurrence Emmet and MacNevin were removed to Kilmainham, and Mrs.
Emmet found means to gain access to her husband, and the authorities
connived at her sojourn in his dungeon.”[72]
Footnote 72:
Madden’s “United Irishmen” (Second Edition), Third Series, pp. 51-53.
Madden learned these particulars from Jane Emmet’s children in
America, and her brother John Patten.
In October, 1798, Jane Emmet’s sixth child, Christopher, was born, and
it seems probable that having returned to her home for the occasion, it
was not considered prudent for her to go back to the hardships of
Kilmainham. Moreover, ever since the State Prisoners had, in order to
save effusion of blood, entered into terms with Government in July,
1798, it was expected that Emmet and his fellow-prisoners would soon be
allowed to go to America. Rufus King, however, the resident minister of
the United States in London, interfered to prevent the execution of
these designs—and one more “scrap of paper” was torn into fragments.
Instead of being set at liberty and allowed to emigrate to the United
States, in accordance with Government’s formal pledge, the Irish State
Prisoners were kept in gaol for no less than four years longer.
On March 18th, 1799, the prisoners were notified to prepare for
embarkation to an unknown destination the following morning. When the
news reached the Emmet household Mary Anne Emmet, acting with that
spirit which showed her the true sister of Thomas Addis and Robert,
hastened to the Castle and obtained an interview with Lord Cornwallis.
The viceroy was touched by her pleading, and assured her that no harm
should come to her brother, but he would give her no information as to
“the place of security” whither Government’s apprehension of a foreign
invasion impelled them to send the State Prisoners. With the scanty
comfort conveyed in Cornwallis’s promise that her brother’s treatment,
as well as that of his companions, should be all his friends and theirs
could desire, Mary Anne Emmet returned to her parents. She was allowed
to visit her brother for a short time in Kilmainham that evening to take
the farewell of him which was destined to be her last.
In another place we shall learn something of the adventures of the
twenty State prisoners who sailed from Dublin Bay on March the 19th and
reached their destination, Fort George, in the extreme north of
Scotland, on April 9th, 1799, and of their life in that fortress during
the years of their confinement in it.
As may be expected, Jane Emmet made every effort to obtain permission to
join her husband in Fort George, and her hopes of success were
stimulated by the fact that others of the State prisoners, especially
Roger O’Connor, were allowed to have their families with them. The Irish
Government, however—in other words, Lord Castlereagh—put every obstacle
in her way, and it was only when she made personal application to the
Duke of Portland that she obtained the consent she sought. In August,
1800, escorted by her brother, John Patten, and accompanied by her three
elder children, Robert, Margaret and Elizabeth, she arrived in Fort
George. She left her three younger children, John Patten, Thomas Addis
and baby Christopher, in the charge of their grandfather and
grandmother, Dr. and Mrs. Emmet, at Casino, Milltown.
The son of one of the little boys thus left behind has culled for us
from the family correspondence the letters written by old Mrs. Emmet to
her son and daughter-in-law in Fort George, and though the regrettable
loss of the letters of Thomas Addis to his parents and those of Jane
Emmet to her mother, Mrs. Patten, leaves the correspondence incomplete,
nevertheless sufficient remains to help us to make a connected story.
It was not her husband only whom the arrival at Fort George of Mrs.
Emmet and her charming children made happy. All the prisoners were
delightfully excited by the event, and every man of them became their
devoted slave from the beginning. Each one was anxious to lend a hand in
the education of the children. Dr. MacNevin, whose Continental education
had rendered him an accomplished linguist, taught them French; Hudson
and Cormick gave them music lessons. When little William Neilson joined
the children some months later, Fort George became a regular academy.
Thomas Addis Emmet, himself, was the head-master, and his mother
jokingly refers to Jane as his usher—but all the prisoners were eager to
secure a post in the school—Dr. Dixon, M. Dowdall, Tennant. There were
charming theatrical entertainments, too, wherein the children acted, and
concerts at which Robert Emmet and William Neilson displayed their skill
on the flute. Samuel Neilson’s letters to his wife never omit a
reference to Mrs. Emmet and her “delightful children.” It was probably
Mrs. Emmet who suggested to him to send for his little son, and when the
boy arrived she mothered him exactly like one of her own children. Once
the lad fell ill, and Mrs. Emmet’s attentions to him won the fervent
gratitude of the poor father: “her kindness went beyond what could
possibly be expected. Fruits, sweetmeats, jellies—everything she could
think of were sent, and her own personal attendance and advice were
superadded.”
The Governor of the Fort, the chivalrous old Scottish nobleman and
soldier, Colonel Stuart, was won over by the sweet womanliness, and the
maternal and conjugal devotion of Mrs. Emmet. Very shortly after her
arrival he signified to her husband that, for the sake of her health, to
which proper exercise was necessary, he would take it upon himself to
allow her husband to accompany her on walks outside the enclosure of the
fortress. When Roger O’Connor and his wife and family left Fort George,
the Governor turned over their suite of rooms to Mrs. Emmet. Once a fire
broke out at night. The Governor was called up, and on ascertaining that
no danger was to be apprehended, he instantly ran to Emmet’s apartment
to remove his apprehension for himself and his family; and the next day
the following note was addressed to Emmet:
“The lieutenant-governor’s compliments to Mr. Emmet. He hopes Mrs. Emmet
suffered no inconvenience from the alarm of fire which was given last
night. As the idea of being locked in may occasion a disagreeable
sensation to a lady’s mind, in case of any sudden occurrence (though the
lieutenant-governor flatters himself that none in future will arise), he
will give directions that the passage door leading to Mr. Emmet’s
apartments shall not in future be locked, being convinced Mr. Emmet
would make no improper use of all the doors being left open.”
The letters which came from Casino were eagerly welcomed by Jane Emmet
and her husband, telling, as they did, so much that they longed to know
of the little ones left behind. John is Grandmother Patten’s favourite,
and when he goes to visit her he comes back the proud possessor of “new
clothes and a great number of Buttons.” “He felt very visibly the
importance he had acquired by his visit to town, for as soon as he
returned he desired John Delany should be brought in to play with him,
as his grandmamma had always a boy on purpose to play with him.” John’s
slowness, to which there are frequent allusions in the letters, seems to
have caused a little anxiety to his father, so his grandmother is eager
to do him justice. “He does not, I assure you, want either observation
or intellect, he has great natural justice and a very open good-natured
temper.” We learn from his grandfather that he is at “a crown and a
quarter school, where he tells me he makes great proficiency, four or
five lessons a day in his A, B, C, but as yet he does not couple them
very accurately. John, however, is a very well-disposed, well-tempered
child, and if he does not mount into the Empyrean galaxy, he will always
keep the Milky Way of life, and never tread on thorns.” On another
occasion John is at his grandmother’s elbow while she is writing to
father and mother and he expressly desires her to tell them that “he is
a very good boy; that he has gotten a new spelling book from his
grandmamma Patten, and that he will take care and get his lessons well.”
All this Grandmamma Emmet is sure “he has sincere intentions of
performing, tho’ I must confess that in his old spelling-book he is not
very brilliant. He, however, I am told, performs the part of an usher in
the school, and acquits himself with great propriety.... John, I think,
is much better at school, it helps to enliven him and in some measure
open his ideas; he does not learn any bad habits, and he is very fond of
it; at home he would be apt to grow sluggish.” As John had not completed
his _fifth_ year at the time these letters were written, we need not
share too acutely his absent father’s anxiety about him—especially as
_we_ from our point of vantage, some six score years later, discern in
John one of the most brilliant men of his time. When he died—in the
prime of his manhood, at the age of forty-six, his colleagues of the
University of Virginia, where he was Professor of Chemistry and Materia
Medica, paid tribute to him as “the inventive and learned, the ingenuous
and high-souled John Patten Emmet, one of the earliest supports and one
of the brightest ornaments of this University.”
If it is curious to find the future distinguished scientist causing
anxiety to his father for the slow opening of his intellect, it is still
more curious to find his little brother Tom causing him anxiety because
some incident related by his grandparents seemed to indicate in the tiny
boy a selfish disposition. So concerned was the father at some trait of
childish prudence related by the grandparents for his amusement that he
had thoughts of taking little Tom to Fort George to educate him under
his own eyes. Grandmother Emmet has to assure him that what Mary Anne
and she said “imported nothing more than to convey to you an idea of the
strength of his intellect, for surely you did not suppose that the
disposition of a child, not four years old, would do more than to divert
you instead of giving you sincere alarm. The share of understanding
which he promises to have will be fully sufficient to overcome his
little childish dispositions, and without severity he will do what is
right by only pointing it out to him.” How groundless were his father’s
fears—and how well justified his grandmother’s confidence, the life of
Thomas Addis Emmet, junior, sufficiently proves. His nephew and
namesake, recalling the happy days he and the other young people of his
generation spent in Mr. Emmet’s lovely home, Mount Vernon, New York,
tells us that it would not be possible to find a more genial, kindly and
charitable couple than Mr. and Mrs. Emmet. “The term charitable could be
applied to him in every sense, as it was difficult for him even to
suspect a bad motive, and he frequently suffered for his faith in
others. Later in life Mr. Emmet became embarrassed on account of the
frequent assistance he had rendered supposed friends and from placing
too much reliance on their promises.”
It is plain that of the three children confided to their care the
favourite of Grandfather and Grandmother Emmet is the youngest, little
Christopher Temple. In this delightful little boy whom everybody in
kitchen and parlour idolises, is there given back to them the brilliant
son they had lost by a premature death? The grandfather clearly thinks
so: “Little Temple, should he live for the germs to open, blossom and
ripen into fruit, will equal, I think, his namesake uncle.” His
grandmother is afraid her partiality for him will be reckoned as due to
his name: “I assure you he is as great a favourite with everyone in the
family as with me.” “This little Brat is, to be sure, the chief
favourite through the house; we, however, do not spoil him, and I assure
you that I fondle him less than the others. Mary Anne caresses him more
than I do, but at the same time treats him with steadiness; in the
kitchen he would be commander-in-chief if we did not prevent it. He is
quite a miniature of our dear little Robert, especially when he holds up
his hands and says he won’t be bold any more.” Pictures like that of the
dear little grandson occur in the grandmother’s letters again and again:
now we see him at table, “fighting in dumb show for his share in his
grandfather’s claret,” now sturdily claiming his place in his elder
brother’s games, now climbing on chairs and prating enough for two, now
riding on Mr. Holmes’s back, and asking to be taken on grandmother’s. “I
told him that my back was old, but in a little time I offered to take
him, he would not, he replied in a tone of great tenderness, ‘because
you have a pain.’ The next night I again asked him if he would come on
my back, and he at once said he would if I had not a pain.”
Poor little Temple! Like his namesake uncle he was destined to live but
a short life. He died of yellow fever, at sea, at the age of
twenty-four, being a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy.
It was at Fort George that Jane Emmet’s seventh child, a little girl
called Jane Erin, was born. Some months after her birth the State
prisoners were released,[73] and dispatched on the Government frigate
the _Ariadne_, to Cuxhaven, the port for Hamburg. At Hamburg the
prisoners separated, some to go to America, others to Paris, others to
Holland, and Dr. MacNevin to Dresden. The Emmets first settled at
Brussels where Thomas Addis devoted himself to the education of his
children. At Brussels he heard of his father’s death, and was visited by
his brother Robert.
Footnote 73:
After peace was signed at Amiens in March, 1802. Their imprisonment
was changed for banishment.
We know that it was not brotherly affection alone, deep and true as this
was, that brought Robert Emmet to Brussels at this juncture. The fact
was that all men saw that the peace between England and France was a
very “sick” peace indeed, and liable to expire at any moment. The United
Irishmen, whose organisation had survived the disasters of ’98, were
waiting their chance of a rupture between the two countries to shake off
the yoke of England, which the Union had made more intolerable. They had
encouragement from some of the most influential men in Ireland. Though
not enamoured of France, which they rightly considered had treated them
most scandalously,[74] they were ready to bargain for French aid “on
conditions.” France, on the other hand, was willing to make these terms,
her only interest in Ireland being to get in a blow at England through
her.
Footnote 74:
Thomas Addis Emmet told Colonel Dalton who had been sent to open up
negotiations with him on behalf of the French Government in May, 1803,
that “France had lost the confidence of Ireland, and the treatment the
Irish had received in France, ever since the peace ... had excited
even an aversion.” It is well known that Emmet described Bonaparte “as
the worst enemy Ireland ever had.” So much for French friendship for
Ireland, about which certain people would have us so enthusiastic!
It is not the place to tell here how once more France failed Ireland;
how Robert Emmet was suffered to go to his death without a finger being
raised to save him; how the Irishmen, who had enlisted in an Irish
legion in the service of France, on the distinct promise that Augereau
was to command a great expedition to Ireland, were wantonly deceived.
In the autumn of 1804, Thomas Addis Emmet, whose clear eyes even
Bonaparte could not long deceive, shook the dust of France from his feet
and set sail with his wife and the children who had shared their
imprisonment and exile, for New York.
On November the 11th, 1804, Jane Emmet first set foot on American soil
on which forty-two years of her life were yet to be spent, and in which
she was to find a grave. Her health, which had suffered much during her
sojourn in Fort George, and through the agitations and anxieties which
attended her life in Brussels and Paris, improved. Her husband whose
reputation and talents had secured for him the most distinguished
reception at the hands of the noblest men in America, made his way
rapidly at the American Bar. The little children from whom she had been
separated so long: John, and Tom, and Temple, were restored to her. The
little band of seven was subsequently reinforced by two new arrivals:
Mary Anne, born in New York in March, 1805, and William Colville, born
in the same city in April, 1807.
The family correspondence, published by her grandson, Dr. Thomas Addis
Emmet, gives us a delightful picture of the home-life of Jane Emmet
during these years. She saw her husband honoured among the noblest of
the land. She saw her children grow up about her, her girls beautiful
and accomplished and altogether charming: her sons clever and
successful, heirs to their father’s unstained integrity, as to his
commanding abilities. The family had a summer residence on the old
Middle Road, New York, and a winter abode in town—but the “Middle Road”
was so attractive that the whole year was not infrequently passed there.
All sorts of frolics enlivened their stay there, fancy dress balls and
musical entertainments not to speak of practical jokes, in which the
humour of the family took intense delight. As the sons and daughters got
married, the new daughters, and sons thus added served but to widen the
charming family circle, not to break it up.
In November, 1827, Jane Emmet had the supreme grief of losing her
husband—a grief which was shared by all America—which “paid his love by
reverencing his genius.”
Jane Emmet survived her husband nineteen years, dying at the house of
her son-in-law on November 10th, 1846.
The noble words of Dr. Madden are the fittest tribute to her memory:
“The widow of Thomas Addis Emmet survived her husband nineteen years.
She had shared in his sorrows and his sufferings—had been his companion
in prisonment in Kilmainham gaol, and in captivity in Fort George—not
for days, or weeks, or months, but for years. She had accompanied him in
exile to the Continent and to the land of his adoption, and there she
shared in his honours and the felicity of his later years.
“The woman who encountered so many privations and trials as she had
done—who had been accustomed to all the enjoyments of a happy home, and
‘Had slept with full content about _her_ bed,
And never waked but to a joyful morning.’
When deprived of all ordinary comforts, of the commonest appliances of
these to the humblest state of life, during the imprisonment of her
husband in Dublin; and was subjected necessarily to many restraints
during the dreary imprisonments at Fort George—seemed ever to those who
were the companions of her husband’s captivity as ‘one who, in suffering
all things, suffered nothing.’ She fulfilled with heroic fortitude the
duties of a devoted wife towards her husband in all his trials in his
own country; was the joy and comfort of his life in a foreign land,
where the exiled patriot, honoured and revered, in course of time rose
to the first distinction in his profession; she died far away from her
native land—but her memory should not be forgotten in Ireland.
“This excellent woman, full of years, rich in virtue, surrounded by
affectionate children—prosperous, happily circumstanced, dutiful and
loving children to her, worthy of their inheritance of a great name, and
of the honour that descended to them from the revered memory of her
truly noble husband—thus terminated in a foreign land a long career,
chequered by many trials, over which a virtuous woman’s self-sacrificing
devotion, the courage and constancy of a faithful wife, the force of a
mother’s love eventually prevailed. The portrait of this lady is in the
possession of Mr. John Patten.[75] The time may come when this
intimation may be of some avail. Ireland has its Cornelias, its
Portias—matrons worthy of association in our thoughts with Cato’s
daughter, the mother of the children who were the jewels of her
heart—with the wife of Russell, of Lavalette—but Ireland has no national
gallery for the pictures and busts of her illustrious children—no
literature for a record of the ‘noble deeds of women’ of her own land.”
Footnote 75:
Dr. Thomas Addis Emmet informs us that “nothing is now known of this
portrait.” The two portraits reproduced in his own book were by her
daughter Elizabeth, Mrs. Le Roy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wife of Samuel Neilson
ANNE NEILSON _née_ _Bryson_ (1763-1811)[76]
“I love you the more, Love, because of their hate.”
—ETHNA CARBERY.
Footnote 76:
_Authorities_: Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Fourth Series, Second
Edition.
NO woman, of all those whose stories we are recalling to the memory of a
people in danger of forgetting them, has suffered so much as Mrs.
Neilson. Not alone had she to see her happy home broken up, the ease and
comfort to which she had been accustomed both in her father’s and her
husband’s house, taken from her, her children deprived of their father
and herself of a helpmate, the turning away from her necessities of
former friends—but worse than all this she had to endure the intolerable
pain of knowing that the reward her husband had won even from his own
countrymen, even from those for whose sake he had sacrificed his all—was
to be branded as a traitor, and to have his name whispered from mouth to
mouth as that of one who had betrayed Lord Edward, and sold the secrets
of his associates to Government to purchase his own safety.
It is with hearts very full, then, that we turn to the appealing and
lonely figure of this “dear dead woman,” and standing in spirit by her
grave in Newtownbreda Cemetery we frame passionate prayers that she may
know her sufferings have not been in vain.
Anne Bryson was born in Belfast in 1763. Her father, William Bryson, was
a wealthy and highly esteemed merchant of that town, and his daughter
had all the educational and social advantages which an assured position,
a refined home and considerable means could give her. In 1785, when she
had reached her twenty-second year, she married Samuel Neilson, the son
of a dissenting minister, of Ballyroney in Co. Down. Neilson had been
resident in Belfast for some time, having been at an early age
apprenticed to his brother John, a woollen-draper—and doubtless the
young people had often met at the social functions which enlivened
Belfast at this period, and of which Mrs. McTier’s letters to her
brother, Dr. Drennan, give us the most delightful glimpses.[77]
Footnote 77:
Published in Young’s “Historical Notices of Old Belfast,” p. 169, _et
seq._
After their marriage the young couple set up in business for themselves,
and Samuel Neilson’s great ability commanded an immediate success. His
establishment, called “The Irish Woollen Warehouse,” became, we are
informed, “the most extensive and respectable house in that line in
Belfast.” Before he had been seven years in business he had amassed a
considerable fortune, being reckoned in 1792 as worth about £8,000—which
would be equivalent to nearly £20,000 in our days.
Not with worldly prosperity alone did a kind Providence bless Anne
Neilson and her husband. Five fair children, four girls and a boy, came
to grace their fireside. The girls were Anne, Sophia, Jane, and Mary.
Very dear were they to their father, and very touching the letters he
was to address to them from prison when the “hard service” of the Poor
Old Woman was to sever him from them during sorrowful years. Anne and
Sophia were old enough to bear their heroic part among the “Women of
’Ninety-Eight,” and many of the most thrilling and interesting incidents
which Dr. Madden gathered into his precious books were actually
witnessed, and related to him by them. They spent much time during the
troubled period with the wife of Oliver Bond in Dublin, and were by that
means right in the centre of things, so to speak. Dr. Madden was deeply
touched by the passionate devotion they showed to their father’s memory,
when about half a century after his death, he sought from them the
materials for his memoir.
But dear as the girls were, the boy was the light of his life. William
Bryson Neilson, the only son of Samuel and Anne Neilson, was born in
1794 and, by all accounts, was an extraordinarily gifted boy. We shall
hear much of him in the following pages, and find no little interest in
the story of the days he spent with his father in the stern old northern
fortress of Fort George, which his presence made for poor Sam Neilson
almost a place of delight.
The “good years,” as perhaps Anne Neilson was inclined to call them,
from their contrast with the years which followed, came to an end—with
so much else—at the outbreak of the French Revolution. Neilson had
retained from his old “volunteer” days a strong attachment to Liberty,
which he then interpreted in the terms of the English Revolution of
1689. The French Revolution gave the word a new meaning for him, and the
other dissenters of Belfast who shared his views. The “Rights of Man”
became the Koran of Belfast, as Tone pleasantly observes, and Sam
Neilson set himself with that logical sequence, which, with him, made
energetic action follow principle, to secure these “Rights” for his own
oppressed countrymen.
From 1791, politics absorbed Neilson, and his business was much
neglected, and finally had to be abandoned. Many anxious moments must
have been poor Anne Neilson’s during those stirring days when her
husband, with Tone and Russell and Henry Joy MacCracken, was making
history. We Irish Catholics ought to cherish a special reverence for her
memory, and pay her at least a posthumous gratitude, for it was at her
expense that her husband worked for us. He was the first man in Belfast
to put Catholic Emancipation in the forefront of the Republican party’s
programme, and to make of it, with Parliamentary Reform, the principal
plank in the platform of the _United Irishmen_—the honour of whose
foundation he shares with Tone.
In 1792 there was established in Belfast to preach the doctrines of the
new society a memorable paper, _The Northern Star_. Of this paper, to
the finances of which he had liberally contributed, Neilson was
appointed the editor. Eventually he became the sole proprietor—with
disastrous results to his financial position. The paper was repeatedly
the object of legal proceedings, and apparently to escape the
consequences of these, the other shareholders got rid of their interest
in it. Madden tells us that “the various prosecutions carried on against
it had obliged Neilson to dispose of all his property, and to relinquish
his business in order to meet the enormous expenses attendant on these
proceedings, and the unexpected demands arising from them. The other
proprietors, shortly after the prosecutions, disposed of their shares to
Neilson, and thus encompassed with peril he became the sole proprietor
of the paper. In 1792 the printer and proprietors had been prosecuted
and acquitted. In January, 1793, six informations were filed in King’s
Bench against them for seditious libels, and in November, 1794, they
were prosecuted for publishing the address of the United Irishmen to the
Volunteers.”
It was not alone through the medium of the _Northern Star_ that Neilson
served the cause of the Catholics. He was active in his efforts to
compose the differences between the Catholics and the Presbyterians, and
to lay the feuds of the Peep o’ Day Boys and the Defenders. We learn
from Tone’s diary that both Neilson and his wife were of the party which
accompanied John Keogh and the other Catholic delegates, on their return
from Belfast in July, 1732, to Rathfriland in order to meet some
gentlemen of the neighbourhood with a view to restoring peace between
the rival religious parties. He took part, with Tone and Keogh, in a
similar expedition a month later. He was intensely interested in the
work of the Catholic Committee and the plans for the Catholic
Convention.
It was probably in this connection that he became so intimate with Luke
Teeling, of Lisburn, and his family, though their relations dated from a
still earlier period when both men were working heart and soul to return
to Parliament, as representative of the Co. Down, that ardent Reform
candidate, the Hon. Robert Stewart—better known to history as Lord
Castlereagh.
In 1795 the terrible condition of affairs in the County Armagh, where
the Catholics had been subjected to a barbarous persecution at the hands
of the Peep o’ Day Boys without the slightest attempt on the part of the
authorities, either to protect them or to restrain their savage
aggressors, was rapidly reaching a tragic climax. Young Charles Teeling,
then a lad of seventeen, got information that the Catholics, convinced
that they could not be worse off than they were, were preparing to take
the field openly against their intolerant foes. Relying on the influence
which his family, from its standing, enjoyed among the Catholics of
Armagh, he set off from Lisburn, without informing any one, in the hope
of inducing the Defenders to desist from their disastrous purpose.
He had not gone far, however, when he felt the need of some more mature
and experienced head than that which sat on his own seventeen-year-old
shoulders. His mind could suggest “none more desirable for the purpose
than Samuel Neilson. He was the ardent patriot, the decided enemy to
oppression in every shape and in every form; and the strenuous advocate,
at all times and seasons, for the unqualified admission of his excluded
fellow-countrymen, to their full participation in the blessings of civil
and religious liberty. He was at the head of the, then, only liberal
Press in Ulster; and his political influence however extended, was not
more than commensurate with his labours in the public cause.”
Teeling wrote to Neilson begging him to meet him in Portadown and thence
to accompany him to the scene of the disturbances. Neilson complied
without delay, but before he reached Portadown he was met by Teeling
with the news that the Battle of Diamond had been fought, and that their
intervention was too late.
In September, 1796, both Teeling and Neilson with Russell and others
were arrested, conveyed to Dublin and lodged in Newgate and Kilmainham.
A few weeks afterwards the two McCrackens were added to the company of
Northern prisoners.
After a few months Lord O’Neill obtained from Government permission for
the prisoners to see their wives. Charles Teeling informs us of his
surprise at finding that Neilson was not disposed to avail himself of
this permission. “Neilson had a tender affection for his wife, and she
merited all the respect and attachment he could feel; yet he positively
prohibited her visiting his prison. ‘I cannot,’ said he, ‘suffer you to
undertake a long and fatiguing journey at this season of the year to
visit me in my cell. Here your nerves will be shocked by the brutality
of a turnkey, and at the Castle your pride will be wounded by the
insolence of a minion in office.’ His prohibition, however, did not
avail. He addressed his letter through the usual channel, the office of
the Secretary of State; but the faithful partner of his affections had
already procured an order of admission to the prison.”[78]
Footnote 78:
Teeling’s “Personal Narrative,” pp. 29, 30.
During the seventeen months for which her husband’s captivity lasted,
Mrs. Neilson and her elder daughters spent much time in Dublin, where
the hospitable homes of James Dixon, of Kilmainham, and Mr. and Mrs.
Oliver Bond, were ever ready to receive them.
It is sad to relate that the nervous strain to which the prisoners in
Kilmainham were subjected told on the temper of most of them, and in the
irritation of their spirits they quarrelled with each other. A serious
estrangement broke out, in particular, between Neilson and Henry Joy
McCracken. But Margaret and Mary McCracken and Mrs. Neilson, using their
gentle womanly influence, succeeded in effecting a reconciliation.
On February 22nd, 1798, Neilson was liberated on bail on condition “that
he should not belong to any treasonable committee.”
The long confinement, the anxiety about his family, the grief and rage
he felt at the news of the ruin of his property, and the suppression of
his paper had told heavily on Neilson’s bodily and mental health. He
came out of prison a wreck of his former self. His kind friend, Mr. John
Sweetman, took him to his country house and lavished on him every care
which might restore him. But the times were unpropitious for the “rest
cure” which poor Neilson’s shattered nerves demanded.
Three weeks after his release, on March the 12th, 1798, the Government
swooped down on the leaders of the United Irishmen and by midnight of
that memorable day had all of them, practically, with the single
exception of Lord Edward, safe under lock and key. John Sweetman was
arrested at his brewery in Francis Street—and it became known to Neilson
that his own re-arrest was merely a matter of time.
Neilson considered that the Government’s breach of faith towards him
absolved him from his engagement to them—and from this time forth he
threw himself, with a feverish energy his debilitated frame could ill
support, into the service of the Union. According to his own statement,
“he was very active in procuring that the vacancies caused by the arrest
at Bond’s should be filled up, attended several committees belonging to
the union, delivered some messages from Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and
together with his Lordship, was stopped by a patrol near Palmerstown,
and liberated after being a short time in custody, owing to the
ignorance of the officer respecting our persons.” A Northern delegate
reported at a provincial meeting in Belfast that Neilson “was riding
almost night and day, organising the people; and scarcely any person
knew where he slept.”
During the time between March the 12th and Lord Edward’s arrest on May
the 19th, Neilson constantly visited his Lordship at his various places
of concealment. Miss Moore long afterwards told Dr. Madden that “no
matter how depressed Lord Edward was, the appearance of Neilson always
brightened him up.”
On the day Lord Edward was arrested at Murphy’s, Neilson visited him and
told him that he had seen a party of soldiers pass up the street. He
dined with Lord Edward and, according to Murphy, as soon as the dinner
was over hurried away, as if a sudden recollection had occurred to him,
leaving the door open behind him. Through this door an hour later
entered Major Sirr and his party. “Lord Edward’s arrest following so
immediately Neilson’s exit, his restlessness during dinner, his
‘fidgety’ demeanour at the moment of leaving the house, and the strange
circumstance of the door being found open by Major Sirr, were
circumstances that caused Neilson’s conduct to be freely canvassed; and
those who were in the secret of the treachery which really led to the
capture of the prisoner took care to let suspicion light and rest on
those whom it was thought desirable to bring into odium with their own
party. Neilson and Murphy were made the scape-goats of the infamy of the
memorable F. H. whose initials have finally been identified with the
name of Francis Higgins, one of the worst men of the worst period of our
history.”
It makes our heart bleed for poor Anne Neilson and her children when we
think of this terrible imputation being cast on him whose only fault was
that he loved his country before all else!
On the night of May the 23rd, that fixed for the general rising, Neilson
was re-arrested outside Newgate, where he was reconnoitring, with a view
to leading an attack on this Irish Bastille, and inaugurating the
projected Irish Revolution after the French model, by the liberation of
Lord Edward and the other chiefs imprisoned in it. Unfortunately Neilson
was too well known to the prison authorities for his presence in the
neighbourhood not to excite suspicion. He was taken prisoner by a file
of soldiers after a desperate resistance and lodged in gaol in a
pitiable condition of body, but his mind more determined to resist
tyranny than ever. Grattan told his son that when Neilson was taken, his
clothes were torn off him, his body wounded all over by the soldiers
hacking at him, he was cut and scarred in upwards of fifty places, and
was only saved by the number of his assailants.
On June the 26th, bills of indictment were sent up for high treason
against Samuel Neilson, the two Sheareses, John McCann, William Michael
Byrne, and Oliver Bond. Counsel were named by all the prisoners except
Neilson, who refused to name any. We find in the Life of Grattan by his
son a graphic description of the scene in court to which Neilson was
brought heavily ironed. “When brought into court the noise of his
entrance was like the march of men in irons. He was called on to plead,
and asked if he had anything to say; he replied in a stentorian voice,
‘No! I have been robbed of everything—I could not fee counsel; my
property—everything has been taken from me,’ and he turned away. But he
came again to the front of the dock, and said, ‘For myself I have
nothing to say; _I scorn your power, and despise that authority that it
shall ever be my pride to have opposed_; but I may say—not that I value
it—why am I kept with these weighty irons on me, so heavy that three
ordinary men could scarcely carry them? Is it your law that I should be
placed in irons, and in such irons?’”
The execution of the Sheareses took place on July 14th, that of McCann
on the 19th. In order to save the lives of Byrne and Bond, Neilson with
some others of the State prisoners consented to enter into terms with
Government. Byrne, in spite of these negotiations, was executed on July
28th, and Oliver Bond died, under very suspicious circumstances, after
having been respited.
The circumstances attending Bond’s death, and the chagrin caused by the
Government’s perfidy with regard to the compact (which they not only
broke in the most flagrant manner, but represented, in their account of
it to the public, in a way most injurious to the prisoners’ honour) had
a very bad effect on poor Neilson. He was literally at death’s door when
the word came from the Castle on March the 18th, 1799, that the State
prisoners were to be deported to an unknown destination on the following
morning.
John Sweetman’s diary gives a most harrowing account of Neilson’s
condition during the journey to Fort George. He got delirious on the
very night the _Ashton Smith_, with the prisoners aboard, sailed from
Dublin Bay. The prisoners had to take two hours’ watches by his bedside
to restrain his violence. Dr. MacNevin, as a medical man, warned the
Captain of the likely consequences if something were not done for the
unfortunate patient, and a petition was sent for leave to have him
landed at Belfast, where the boat put in to take more prisoners. But it
was all in vain.
Fortunately Neilson’s condition improved after a day or two, and his
unfortunate companions were spared at least acute anxiety on his
account. They had plenty of discomforts to put up with, without that. A
heavy gale came on as they approached Ailsa, and presently it increased
to a rank storm. “The sea broke clear over us, and poured into the hold;
several of the berths were drenched with water. Mine was completely
flooded by the bilge-water, which came up between the timbers and
through the ceiling. All the trunks were knocked about, and most of the
crockery broken. The hold exhibited a most confused scene.” Later on
they were nearly ship-wrecked.
From Greenock the prisoners were conveyed by coach to Fort George, which
they reached on April 9th, having been eleven days on the sea-journey
and ten days on the land journey.
Dr. Dickson’s narrative gives us a graphic description of the first
impressions of Fort George. “Our entrance might be called solemn. The
very aspect of the place made it so to me, who had never before seen a
regular fortification. A numerous guard was drawn out, and a multitude
assembled—which included a great part of the rank and fashion of the
country. Through them and the guards our coaches drove to a stair, up
which we were conducted to the rampart, and thence along a wooden
bridge, thrown across the street on our account, to the third floor of
the garrison, and shown into a spacious room where we found an
uncommonly large grate filled with a blazing coal fire.
“We had not enjoyed this many minutes, when Lieutenant-Colonel Stuart
(the lieutenant-governor), the fort-major, and some other officers made
their appearance. Panting as we were with anxiety to know our fates,
their minds did not seem to be much more at ease than ours. After a few
polite inquiries concerning our journey, health, accommodations, etc.,
the lieutenant-governor, taking a paper from his pocket, said:
‘Gentlemen, it is necessary that I should read to you the orders I have
received from Government; though I assure you to me a very painful
task.’ That he felt it such was evident from the tremulous voice and
interrupted breath with which he performed it. On perceiving the
indignation which these orders excited, expressed by every countenance,
and hearing it from one tongue: ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘as a _servant of
government_ I cannot hear reflections on _government_. I own I cannot
reconcile your appearance and these orders—yet I must obey them.
However, it shall be your own fault if ever they are executed with
severity.’ On this, he and the other gentlemen retired seemingly, and as
I believe really, affected with our situation.
“Soon after, our table was handsomely laid out and a good dinner of
_five dishes_ served up. We had two servants to attend us. Our allowance
of drink was one dozen of porter, one of ale, and ten bottles of port.
And we were informed that we might have tea in the evening, or a cold
supper with a bottle of porter or ale for each, as we should choose.
“After dinner, twenty rooms, between sixteen and eighteen feet square
each, were allotted to us by ballot, sixteen of which were laid with
brick over the boarden floor. On taking possession we found them clean,
airy, dry, well plastered and ceiled, with windows sufficiently large,
well glazed and secured on the outside with iron bars. In each room was
a neat four-posted bed with good curtains, palliasse, mattress, sheets,
one under and three upper blankets, a cotton coverlet, bolster, pillow,
a rush-bottomed chair, and small oaken table; a bottle and basin,
fire-irons, coal-box, candlestick, snuffers and extinguisher—all
entirely new and good in their kind. To these were afterwards added a
bell on the outside of each door, with two pulls on the inside, one at
the fireplace and one at the bed, that in case of sickness, fire, or
alarm, our keepers might be roused, and assistance procured. Four
invalids were exempted from duty, for our service, and allowed double
pay; two to make our beds, keep our rooms clean, and do other services;
and the other two to keep our knives, forks, spoons, etc., as they ought
to be, bring our provisions from the inn and attend at table. Each of us
had a captain’s allowance of coal and candle, nor did we burn a dipped
candle except for one fortnight during my residence in the fort. For our
health equal provision was made.”
The prisoners were allowed to exercise on the ramparts, and from that
point of vantage they were entertained “with a widely extended scenery,
as variegated, wildly great and rudely picturesque, as water, moor,
mountain cultivated fields, one large handsome town, several villages, a
few gentlemen’s seats, some good farm-houses, thriving plantations of
great extent, Culloden _with all its recollections_, a considerable
succession of trading and other vessels, a constant paddling of ferry
and fishing boats, and a long and lofty ridge of the Scottish Alps at a
distance, exposing their bare heads and naked shoulders to the pitiless
storms, could present to an eye accustomed to tame and temperate
regions.”
The Governor, who was of royal Stuart blood, treated his prisoners with
every consideration. On his own responsibility he allowed the
relaxation, or removal of the several restrictions imposed on them by
the Duke of Portland, at the instigation of Castlereagh, and obtained on
his own initiative various privileges and comforts for them. Thus when
the fine weather came in May they were allowed to bathe. Permission to
subscribe to certain newspapers was accorded them, and they were also
permitted to buy books. Gradually the restraints that were placed on
their intercourse were removed, and they had the liberty of each other’s
apartments, and permission to amuse themselves as they pleased, within
the bounds prescribed, from eight in the morning till nearly nine in the
evening.
But the most precious privilege accorded them was the permission to have
some of their family with them. Roger O’Connor was the first to enjoy
this privilege, and it was next availed of by Thomas Addis Emmet. It was
probably kind Mrs. Emmet, who suggested to Samuel Neilson that he should
apply for leave to have his little son with him, promising to “mother
him like one of her own children.” An opportunity was found when the
wife and niece of Mr. Cuthbert, one of the other prisoners, travelled to
Fort George, and William Neilson arrived, in their charge, some time in
July, 1801.
The letters addressed by Samuel Neilson to his wife and children from
Fort George, and carefully preserved by the tender piety of his
daughters, exhibit him, as a husband and father, in a very favourable
light. He is deeply concerned about his children’s education, of which
he would make religion the foundation, and a certain stoicism and the
unflinching acceptance of life’s sternest realities, the backbone. Even
when he was in Newgate, awaiting his fate, which seemed then likely to
be that of the Sheareses, McCann and Bond, the direction of the
children’s education is of supreme interest to him. “Oh, let me entreat
you once more to rear them hardily, to do everything in the house in
turn. To William, reading, writing, English well—no other language nor
dancing; to the girls the same, with knitting and sewing, but no tambour
nonsense. Let their dresses be plain and homely, befitting their state;
and of all things labour to form their minds by curbing pride and
inciting to virtue and industry, not by scolding and whipping or
cajoling, but by _emulation_, which is by far the safest and surest
incentive to exertion.” He warns his wife to guard them against foolish
fears, whether of “ghost and fairies and hobgoblins,” or of fever. The
remedy he proposes against either is the inculcation of a perfect trust
in God. “Let then the children learn that God alone is present
everywhere, and that darkness is subjected to his power.” And again:
“impress upon them without ceasing this great truth—that Providence
cares for all its creatures.” One loves to quote the educational maxims
he lays down for his children for their soundness, and universal
applicability:
“There is no part of education more essential than that which gives an
early knowledge of the world; but above all it is necessary to keep the
young mind _employed_, not to forced tasks or unreasonable attention,
but to something (either of utility or amusement, and these can easily
be united) so that the mind be not left to wander, and to become
familiarised with the frivolity that is the fashion of the age; for that
will certainly cause it to take a wrong direction. I hope you are also
fully sensible that the only useful control is that over _the feelings_,
not that which arises from _personal dread_.”
“With respect to the spiritual direction of our children, I hope you
will bear in mind this important lesson, that you will yourself educate
our children in the true principles of Christianity, which believe me
are not to be acquired by a mere _Sunday show_. No! they are to be
instilled in the life and conversation, and that only by precept and
example.... Continue to teach them a love of _truth_ and _Christianity_,
with an utter abhorrence of falsehood and hypocrisy. There is a maxim of
an ancient heathen author, which my father recommended to me when I was
a boy; it had a great effect on my mind at the time, and is worth your
teaching them; it is thus translated:
“Be this your wall of brass, no _guilt_ to know
Nor let one _crime_ sit blushing on your brow.”
His letters to his children are charming in their simplicity and
tenderness. Here is one of them:
“My dear Children,—I am extremely delighted with your very great
progress in writing, and am only anxious on that subject that
you will not forget what you have been taught. But my great and
increasing care is about your progress in the acquisition of
industrious habits. It should be a first principle with people
that they should actually _earn_ whatever they _enjoy_. Writing
is good and reading is good, but no learning should entitle a
person to live by the fruit of another’s industry. Your mother
will help you to apply this principle. State your objections to
it, if you have any, in your next letter; and show me, if you
can, why one part of the community should live by the labours of
another.”
The longing for his children which had tried to satisfy itself with the
sight of their framed likenesses above his mantelpiece, the record of
their ages and heights on his wall, was stilled at last on the joyful
day which brought him William. The boy’s presence was not procured
without sacrifice on his father’s part. The prisoners were allowed a
certain amount of wine every day at dinner. This, Neilson saved, and
sold privately to some of the prisoners at 3_s._ 6_d._ per bottle which
paid for William’s diet, “having agreed for it at £15 per annum.” “I
don’t feel the slightest inconvenience from this privation,” he assures
his wife, “and though it looks a little awkward to sit at table while
others are taking their glass, yet my fellow-prisoners cannot but esteem
me the more for the motive; indeed I feel a good deal pinched about the
usual expenses of mending, washing, paper, quills, etc., _not having at
present a crown in the world_. But then I do not owe a farthing to
anyone, and I have learned to make a little go a long way.” From a
letter addressed by Neilson to the Governor we learn that he covered the
expense of washing, etc., by going without supper. When we remember that
Neilson had become addicted, during the convivial days of his political
life and the weary days of his imprisonment in Kilmainham and Newgate,
to spirituous drink, we realise the extent of the sacrifice he made to
secure the presence of his little son.
That little lad’s story of the days spent by him with his father in Fort
George can be told by no one so well as himself. We must bear in mind
that the writer of the following letters was only eight years old.
The first letter is to his mother and announces his safe arrival in Fort
George:
“My dear Mother.—I like this place very well. My father is very
well, as are the rest of the prisoners.
“I had the pleasure of seeing a little dog and a hare. Mr.
Wilson had the hare, and Mr. Cormick the dog. We had a very
pleasant voyage, only Monday, which was a little stormy. Mrs.
Cuthbert and Miss Park took great care of me. Mrs. Emmet will be
as kind to me as if I was her own child. My father had a pretty
little bed and arm-chair ready for me.”
The next letter is dated a week later:
“My dear Mother—I am sorry to tell you that Mrs. Cuthbert has
been very ill ever since the day I came here. My arm is almost
stout, and Dr. MacNevin says it will be as well as ever. I bathe
a little every morning, at first I was afraid to dive, but now I
am growing bolder. I am counting with Mr. Dowling in the
morning, reading and grammar with Doctor Dickson, in the middle
of the day, and writing and reading with my father, who is also
beginning to teach me geography, in the afternoon. I play in the
evening with Robert Emmet and his sisters; sometimes I sup at
their mother’s, and sometimes in our own room, on bread and
milk. I go to bed at nine, and rise before eight o’clock. Father
sits an hour later than me. My love to my sisters.”
A letter to his sister Anne who was with Sophia in Dublin (probably at
Mrs. Bond’s), comes next in order of time, and we learn from it that he
knew his father from his picture, and that he bathes every morning at
eight o’clock. He conveys a message from John Sweetman to Sophia who was
evidently an old favourite of the genial brewer.
By the middle of September William is quite settled down in his new
quarters, and extremely happy in them. “Everything here is agreeable,
and my father takes great care of me. The little Emmets are fine
play-fellows, but I am ten hours at my education, and I think it not
long. I sleep very sound all night, and in the morning my father awakes
me to my lessons. He says I am in a fair way of being a good scholar....
I get my copies from Mr. Dowdall, who sends his best respects to you.
Tell John we have got no bag-pipes yet, nor any errand-going dogs.”
We next hear of William’s performance on the flute at a concert given by
the children in Mrs. Emmet’s room, with Mr. and Mrs. Emmet, Neilson,
John Sweetman, Dr. MacNevin and the boy’s self-appointed music-master,
Cormick, as the appreciative audience:—
“My dear Mother. We had a concert on Friday evening, when Robert
Emmet and I played several tunes together, and we had the
approbation of the whole company. I am reading Erasmus in Latin
with Dr. Dickson, and I am in the rule of five of fractions and
tare and tret with Mr. Dowling. My father assists me in
everything.”
Poor William fell ill towards the New Year, but sickness had its
alleviations in Fort George for a little boy whom everybody idolised. It
meant all kinds of petting from Jane Park and Mrs. Cuthbert, and gifts
of jellies and fruit and sweetmeats from Mrs. Emmet. Nor was that all,
as witness the following letter from the convalescent to his sisters:—
“My dear Sisters.—I suppose you have heard that I was sick; but
I am sure you will be happy to hear that I am perfectly
recovered. When I was ill my little pigeon used to play about me
like my little cat; it is very fond of me. Dr. Dickson who was
so kind as to teach me Latin, has left us; but Mr. Dowling is
good enough to supply his place, and to continue my arithmetic
also. I can now play twenty-one tunes on the flute, and Mr.
Cormick gives me those which will be most agreeable to my
mother. I have just begun trigonometry with Mr. Russell. I read
history and biography in English with Mr. Emmet. With my father
geography, and a little of everything except writing, which he
thinks will be best deferred for some time. Robert Emmet is my
schoolfellow in all classes.”
Some of the State prisoners were liberated about this time, including as
we learn from William’s letter above, Dr. Dickson. A subsequent letter
to his mother indicates his regret, even in the midst of the fine
sliding the long-continued frost afforded him, for Mr. Simms (another of
those liberated) with whom he used to play “tig.” His father tries to
supply the loss of Mr. Simms by playing “shinney” with his little son,
and the latter makes himself useful to the prisoners by keeping a weekly
account of the washing sent out, and checking it when it comes back. And
so the days pass.
Anxious days they are for the father whose future is so uncertain. It is
clear that with the coming of the long-expected peace the remainder of
the prisoners will be sent away from Fort George. But whither? And what
is best to be done with William?
Finally, on the last day of May, 1802, word comes that the prisoners are
to be sent to Hamburg. Thence it is Neilson’s intention to depart for
America. But will he bring William with him, or send him home to his
mother? The boy himself cannot bear the idea of parting with his father:
“he has been in tears this hour past because I won’t promise to take him
with me.”
The final decision is to send back William to his mother, and the son of
one of the prisoners, Mr. Chambers, returning, one of these days, to
Belfast, poor William was torn from his father and sent back to his
mother and sisters.
He was to see his father once more. Braving all dangers, Samuel Neilson
stole back to Ireland, for one last glimpse of its dear shores, and
accompanied by faithful Jamie Hope, rode from Dublin to Belfast, to see
his beloved wife and children, ere he bade them farewell for ever.
Less than nine months after his arrival in America, poor Neilson died,
his giant frame worn out by all he had endured during his long
imprisonment, as truly a martyr for Ireland as if he had perished, with
so many others of his comrades, on the scaffold of ’98 or ’03.
Mrs. Neilson, soon after the break up of the _Star_, embarked in a small
line of business, and God prospered her little enterprise. “She was
enabled,” says Madden, “by the fruit of her industry, to bring up her
children respectably, to give them education, and to leave them—such as
it would have been her husband’s pride to have found them, had he lived
to have seen them in their ripe years—trained to virtue and matured in
useful knowledge.
“Miss McCracken, speaking of her, says: ‘Mrs. Neilson was a very
superior woman, a most exemplary wife and mother, for whom I had the
highest esteem, and continued on terms of intimacy and friendship, from
1795, when I first became acquainted with her, until her death. I never
saw a family so well regulated, such order and neatness, on such a
limited income; and such well-trained children, most amiable and
affectionate to each other, and so respectful to their mother, and all
so happy together—it was quite a treat to spend an evening with them.’
This excellent woman, esteemed and respected by all who knew her, even
by those to whom her husband’s political principles were most obnoxious,
struggled for her family during her husband’s imprisonment and exile and
subsequently to his death, and died in November, 1811, in her
forty-eighth year. Her remains were interred at Newtownbreda. The
inscription on her tomb truly describes her to have been, ‘A woman who
was an ornament to her sex; who fulfilled in the most exemplary manner,
the duties of a daughter, wife and mother.’”
There remains only to tell, as briefly as may be, the story of her
children, for of this woman, in a special degree it is true to say, that
she has no history but the history of her husband and family. Poor
William, whom we have learned to love as dearly as any of his masters in
Fort George, lived long enough to show the fruits of the remarkable
education he had received there—but alas! not long enough to confer on
his country the benefits which all those who knew him expected from him.
After a brilliant course at the Academical Institution, Belfast, he
embraced a commercial career, where his splendid talents ensured for him
a speedy success. His employers described him as “a young man of the
most splendid talents we have ever known; there was no subject in
mercantile affairs that he could not make himself master of. In public
affairs he soon became conspicuous, and had he lived he would have been
an ornament to his country.”
Alas! his career was cut by his death from yellow fever in Jamaica on
February 7th, 1817.
Of the four daughters of Samuel and Anne Neilson, Anne (who lived much
with Mrs. Oliver Bond) married a Mr. Magennis, in New York, and died
there at an advanced age. Sophia and Jane married gentlemen of the name
of McAdam, and one lived in Belfast, the other in New York. Mary, the
youngest, married William Hancock of Lurgan, and was the mother of the
distinguished statistician, William Neilson Hancock, LL.D.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Wife of Lord Edward Fitzgerald
PAMELA (1776?-1831)[79]
“Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou wouldst not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.”—MANGAN.
Footnote 79:
_Authorities_: Madden’s “United Irishmen” (Second Series, Second
Edition;) Moore’s “Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald”; Gerald Campbell’s
“Edward and Pamela Fitzgerald”; Harmand’s “Madame de Genlis”; various
works of Madame de Genlis, including “Mèmoires,” “Adèle et Théodore,”
“Leçons d’une Gouvernante à ses Élèves,” etc.
IT is not Romney, ravishing as his portrait of her is, nor Giroust, who
in his _Leçon de Harpe_ has painted her for us in all the virginal
charm, and sweet, and fresh, and innocent loveliness of her early
girlhood, nor Mieris, whose miniature of her shows an exquisite Diana,
with little white buskined feet, as light and swift as the wind on which
they seem to be borne—it is none of these that has given us the picture
of Pamela we Irish people love best. It is as Lord Edward, himself,
pictured her in a letter to his mother that we think of her most
willingly—with her baby in her arms, the little son, the first-born, of
whom the young husband and father was so proud: “I wish I could show the
baby to you all—dear mother, how you would love it! Nothing is so
delightful as to see it in its dear mother’s arms, with her sweet, pale,
delicate face, and the pretty looks she gives it.” For the sake of the
five years of perfect happiness she gave Lord Edward we, the Irish
nation, to whom he has given so much, have taken “the dear little, pale,
pretty wife” into our hearts for all time.
Poor Pamela! We have need to keep her place in our hearts very safe and
warm; for the rest of the world has dealt pitilessly with her fame
during life, and her memory after death—and fate has spared her no
unkindness, no humiliation, from the shadows that surrounded her cradle
to the sordid and _macabres_ details of her incoffining.
As we read the sad story of Pamela, and contrast “what might have been”
(“if the dear little, pale, pretty wife” had been suffered by destiny to
ripen, in the sweet, and simple and wholesome atmosphere of Irish family
life, to her gracious maturity, and lovely old age) with the sordid
actuality, our love for Pamela becomes doubled with a great pity, and an
infinite regret. We feel how right Madden was in ascribing what was
unlovely in her to the education she received at the hands of Madame de
Genlis, and the blame which some of her critics have lavished on her
levity, her errors and her frailties we join with him in apportioning to
those who failed in their duty towards her in the most critical and
trying moment of her life.
* * * * *
Into the disputed question of the parentage of Pamela it is not our
business to enter. Suffice it to say that in the common belief she was
regarded as the daughter of the Duke of Orleans, the notorious
_Egalité_, and Madame de Genlis, the Governess of the Orleans children.
On the other hand, Madame de Genlis asserted that Pamela was the
daughter of a poor English woman named Mary Simms, who had married a
gentleman of good family called Seymour,[80] and fled with him, from the
displeasure of his family, to Fogo in Newfoundland. Here their little
daughter Nancy was born, and here shortly after the young husband died.
His widow returned to England, and settled down in Christ Church, where
the extraordinary beauty and fascination of her little girl attracted
the attention of a Mr. Forth. Mr. Forth was accustomed to buy horses in
England for his Grace of Orleans, but recently he had received another
commission: to look out for a little English girl, to be educated with
the Orleans children, and to speak English with them. Mary Simms was
very poor, and her desire to keep her child with her was not strong
enough to stand in the way of the brilliant provision thus promised her.
Accordingly, Mr. Forth was soon able to announce to his royal patron
that he was sending him “the handsomest mare and the prettiest little
girl in all England.”
Footnote 80:
It has been pointed out by Madden that in the civil marriage contract
of Pamela and Lord Edward, the bride’s father is stated to have been a
William Berkley, while in the religious contract of the same date
(Tournai, December 17th, 1792) Pamela is entered as the daughter of
William de Brixey.
All we know with certainty of Pamela’s[81] “origin” is that at a very
early age she made her appearance in the Convent of Bellechasse, whither
Madame de Genlis had retired to devote herself to the education of the
children of the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, and that until her marriage
with Lord Edward in December, 1792, she was the constant companion of
the young princes and their sister, and shared that remarkable and
original system of education, which Madame de Genlis—one of the most
gifted educationists of France, the country of educationists—had devised
for her pupils.
Footnote 81:
The name Pamela was borrowed by Madame de Genlis, who was an
enthusiastic admirer of the novels of Samuel Richardson, from the
heroine of the most famous of them.
M. Emile Faguet has discovered in the pedagogy of Madame de Genlis the
origin of all modern education—in its theories, its practices, its
tendencies. “With some of its defects,” he admits, but “wanting most of
these defects,” as he also claims: “an education, directed towards the
true, as well as to the beautiful, paying much attention to history,
modern languages, _Realien_, the study of the most important new
discoveries, as well as the literary masterpieces of ancient and modern
times.”
It seems to us, as we study this education in its results—that is to say
in the character of the pupils who were formed by it—that some of the
defects of our modern education were more inherent in Madame de Genlis’s
system than M. Faguet is willing to admit. Lady Sarah Napier, with her
shrewd woman’s wit, has perhaps formed a truer estimate of it. In a
letter written to her friend, Lady Susan O’Brien, shortly after Lord
Edward’s marriage to Pamela, she says: “Your account of M. Sillery
(_i.e._ Madame de Genlis) and her _élèves_ answers my idea of her, all
pleasing to appearance, and nothing _sound_ within _her_ heart, whatever
may be so in the young minds whom she _can_ and does of course easily
deceive. I hope we have got our lovely little niece time enough out of
her care to have acquired all the _perfections_ of her education, which
are certainly great, as she has a _very uncommon_, clever, active mind
and turns it to the most useful purposes, and I trust our pretty little
_Sylph_ (for she is not like other mortals) has not a tincture of all
the double-dealing, cunning, false reasoning, and lies with which M. S.
is forced to gloss over a very common ill-conduct, because she _will_
set herself _above_ others in virtue, and she happens to be no better
than her neighbours.”
The great fault we seem to find in Madame de Genlis as an educationist
is that she failed to make true religion the foundation of it. Though
she insisted on devoting a large portion of her pupils’ time-table to
the study of the Catechism, and reserved for herself, as the most
important of her duties, their preparation for First Communion, and
their religious instruction, she failed signally to make them realise
that they were created and placed in this world for one end and aim
only: “to know God, to love Him, and serve Him, and by that means to
gain everlasting life.” The system of morality which she taught them was
founded less on the knowledge and love and service of God than on that
curious code of external ethics called _Les Convenances_. The strange
thing about this was that she, herself, was an ardent, not to say a
noisy, protagonist of religion, and enjoyed nothing more than a tilt
with the _Philosophes_. But, somehow, one thinks of religion as an
element a little fortuitous in the heterogeneous collection of
ingredients which went to the making of her character—and when she
failed to make it the foundation of her own conception of life, it is
not to be wondered at that she failed equally in respect of her pupils.
Louis Philippe and Madame Adélaïde were worse than indifferent in the
matter of religion. And it is sufficient to say of Pamela that though
she was reconciled to the Church before her death, and died, as one has
reason to believe, truly penitent, she seems to have given up the
practice of her religion immediately after her marriage with Lord
Edward, without the slightest qualm of conscience.
“_Les Convenances_,” external appearances, it was these Madame de Genlis
kept steadily in view in educating her pupils. The consequence was that
she made them think of life as an act played on a stage for the benefit
of spectators, whose applause determined the success of the actor,
rather than a solemn business between God and each lonely human soul. To
have their bodies trained to the highest degree of strength, and grace,
agility and efficiency; to have their minds adorned with all useful and
agreeable knowledge, to be adepts and connoisseurs of the fine arts:
painting, and music, poetry and literature—this was the educational
ideal she set before herself. If the hearts of her pupils withered a
little under the neglect which they necessarily suffered—if the lessons
of “love, and pain and death” were missing from this positive and
modernist education, who can wonder that the results in poor Pamela’s
case at least were disastrous?
* * * * *
Nevertheless, there were in Madame de Genlis’s system, as Lady Sarah
Napier admits, sufficient “perfections” to make it worth our while to
study it in a certain detail, in the hope of finding something in it to
suit our own educational needs. The books in which she expounds her
system (_Adèle et Théodore_, _Leçons d’une Gouvernante_, etc.) exercised
a tremendous influence on a generation of parents much more interested
in the education of their children than their present-day successors. We
learn from Lady Sophia Fitzgerald that her mother, the Duchess of
Leinster, admired “all the writings of Madame de Genlis to the greatest
degree,” and was often bantered by Lord Edward (who little suspected in
what a relation he was one day to stand to the educationist) over her
_engouement_. (He, for his part, pronounced her _Plans d’Education_ all
perfect nonsense). Lady Sophia, herself, began to re-read _Adèle et
Théodore_ (which she had first read about eight or nine years
previously) after her brother, Lord Edward, brought home Pamela as his
bride. She pays a pretty compliment to Pamela while she makes a record
of this intention of hers in her diary: “Knowing what a charming,
engaging little creature Lady Edward is, I think I shall be more
interested than ever, and give more attention to all she [_i.e._ Madame
de Genlis] says upon Education.”
In 1777 Madame de Genlis, who had been attached since 1770 to the Court
of the Duchess of Chartres, at the _Palais Royal_, as Lady in Waiting,
was appointed Governess of the little twin Princesses, who had recently
been born to the Duke and Duchess. She insisted on taking charge of them
practically from their birth—contrary to the usual custom which left the
care of baby princesses to a _Sous-Gouvernante_, and in order that she
might develop unhampered the system of education which she had devised
for them she stipulated that they should be removed from the _Palais
Royal_, and a special pavilion built for them in the garden of the
Convent of Bellechasse, on plans drawn up by herself.
In designing these plans the Countess kept steadily in view the
destination of the pavilion as a place of education. Her first care was
to secure the possibility of exercising her _surveillance_ over the
little princesses by day, and by night. A glass door separated her room
from their nursery, and it was so arranged that even from her bed she
could see what was going on in their room. The decorations of the place
had all an educational aim. The walls of the Princesses’ room were
adorned with frescoes, representing the seven kings of Rome and the
emperors and empresses up to the time of Constantine, each with the date
and name beneath it. Above the doors were depicted scenes taken also
from Roman history. “Two large screens bore representations of the Kings
of France, the hand screens depicted incidents taken from mythology.”
The staircase was hung with maps. A long gallery was devoted to Grecian
history, and certain other rooms were frescoed with scenes taken from
the history of France.
Into this peaceable retreat Madame de Genlis was accompanied by her
mother and her two daughters, Caroline and Pulchérie de Genlis, the
completion of whose education she thus found an opportunity of
directing, before their early marriages to the Marquis de La Woestine
and the Viscount de Valence respectively.
In 1782 one of the little twin princesses died of smallpox, and in the
same year Madame de Genlis was appointed “Governor” to the young
princes, their brothers—the first woman to hold such a post of honour
and responsibility.
From this moment Bellechasse became a regular academy. In addition to
the three princes, the Duke de Valois (afterwards Louis Philippe, King
of the French), the Duke de Montpensier, the small Duke de Beaujolais,
and their sister Mlle. d’Orléans (afterwards known to history as Madame
Adélaïde), the Countess had also, under her care her nephew, César de
Crest, her niece, Henrietta de Sercey, and the two mysterious little
girls, Pamela and Hermione. Of Hermione’s parentage nothing is known;
but she was thought by some people to be a sister of Pamela.
The education given by Madame de Genlis in this academy has been
chronicled by her in considerable detail in her _Mèmoires_, and in her
celebrated pedagogical novel, _Adèle et Théodore_, and its spirit very
finely analysed by her latest biographer, Jean Harmand. M. Harmand
traces the main body of her educational doctrines to the great
educationists of the seventeenth century, Fénélon and Madame de
Maintenon, but finds them profoundly modified by the influence of
Rousseau.
In order to have a free hand to carry them out Madame de Genlis got rid
of the Princes’ tutor, M. de Bonnard, and substituted M. Lebrun, a
former secretary of her husband. Their second master, M. l’Abbé Guyot,
was allowed to remain, though he and the Countess were anything but
kindred spirits.
The princes lived at the _Palais Royal_ and came to Bellechasse every
day at eleven. In the earlier portion of the day they had their
religious instruction, and their Latin Course from the Abbé, and M.
Lebrun was asked to keep a record of each morning’s work for the
“Governor’s” information. The rest of the day Madame herself took
charge, the masters being merely expected to dine with their pupils at
two, and after supper at nine, to escort them back to the _Palais
Royal_.
The Countess, according to herself, had her work cut out for her to
correct the defects of the little boys’ previous education. They knew
nothing at all, and the eldest, in particular, was wanting in
application to an unheard-of degree. Their new teacher began by reading
history for them. “M. le duc de Valois paid no attention, yawned,
stretched himself and finally lay back on the sofa with his heels on the
table.” The Countess put him “in penance” immediately. But the good
sense of the little boy, which even at that period of his development,
was easily appealed to, made him take it in good part. He was very much
addicted to slang, and had some very peculiar foibles: he was in terror
of dogs, and could not endure the smell of vinegar. The Countess
succeeded in ridding him of these peculiarities.
Modern languages, taught on the direct method, were a strong point in
the Bellechasse system. There was a German Valet de Chambre to speak
German to the children; an Italian to speak Italian; an Englishman to
help them to a conversational knowledge of English. It was ostensibly to
speak English with Mademoiselle that Pamela, as we have seen, was added
to the establishment.
The children’s father, who spared no money to carry out the “Governor’s”
ideas, bought for them a country place, Saint Leu, and there they passed
the summer each year. In the beautiful park the Countess had assigned to
each the ground for a little garden, which they dug and planted for
themselves—with the help of a German gardener, who gave his gardening
instruction in German. During their afternoon walks nothing was spoken
but English, and this was the language of the dinner table. At supper
Italian was spoken.
A clever chemist and a good botanist, M. Alyon, was also engaged for
Bellechasse. He accompanied the children on their walks, and gave them
practical lessons in botany while under his direction they gathered the
wayside flowers and plants. He gave them a course of Chemistry every
summer at which the Countess delighted to assist.
For their training in the fine arts a Pole, named Merys, was employed,
and under his presidency an “Academy” of industrious little artists met
every evening in the Salon. At the request of the Countess, M. Merys
painted a series of slides for an educational magic lantern. Each series
furnished illustrations for a lecture on Scripture History, Ancient
History, Roman History, and the History of China and Japan—and the
youngsters took turns, once a week, in showing the magic lantern and
giving a little lecture with the aid of it. Can anything be more modern
and up-to-date?
In order to teach her pupils geography, Madame de Genlis invented for
them a game in which they took the keenest delight. She made them
dramatise, and act, all the celebrated voyages of discovery. Everybody
in the establishment had a share in these representations. They used
wooden horses for cavalcades, the river in the park stood for the sea
and a fleet of pretty little boats took the place of ships. Their
theatrical wardrobe was as complete as possible. The “voyages” they
staged with the greatest success were those of Vasco da Gama, and
Snelgrave. They had, moreover, a moveable theatre which was first housed
in the large dining room, and on which they staged historical
_tableaux_. M. Merys grouped the actors behind the curtains, and the
spectators guessed what each _tableau_ represented. A dozen _tableaux_
were thus often staged in the course of one evening. The great painter,
David, took the greatest delight in this amusement, and often grouped
the little actors. After some time the Countess had a regular theatre
built at Saint Leu and here all her own pieces were staged—as well as a
series of _tableaux vivants_. One of these represented Psyche persecuted
by Venus, and the _rôles_ were taken by Caroline and Pulchérie de Genlis
and Pamela—a ravishing little god of love. No wonder David in his
enthusiasm pronounced the picture “le perfection du beau idéal.”
There were many who thought that the theatre played too great a _rôle_
in the system of Bellechasse, and that the education given to the
children was too theatrical. The Marquise de Laroche-Jaquelin relates in
her Memoirs how, being taken one day, as a little girl, by her
grandmother, for a private view of the new pictures in the Louvre, she
saw there Madame de Genlis with all her _élèves_. The Marquise’s
grandmother and the Countess were old friends, and their delight at
meeting each other was mutual—and the little girl who had read so many
of the Countess’s books for children, and acted in so many of her pieces
was enchanted to see the author of them in the flesh. She thought the
little princes, who were all dressed in the English fashion, with their
hair in ringlets and unpowdered, very odd looking. While the royal
children were viewing the pictures Madame de Genlis presented to her old
friend her daughter Pulchérie—but said nothing of an exquisite looking
little girl of about seven years, who was on her other side, until her
friend enquired who she was. “Ah!” replied Madame de Genlis in a low
tone, “it is a very touching and interesting story—which I must reserve
for another occasion.” Then turning to the little girl she said,
“Pamela, act Héloise.” Immediately Pamela took out her comb; her fine
hair, without powder, fell in disorder upon her shoulders. She threw
herself to the ground on her knees, raised her eyes to Heaven, as also
one of her arms, and her whole figure expressed an ecstasy of passion.”
For days afterwards the Marquise’s grandmother entertained her friends
with a humorous account of Madame de Genlis, and the sort of education
she was giving her pupils.
Nevertheless, it is doubtful if any of those who made a joke of the
Countess’s system, had an idea of how eminently practical it was in
certain respects. During the winter season, which was passed at Paris,
she aimed at utilising for her pupils every moment of their time—above
all, that devoted to recreation. She had got a lathe installed in one of
the ante-chambers, and at recreation time all her pupils, as well as
herself, learned to turn it. She had them taught all the handicrafts
that did not require much bodily force: leather-work, basket-making, the
manufacture of bootlaces, ribbons, gauze, cardboard boxes, raised maps,
artificial flowers, wire-netting, marbled paper, gilding, all sorts of
hair work that it is possible to imagine, even to the making of wigs.
The boys in addition were taught carpentry—and they succeeded so well in
this that the two elder, quite unassisted, made a large wardrobe and a
table with drawers in it for a poor woman of St. Leu in whom they were
interested, and these articles are said to have been as well made as if
they had come from the workshop of a first-class joiner. All their
play-things had an educational scope—and all their walks and excursions
had a similar end in view. At Paris they only went out to see the
picture galleries (it was in one of these expeditions the future
Marquise de Laroche-Jaquelin encountered them) or museums. They visited
workshops and saw the various manufactures of Paris in different stages
of their production. Previous to these excursions they read together the
article in the _Encyclopedia_ dealing with the particular manufacture
they were going to inspect.
For the “_corpus sanum_” in which she wished the “_mens sana_” of each
pupil to develop, Madame de Genlis had invented a whole system of
gymnastics, which demanded an elaborate installation of pulleys,
horizontal bars, etc. In addition she made her pupils walk with weighted
shoes; carry graduated loads on their backs, or heads, or in their arms,
etc. In addition dancing was taught with the greatest care, and the
famous _danseur_ of the Opera, d’Auberval, gave lessons to Mademoiselle,
Pamela and Henrietta—whose dancing was something exquisite. They were
also taught riding and swimming, and Madame, herself, one of the finest
performers of her time, taught them the harp.
At a certain hour every evening the children assembled for their reading
lesson. Each pupil read aloud for a quarter of an hour, Madame
correcting their pronunciation when necessary, and making suitable
comments on the subject matter which was always of an improving nature.
At the end of the lesson the Countess read aloud for a few minutes
herself, just to give the correct model.
When the children were a little older their “Governor” hired a box at
the theatre for them, and thither they went about once a week to see the
masterpieces of the French stage played by the greatest actors of the
age.
Every Saturday the Princes and their sister held a reception at
Bellechasse, so as to form them early to habits of polite conversation.
At the end of her account of her “academy,” Madame de Genlis sketches a
series of portraits of her _élèves_. We are only interested in that of
Pamela: “Pamela was loveliness itself; candour and sensibility were the
chief traits of her character. She never told a falsehood, or employed
the slightest deceit. She was a fascinating talker. Her chief fault was
want of application. She had a very bad memory, and was thoughtless and
impulsive. In person she was very active and light of foot. She ran like
a wood nymph.”
* * * * *
It was part of the system of Bellechasse to interest its pupils in the
great currents of thought which agitated the day. As early as 1786 the
Countess had shown the popular and democratic direction she gave to the
education of the princes of Orleans when the young Duke of Chartres,
acting under her influence, destroyed the famous iron cage of Saint
Michel.
When the States General met in May, 1789, Madame de Genlis threw open
the salon of Bellechasse to some of the more noted deputies. Among the
names of its _habitués_ figure Barère and Brissot, Pétion, Tallyrand,
Alexandre Lameth, and even Volney, Barneve, Alguié, the painter
David—and Camille Desmoulins.
The outbreak of the Revolution found the young princes and their father
on the popular side, and their choice has been traced to the influence
of Madame de Genlis.
We get brief but very vivid glimpses of Pamela amid the gossip,
enshrined in contemporary memoirs, which the Countess’s political action
inspired. When the Duke of Orleans settled an annuity on her, she is
said to have chosen Barère, then present at one of the Bellechasse
Sunday receptions, as her guardian. She was seen, a striking figure on
horseback, in riding habit and large black hat laden with black plumes,
followed by two grooms in the Orleans livery of blue and red riding up
and down between two lines of shrieking populace who proclaimed:
“there’s the queen we want.” And on the day of the fall of the Bastille
she was said to have been seen moving among the people all dressed in
red, destined to draw all eyes to her.
It seems much more probable that she assisted at this historic spectacle
with the rest of Madame de Genlis’s pupils from the terrace of the new
gardens of Beaumarchais which the latter had put at their disposition.
* * * * *
The indignation of the Duchess of Orleans at the direction given to her
children’s political education by their “Governor” led to the latter’s
dismissal in 1791. But the separation from her teacher had such a
disastrous effect on the health of Mademoiselle d’Orléans that Madame de
Genlis had to be recalled.
In October, 1791, the Countess escorted Mademoiselle to England,
accompanied by Pamela, Henriette de Sercey, and her little
grand-daughter, Eglantine de Lawoestine. During this visit the Countess
made the acquaintance of Sheridan, who had recently lost his beautiful
wife. The resemblance of Pamela to his lost love (which is said to have
later attracted Lord Edward) gained the heart of Sheridan, and he begged
for her hand. His offer, it is said was accepted, and when the Duke of
Orleans recalled his daughter to France, in order to avoid the penalties
designed for “_émigrés_,” Pamela left England as the affianced bride of
the distinguished dramatist.
But there was waiting in Paris another lover than Sheridan—and it was
he, though they had never seen each other up to this, with whom Pamela’s
lot was to be bound up.
One night at the theatre in Paris Lord Edward Fitzgerald saw in a _loge
grillée_ an exquisite looking girl. He made inquiries, and having
learned her identity, had himself presented to Madame de Genlis and her
beautiful charge. The following day Madame de Genlis and Pamela, acting
on the instructions of the Duke of Orleans, set out for Flanders, with
Mademoiselle d’Orléans. They were followed by that ardent and impetuous
wooer, Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
At Tournay Lord Edward made formal proposals for Pamela’s hand, and his
suit was accepted, on the condition of him receiving his family’s
consent to the marriage.
This consent the Duchess of Leinster, wise mother that she was, gave
very readily, and within a fortnight, Lord Edward was back in London
with his bride.
The “good family” gave the warmest of welcomes to its new member. The
diary of Lady Sophia Fitzgerald records the impression made on them by
“Eddy’s dear little wife.” “We all took a prodigious fancy to her, and I
do hope and trust Dearest Edward has met with a woman that will fix him
at last, and likely to make him happy the remainder of his life. Besides
being very handsome she is uncommonly sensible and agreeable, very
pretty, with the most engaging pleasing manner I ever saw, and very much
accomplished. They spent a fortnight with us in London before they went
to Ireland where they are now.” Lady Sarah Napier, who was to be
Pamela’s true friend to the end, fell in love with her at first sight.
“I never saw,” she wrote to Lady Susan O’Brien, “such a sweet little,
engaging, bewitching creature as Ly. Edward is, and childish to a degree
with the greatest sense. The upper part of her face is like poor Mrs.
Sheridan, the lower part like my beloved child Louise; of course I am
disposed to dote upon her. I am _sure_ she is not _vile Egalité’s_
child; it is impossible.”
That letter of Lady Sarah’s is dated from Celbridge, February, 1793, and
showed that by that time Pamela and her husband had arrived in Ireland.
Into the gay social round of the Irish capital, the beautiful French
girl entered _con brio_. “Dublin has been very gay,” Lord Edward writes
to his mother in April, 1793, “a great number of balls, of which the
lady misses none. Dancing is a great passion with her; I wish you could
see her dance, you would delight in it, she dances so with all her heart
and soul. Everybody seems to like her, and behave civilly and kindly to
her. There was a kind of something about visiting with Lady Leitrim, but
it is all over now. We dined there on Sunday, and she was quite
pleasant, and Pamela likes her very much.”
Unfortunately for Pamela’s happiness, her husband was wrong in thinking
everybody seemed to like her. The ladies of the Ascendancy party hated
her with all their hearts, and behaved with inconceivable rudeness to
her. Her husband, ever since his return from Paris (whence the stories
of his “revolutionary” doings had preceded him), had been a marked man
for the “Old Gang,” and his bride’s supposed relationship to Egalité
(who had recently been guilty of the infamy of voting for Louis XVI’s
death) was not calculated to re-establish him with them. The vilest
stories were set in circulation about poor Pamela. One lady is supposed
to have seen her in the streets of Dublin “with a handkerchief on her
neck spotted with Louis XVI’s blood; that some of her friends had sent
from Paris.” When everybody else was in mourning for Louis, she is said
to have worn red ribbons “which she said were _couleur du sang des
Aristocrats_.”
On one occasion the whim took her to go to a ball, dressed all in black
with nothing to relieve the sombre effect, except the pink upon her
head. The _Doblin Lidies_, according to her sister-in-law, Lady Lucy,
“stared her out of countenance” and sent her home in a rage to Eddy.
Her sisters-in-law, and specially Lady Sophia, were quick to see that it
was jealousy of Pamela’s beauty and charm, her exquisite dancing, her
French toilettes, her husband’s undisguised admiration—far more than
their hatred of her and Lord Edward’s politics which made Dublin society
so hostile to her. Other sections of Irish society worshipped her. We
have a pretty picture of Lord Edward and her driving in a very high
phaeton one day through College Green and Dame Street, amid the
enthusiastic cheers of the multitude, who were raised to congenial
heights of enthusiasm as much by her beauty as Lord Edward’s conspicuous
green neck-cloth. Lord Edward’s boyish delight at the reception accorded
them, and the impression produced by his bride’s beauty, was very
delightful to witness.
Nor was it the populace alone whom Pamela won by her beauty. Lord
Charlemont, whose authority in all matters of taste was regarded as
second to none in Europe, was charmed by her. Jepham was with him one
day in 1793 in Charlemont house, when Pamela and Lord Edward came to
view its treasures, and he wrote to his uncle describing the visit. “She
is elegant and engaging in the highest degree, and showed the most
judicious taste in her remarks about the library and curiosities. The
Dublin ladies wish to put her down. She promised Lord Charlemont with
great good humour to assist him in keeping her husband in order.... She
was dressed in a plain riding habit, and they came to the door in a
curricle.”[82]
Footnote 82:
Moore tells us that Lord Edward first introduced this style of vehicle
into Ireland.
The attitude of the women of her class whom she met in society, probably
spoiled her party-going for her, and doubtless she was eager enough,
before long, to share with her husband the quiet country life, which he
loved so well. After a few months in the Duchess of Leinster’s charming
seaside residence, Frescati, Blackrock (where Pamela had plenty of
opportunity, in conjunction with the enthusiastic gardener, who was her
husband, to put into practice the gardening lore she had acquired at
Saint Leu) the young couple settled in a lodge belonging to Mr. Connolly
(husband of Lady Louisa Connolly, Lord Edward’s aunt), in Kildare. Lord
Edward has left in a letter to his mother, dated June 23rd, 1794, a
charming description of the place, which was to be the setting for their
lives during the short years that were destined for them to spend
together. In that little cottage a good deal of Irish history was to be
made in the short space of four years. Let us then look in it as Lord
Edward has painted it for us—for, alas! no trace of it now remains.
“After going up a little lane, and in at a close gate, you come on a
little white house, with a small gravel court before it. You see but
three small windows, the court surrounded by large old elms; one side of
the house covered with shrubs, on the other side a tolerable large ash;
upon the stairs going up to the house, two wicker cages, in which there
are at this moment two thrushes, singing _à gorge déployée_. In coming
into the house you find a small passage-hall very clean, the floor
tiled; upon your left a small room; on the right, the staircase. In
front you come into the parlour, a good room, with a bay window looking
into the garden, which is a small green plot, surrounded by good trees,
and in it three of the finest thorns I ever saw, and all the trees so
placed that you may shade yourself from the sun all hours of the day;
the bay window covered with honeysuckle, and up to the window some
roses.
“Going upstairs you find another bay-room, the honeysuckle almost up to
it, and a little room the same size as that below; this, with a kitchen
or servants’ hall below, is the whole house. There is, on the left, in
the courtyard another building which makes a kitchen; it is covered by
trees, so as to look pretty; at the back of it there is a yard, which
looks into a lane. On the side of the house opposite the grass-plot,
there is ground enough for a flower-garden, communicating with the front
garden by a little walk.
“The whole place is situated in a kind of rampart, of a circular form
surrounded by a wall; which wall, towards the village, and lane is high,
but covered with trees and shrubs—the trees old and large, giving a
great deal of shade. Towards the country the wall is not higher than
your knee, and this covered with bushes; from these open parts you have
a view of a pretty cultivated country, till your eye is stopped by the
Curragh. From our place there is a back way to these fields, so as to go
out and walk without having to do with the town.
“This, dearest mother, is the spot as well as I can give it to you, but
it don’t describe well; one must see it and feel it; it is all the
little peeps and ideas that go with it that make the beauty of it to me.
My dear wife dotes on it, and becomes it. She is busy in her little
American jacket, planting sweet peas and mignonette. Her table and
workbox, with the little one’s caps, are on the table. I wish my dearest
mother was here, and the scene to me would be complete.”
The “little one,” portion of whose _layette_, with Pamela’s exquisite
stitching, was then lying on the table, was born in Leinster House in
October, 1794, and was christened Edward Fox Fitzgerald. While his wife
and little son are gaining strength to travel, Lord Edward has been down
at Kildare, two or three times, making all things “snug” for the
delightful winter he promises himself there. He has laid in a generous
provision of turf—two fine big clumps which look both “comfortable and
pretty.” He has paled in his little flower garden before the hall door
with a lath paling like the cottage, and filled it with roses and sweet
briar, honeysuckle and Spanish broom. He has got his flower-beds all
ready for their destined occupants. “The little fellow,” the proud
father thinks, “will be a great addition to the party.” “I think,” he
goes on, giving us a glimpse of his ideal of a happy life (and making us
realise how hard a sacrifice his own fate demanded of him), “that when I
am down there with Pam. and the child, of a blustery evening, with a
good turf fire and a pleasant book, coming in, after seeing my poultry
put up, my garden settled—flower-beds and plants covered for fear of
frost—the place looking comfortable, and taken care of, I shall be as
happy as possible; and sure I am I shall regret nothing but not being
nearer my dearest mother, and her not being of our party.”
In 1796 Lord Edward became a “United Man,” and from that period the
little cottage in Kildare was seldom without guests. Chief among these
was Lord Edward’s parliamentary colleague, Arthur O’Connor, but Lady
Lucy Fitzgerald who spent a considerable time with her brother and
sister-in-law after their return from Hamburg in October, 1796, mentions
many others: Jackson, Oliver Bond, MacNevin, Father Connolly—and the
sinister figure of Hughes, who, unknown to them all, was a government
spy.
The visit to Hamburg to which we have alluded, took place in May, 1796,
and its supposed object was to give Pamela an opportunity of visiting
Madame de Genlis, who was then living in Hamburg, as a guest of M.
Matthiessen, who had married her niece, and Pamela’s schoolmate,
Henrietta de Sercey. Lord Edward and Arthur O’Connor went really as
agents of the United Irishmen to negotiate with the French Government
for a French expedition to assist the Irish in freeing themselves from
the yoke of England. The Matthiessens’ house in Hamburg became a centre
of Irish political activities, and we learn from Froude and Fitzpatrick
that the long unsuspected spy, Samuel Turner, got much of the
information, for which he was pensioned by the English Government, by
his frequentation of that house.
It was at Hamburg, Pamela’s second child, her little daughter, Pamela,
was born. She had left her boy with his grandmother in London, and when
Lord Edward’s business was done, and they were in the English capital
again on their way home to Ireland, little Eddie was given to the
Duchess “for her very own.”
Was his father clearing the decks for action? It would seem so. Two
months after his return to Ireland the French were in Bantry Bay.
In February of 1797, Arthur O’Connor was arrested for his address to the
Electors of Antrim, and was lodged in Newgate. From this time Lord
Edward was indefatigable in his activities. He was one of those who
believed—as did the greater number of the Northern leaders—that the time
had come “to rise,” without waiting any longer for the French aid, which
had been such a rotten crutch to them. But the Dublin leaders,
influenced by the more cautious counsel of men like John Keogh and
MacCormick, were dead against the attempt. The moment passed—and affairs
hastened to their tragic end.
In February, 1798, Arthur O’Connor who had been liberated from his
captivity in Birmingham Tower, Dublin Castle, after six months stay
there, was again arrested with Father Quigley at Margate, on his way to
France, on a political mission. Among O’Connor’s papers were found
documents incriminating Lord Edward. But the Government were loth from
his family and political connections to proceed against him. Even Lord
Castlereagh entreated his aunt, Lady Louisa Connolly, to get him to
leave the country, and much pressure was put on Pamela to influence him
to seek safety in flight.
It was in vain. Lord Edward refused to desert his post; and whatever
remained to be endured he would endure it even to the end.
We must leave him for a time, passing from hiding place to hiding place
between the fatal March 12th when the other leaders were captured, until
May the 19th, when he himself was run to earth at Murphy’s, while we
turn to the poor little frightened wife, who with no kind friend near at
hand to console her, lonely and desolate in a foreign land, with her
little helpless child, must bear her woman’s burden, and go through her
woman’s hour of mortal anguish all alone. After Lord Edward went “on his
keeping” she found it desirable to leave Leinster House for a less
conspicuous lodging in Denzille Street, whither she went with no other
companion than her maid and Lord Edward’s black servant, the faithful
Tony. Once or twice Lord Edward managed to see her. Once the maid, going
into Lady Edward’s room, found him sitting in the firelight with her,
and both of them weeping over little two-year-old Pamela who had been
roused from her cot that her father might see her.
In April, Pamela’s third child, a little girl called Lucy, was
born—prematurely, as Moore informs us, owing to a fright caused the poor
mother by the risk run by her husband in order to see her again. It has
been asserted, somewhere, that so high was the political feeling of the
period that no doctor could be found to attend Lady Edward. For the
honour of Ireland it is pleasing to be able to contradict this
assertion, on the unassailable authority of Lady Sarah Napier. Lady
Moira “mothered” the desolate creature, and saw that as far as nurse and
doctor went, there was nothing to be desired.
When Pamela recovered, her kind friend took her to Moira House, and it
was there the news of Lord Edward’s capture on May the 18th reached her.
Three days later, Government ordered Lady Edward to leave Ireland. The
order, which it was not possible for her to disobey, caused her the most
heartbreaking distress. But she was spared, then at least, the grief of
knowing that Lord Edward’s wounds were fatal.
We know from Charles H. Teeling that she made her way into Newgate, in
spite of Lord Castlereagh’s refusal—and we know that it was the same
chivalrous, romantic boy who took on himself the perilous duty of
escorting her. He had known Lady Edward in the happy days when the eager
young band of patriots gathered in Kildare Lodge, and his brother, poor
Bartle, saw in Lady Lucy (as so many have seen her in the loved form of
some fair, living woman) the realisation of his dreams of Kathleen Ni
Houlihan. The sense of chivalry and romance which was for so much in the
heart of young Charles Teeling made the lad one of the most devoted
knights whom Pamela’s fascination enlisted in her service. “Formed to
charm every heart, and command every arm that had not been enlisted in
the cause of Ireland”—it is thus, thirty years after, he remembers her.
“Ireland was her constant theme, and Edward’s glory the darling object
of her ambition. She entered into all his views; she had a noble and
heroic soul, but the softer feelings of her sex would sometimes betray
the anxiety with which she anticipated the approaching contest, and as
hopes and fears alternately influenced her mind, she expressed them with
all the sensibility characteristic of her country. In the most sweet and
impressive tone of voice, rendered still more interesting by her foreign
accent, and imperfect English, she would, with unaffected simplicity,
implore us to protect her Edward. ‘You are all good Irish,’ she would
say; ‘Irish are all good and brave, and _Edward is Irish_—your Edward
and my Edward,’ while her dark brilliant eye, rivetted on the manly
countenance of her lord, borrowed fresh lustre from the tear which she
vainly endeavoured to conceal. These were to me some of the most
interesting moments I have experienced, and memory still retraces them
with a mingled feeling of pleasure and pain.”
* * * * *
It was the kind-hearted Duke of Richmond, the uncle of Lord Edward, who
had the sad office of breaking to Pamela the news of her husband’s death
in Newgate on June the 4th. “I went immediately to Harley Street,” he
writes to Mr. Ogilvie, “and brought Lady Edward here (to Whitehall)
trying to prepare her in the coach for the bad news, which I repeatedly
said I dreaded by the next post. She, however, did not take my meaning.
When she got here, we had Dr. Moseley present, and by degrees we broke
to her the sad event. Her agonies of grief were very great, and violent
hysterics soon came on. When the Duke of Leinster came in, she took him
for Edward, and you may imagine how cruel a scene it was. But by
degrees, though very slow ones, she grew more calm at times; and
although she has had little sleep, and still less food, and has nervous
spasms, yet I hope and trust her health is not materially affected....
She is as reasonable as possible, and shows great goodness of heart in
the constant enquiries she is making about my sister, Lady Lucy, and
Mrs. Lock.”[83]
Footnote 83:
_Née_ Cecilia Ogilvie, daughter of the Duchess of Leinster by her
second marriage.
After some months under the Duke of Richmond’s hospitable roof at
Goodwood, it was decided, after a family consultation, that Pamela
should join the Matthiesens at Hamburg. Leaving her son with the Duchess
of Leinster, and baby Lucy with Lady Sophia at Thames Ditton, she set
off with her little daughter Pamela and reached Hamburg on August 13th,
1798. The action of Government, in passing the posthumous Act of
Attainder against her husband had left her penniless, and a small sum,
to which each member of the Fitzgerald family was to contribute his or
her mite was promised her by her people-in-law for her own and little
Pamela’s support. This sum was, it would appear, not very punctually
paid (the Duchess explained that at the time they could barely keep
themselves), and, perhaps, it was owing to her financial embarrassment
that Pamela took the unfortunate resolution of marrying Mr. Pitcairn,
the American Consul at Hamburg. The marriage turned out unhappily, and
the parties soon separated.
After that Pamela, leaving Hamburg, spent a year in Vienna. Finally she
settled in France, first at Montaubon and afterwards in Paris, where she
died in great poverty, but amidst the most consoling manifestations of
Our Dear Lord’s tenderness, for this poor little wandering lamb of His
flock, who after her straying, had come back to its sheltering fold.
The niece of Madame de Genlis, Madame Ducrest, then a struggling music
teacher in Paris, to whom Pamela out of her own slender resources had
found means to be kind, came to nurse the poor sick woman. Her first
care, when she saw the danger, was to send for a holy priest, M. L’Abbé
de la Madeleine. “He came. His zeal, his persuasive eloquence, the
simple unction of his exhortations did far more for her peace of soul
than we had dared to hope. He inspired our dear invalid with a true joy
at quitting this world, where she had suffered so much.”
The numbered moments of her life passed rapidly and now _the_ hour had
come. Sister Ursula, the Sister of Charity, who shared with Madame
Ducrest the office of nurse, began to recite the prayers for the
departing soul. “The sufferer even then replied aloud: insensibly her
voice became broken and feeble, and at length the words became
unintelligible, though her lips still moved in prayer. Very soon her
eyes, which were raised to Heaven, grew dull, her hands grasped
convulsively the crucifix which she held, and in a few moments she was
no more.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SISTER OF HENRY JOY McCRACKEN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sister of Henry Joy McCracken
MARY ANNE MCCRACKEN (1770-1866)[84]
“I have been coming all the night long
Like a little lamb in the midst of a great flock of sheep
And how should I find my little brother but he dead before me.”
—_The Keen for Fair-Haired Donough._
Footnote 84:
_Authorities_: Madden’s “United Irishmen” (Vol. II., Second Series,
First Edition, 1843); Robert M. Young, “Historical Notices of Old
Belfast,” 1896.
“I THINK of all human loves that of a Sister is the most abiding and
unselfish. In a mother’s love there is a kind of identification with her
child, his triumphs, his defeats, which by the reflection on herself
takes away the absolute disinterestedness. Conjugal love is more
intense, but for that reason more intermittent. But there’s not a trace
of self in that earnest wistful gaze which a beloved sister casts after
the poor young fellow who has just gone out from the sanctity of
home-life into the world’s arena; nor a thought of self in the way the
silent heart broods over shattered hopes, and takes back to its
sanctuary the broken relics of the idol, once worshipped, now, alas!
only to be protected from the gaze of a scornful world.”[85]
Footnote 85:
“Under the Cedars and the Stars,” p. 192.
Alas! Alas! That it should have been of two French women Canon Sheehan
was thinking, and not of our own Mary Anne McCracken, when he paid
tribute, thus nobly, to a sister’s love as “of all human loves, the most
abiding and unselfish.” It might have been her story, and not that of
some alien Laura Balzac or Madame Perrier, that was told in those moving
words. It is _her_ image, at all events, that comes before _our_ eyes
when Canon Sheehan pictures “the earnest wistful gaze” with which a
loving sister follows the brother of her heart, as he passes from the
holy shelter of the home to the “world’s arena.” How often did that gaze
follow young Henry Joy McCracken as he rode forth from the door of the
old house in Rosemary Street on his perilous journeys with Charles
Teeling among “the Defenders”! What sister ever loved a brother like
this heroic country-woman of ours? When the Cause was lost at Antrim and
the broken remnants of the Spartan band were making a last stand on “the
hallowed hills,” it was she who braved all dangers to steal forth to him
and bring him succour of comfort and hope. It was she who walked with
him to the scaffold; who received his poor mangled form into her arms;
whose woman’s resourceful bravery held, as it were, the gates of death
apart, while the surgeons tried to snatch back his soul from beyond
them. It was she who accompanied his body to the grave, and heard the
first shovelful of earth fall on his coffin—before she turned back to
take up new duties and new sacrifices. Then in the dark days when men
veritably “feared to speak of ’Ninety-Eight, and blushed at the name,”
it was she who treasured the memory of the dead, and held fast to the
hopes and ideals for which they had laid down their lives. And at last
when, in the fullness of time, one came who made it his life-work to
tell their story truly to the world, she was there with her rich store
of memories to help in that great work. Again and again Dr. Madden
quotes Mary Anne McCracken as his authority for some of the facts he
states, or incidents he relates, and his tribute to her personality is
that of one who was brought into most intimate relations with her. “The
name of Mary McCracken,” he writes, “has become associated in the north
with that of her beloved brother. The recollection of every act of his
seems to have been stored up in her mind, as if she felt the charge of
his reputation had been committed to her especial care.... In that
attachment there are traits to be noticed indicative not only of
singleness of heart, and benevolence of disposition; but of a noble
spirit of heroism, strikingly displayed in the performance of perilous
duties, of services rendered at the hazard of life, at great pecuniary
sacrifices, not only to that dear brother, but at a later period to his
faithful friend, the unfortunate Thomas Russell. Perhaps to those who
move in the busy haunts of life, and become familiarised with the
circumscribed views and actions of worldly-minded people, the rare
occurrence of qualities of another kind, which seem to realise the
day-dreams of one’s early years, an excellence of disposition devoid of
all selfishness, devoted to all goodness, capable of all sacrifices, and
constant in all trials—that shakes not in adversity, and becomes
insensible to fear where the safety of friends and kindred is in
question, in one who seems to be utterly unconscious of her own
nobleness of mind, may appear worthy of admiration.”
The little maid, whose long life of ninety-six years was to witness such
strange happenings, was born in High Street, Belfast, on July the 8th,
1770. Her father, John McCracken, was captain and part owner of a vessel
trading between Belfast and the West Indies. He was of Scottish descent,
his family having settled in Ireland when the Covenanters were fleeing
from Claverhouse. They settled at Hill Hall near Lisburn, and here John
McCracken was born. At an early age he formed a strong attachment to a
charming young girl of Huguenot descent called Anne Joy, only daughter
of Francis Joy, a conveyancer, and notary public, who, a pioneer in many
things, is perhaps best remembered as the founder of the _Belfast
Newsletter_ in 1737. Captain McCracken is described by Madden as “a man
of polished manners, whose sincerity of disposition and integrity of
principles caused him to be generally respected and esteemed.” It was
noted of him by his daughter, as a proof of his integrity, that in the
days when smuggling was regarded as a very venial offence, Captain
McCracken would not smuggle nor allow his sailors to do so, “as he
considered a custom-house oath as binding on conscience as any other.” A
still more striking instance of his integrity and his children’s
reliance on it, was furnished on the occasion of Harry’s trial when he
was offered his son’s life on condition that he induced the latter to
disclose the name of the leader, whose place the prisoner had taken in
the Rising. He told the tempter, Pollock, that “he would rather his son
died than that he should do a dishonourable action.”
That steadfast character of John McCracken’s, which he transmitted to
his children, was, it may be, a heritage from his mother—a stern old
Covenanting lady, very strict in her religious beliefs, and most
uncompromising in her principles. Her grandchildren, who had a keen
sense of humour, used to relate with much zest, the damper put on their
youthful enjoyment of Christmas by seeing their venerable grandmother
seated ostentatiously at her spinning-wheel, her whole being one
vehement protest against the Christmas observances and festivities. They
were all in considerable awe of her, and when she uttered maledictions
they felt certain they would come to pass. On one occasion, in 1763,
Captain McCracken, having occasion to spend some time in Liverpool, to
superintend the construction of a new vessel, brought his young wife
with him, leaving their two children, Francis and Margaret, in the care
of Grandmother McCracken. The venerable lady, who did not approve of
“gadding about,” fervently prayed that her flighty daughter-in-law
“might get a scare before coming back.” “And in truth I did, my dears,”
the latter would say, as she told the story to her children afterwards,
“my husband not wishing me to return on the new and untried vessel, sent
me home before him. The ship was wrecked on the South Rock near
Ballywalter, and we were only saved by getting into the boat; and I had
to wade a long distance in shallow water, with a weight of two hundred
guineas in my pocket.”
If the grandmother was stern and forbidding, and inspired more fear than
love in the children of the household, their sweet mother was quite the
reverse. She was “remarkable for a uniform cheerfulness of temper, and
benevolence of mind that endeared her to young people as well as to the
aged.” With this sweetness of disposition she passed on to her children
as a further portion of their heritage from the Joys, an alert and
enterprising habit of mind, keen to see, and seize new opportunities;
and that steadfastness of the Joys, which, for all its Gallic urbanity,
was at least the equal of the McCracken’s. Anne Joy’s father, in
addition to his pioneer work in the newspaper world, was also a pioneer
in the linen manufacture. In 1749 he established at Randalstown “a
complete new mill for dressing flax ... which will dress 14℔. of flax in
an hour, fit for the heckle.” He was keenly interested in politics, and,
when an old man, confined to his couch by a disease in his leg, had
himself conveyed to Antrim, on the occasion of an election, to vote for
Rowley and O’Neill, the popular candidates. His son, Robert, meeting him
there, said: “What brought you here, Sir?” “The good of my country,” was
the reply. The side for which he voted was triumphant, but the day that
the members were chaired he died.
His two sons, Robert and Henry, were remarkable men. It was they, who,
with Captain John McCracken and Thomas MacCabe (“the Irish Slave”)
introduced the cotton industry into Belfast—and with it laid the
foundations of the present prosperity of that city. Young Henry Joy
McCracken, who had an extraordinary gift for mechanics and was as clever
with his hands as any prestidigitator, was sent to England and Scotland
to ferret out the carefully guarded mechanical secrets of the British
cotton manufacturers—and accomplished his mission in a manner which will
furnish an exciting chapter in Irish industrial history—when it comes to
be written. Belfast of to-day has little thought to spare for the
“United Men”—but it should not forget what it owes to Henry Joy
McCracken—to him who died for the cause which so many in Belfast to-day
are sworn to destroy: “a brotherhood of affection, an identity of
interests, a communion of rights, and a union of power among Irishmen of
all religious persuasions.”
To Henry and Robert Joy, Belfast owed likewise the “Old Poorhouse,” the
first shelter devised for Belfast’s poor. The little Joys and McCrackens
were early interested in the poor old men and women, and especially in
the children; and, as they grew up, they were active workers in their
behalf—getting up dances, and concerts and collections for the
institution. It was partly in the design of procuring funds for the Poor
House (as well as to give employment to the linen weavers during periods
of depression in their own trade) that the Joys first turned their
attention to the cotton trade. The managers of the Poor House rejected
the offer made by Robert Joy to instal the new machinery (which Harry
McCracken’s cleverness had made it possible to erect in Ireland), and to
carry on the manufacture of cotton as a regular part of their routine,
and a means of making the institution self-supporting. They allowed,
however, the children to go to work in the mill which the firm of Joy,
MacCabe and McCracken presently established.
Come of such strains as has been indicated, both on the paternal and
maternal side, is it any wonder that the children of John and Anne
McCracken should have been endowed with uncommon gifts both of body and
mind and soul? They were a numerous tribe—but, as was so usual with
these large eighteenth-century families, only a certain proportion of
them survived the ordeals of childhood. Of these, four were boys:
Francis, William, Henry Joy, and John; and two were girls: Margaret and
Mary Anne. The latter was the youngest but one, of the family, and was
ten years the junior of her sister.
Mary Anne was considered delicate in her youth, and it was feared she
was in consumption. On this account she was kept on a low diet—an
astonishing treatment, to our modern notions. But the treatment seems to
have been successful; for in her hale and hearty old age she could
remark in her humorous way: “I have been a long time consuming away.”
She was an active child, and she used to tell her grandnieces with much
pride how she accomplished the feat of hopping on one leg right across
High Street three times without stopping.
The school routine of a little Belfast maiden in the latter decades of
the eighteenth century was not unlike that with which the entertaining
journal of Anna Greene Winslow, a small Boston schoolgirl contemporary,
makes us familiar. There was a separate school for English, another for
writing; in addition girls had to attend a sewing and knitting school.
In all these branches Mary became very proficient. Her needlework was
exquisite. She was fond of reading, and read only the best authors. Her
letters, some of which will be quoted in due course, are admirable. One
wishes, as one reads them and those of Elizabeth and Jane Emmet and
Matilda Tone, that the delightful art were revived by the teachers of
the girls of to-day.
Captain John McCracken, being a travelled man and an admirer of the
French nation, wished to have his children taught French. Belfast of
that day supplied, it would appear, no better teacher than an old French
weaver who had picked up his knowledge of English on the banks of the
Lagan, and thought it the correct thing to translate his native tongue
into the idiom of that classic region. Mary Anne used to relate
afterwards, with great enjoyment that his translation of _il faut_
always took the form, “_it be to be_.”
When Mary was in her teens the family left the house in High Street and
went to a larger one in Rosemary Street. Two of the boys, William and
John, married, but the family circle was not thus broken up for they
brought their brides to live under the paternal roof in the patriarchal
fashion of the period. So numerous were the inmates of the McCracken
home, after a time, that their friends referred to it as “Noah’s Ark,”
the appropriateness of the name being emphasised by the number of dogs,
and cats, and other pet animals, who shared with the humans, the
domicile.
One young man who was destined to leave an honoured name for his labours
in the cause of Irish music was for many years a member of the McCracken
household: Edward Bunting. He came to them in 1785 a young lad of
eleven, sent by his brother, Anthony, from Drogheda to become apprentice
to Mr. Ware, the organist of St. Anne’s Church, Belfast, and he remained
with them for upwards of forty years. This frank hospitality gives us a
pleasant insight into the spirit of the McCracken household. They were
all intensely musical, and many a delightful evening was spent around
“Atty’s” pianoforte when the McCrackens and Joys were reinforced by a
numerous troop of Neilsons, Simmses, McTiers, and so on.
Much as Mary loved all her brothers and sisters, she loved Harry best of
all. Was it to be wondered at? For the tall lad with his handsome,
high-bred face, his graceful person, his charm of manner, exercised a
remarkable fascination over all who came in contact with him. While yet
a schoolboy his companions adored him for his courage and spirit of
adventure, and admired his steadfastness and his unrivalled quickness of
perception. As he grew up he became a great favourite in society, for
which he possessed a very remarkable equipment of accomplishments. He
was a clever mimic, but while delighting his friends with his skill in
this direction, never allowed himself to wound the most sensitive
feelings. The same considerations governed the exercise of his rich gift
of humour.
The first break in “Noah’s Ark” took place when Harry left home to take
up his quarters on the Falls Road near the cotton factory. About the
same time the female members of the family, Mrs. McCracken, Margaret and
Mary Anne, commenced, on a somewhat more extended scale, the business of
muslin manufacturers, in which John McCracken had already been
interested since 1779.[86] Her grandniece informs us that “Mary was the
moving spirit of the business, and worked early and late. She has said
that so closely confined was she at times that, when going to the
post-office before breakfast, she felt inclined to leap and dance with
delight in the fresh morning air. Her chief object in trying to make
money was that she might have some of her own to give away as she
wished. She was of a very sanguine temperament and did not spare
herself, and to some extent she succeeded in her object; but, perhaps
the times were against her. She had much struggling and anxiety, and the
ultimate result was disappointing.”
Footnote 86:
An affidavit preserved in the McCracken MSS. proves that “the first
piece of muslin ever woven” in Belfast or its vicinage was woven by
Thos. Burnside for John McCracken in January, 1779.
Those were stirring times in which Mary McCracken grew to womanhood; and
even a duller mind, than that which was housed in the fragile form of
this little Belfast girl, must have been stimulated in the atmosphere of
great ideas, which was her daily breathing. She was five years old when
the Battle of Lexington was fought, and eleven when Cornwallis
surrendered at Yorktown; and the great battles for liberty that marked
the years from 1775 to 1781 were distant in space only from the rising
city on the Lagan, which followed their fortunes with an interest so
passionate. It was the war of liberation of their own flesh and blood
which the Belfast men knew was being waged across the dividing Atlantic.
It was the doctrines of civil and political freedom which had been borne
in the emigrant ships from Ireland that were vindicated at Bunker’s
Hill, at Trenton, at Princeton, at Saratoga. Is it to be wondered at,
that, young as she was, Mary McCracken followed the story of the
American War with a sympathy and understanding beyond her years? She was
nine years old when the “armed men” who had sprung forth on Ireland’s
soil from the sowed “dragon’s teeth” of England’s laws, formed in their
splendid ranks on the Falls Road—the first Volunteers of Ireland. Her
brother Frank was one of those who wore their gallant uniform. She was
twelve years old when the Volunteer Convention at Dungannon made certain
the granting of Grattan’s demands for the liberty of the Irish
Parliament. She was ripe enough to apprehend the lessons contained in
the failure of that Parliament and to trace it to its true origin. She
was nineteen when the great news came from Paris, and Liberty sprang
forth full armed to claim the world, from the mighty ruins of the
Bastille.
“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive—
But to be young was very _heaven_!”
[Illustration:
THE CUP TOSSERS
Mary McCracken, as the old Gipsy, and one of the Teeling girls are
said to have sat for this picture by Crowley.
]
In 1790 there came to Belfast, as an officer in the 64th Regiment, a
young man who was destined to exercise a memorable influence on the fate
of Mary McCracken, and the brother who was so dear to her. She had just
completed her teens when Thomas Russell made his appearance in her
native city—and won for ever her faithful heart. Alas! that he never
suspected the treasure that was his! He himself was eating out his own
heart for the beautiful Bess Goddard; and when Miss Goddard married Mr.
Kington, Russell fell in love with Miss Simms. When he came to Belfast
in 1803 it was Miss Simms of whom he dreamt. Mary McCracken was for him
as a sister infinitely dear, a comrade infinitely staunch and true in
the great Cause. But she was nothing more; and with an unconscious
cruelty which only the blindness caused by his absorption in his own
hopeless passion for another can excuse, he made her the _confidante_ of
his love for Miss Simms.
It is through the eyes of Mary McCracken that we of to-day are permitted
to see Thomas Russell. So living and breathing is the portrait, for
which a woman’s love has mixed the colours, that though Russell has been
lying for one hundred and fifteen years in the grave which she made for
him in Downpatrick, it seems to us as if we might have passed him in the
streets to-day.
“A model of manly beauty, he was one of those favoured individuals whom
one 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 gait and demeanour, his appearance was not altogether that of
a soldier. His dark and steady eye, compressed lip, and somewhat haughty
bearing were occasionally strongly indicative of the camp; but in
general the classic contour of his finely formed head, the expression of
almost infantile sweetness which characterised his smile, and the
benevolence that beamed in his fine countenance seemed to mark him out
as one who was destined to be the ornament, grace and blessing of
private life. His voice was deep-toned and melodious and though his
conversational powers were not of the first order, yet, when roused to
enthusiasm, he was sometimes more than eloquent. His manners were those
of the finished gentleman, combined with that native grace which nothing
but superiority of intellect can give. There was a reserved and somewhat
haughty stateliness in his mien, which to those who did not know him had
at first the appearance of pride; but as it gave way before the warmth
and benevolence of his disposition, it soon became evident that the
defect, if it were one, was caused by the too sensitive delicacy of a
noble soul; and those who knew him loved him the more for his reserve,
and thought they saw something attractive in the very repellingness of
his manner.”
We have already related in other _Memoirs_ of this series[87] some of
the memorable events which followed the arrival of Russell in Belfast:
the visit of Tone, which led to the foundation of the United Irishmen
(1791); the establishment of the _Northern Star_ (1792); the military
raids of 1793, etc.; the reception accorded to Tone and his family on
their way to America in 1795. In all these events the McCrackens, and
Mary in particular, were keenly interested. She was a diligent reader of
the _Star_, and it is recorded that after her recovery from a fever her
first exclamation was: “Oh! I have missed so many _Stars_!”
Footnote 87:
Principally those of Matilda Tone and Anne Neilson.
In September, 1796, Government, which had already marked with intense
displeasure the efforts made by young Protestant patriots like H. J.
McCracken, Lowry and Tennant, on the one hand, and Young Catholic
patriots like C. H. Teeling and his brother-in-law, John Magennis, on
the other, to allay the religious feuds then devastating Ulster, swooped
down on the most active agents of this policy of reconciliation. On the
same day as C. H. Teeling was arrested in Lisburn, Russell and Neilson
were arrested in Belfast. A month later Henry Joy McCracken was taken
up; and in the spring of the following year, his brother, William.
As soon as the prisoners received (through the efforts of Lord O’Neill)
permission to see their relatives, the McCracken girls, accompanied by
William’s wife, paid a visit to Dublin, to be near the brothers. We find
them again in Dublin the following year, when their influence, combined
with that of Mrs. Neilson, brought about a reconciliation between Harry
and Samuel Neilson, both whose tempers had suffered considerably from
the wear and tear of prison _régime_ and close confinement.
In the autumn of 1797 the McCrackens were released from Kilmainham.
Harry’s health was so much shaken by what he had undergone during his
imprisonment, that for some time his life was despaired of. But early in
the fatal year ’98, we find him as active as ever in organising the
Union. In February he went to Dublin on business connected with it, and
he remained there until the eve of the Rising in May.
It is a matter of history now that Henry Joy McCracken became
Commander-in-Chief of the Insurgent forces in the north only three or
four days before the outbreak, and only in consequence of the arrest of
Dickson, the original commander-in-chief, and the cowardice of the
gentleman appointed to replace him. All that one man could do to make
the most of a situation, even then desperate, was done by McCracken. But
it was of no avail. On June the 7th the battle of Antrim was fought and
lost; and Harry McCracken, and Jamie Hope and the faithful few who had
refused to lower the Banner of Green were on the hills “on their
keeping.”
And now it will be our privilege to hear Mary McCracken herself, tell
the end of Henry’s story in her own most moving words:
“Some days after the battle of Antrim, not having received any
intelligence of my brother, I set out in pursuit of him,
accompanied by Mrs. M.——, sister of John Shaw, of Belfast, who
wished to get some information respecting her husband and also a
brother of Mrs. Shaw. We went towards the White House and made
some enquiries in the neighbourhood. In the evening we joined J.
McG. at the country residence of Mr. John Brown, a banker, then
in England, whose gardener, Cunningham, had given shelter
occasionally to the wanderers. At nightfall this man took us to
a house near the Cave Hill, belonging to John Brier, whom I knew
a little, where we got a bed that night. In the morning I urged
Mrs. M. to return home, which she generously refused, although
she had gained the information she required. She insisted on
accompanying me. Her husband had got safe into Belfast,
disguised as a countryman with a basket of eggs, and was then
safe in Mr. Shaw’s house; he had been at the battle of Antrim
also. The next day we continued our search, and at last met with
Gawin Watt and another person, who promised to take us in the
evening to a place where we would get intelligence. The latter
took us to a smith’s house, on the lime-stone road to Antrim....
“In the back room of this man’s house we found about eight of
the fugitives in consultation as to what should be done. I
recommended them strongly to separate and return to their homes,
if they could with safety. They replied that there was something
in view, but in the event of its not taking place, they would
follow my advice. Three of the party undertook to escort us; we
travelled up hill, across fields, drains and ditches, for two
hours ... when we arrived at the Bowhill, where my dear brother
and six others (James Hope, one of the number) were sitting on
the brow of the hill, Henry seemed surprised and rejoiced at the
meeting, and after sitting with the party for a long time,
talking over their adventures and escapes, he conducted us to a
house where we were received in darkness, the woman of the house
not daring to light a candle, or make the fire blaze. I insisted
on Mrs. M. occupying the only chair for the remainder of the
night, while I took a low stool and rested my head on her lap.
My brother was to be with us at seven in the morning; we thought
that night very long, but when seven o’clock came, and no Harry
appeared, we became very uneasy.... He came at last, having
waited for the others till after two o’clock. We then set out on
our way home, and he accompanied us a little way, wishing to see
McG., whom we sent out to him.”
About ten days afterwards, Mary received a letter from Harry, and a
little later she had another meeting with him at the house of a poor
labourer, called David Bodle, near Cave Hill. Arrangements were made to
get the fugitive off to America under an assumed name, but on his way to
the coast he was captured.
“It was on Sunday afternoon, July 8th, my birthday, that we got
intelligence of Harry’s capture.... My father and I set off
immediately for Carrickfergus, and with difficulty obtained
permission to visit him; the officer, who accompanied us
politely standing at a distance, not to prevent our
conversation. Having desired me not to use any solicitations on
his account; and after expressing to me his wishes on many
matters, he desired me to tell my brother John to come to him.
My mother had sent him a favourite book of his, Young’s ‘Night
Thoughts,’ and I observed a line from it written on the wall of
his cell:
“‘A friend’s worth all the hazard we can run.’
“We remained all night in Carrickfergus, and tried the next
morning to see him again; but were not admitted. We saw him,
however, through the window of his cell, when he gave me a ring,
with a green shamrock engraved on the outside, and the words,
‘Remember Orr,’ on the inside, which he desired me to give to
his mother. Since her death it has remained with me. On the
16th, he was brought in a prisoner to Belfast, in the evening.
My sister and I immediately set out to try if we could see him.
He was then standing, with a strong escort of soldiers who were
drawn up on the middle of Castle place. We could not speak to
him there. He was then taken to the artillery barracks in Ann
Street.”
After a brutal refusal from Colonel Durham, the sisters at length
obtained, from the humanity of Colonel Barber, admission to their
brother. At this interview Harry requested that his cousins, Mrs. Holmes
and Miss Mary Toomb, should be called as witnesses on his behalf.
“I arose at six, and set out in a carriage for the place where
Miss Toomb was then staying with a lady, near Lisburn. I
endeavoured to keep up her spirits as well as I could, fearing
from the state of grief and anxiety she was in, she would be
unable to give evidence. She came with me, and on arriving in
town, July the 17th, I proceeded to the Exchange, where the
trial was just commenced. The moment I set my eyes on him I was
struck with the extraordinary serenity and composure of his
look. This was no time to think about such things, but yet I
could not help gazing on him; it seemed to me that I had never
seen him look so well, so full of healthful bloom, so free from
the slightest trace of care or trouble, as at that moment, when
he was perfectly aware of his approaching fate.
“I sat very near the table when the trial was going on. Colonel
Montgomery was President. The first witness called was Minis.
The other witness, James Beck, a poor miserable-looking
creature, swore that he had seen him at Antrim, and knew him by
a mark on his throat, which mark was not seen until his
neckerchief was taken off.”
James Hope learned afterwards from a soldier on guard that morning that
neither of the witnesses had ever set eyes on McCracken until that day,
when he was pointed out to them by an officer, who also told them of the
mark on his throat.
“Immediately preceding the examination of the witnesses, my
father, who was just recovering from a severe and tedious fit of
sickness, and who appeared to be sinking beneath the weight of
old age and affliction, was called aside by Pollock, who told
him that he had such evidence against his son as would certainly
hang him; that his life was in his hands, and that he would save
it, if my father would persuade him to give such information as
Pollock knew it was in his power to do, namely, who the person
was who had been appointed to command the people at Antrim, in
whose place he (McCracken) had acted. My father replied, that
‘he knew nothing, and could do nothing in the matter: he would
rather his son died than do a dishonourable action.’ The tyrant,
however, not content with the trial of his virtue, would torture
him still farther by calling Harry to the conference, and
repeated the same offer to himself, who, well knowing his
father’s sentiments, answered that ‘he would do anything which
his father knew it would be right for him to do.’ Pollock
repeated the offer, in which my father said, ‘Harry, my dear, I
know nothing of the business, but you know best what you ought
to do.’ Harry then said, ‘Farewell, father,’ and returned to the
table to abide the issue of the trial. After I left him, I was
told that Major Fox went up to him and asked him for the last
time if he would give information, at which he smiled, and said,
‘he wondered how Major Fox could suppose him to be such a
villain.’...
“After the examination of the witnesses, I rose and went forward
to the table; I stated what appeared to me to be unlike truth in
the evidence that had been given by the witnesses for the
prosecution, expressing a hope that they would not consider such
evidence sufficient to take away life; the testimony of one
witness impeaching the character and credit of the approver, on
whose statements the charge was mainly dependent for support.
“Harry had taken notes of the trial, and before its termination
said to me in a whisper, ‘You must be prepared for my
conviction’; all his friends could then do for him was to
endeavour to get his sentence commuted to banishment. Before the
close of the proceedings I hastened home with this intelligence,
and my mother went instantly to General Nugent’s house, and
requested an interview, but he refused to be seen. I returned to
the Exchange before my mother came back, but found that Harry
had been removed. I little expected that any efforts to save him
would be successful; but I felt I had a duty to perform—to
prevent misrepresentation, and to put it out of the power of his
enemies to injure his character while living, or his memory when
dead. I followed him to the artillery barracks, where I saw
Major Fox just going in, and asked his permission to see my
brother; he desired me to wait a little, but I followed him, and
when he came to the door of my brother’s cell, I remained behind
him at a few paces distance; the door of the cell was opened,
and I heard him say, ‘You are ordered for immediate execution.’
My poor brother seemed to be astonished at this announcement;
indeed he well might be, at the shortness of time allotted to
him; but seeing me falling to the ground, he sprang forward and
caught me. I did not, however, lose consciousness for a
single instant, but felt a strange sort of composure and
self-possession; and in this frame of mind I continued during
the whole day. I knew it was incumbent on me to avoid disturbing
the last moments of my brother’s life, and I endeavoured to
contribute to render them worthy of his whole career. We
conversed as calmly as we had ever done. I asked him if there
was anything in particular he desired to have done. He said, ‘I
wish you to write to Russell, inform him of my death, and tell
him that I have done my duty....’ He said he would like to see
Mr. Kelburne, who was our clergyman. I told him I feared that
Mr. Kelburne would be unable to come, but that if he wished to
see a clergyman, Dr. Dickson was then under the same roof, and
would come to him. He replied he would rather have Mr. Kelburne,
as it would gratify his father and mother. He, of course, was
sent for, but being confined to his bed by illness, it was a
considerable time before he made his appearance. In the meantime
Dr. Dickson was brought to him; they retired to the far end of
the room, when I observed Dr. Dickson take out his pocket book
and write something in it; he afterwards said that he never met
with any person whose mind was better prepared to meet death.
Mr. Kelburne soon after arrived, and when he did, he burst out
crying, and said, ‘Oh! Harry, you did not know how much I loved
you.’ Mr. Kelburne, after some time, endeavoured to assume
composure.... Harry, perceiving the effort at appearing more
concerned than he really was, looked at Dr. Dickson and smiled.
Mr. Kelburne knelt down, as I believe did all present, and
joined in prayer; he soon after retired, and wished me to
accompany him, which I refused.
“During the early part of the day Harry and I had conversed with
tranquillity on the subject of his death. We had been brought up
in a firm conviction of an all-wise and overruling Providence,
and of the duty of entire resignation to the Divine Will. I
remarked that his death was as much a dispensation of Providence
as if it had happened in the common course of nature, to which
he assented. He told me there had been much perjury on his
trial, but that the truth would have answered the same purpose.
After the clergymen were gone, I asked for a pair of scissors,
that I might take off some of his hair. A young officer who was
on guard went out of the room and brought a pair of scissors but
hesitated to trust them into my hand, when I asked him
indignantly if he thought I meant to hurt my brother. He then
gave them to me, and I cut off some of Harry’s hair which curled
round his neck, and folded it up in paper, and put it into my
bosom. Fox at that moment entered the room, and desired me to
give it to him, ‘as too much use had already been made of such
things.’ I refused, saying I would only part with it in death;
when my dear brother said, ‘Oh! Mary, give it to him; of what
value is it?’ I felt that its possession would be a mere
gratification to me, and not wishing to discompose him by the
contest, I gave it up.
“The time allowed him was now expired: he had hoped for a few
days, that he might give his friends an account of all the later
events in which he had taken a part. About five _p.m._ he was
ordered to the place of execution, the old market-house, the
ground of which had been given to the town by his great great
grandfather. I took his arm, and we walked together to the place
of execution, where I was told it was the general’s orders that
I should leave him, which I peremptorily refused. Harry begged I
would go. Clasping my hands around him (I did not weep till
then) I said I could bear anything but leaving him. Three times
he kissed me, and entreated I would go; and looking round to
recognise some friend to put me in charge of, he beckoned to a
Mr. Boyd, and said, ‘He will take charge of you.’ Mr. Boyd
stepped forward; and fearing any further refusal would disturb
the last moments of my dearest brother, I suffered myself to be
led away.... A Mr. Armstrong, a friend of our family, came
forward and took me from Mr. Boyd, and conducted me home. I
immediately sent a message to Dr. McDonnell and Mr. McCluney,
our apothecary, to come directly to our house. The latter came,
and Dr. McDonnell sent his brother, Alexander, a skilful
surgeon. The body was given up to his family unmutilated; so far
our entreaties and those of our friends prevailed.
“From the moment I parted with Harry, the idea which occurred to
me in the morning that it might be possible to restore
animation, took full possession of my mind, and that hope buoyed
up my strength, and supported me at the moment of parting with
him. Every effort that art could devise was made, and at one
time hopes of success were entertained, but the favourable
symptoms disappeared, and the attempt was at length given up. I
was present when the medical men entered the room where the body
was laid, and then retired and joined the rest of the family,
awaiting the result with indescribable anxiety. My heart sank
within me when we were told all hope was over, and that a
message had been brought from the General that the funeral must
take place immediately, or that the body would be taken from us.
Preparations were made for immediate burial. I learned that no
relative of his was likely to attend his funeral. I could not
bear to think that no member of his family should accompany his
remains, so I set out to follow them to the grave.
“A kind-hearted man, an enthusiast in the cause for which poor
Harry died, drew my arm within his, but my brother John soon
followed, and took his place. I heard the sound of the first
shovelful of earth that was thrown on the coffin, and I remember
little else of what passed on that sad occasion. I was told
afterwards that poor Harry stood when I left him at the place of
execution, and watched me until I was out of sight; that he then
attempted to speak to the people, but that the noise of the
trampling of the horses was so great that it was impossible he
should be heard; that he then resigned himself to his fate, and
the multitude who were present at that moment uttered cries
which seemed more like one loud and long-continued shriek than
the expression of grief or terror on similar occasions. He was
buried in the old churchyard where St. George’s church now
stands, and close to the corner of the school-house, where the
door is.”
* * * * *
A weaker nature than Mary McCracken’s would have surely broken down
after the strain of those tragic hours. But she came forth from them,
only with fresh ardour to serve God, and country and friends.
Early in the new century she received a pitiable account of the state of
destitution to which poor Russell’s sister, Margaret, had been reduced.
He himself after his arrest in September, 1796, had been kept until
March, 1799, in Kilmainham, whence he was conveyed with the other State
prisoners to Fort George. More than three years’ internment in Fort
George was followed by deportation to the Continent in 1802. During
these years Miss Russell had been deprived of his support, and she was
in a pitiable condition. Mary Anne McCracken got up a subscription for
her among Russell’s friends in Belfast, but there were a great many
claims on their resources just at that time and the response to her
appeal was not very gratifying. Her charity nearly cost her dear; for a
person who saw the list of subscribers reported to Government that she
was raising money for arms.
The autumn of 1803 marked the close of Mary McCracken’s pathetic
romance. In October of that year Russell, who had come over from France,
in the early summer to assist Robert Emmet, and who had undertaken, with
the faithful Jamie Hope, to rouse the North to a new stand for freedom,
was taken prisoner in Dublin, and carried back in chains to Downpatrick
to be tried for his life. Once more Mary McCracken, stifling the pain of
her wounded heart, made superhuman efforts to save her doomed friend.
During the weeks when he was in hiding she and her sister had already
visited him, and provided him with funds for his journey to Dublin. When
he was taken, the two sisters pledged their credit to the last penny, to
raise the necessary money for his defence. It was Mary’s earnest desire
to go to Downpatrick to be present at the trial, and only the
representations of her family prevented her. On the eve of the trial she
received a letter from Russell. It was all the reward her faithful heart
obtained for the years of silent love it had lavished on the writer—but
perhaps those words of farewell from the condemned cell in Downpatrick
seemed to her better worth treasuring than the love letters of happier
women.
It is to Mary McCracken that we owe the record of Russell’s most noble
and touching “Speech from the Dock.” For she and her sister sent Hughes,
a clerk of their brother John’s, to take notes in court of his address.
And when the scaffold had done its work, and the gallant form lay
mangled in its shadow, it was she who gave it, in the sacred soil of
Downpatrick, the tomb, where with the “Three Wonder Working Saints of
Erin,” Patrick, Brigid and Columcille, it awaits the Resurrection:
“The grave of Russell.”
* * * * *
Among the witnesses at the Russell trial there figured prominently a
certain Patrick Lynch, and the mention of his name will serve as an
introduction to our account of some of the various interests with which
Mary McCracken filled her life. There still remained the long span of
sixty-three years, before she was summoned to join the dear ones, to
whose love the years of her youth had been dedicated. These sixty-three
years were full of service to the country for which _they_ had given
their lives.
We have already mentioned that Edward Bunting was, for some forty years,
an inmate of the McCracken household. It was under their roof that his
celebrated collections of “Ancient Irish Music” were made, and all the
McCrackens, but especially Mary, took the very keenest interest in the
work. In 1802, Patrick Lynch, a native Irish speaker (who had given
lessons in the language to Russell during the latter’s sojourn in
Belfast in the early ’Nineties), was sent by Bunting on a tour to
Connacht to collect airs. Of his progress he writes (during Bunting’s
absence in London) detailed reports to John McCracken and “Miss
Mary”—and it is clear from these letters that they were as much
interested in the mission as Bunting himself.[88]
Footnote 88:
See “Annals of the Irish Harpers,” _passim_.
In 1803, John McCracken, Senior, died, and in 1814 Mrs. McCracken and
her son, William, were both called to their reward. Shortly after their
mother’s death the McCracken sisters gave up business and went to live
with their brother Frank (who had remained a bachelor) in Donegal
Street. The talent of Miss Margaret McCracken for housekeeping left Mary
with a great many free hours on her hands—and these she devoted to
active works of charity. The picture her grandniece has left us of her
avocations is a true one for many years of her life. Her mornings were
spent in out-of-door occupations—collecting for some charity, attending
meetings, or visiting the poor in their homes, or the poor children in
the Lancastrian School. Of the charitable institutions in which she took
an active interest her grandniece mentions an industrial school for
girls, established in the Famine year; the Belfast Ladies’ Clothing
Society; the Destitute Sick Society; an anti-slavery society, and an
association to prevent the employment of climbing-boys in chimney
sweeping. In the afternoon she rested, and her evenings were largely
devoted to letter-writing (for she had a large correspondence) or to
that social intercourse in which, even to extreme old age, her genial
spirit delighted.
Of her personality her grandniece gives some very attractive glimpses:
“In personal habits she was scrupulously clean, but indifferent about
her dress, unwilling to spend money on it, and giving it little thought.
“She liked to read the newspapers, and always spent some time in doing
so, but for other reading she had little leisure. When she did read a
novel or hear one read, it was to others as great a treat as the book to
hear her comments, how she entered into the story, and discussed the
characters with such thorough enjoyment, such child-like feeling of
reality. In her later years she used to relate anecdotes of family and
local incidents, and reminiscences of her youthful days; these told in
her lively and pleasant manner, were listened to with pleasure.
Sometimes, but more rarely, and usually when she had only one hearer,
she would speak of the graver and sadder events in which she had been
concerned, but evidently with such sorrowful remembrance that a listener
had not the heart to urge her to continue the theme, intensely
interesting though it might be.
“She was accustomed to say that people ought not to pride themselves on
their ancestors, and should not be valued for what their forefathers had
been or done, but only for what they themselves are, and would quote the
lines on the moon—
‘I with borrowed lustre shine,
What you see is none of mine.’
Nevertheless, she took most unmistakable pride and pleasure in some of
the doings of her ancestors. The way in which she used to relate
anything which gave evidence of a generous and unselfish description was
not to be forgotten by those who heard her.
“She had naturally a quick and hasty temper, though evidence of this was
rarely seen; but even when at an advanced age, if a helpless person were
wronged, or an animal cruelly treated, it was startling to see how her
eye would flash, and to hear her hot, indignant words.
“Her decay was very gradual. She was compelled by degrees to give up her
accustomed occupations, till at last she was confined to the house. Walk
for walking’s sake she would not. As she became unable for other work
she took up the occupation of knitting. Her sight was wonderfully good;
her hearing was so much impaired as to prevent her taking part in
ordinary conversation; but she was always able to converse with one
person comfortably for both. She delighted in seeing a large party round
the table, and when a laugh went round, she with beaming face and happy
smile would join in the mirth, and sometimes say—‘Well, I don’t know
what you are laughing at, but I like to see you enjoying yourselves.’
“In the autumn of 1865 she had an attack of bronchitis from which she
recovered, but mind and body had become weak. She faded peacefully and
gently away, apparently contented and happy, without weariness or pain,
until, after some hours of unconsciousness, she breathed her last on
July the 26th (the feast of her own namesake, Saint Ann), 1866, having
completed her ninety-sixth year on the 8th of the month.”
* * * * *
Within our own time pious and reverent hands have laid the remains of
Henry Joy McCracken in the grave of his devoted sister. And what Mary
McCracken did for Russell, has been done in turn for herself by a
patriotic townsman.[89] Beneath the slab he has laid upon the grave in
Old Clifton Cemetery brother and sister, once more re-united, await the
Resurrection. “In death they are not divided.”
Footnote 89:
F. J. Bigger, Esq.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SOME OTHER SISTERS OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some Other Sisters of ’Ninety-Eight
“O fair-haired Donough, dear little brother,
Well do I know what has taken you from me.”
—_Lament for Fair-Haired Donough._
MARY MCCRACKEN is not the only sister whose name is coupled with her
brother’s in “the glorious pride and sorrow” of ’Ninety-Eight. We have
already, in the preceding memoirs, met other heroic sisters and we shall
now give a somewhat further account of some of these.
MARY ANNE EMMET
Mary Anne Emmet, sister of Thomas Addis and Robert, was worthy, both in
character and brains, of her family. Born in 1773 she showed herself
from her earliest years dowered with her full share of the remarkable
Emmet intellect. She was carefully educated, mostly by her father, and
acquired a knowledge of Classics of which many a University Don might
well be vain. She was a vigorous writer; and her grand-nephew, Dr.
Thomas Addis Emmet, tells us that he has in his possession several
political pamphlets from her pen. “These clearly show that she must have
possessed a profound knowledge of political economy, a familiarity with
history and the body politic, gained only after careful reading and to
an extent few public men of her day possessed.” Her most celebrated
pamphlet was “An Address to the People of Ireland, showing them why they
ought to submit to an Union.” Its method of _advocating_ an Union is, as
Dr. Madden points out, sufficiently indicated by its title:
“Of comfort no man speak;
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.”
—_Shakespeare._
Such scorn as is poured from it in the new-born “patriotism” of the
Beresfords, the Fosters, the Whaleys, the Saurins, the Verekers, who had
already alienated every right through which an Irishman could call
himself a free man! “You are called on to oppose this Union, to preserve
your rights. Now I ask the men who call on you what rights you have to
support? I ask parliament what right _they_ have not wrested from you?
They adjure you to support the constitution. Alas! for that
constitution, originally a shadow, now embodied a substance of
corruption. You are called on to resist—_what_? Not _oppression_, it has
been _protected_. Not _injustice_, it has been _legalised_. Not
_cruelty_, it has been _indemnified_.... Is it for the _Convention_, the
_Insurrection_, the _Indemnity Acts_, that you are to resist the
annihilation of the parliament that passed them? While these Bills stand
recorded on their Journals parliament ought to know that the country
cannot dread their extinction. And if the minister of England wishes to
use any argument but military force for the accomplishment of this
measure, let him present that statute-book to the people, and ask
them—‘Why should you wish the duration of this parliament? do you not
feel that I am omnipotent in it? are not my mandates written here in
blood?...’
“I shall not dwell more on the advantages than I have done on the
justice of this measure. I do not believe that one advantage will result
from it, or from any other convention between Ireland and Great Britain
which the English minister proposes, and which the English mercantile
interest approves of: no convention or community of interests ever will
be equitably conducted where both parties are not equally able to assert
their own rights, and to resist the innovations or injustice of the
other.... _I know that our part of the treaty will be signed and most
strictly performed, and that the English part of it will be filled up
how and when it suits the interests of the minister._”
When the order came from the Castle to the State prisoners in Kilmainham
on March 18th, 1799, instructing them to be ready for embarkation the
following morning, Mary Anne Emmet, “at a late hour the same evening, on
hearing of the order, proceeded immediately to the Castle, and demanded
an interview with the viceroy for the purpose of ascertaining the fate
that was destined for her brother. She presented herself to the viceroy
with the spirit that seemed to be characteristic of her race. Lord
Cornwallis was moved even to tears at the earnestness of her
supplication, the anxiety exhibited in her looks, the strength of
feeling, the energy of character displayed in the effort she had made.
He treated her with kindness, and assured her that ‘no harm should occur
to her brother.’... Miss Emmet returned to her family, and the
intelligence she brought, little as it was, relieved the minds of her
parents of much of their alarm.”[90]
Footnote 90:
Madden’s “United Irishmen,” Third Series (Second Edition). p. 91.
Sometime in 1799 she married Robert Holmes, a rising barrister. The
young couple took up their residence with old Dr. and Mrs. Emmet, first
in Stephen’s Green, and later in Casino; and the correspondence of her
mother with Thomas Addis in Fort George, makes frequent mention of Mary
Anne. In a letter dated April 10th, Elizabeth Emmet informs her son of
the comfort she and her husband found in “Mary Anne’s happiness in
consequence of having married a very worthy man, of whom she is very
fond, and he equally so of her. She has grown so stout that scarcely a
day passes without her walking to town, about town, and out again. The
pleasure of her husband’s company has, I believe, wrought this change,
and her health is greatly benefitted by the exertion.” In July, 1800,
her first baby, a little boy, was born, but the many and great anxieties
its mother had undergone before its birth told on it, and it only lived
one week. Poor Mary Anne was long in recovering, and perhaps her mother
did not make sufficient allowance for the drain made on her delicate
constitution by the intensity of her feelings. The indolence, the
disinclination to make any exertion except on a great occasion of which
her mother frequently complained, were due to physical weakness, and of
this her mother did not seem to take account. “Mary Anne is very much
better, but you know of old that she has one complaint of which I have
no hope she will be cured: indolence has still, and always will have,
domination over her, except when exertion becomes necessary; then,
indeed, no person can exceed her in efforts. I wish, however, for her
own sake that her exertions were brought more into the practice of every
day, and not reserved for great occasions. She has a very strong mind,
and I think it would operate more upon the body if more frequently
called forth.”
* * * * *
Six days after the outbreak of Robert Emmet’s Insurrection, Robert
Holmes, who had been in England on business, and knew nothing of his
brother-in-law’s plans, was arrested in the streets of Dublin, on his
way home. About the same time John Patten, Jane Emmet’s brother, was
arrested, and the wildest rumours of Robert’s fate were brought to the
ladies of the Emmet family, who were now in residence at Donnybrook. The
anxiety proved too much for Elizabeth Emmet, and while her youngest son
lay in prison awaiting his tragic destiny, she died in her daughter’s
arms.
Think of what Mary Anne Holmes had to endure during those terrible
weeks. One brother was in exile, another in the prison from which the
only egress was up the steps to the scaffold; her husband a prisoner
with an uncertain fate. Truly “the strong mind” had heavy drains on it
when she followed her mother’s coffin to the churchyard of St. Peter’s
in Aungier Street, whither Dr. Emmet’s had only a little time preceded
it. Small wonder that the end of her sad story came with tragic
swiftness, and in tragic circumstances.
Mr. Holmes was kept for a whole year a prisoner in Dublin Castle, and
then suddenly released. He walked directly home. “In response to his
ring his wife unfortunately opened the door, only to drop dead into his
arms from the suddenness of the shock and the excess of her joy at
seeing him. It is said that Mr. Holmes never recovered from the shock he
thus received, and to the day of his death he was seldom seen to
smile.”[91] He lived to be a very old man—to see the men of ’48 stand in
the same dock as the men of ’98 and ’03—and for the same crime. In his
eightieth year he acted as counsel for Duffy in the _Nation_ prosecution
of 1846; in his eighty-second year he defended John Mitchel. “We thought
we heard the blood of Emmet crying aloud from the ground,” said Mitchel,
of the great speech made by Holmes on the former occasion. But in the
ears of the old man, himself, as he made his immortal indictment of
England, there was ringing the voice of his dead love—the woman whom
England’s cruelty had murdered in his very arms two-and-forty years
before!
Footnote 91:
“The Emmet Family,” p. 54. The circumstances of Mary Anne Holmes’s
death were communicated to Dr. T. A. Emmet by Sir Bernard Burke.
MARY TONE
Of Mary Tone, the sister of Theobald Wolfe Tone, we have already spoken
at some length in the Memoir of her sister-in-law. Her brother has
described her for us in his _Autobiography_: “My sister, whose name is
Mary, is a fine young woman; she has all the peculiarity of our
disposition with all the delicacy of her own sex. If she were a man, she
would be exactly like one of us [_i.e._ her brothers, whose ‘portraits’
he has just sketched], and, as it is, being brought up amongst boys, for
we never had but one more sister, who died a child, she has contracted a
masculine habit of thinking, without, however, in any degree, derogating
from that feminine softness of manner which is suited to her sex and
age.”
When Tone and his wife and family were obliged to leave Ireland for
America, Mary Tone accompanied them, sharing the dangers and hardships
of the journey, and the anxieties and deprivations of life in an unknown
land. When the summons came for Theobald to leave them, and start off on
his hazardous mission to France, Mary Tone joined her sister-in-law in
urging him to answer the call. When the moment of parting came her
firmness and courage were as great as Matilda’s: “We had neither tears
nor lamentations, but on the contrary, the most ardent hope and the most
steady resolution.”
On the voyage across the Atlantic which she made with Matilda Tone and
her children towards the end of 1796, in order to rejoin Theobald, Mary
Tone made the acquaintance of a young Swiss merchant named Giacque, who,
though “just beginning the world with little or no property, thought
proper to fall in love with her.” The first letter Tone received from
his wife after their arrival in Hamburg, was accompanied, we learn from
the _Autobiography_, by one from Giacque “informing me of his situation
and circumstances, of his love for my sister, and hers for him, and
praying my consent. There was an air of candour and honesty in his
letter which gave me a good opinion of him, nor did I consider myself at
liberty to stand in the way of her happiness, which my wife mentioned to
me was deeply interested. I wrote therefore, giving my full consent to
the marriage, and trust in God they may be as happy as I wish them. It
is certainly a hazardous step in favour of a man whom I do not know;
but, as she is passionately fond of him, and he of her, as he perfectly
knows her situation, and has by no means endeavoured to disguise or
exaggerate his own, I am in hopes they may do well.”
After their marriage, the Giacques appear to have continued to live with
Mrs. Tone and her children, first at Hamburg, and afterwards at Paris.
After the death of Theobald, Mary and her husband went to St. Domingo;
and, according to her nephew, she met her death there, of yellow fever,
contracted through nursing a sick friend, who had been abandoned by her
family and servants. Another account, quoted by Madden, states that she
and her husband were killed by the negroes in the insurrection of that
island, about the year 1799. At all events she shared the tragic fate of
her immediate family—Theobald, William, Matthew, and Arthur—none of whom
reached thirty-six years of age.
LADY LUCY FITZGERALD
One of Lord Edward’s sisters, Lady Lucy Fitzgerald, was deep in the
plans of the United Irishmen. Mr. Gerald Campbell describes her as “just
Lord Edward dressed in woman’s clothes. She was to the full as patriotic
as her brother, perhaps even more so—for she loved the cause because he
loved it, whom she loved above all things: she was possessed like him of
a strong sense of humour, so that she shared with him the family epithet
‘comical,’ she had a warm, loving susceptible Irish heart, and, in
short, both in character and aims, was as like him as possible.”
She spent much time with Lord Edward and Pamela at Kildare Lodge, and
her Journal, from which Mr. Campbell has published some extracts, gives
us vivid glimpses of the habitués of that hospitable home. Among these,
Arthur O’Connor figures prominently, and one cannot help feeling that
Lady Lucy had a romantic interest in that most aristocratic of all
“democrats.” The winter days were devoted to long walks on the Curragh,
or if the weather prevented out-door excursions, to sticking
pocket-books with emblems, or hearing Arthur O’Connor read “Julius
Cæsar,” or Volney’s “Ruins”; the winter evenings were delightfully
divided between dancing and singing patriotic songs. Once she records “a
large patriotic dinner,” at which were present, “Dr. MacNevin, Connolly,
Mr. Hughes (a Northern, and Edward says a very sensible man), a Mr.
Jackson, an iron manufacturer, a Mr. Bond, a great merchant, one of the
handsomest and most delightful men to all appearance that ever was, and
a Presbyterian clergyman, called Barber, a venerable old man who had
been forced by persecution to fly his Diocese where he had lived 30
years.”
Lady Lucy little suspected that the Northern Mr. Hughes, whom Edward
considered so “sensible,” was a Government spy—any more than she
suspected that all her own correspondence after her return to London was
carefully watched by Government. The mysterious “friend” of her cousin,
Lord Downshire (whom Fitzpatrick finally succeeded in identifying with
Samuel Turner, of Lurgan), told his patron that the communications of
the Irish in Hamburg (who were negotiating there for French aid), with
their friends at home were established through the medium of Mme.
Matthiesen (Pamela’s cousin, Henriette de Sercey), Lady Sarah and
Pamela. The letters were sent by Madame Matthiesen from Hamburg, to Lady
Lucy in London—and by Lady Lucy conveyed to Pamela. “All letters to or
from Lady Lucy Fitzgerald,” wrote the spy to Lord Downshire, “ought to
be inspected.” No doubt this advice was acted upon, and poor
unsuspecting Lady Lucy’s correspondence received due attention.
One of the items of “Lucia’s” diary, quoted by Mr. Campbell, makes brief
reference to “Two Northern gentlemen who dined with us.” One wonders if
one of these could be Bartle Teeling. We know from his nephew’s memoir
that in Lady Lucy that gallant and knightly heart had found its ideal.
Once she gave him a ring with the words, “_Erin go Bragh_” inscribed on
it, and this ring is still treasured in the Teeling family.
Some letters of Lady Lucy published by Mr. Campbell will give a more
vivid idea of her ardent and impulsive nature than any elaborate
description of her. The first is addressed to “The Irish Nation,” and
the occasion seems to have been the threatening advent of the Union:
“Irishmen, Countrymen, it is Edward Fitzgerald’s sister who
addresses you: it is a woman, but that woman is his sister: she
would therefore die for you as he did. I don’t mean to remind
you of what he did for you. ’Twas no more than his duty. Without
ambition he resigned every blessing this world could afford, to
be of use to you, his countrymen whom he loved better than
himself, but in this he did no more than his _duty_; he was _a
Paddy and no more_; he desired no other title than this. He
never deserted you—will you desert yourselves? This was his only
ambition, and will you ever forget yourselves? Will _you_ forget
this title, which it is still in your power to ennoble? Will you
disgrace it? Will you make it the scoff of your triumphant
Enemies, while ’tis in your power to raise it beyond all other
glory to immortality? Yes, this is the moment, the precious
moment which must either stamp with Infamy the name of Irishmen
and denote you for ever wretched, enslaved to the power of
England, or raise the Paddies to the consequence which they
deserve and which England shall no longer withhold, to
_happiness_, _freedom_, _glory_. These are but names as yet to
you, my Countrymen. As yet you are strangers to the _reality_
with the power in your hands to realise them. One noble
struggle, and you will gain, you will enjoy them for ever.—Your
devoted Country-woman—L. F.”
A second to Lady Bute, deals largely with Moore’s “Life of Lord Edward”:
“Did you read Mr. Moore’s Memoir of my loved Edward? If you did,
you will have thought it strange perhaps to see it dedicated to
Mrs. Beauclerck.[92] It was all _her_ plan, arranged with Mr.
Moore. They let me know of it when partly completed in case I
had anything to communicate. Dear Lady Bute, _you_ who know the
depth of affection with which his memory is engraven on my
heart! you can best judge how such a message must have struck
me. I returned for answer I had nothing to say. A thousand
motives made this intended publication by Mr. Moore appear to me
utterly improper. I will own to you that the one which
displeased me was the trifling ... with his memory, which so
long has lain enshrined and sacred in the grateful breasts of
the Irish people! to have it brought out from thence and his
glorious name made the subject of English investigation—to serve
Party purposes—for when were Englishmen ever just judges of
Irish character?... Mr. Moore was in complete ignorance of my
Brother’s views, and of his opinions, plans, and actions
_beyond_ what the newspapers of the day could furnish him with;
and thus the delineation of his character as enlightened
Statesman and Heroic Patriot is entirely _missing_ in the
publication....
Footnote 92:
Mrs. Beauclerck was Lord Edward’s half-sister, “Mimi” (Emily
Charlotte) Ogilvie, daughter of the Duchess of Leinster and
Mr. Ogilvie.
“There _are_ men in Ireland, men only Irish, to whom it belonged
to tell his story if ever Ireland should be what my Brother
meant it to be.... At the time when he was self-elected to free
his country or die for Her, he met a soul, ‘twin to his own,’
because each breathed and loved alike and their object Ireland!
Ireland, where each had first drawn breath—Ireland more great in
her misfortunes, in her wrongs than the most favoured Country of
the Earth,—Ireland, so true to God, to the early unchanged faith
of the Gospel,—Ireland whom neither falsehood could entice nor
interest bribe to apostacy, suffering through successive ages
from the oppression of a Nation inferior to Herself in all but
in one of the adventitious circumstances of fortune. It was the
heart that felt all this as he himself did, and would have
preferred death with the chance of redeeming these wrongs to a
life of ease and security without that hope—it was that person
who could have told how Edward once loved.”
JULIA SHEARES
Julia Sheares was another devoted “Sister of ’Ninety-Eight.” All that
she was to her brothers is best told by the letter which John addressed
to her from his prison cell on the eve of his trial:
“The troublesome scene of life, my ever dear Julia, is nearly
closed, and the hand that now traces these lines will, in a day
or two, be no longer capable of communicating, to a beloved and
affectionate family, the sentiments of his heart. A painful task
yet awaits me—I do not allude to my trial, nor to my execution.
These, were it not for the consciousness I feel of the misery
you will all suffer on my account, would be trivial in
comparison with the pain I endure at addressing you for the last
time. You have been kind to me, Julia, beyond example. Your
solicitude for my welfare has been unremitting; nor did it leave
you a moment’s happiness, as a wayward fate seems from the
earliest moment of my life to have presided over my days. I will
not now recapitulate the instances of a perverse destiny that
seems to have marked me out as the instrument of destruction to
all I loved.
“Robert and Christopher! I shall shortly join you, and learn for
what wise purpose heaven thought fit to select me as your
destroyer.[93] My mother, too! O God! my tender, my revered
mother! I see her torn locks—her broken heart—her corpse!
Heavenly Author of the universe, what have I done to deserve
this misery?
Footnote 93:
Mrs. Smith (Miss Maria Steele) told Dr. Madden that she had
often heard John Sheares say with great emotion “that he had
caused the death of two of his brothers—Robert, who was
drowned in saving him when a boy, and Christopher, who, being
reluctant to go to the West Indies, he persuaded to go there,
“only to perish of yellow fever.”
“I must forbear these thoughts as much as possible or I must
forbear to write. My time comes on the day after to-morrow, and
the event is unequivocal. You must summon up all the resolution
of your soul, my dear, dear Julia. If there be a chance of
snatching my afflicted mother from the grave, that chance must
arise from your exertions. My darling Sally,[94] too will aid
you; she will for a while suspend her joy at the restoration of
her husband to her arms—for of his escape I have no more doubt
than I have of my own conviction and its consequences. All, all
of you forget your individual griefs and joys, and unite to save
that best of parents from the grave. Stand between her and
despair. If she will speak of me, soothe her with every
assurance calculated to carry conviction to her heart. Tell her
that my death, though nominally ignominious, should not light up
a blush in her face; that she knew me incapable of a
dishonourable action or thought; that I died in full possession
of the esteem of all those who knew me intimately; that justice
will yet be done to my memory, and my fate be mentioned rather
with pride than shame by my friends and relations. Yes, my dear
sister, if I did not expect the arrival of this justice to my
memory, I should be indeed afflicted at the nominal ignominy of
my death, lest it may injure your welfare and wound the feelings
of my family. But, above all things, tell her that at my own
request I was attended in my latest moments by that excellent
and pious man, Dr. Dobbin, and that my last prayer was offered
up for her. While I feared for Harry’s life, hell itself could
have no tortures for the guilty beyond what I endured.
Footnote 94:
Sarah, the wife of Henry Sheares. When John wrote he had no
suspicion that his brother’s fate was sealed as well as his
own.
“I picture you all, a helpless, unprotected group of females,
left to the miseries of your own feelings and to the insults of
a callous, insensible world. Sally, too, stripped of a husband
on whom she so tenderly doats, and his children of their father,
and all by my cursed intervention, by my residence with them.
Yet, he even is my witness how assiduously I sought to keep
aloof in any of my political concerns from him, and would have
entirely succeeded in doing so if it had not been for the art of
that villain, Armstrong, and Harry’s own incaution. My efforts,
however, have kept him clear of any of those matters that have
involved me in destruction. When Sally has got him back in her
arms, and that I, who caused his danger and her unhappiness,
shall be no more, she will cease to think of me with reproach.
This I trust she will do; she ought—for she herself could never
have done more for his salvation than I endeavoured to do. But
the scene is changed—I am no longer that frantic thing I was
while his danger appeared imminent. A calm sorrow for the
sufferings that await you on my account, and a heartfelt regret
at being obliged to quit your loved society for ever, has
succeeded. Yet, all this will soon have an end; and with comfort
I already anticipate the moment when your subsiding grief gives
you back to the enjoyment of each other. Still, my dearest
Julia, even when I shall be no more, your plagues on my account
are not likely to cease. You remember—I am sure you do—your kind
promise of protection to my poor, unfortunate little Louisa?[95]
I make no doubt but her mother will give her up to your care
without reluctance; yet, how to impose this new anxiety on you I
know not. But of this I will say nothing; I know your heart, and
never could resist the goodness with which it insisted on easing
mine by burdening itself. What to recommend relative to her I
cannot resolve. Harry did once desire me to take her into his
house, but I had a thousand objections to that plan then, some
of which still remain; one material one is, that she would soon
learn from servants and others how different her situation there
was from that of the other children, and her young mind would
very early feel that chilling inferiority and degradation, that
lead to a debasement of principle, and ultimately to mean and
unworthy actions. No; a great many reasons concur to decide me
against that measure. She should be put to some school where
more care is taken of her health than education, and where the
attention to morals consists in good, honest example. Apropos,
she was at a Mrs. Duggan’s, at Bray, to whom I yet owe ten
guineas for her, and which I request of my dear mother to pay
for me, when convenient; I likewise owe a note of hand for about
thirteen pounds or guineas to a man in Capel Street whom the
Flemings know. I cannot mention the name of these friends
without emotions of gratitude and tenderness not to be
expressed. Never cease to assure them that I preserve the
recollection of their goodness, though the instances of it are
so many, and I shall feel it to the last moment. This debt they
will be obliged to pay if not discharged by my mother, as they
passed their word for it—you will therefore mention it to my
poor afflicted mother. Great God! how have I stripped her and
you; but I have stripped you of happiness, and should not talk
of money....
Footnote 95:
His daughter.
“Good night, Julia; I am going to rest with a heart, thank God,
free from the consciousness of intentional offence, and from any
wish tainted with personal resentment. I seek my bed with
pleasure, because in it I often fancy myself in the full
possession of that domestic happiness which I always regarded as
the first of human enjoyments. Pray heaven I dream of you all
night....
“Adieu, Julia, my light is just out; the approach of darkness is
like that of death, since both alike require I should say
farewell for ever. Oh, my dear family, farewell for ever!”
MISS BYRNE
Miles Byrne in his _Memoirs_ makes frequent mention of a brave sister of
his, and incidentally throws much light on the way the women of Wexford
helped their men during these soul-testing times. When the atrocities of
the Orange magistrates and the Ancient Britons had forced the men to the
hills, the women undertook to act as intelligence officers and keep them
informed of the progress of the preparations for the Rising. Miss Byrne
was one of the most active of these fearless girls. On one occasion
Miles returned to his mother’s house and found his sister alone in it,
for their mother had gone to Gorey to try and get their step-brother
Hugh, out of prison. “We arrived a little before daybreak. I approached
the house with great precaution (lest there should be soldiers placed
there), and I must add overwhelmed with anxiety, fearing to learn
everything for the worst. However, finding all silent, I went at once
and knocked. My poor sister came to the window, trembling and alarmed,
until she saw it was I.... Before I had time to answer any questions my
sister told me she hoped to have good news to tell me in the morning;
that it was certain the people were rising in every direction, and had
already defeated the troops. She could not then give me the details, but
in an hour or two she was sure to be able to satisfy me in every
particular.”
Miles and his companions concealed themselves in the fields until his
sister could procure the tidings she expected. “When it was broad
daylight we saw my sister running to look for us to give us the cheerful
tidings with all the joyful enthusiasm so characteristic of a young
Irish girl of eighteen. She told us that the troops had run away from
Gorey, and that all the prisoners were at liberty to go where they
pleased; but still the people, or the Insurgent army, as we must now
call them, did not march that way, but were in great force in the
neighbourhood of Camolin and Ferns. We instantly prepared to go and join
them....
“It was only now I heard for the first time of all the barbarous
murders that had been committed whilst I was away; the massacre
of Carnew, the murder of poor Garrett Fennell, Darcy, and a list
of others who had shared the same fate. My dear sister thought
she could never tell me enough about all that had happened
during my absence; how our horses were taken, and that three men
mounted my mare and sprained her back, etc. But if I had not
remarked a long scar on her neck she would not have mentioned
anything about herself. A yeoman of the name of Wheatley, on the
day that poor Hugh was arrested, threatened to cut her throat
with his sabre if she did not instantly tell the place where I
was hiding; the cowardly villain no doubt would have put his
threat into execution had not some of his comrades interfered to
prevent him.
“Being joined by a few of our former workmen and tenants’ sons,
who heard I had returned, I prepared again to take leave of my
sister, knowing that my dear mother would soon be home to keep
her company. This time she saw me depart with joy and delight,
for she had set her heart and soul on the success of our
undertaking; her courage and spirit was surprising under such
circumstances for a girl of her age, and she never despaired. I
bid her farewell, and marched off with my faithful friends on
the road to Camolin.”
MISS TEELING
Charles Teeling in his “Personal Narrative” pays tribute to “the heroic
courage” of one of his own sisters. “She was my junior”—he was only in
his eighteenth year himself—“and with the gentlest possessed the noblest
soul; she has been the solace of her family in all subsequent
afflictions, and seemed to have been given as a blessing by Heaven, to
counterpoise the ills we were doomed to suffer.” When the first letters
“from home” were delivered to the poor prisoners in Kilmainham he
records the sensation he experienced on getting one from his father
“which also bore the signature of the sister whom I loved.”
MISS HAZLETT
Another sister commemorated by Teeling is Miss Hazlett, the sister of
Henry Hazlett, of Belfast. She had come to Dublin, with Henry’s little
son, to comfort their brother by their visits to his prison. “It was
impossible to exclude her visits from the prison, for, from the surly
turnkey to the cold and impenetrable man of office, her voice acted as a
talisman on the most obdurate heart. Her presence dispelled every gloom,
as the cheering messenger of Heaven.” The little boy caught a contagious
disease, and his beautiful young aunt, nursing him, contracted it also,
and one day to the sorrowing prisoners in Kilmainham, who had all
learned to love her, there came the news of her death. Her funeral from
Dublin to the North was made a national demonstration. “The daughters of
Erin strewed garlands in the way—thousands of youthful patriots
surrounded the bier—and in the mournful procession of an hundred miles,
every town and hamlet paid homage to the virtues of the dead.”
* * * * *
The tender and beautiful Irish usage extends the use of the words
_dearbrathair_ (brother), and _deirbhshiur_ (sister) to other bonds than
those of blood. And many of the gentle and pitying women who ministered
to the sufferers of those times are truly deserving of the lovely title.
The girls from the hotel in Newry who pressed forward under the very
hoofs of the cavalry horses to bring refreshments to the carriages of
the prisoners of ’96, Charles Teeling, Russell, Neilson, etc., were
surely worthy of it. The women who forced their way into the prisons
“with bread, and comfort, and grace” were worthy of it. The women whom
Holt so frequently shows us at their works of mercy were worthy of it.
On one occasion he came to a farmhouse whose only occupants were an old
woman and her pretty daughter. “They brought me hot water to bathe my
feet, and clean stockings and linen, and took my own and washed them.
They then gave me oatcakes and butter-milk, which after I had eaten,
they shewed me a comfortable bed, where I slept for several hours....”
Finding that the news of his death had been reported to them, and caused
them overwhelming sorrow, he informed them of his identity. Their joy at
his safety, and their pride at having him for their guest was beyond all
telling. Presently “twenty-four poor unfortunates came into the house,
who were all desired to sit down, and oaten cakes were placed before
them, and the young woman was busily employed in baking more cakes on
the griddle; she afterwards told me they had been so employed for some
days past.”
And talking of “Sisters” reminds us of the striking fact that it was in
the prisons of the United Irishmen, our Irish Sisters of Charity had, in
a certain sense, their origin. In the letters of Mr. Luke Teeling to his
wife, we find frequent mention of a Miss Alicia Walsh, who came with her
aunt, Ally Lynch, of Drogheda (Mrs. Teeling’s sister) to visit him in
his prison at Carrickfergus. “Ally Walsh is an uncommonly fine girl,” he
notes of her approvingly. Many a tongue was to echo Mr. Teeling’s praise
in the after-days when “Ally Walsh,” the first companion of Mary
Aikenhead, had become the celebrated Mother Catherine of the Gardiner
Street Convent. To learn more of her I must refer my readers to Mrs.
Atkinson’s “Mary Aikenhead.” I shall content myself here with borrowing
Mrs. Atkinson’s account of her experiences in ’Ninety-Eight.
“During the rebellion of 1798, she went from prison to prison at
much personal risk, to carry messages from friends, or to
console the inmates who were the objects of her deepest
sympathy. Some of her nearest and dearest relatives[96] suffered
greatly, not only from the confiscation and unjust oppression,
but also from barbarous bodily tortures which at that period
were commonly inflicted at the will of a licentious soldiery.
One of her friends, a young man of exemplary life, was stripped
to the waist, tied to a cart, and dragged through the streets of
Drogheda, his inhuman executioners flogging him all the way,
until at last he fainted under their hands, and was consigned to
a prison cell. The first intimation his mother received of the
occurrence that had taken place was a demand for old linen to
dress her son’s back which was one hideous wound.
Footnote 96:
The Teelings conspicuously. Her own father, Mr. Walsh, of the
Naul, though like Mr. Teeling he had taken no part in the
Rising, was ruined by the pillaging and burning tactics of the
Orangemen and the Yeomanry.
“In the family of a near neighbour at Naul, a circumstance
occurred equally characteristic of the time. A young lady was
engaged to be married to a gentleman, who having been connected
with the insurgents in ’98, was obliged to fly from his home. He
took refuge in the house of his intended brother-in-law, who had
been forced to join a corps of yeomanry. The fugitive’s track
was discovered, the yeomanry were called out, and he, having
again taken to flight, was overtaken at a village near Dublin,
and hanged from a post in the street by the young man from whose
house he had just escaped and who dared not shirk the duty. The
poor rebel’s mother never learned the fate that had befallen her
son. She was persuaded that he had gone abroad; and up to her
death she continued making shirts and knitting stockings, which
were sent, as she supposed, in parcels to the refugee in a
distant land.”
Mary Aikenhead, herself, was, perhaps, too young—only eleven—to have any
very active share in the charities the Cork ladies exercised towards the
sufferers of ’98—but her father was an ardent sympathiser with “the
Cause,” and Lord Edward Fitzgerald was concealed, on one occasion, at
their house. Perhaps it was in memory of this—or perhaps it was because
she felt what I have tried to express: that the Sisterhood Mary
Aikenhead founded, proceeded so largely from ’Ninety-Eight and all it
stood for—that Lady Lucy Fitzgerald (or as she then was, Lady Lucy
Foley) left at her death, a generous legacy to the Sisters of Charity.
One cannot help thinking that the list of the first companions of Mary
Aikenhead must have sounded to Lady Lucy like a roll-call of names made
immortal in the ranks of the United Irishmen. There were Teelings,
Sweetmans, Clinches, O’Reillys, Bellews, and many others.
Mrs. Coleman (Mother Mary de Chantal) was born amid the troubles that
preceded ’98. “Her father, a gentleman farmer in Meath or Louth, ... was
suspected of disaffection. On the very night his little daughter was to
come into the world, the house was surrounded by a troop of armed men,
whose heavy footsteps, presently heard on the stairs, gave the alarm to
the inmates, who hurried away ‘the poor mistress’ under cover of the
darkness to an uninhabited hut sometimes used by the herd. She gave up
all for lost, and resigned herself to die, knowing well that no human
assistance awaited her in the hour of her utmost need. Her piety was
sincere, her faith was strong, and she had an ardent devotion to the
Blessed Virgin. As her husband forced open the door and led her into the
dark hut, she heard a voice distinctly say: ‘Do not fear, Mary, I will
protect you and your child’; while at the same time a bright light
filled the place. Then and there under its influence the child was
born.”
So, too, we may say, in the darkness of Ireland’s Agony in
’Ninety-Eight, illumined miraculously by the Faith and Hope and Charity
of Ireland’s womanhood, there was born the great Congregation to which
that little child was destined to belong.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SARAH CURRAN AND ANNE DEVLIN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sarah Curran and Anne Devlin
“The rose left her cheek, the brave eyes grew dim,
She drained the bitter cup of sorrow to the brim—
When that sad September noon saw your young heart low,
And the dawn of Ireland shrouded in a bleak cloud of woe.
“I had died for you gladly, my courage never quailed,
When their swords pierced my bosom, their wild threats assailed;
Nor did their prison torture win from me a single tear—
_That_ memory of grief and pain would die if you were here.”
—Ethna Carbery: _Anne Devlin’s Lament for Emmet_.
SHALL we not join together the two women, whom love for Robert Emmet has
dowered with a common immortality, and whom a common agony of loss has
bound, one to the other, in the eternal sisterhood of sorrow? So best
shall our love and pity reach them both—the fragile girl who died of a
broken heart for _his_ sake, and the strong girl whose brave heart
faced—for _his_ sake likewise—tortures that were worse than death. And
let it not weaken our sympathy with Sarah Curran to remember that the
sentimental generation which wept for her (in the rose-tinted shades of
its Whig drawing-rooms, the while Tommy Moore set her sorrows to the
sweetest and saddest of music) _allowed Anne Devlin to die of
starvation_.
SARAH CURRAN
In thinking of Sarah Curran we paraphrase unconsciously the pitiful
lines of one of our Irish poets and say of her:
“There was a _maid_ whom Sorrow named his friend,
And _she_ of her high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps.”
From her earliest years sorrow had walked with her as friend with
friend; and the sadness of her death was but in keeping with the sadness
of her birth, of her disposition, of her home-life, of her love story.
We know from the confidences of John Philpot Curran’s most intimate
friends that the brilliant gaiety of his convivial hours alternated with
fits of the blackest depression. His friend, Charles Phillips, writes of
him: “It was with him as it is with every person whose spirits are apt
to be occasionally excited—the depression is at intervals in exact
proportion.... He was naturally sensitive—domestic misfortunes rendered
his home unhappy—he flew for a kind of refuge into public life; and the
political ruin of his country, leaving him without an object of private
enjoyment or of patriotic hope, flung him upon his own heart-devouring
reflections.... It was a deplorable thing to see him, in the decline of
life, when visited by this constitutional melancholy. I have not
unfrequently accompanied him in his walks upon such occasions, almost at
the hour of midnight. He had gardens attached to the Priory, of which he
was particularly fond; and into these gardens, when so affected, no
matter at what hour, he used to ramble. It was then almost impossible to
divert his mind from themes of sadness. The gloom of his own thoughts
discoloured everything, and from calamity to calamity he would wander
on—seeing in the future nothing for hope, and in the past nothing but
disappointment.”
The home of such a man cannot have been a very happy one for his
children; and the sufferings imposed on his family by Curran’s attacks
of _melancholia_ must have been aggravated in the case of his youngest
daughter Sarah, who inherited, with her father’s genius and her father’s
artistic and musical sensibility, more than her share of her father’s
disposition to sadness. In the large dark mournful eyes of her, which
had also come to her from her father, was mirrored the hereditary
sadness of her soul.
This hereditary sadness, fostered by an unhappy home-life, was further
strengthened by two events which darkened her childhood. The one was the
death of her favourite sister, Gertrude, who died at the age of twelve,
when Sarah herself was a girl of eleven. Gertrude was a musical prodigy,
and the whole family, and especially Sarah and her father, who were
passionately fond of music, worshipped her. Curran insisted on the dead
girl being buried in the Priory grounds, and she was laid to rest under
a large tree on the lawn, directly opposite the window of the children’s
nursery. “Under its shade they [_i.e._ Gertrude and Sarah] had often sat
together, pulled the first primroses at its roots, and watched in its
leaves the earliest verdure of the spring. Many an hour, for many a
year, did the sorrowful survivor take her silent stand at the melancholy
window, gazing on the well-known spot, which constituted all her little
world of joys and sorrows. To this circumstance she attributed the
tendency to melancholy which formed so marked a feature of her character
through life.”[97]
Footnote 97:
Quoted by Madden from article entitled “Some Passages in the History
of Sarah Curran,” in “Literary Souvenir” of 1831. The writer is
believed to have been a lady of the Crawford family, who were intimate
friends of Sarah and her people.
Two years after Gertrude’s death, a grief even more intolerable befel
our poor Sarah. She lost her mother, whose favourite daughter she
was—and it was worse than death which caused the separation. Sarah was
fourteen at the time—old enough to feel the shame, and to suffer the
agony of it in every fibre of her pure and noble nature. So overwhelmed
was she with grief that it was thought advisable for her to leave the
Priory for some time. She therefore accepted the offer of hospitality
made her by an early college friend of her father, Rev. Thomas Crawford,
of Lismore, and remained with his family “until better thoughts at home
led to her return to it.”
At what time she learned to know Robert Emmet we are not definitely
informed. The Emmets and the Currans were old acquaintances—if not
friends—and for a time at least Thomas Addis Emmet and John Philpot
Curran were neighbours in Rathfarnham. They must have often met,
likewise, in the law-courts. Richard Curran, Sarah’s eldest brother, was
a fellow-student of Robert Emmet’s at Trinity, and it was ostensibly to
see him, and to enjoy the witty conversation of his father that Robert
Emmet, after his return from Paris in 1802, paid his frequent visits to
the Priory. Curran loved to see youth around him, and made the young men
heartily welcome.
And all the time it was Sarah that drew the young patriot to the house
her presence glorified for him—Sarah with her pale and delicate
loveliness, the soft cloud of her black hair, the haunting sadness of
her great dark eyes, the exquisite voice of her that moved him to the
very depths of his soul, singing some of the tender old Irish airs he
loved so well! Sarah with her fatal dower of loveliness, and genius, and
music, and passion—and sorrow.
* * * * *
It is quite certain that after the failure of the Insurrection of July
23rd, 1803, Emmet could have escaped to America, had not he risked his
all for the sake of one last meeting with his love. He came back to an
old lodging of his at the house of Mrs. Palmer at Harold’s Cross, and
from this place he sent a letter through Anne Devlin to Sarah Curran.
A few days later, Government received information that Emmet was at Mrs.
Palmer’s. On August 25, Major Sirr rode out there and captured him,
bringing him back handcuffed, to Dublin Castle, whence he was committed
to Kilmainham Gaol on the charge of High Treason.
When he was arrested, two letters[98] in a lady’s hand-writing were
found in his possession. As these letters clearly showed that their
writer was fully acquainted with Emmet’s plans, the authorities were
most anxious to discover from whom they came. They half suspected that
they had been written by his sister, Mrs. Holmes, and that the language
of a love affair was adopted as a means of averting suspicion. Emmet, in
an agony of mind, lest the writer should be discovered, offered at his
Examination before the Privy Council to accept any consequences for
himself if the lady’s name should not appear.
Footnote 98:
MacDonagh: “Viceroy’s Post-Bag,” p. 342 _et seq._
Alas! it was his own mistaken trust in the turnkey of Kilmainham, George
Dunn, which put Government in possession of the knowledge they had
hitherto vainly sought. Dunn had been bribed by St. John Mason, Emmet’s
cousin, to facilitate his escape, but while pretending to fall in with
Mason’s plans he had in reality betrayed them to the Castle. Knowing
nothing of this, Emmet entrusted to George Dunn, a letter openly
addressed to “Miss Sarah Curran”—and this letter (which clearly
indicated her as the writer of the others) was, within an hour, in the
hands of the Chief Secretary.
Amid the other grim documents of the Home Office Secret Papers this love
letter of Emmet’s keeps strange company. It has been published, for the
first time, in “The Viceroy’s Post-Bag” (p. 358):—
“My dearest Love,
“I don’t know how to write to you. I never felt so oppressed in
my life as at the cruel injury I have done to you. I was seized
and searched with a pistol over me before I could destroy your
letters. They have been compared with those found before. I was
threatened with having them brought forward against me in Court.
I offered to plead guilty if they would suppress them. This was
refused. Information (without mentioning names) was required. I
refused, but offered since if I would be permitted to consult
others, and that they would consent to enter into any
accommodation of that nature to save the lives of those
condemned, that I would only require for my part of it to have
those letters suppressed, and that I would stand my trial. It
has been refused. My love, can you forgive me?
“I wanted to know whether anything had been done respecting the
person who wrote the letters, for I feared you might have been
arrested. They refused to tell me for a long time. At length,
when I said that it was but fair if they expected I should enter
into any accommodation that I should know for what I was to do
it, they then asked me whether bringing you into the room to me
would answer my purpose, upon which I got up and told them that
it might answer theirs better. I was sure you were arrested, and
I could not stand the idea of seeing you in that situation. When
I found, however, that this was not the case, I began to think
that they only meant to alarm me; but their refusal has only
come this moment and my fears are renewed. Not that they can do
anything to you even if they would be base enough to attempt it,
for they can have no proof who wrote them, nor did I let your
name escape me once, nor even acknowledge that they were written
directly to myself. But I fear they may suspect from the stile,
and from the hair, for they took the stock[99] from me, and I
have not been able to get it back from them, and that they may
think of bringing you forward.
Footnote 99:
Is this the black velvet stock with the lock of hair, marked
Miss C., attached to it which Madden says was sold at
Russborough’s auction in “the thirties”?
“I have written to your father to come to me to-morrow. Had you
not better speak to himself to-night. Destroy my letters that
there may be nothing against yourself, and deny having any
knowledge of me further than seeing me once or twice. For God’s
sake, write to me by the bearer one line to tell me how you are
in spirits. I have no anxiety, no care, about myself; but I am
terribly oppressed about you. My dearest love, I would with joy
lay down my life, but ought I to do more? Do not be alarmed;
they may try to frighten you, but they cannot do more. God bless
you, my dearest love.
“I must send this off at once; I have written it in the dark. My
dearest Sarah, forgive me.”
* * * * *
The next morning Major Sirr and a party of yeomanry presented themselves
at the Priory with warrants to search the house for papers, and arrest
Sarah Curran. The events of that morning are graphically described by
the Chief Secretary, Mr. Wickham, to the Home Secretary.
“_Secret_
“Dublin Castle, _Sept. 9, 1803_.
“My dear Sir,
“The writer of the letter found in Mr. Emmet’s pocket is
discovered. She proves to be Mr. Curran’s youngest daughter.
This discovery has given rise to some very unpleasant and
distressing scenes. It became indispensably necessary to search
the apartment of the lady for papers. She resided at her
father’s house in the country near Rathfarnham, within a short
distance of Butterfield Lane. Major Sirr was sent there this
morning with a letter addressed to Mr. Curran, of which I send a
copy inclosed. Unfortunately, Mr. Curran was not at home, and
still more unfortunately the young lady was not up, tho’ the
rest of the family (two other daughters and a son) were
assembled at breakfast, so that the Major entered the room where
she was still in bed. This circumstance occasioned a scene of
great confusion and distress, and was also productive of some
inconvenience, for whilst the Major and the other daughter were
giving assistance to Mr. Emmet’s correspondent—who was thrown
into violent convulsions—the eldest Miss Curran continued to
destroy some papers, the few scraps of which that were saved
were in Mr. Emmet’s hand-writing.
“I have the satisfaction to add that Mr. Curran is satisfied
that Government has acted throughout with great personal
delicacy towards him, and that on his part he has acted fairly
towards Government, and that he was unquestionably ignorant of
the connection between his daughter and Mr. Emmet.
“The Lord Lieutenant particularly requests that Miss Curran’s
name may not be mentioned. It is difficult that it should be
long concealed, but it is desirable that it should not be first
mentioned by any member of Government in either country.
“The Attorney-General, who has had the kindness to go himself to
Mr. Curran’s house at Rathfarnham, gives the most melancholy and
affecting account of the state in which he left the whole
family.”
* * * * *
Curran had been engaged by Emmet as his Counsel, but he immediately
threw up his brief. He had never liked the Emmets; but now when Robert’s
action had brought danger to his own family, and obstacles to his own
advancement, his feeling towards him—and towards his own daughter—became
a hatred, with elements of madness in it. Of his treatment of the latter
we shall speak later.
To the curt letter in which Curran announced to the prisoner his refusal
to act as his Counsel, Robert replied as follows:—
“I did not expect you to be my counsel: I nominated you because
not to have done so might have appeared remarkable. Had Mr.
——[100] been in town I did not even wish to have seen you, but
as he was not I wrote to you to come to me at once. I know that
I have done you very severe injury, much greater than I can
atone for with my life. That atonement I did offer to make
before the Privy Council, by pleading guilty if those documents
were suppressed. I offered more. I offered if I was permitted to
consult some persons, and if they would consent to an
accommodation for saving the lives of others, that I would only
require for my part of it the suppression of those documents,
and that I would abide the event of my own trial. This was also
rejected, and nothing but individual information (with the
exception of names) would be taken. My intention was not to
leave the suppression of these documents to possibility, but to
render it unnecessary for anyone to plead for me, by pleading
guilty to the charge myself.
Footnote 100:
Madden believes that the name indicated by the blank was that
of his brother-in-law, Robert Holmes. But it seems from other
references more likely to have been Councillor Burton—Curran’s
clerk.
“The circumstances that I am now going to mention I do not
state in my own justification. When I first addressed your
daughter I expected that in another week my own fate would be
decided. I knew that in case of success many others might look
on me differently from what they did at that moment, but I
speak with sincerity when I say that I never was anxious for
situation or distinction myself, and I did not wish to be
united to one who was. I spoke to your daughter neither
expecting, nor, in fact, under those circumstances, wishing,
that there should be a return of attachment, but wishing to
judge of her dispositions—to know how far they might not be
unfavourable or disengaged, and to know what foundation I
might afterwards have to count on. I received no encouragement
whatever. She told me she had no attachment for any person,
nor did she seem likely to have any that could make her wish
to quit you.
“I staid away till the time had elapsed when I found that the
event to which I have alluded was to be postponed indefinitely.
I returned by a kind of infatuation, thinking that to myself
only was I giving pleasure or pain. I perceived no progress of
attachment on her part, nor anything in her conduct to
distinguish me from a common acquaintance.
“Afterwards I had reason to suppose that discoveries were made,
and that I should be obliged to quit the Kingdom immediately;
and I came to make a renunciation of any approach to friendship
that might have been formed. On that very day she herself spoke
to me to discontinue my visits. I told her that it was my
intention, and I mentioned the reason. I then for the first time
found, when I was unfortunate, by the manner in which she was
affected, that there was a return of affection, and that it was
too late to retreat. My own apprehensions, also I found
afterwards were without cause, and I remained.
“There has been much culpability on my part in all this; but
there has also been a great deal of that misfortune which seems
uniformly to have accompanied me.
“That I have written to your daughter since an unfortunate event
has taken place was an additional breach of propriety, for which
I have suffered well. But I will candidly confess that I not
only do not feel it to have been of the same extent, but that I
consider it to have been unavoidable after what has passed; for
though I will not attempt to justify in the smallest degree my
former conduct, yet, when an attachment was once formed between
us—and a sincerer one never did exist—I feel that, peculiarly
circumstanced as I then was, to have left her uncertain of my
situation would neither have weaned her affections nor lessened
her anxiety; and looking upon her as one, whom, if I had lived,
I hoped to have had my partner for life, I did hold the removing
of her anxiety above every other consideration. I would rather
have had the affections of your daughter in the back settlements
of America, than the first situation this country could afford
without them.
“I know not whether this will be any extenuation of my offence.
I know not whether it will be any extenuation of it to know that
if I had that situation in my power at this moment I would
relinquish it to devote my life to her happiness. I know not
whether success would have blotted out the recollection of what
I have done. But I know that a man with the coldness of death on
him need not be made to feel any other coldness, and that he may
be spared any addition to the misery he feels, not for himself,
but for those to whom he has left nothing but sorrow.”
* * * * *
There were all the elements of the cad in John Philpot Curran’s
character, and these came to the surface after his return to his house
on September 9th, when he presented himself in the darkened chamber
where his daughter lay in her agony. After one terrible interview, he
refused to see her, or to speak to her, ever again.
He had perforce to shelter her for a little time longer under his
roof—for brain fever, followed by a temporary loss of reason, brought
her to death’s door. She was thus mercifully spared, as her friend said,
“the misery of travelling step by step, through the wilderness of woe
which Emmet’s trial and execution would have proved to her.”
On the night before his execution (while his love tossed in the delirium
of fever, and the sister who watched by her bed had her heart torn by
the way she called his name) Robert Emmet wrote two letters which are
eloquent of the thoughts of her which filled his heart until it ceased
to beat. One is addressed to her brother, Richard, who had found means
to send his friend a message of kindness, which might almost atone for
his father’s caddish cruelty:
“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 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 mind a prey to affliction. Oh!
Richard, I have no excuse to offer, but that I meant the
reverse. I intended as much happiness for Sarah as the most
ardent love could have given her. I never did tell you how much
I idolised 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 honours for myself—praise I
would have asked from the lips of no man; but I would have
wished to read in the glow of Sarah’s countenance that her
husband was respected.
“My love, Sarah! it was not thus that I thought to have requited
your 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.
“This is no time for affliction. I have had public motives to
sustain my mind, and I have not suffered it to sink; but there
have been moments in my imprisonment when my mind was so sunk by
grief on her account that death would have been a refuge. God
bless you, my dearest Richard. I am obliged to leave off
immediately.”
The second was addressed to Thomas Addis Emmet and his wife. It was
suppressed by the Lord Lieutenant’s orders, and found its final
destination in the Home Office Secret Papers, whence Mr. MacDonagh first
exhumed it:
“My dearest Tom and Jane,
“I am just going to do my last duty to my country. It can be
done as well on the scaffold as on the field. Do not give way to
any weak feeling on my account, but rather encourage proud ones
that I have possessed fortitude and tranquillity of mind to the
last.
“God bless you and the young hopes that are growing up about
you. May they be more fortunate than their uncle; but may they
preserve as pure and ardent an attachment to their country as he
has done. Give the watch to little Robert. He will not prize it
the less for having been in the possession of two Roberts before
him. I have one dying request to make to you. I was attached to
Sarah Curran, the youngest daughter of your friend. I did hope
to have had her my companion for life. I did hope that she would
not only have constituted my happiness, but that her heart and
understanding would have made her one of Jane’s dearest friends.
I know that Jane would have loved her on my account and I feel
also that had they been acquainted she must have loved her on
her own. No one knew of the attachment until now, nor is it now
generally known, therefore do not speak of it to others. She is
living with her father and brother, but if these protectors
should fall off and that no other should replace them, treat her
as my wife and love her as a sister. God Almighty bless you all.
Give my love to all my friends.”
* * * * *
As soon as his daughter was able to travel, Curran drove her from his
house. She first found shelter with her kind friends the Crawfords, of
Lismore, and subsequently with a Quaker family called Penrose at
Woodhill, Cork, whose kindness to the broken-hearted, homeless girl
helped to restore her to some degree of strength. On one occasion,
during her stay with them, they persuaded her to go to a masked ball in
Cork. The “mask” selected for her was that of a wandering ballad-singer,
and in this character she sang, in the exquisite voice, which had so
often charmed her dead young lover, some of the beautiful, plaintive
Irish airs of Owenson.
A romantic young officer, Captain Sturgeon, lost his heart to the
singer—and when he heard her story his affections were but the more
deeply engaged. Himself, the offspring of a most romantic marriage,[101]
he found in the halo of poetry, with which Sarah’s sad love-story
invested her, but an added attraction. He, therefore, proposed for her
hand; and the Penroses who saw in this marriage, the one hope of their
friend’s future settlement, urged his suit with much ardour. At this
time consumption had declared itself in her fragile form, and the
doctors stated that residence in a warm climate was necessary to save
her life. Captain Sturgeon was ordered to Sicily in the winter of 1805,
and this fact seemed to Miss Curran’s friends, the Penroses, an
additional reason for urging her to accept his proposal.
Footnote 101:
His mother, Lady Harriet Wentworth, sister to the Marquis of
Rockingham, had married her footman.
At last she yielded to the united entreaties of her friends and gave her
hand to Captain Sturgeon, with his full knowledge that her heart was
buried in Emmet’s unknown grave.
In the spring of 1808 the English had to abandon Sicily, when Captain
Sturgeon and his wife returned to England in a crowded transport, in
very tempestuous weather. An unfinished letter of Sarah’s to one of her
friends, will tell in all the pathos of its simplicity the end of her
sorrowful story:
“Hythe, _April 17, 1808_.
“My dear M——, I suppose you do not know of my arrival from
Sicily, or I should have heard from you. I must be very brief in
the details of events which have been so fatal to me, and which
followed our departure from that country. A most dreadful and
perilous passage occasioned me many frights. I was, on our
entrance into the channel, prematurely delivered of a boy,
without any assistance, save that of one of the soldier’s wives,
the only woman on board but myself. The storm being so high that
no boat could stand out to sea, I was in imminent danger till
twelve the next day, when, at the risk of his life, a physician
came on board from one of the ships and relieved me. The storm
continued, and I got brain fever, which, however, passed off. To
be short, on landing at Portsmouth, the precious creature for
whom I suffered so much, God took to Himself. The inexpressible
anguish I felt at this event, preying on me, has occasioned the
delay of my health. For the last month the contest between life
and death has seemed doubtful; but this day having called in a
very clever man, he seems not to think me in danger. My disorder
is a total derangement of the nervous system, and its most
dreadful effects I find in an attack on my mind and spirits. _I
suffer misery you cannot conceive._ I am often seized with heavy
perspirations, trembling and that indescribable horror which you
must know if ever you had fever. Write instantly to me. Alas! I
want everything to soothe my mind, O my friend, would to heaven
you were with me! nothing so much as the presence of a dear
female friend would tend to my recovery. But in England you know
how I am situated—not one I know intimately. To make up for this
my beloved husband is everything to me; his conduct throughout
all my troubles surpasses all praise. Write to me, dear M., and
tell me how to bear all these things. I have, truly speaking,
cast all my care on the Lord; but oh! how our weak natures fail
every day, every hour I may say. _On board the ship, when all
seemed adverse to hope, it is strange how an overstrained trust
in certain words of our Saviour gave me such perfect faith in
His help, that, though my baby was visibly pining away, I never
doubted his life for a moment. ‘He who gathers the lambs in His
arms,’ I thought, would look on mine if I had faith in Him. This
has often troubled me since._”
* * * * *
Extract from _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1808: “May 5th, 1808, at Hythe,
in Kent, of a rapid decline, aged 26, Sarah, wife of Captain Henry
Sturgeon, youngest daughter of the Right Hon. J. P. Curran, Master of
the Rolls in Ireland.”
ANNE DEVLIN
In 1842 when Dr. Madden was engaged in his researches for his memoir of
Robert Emmet, he was directed to a certain old washerwoman, called
Campbell, then living in great poverty and obscurity in a stable-yard
off John’s Lane. This old woman, he was told, was the only one then
living, in all probability, who could give an authentic account of what
happened on the night of July the 23rd, 1803, after the flight of the
leaders and the rout of their followers.
How did she come to have this information? For the reason that she had
helped Rosie Hope to cook and keep house for Robert Emmet and his
companions in the establishment he had leased (in the name of Robert
Ellis) in Butterfield Lane, Rathfarnham, during the months of active
preparation for the Rising. Her father was a well-to-do dairyman, of the
neighbourhood, and both he and his sons, as well as their kinsmen,
Michael Dwyer, the Wicklow “outlaw,” and Arthur Devlin, were deep in
Robert Emmet’s plans. His daughter’s housewifely skill had been devoted
to the Cause in the same spirit as her male relatives’ soldier-service.
Her maiden name, which Dr. Madden’s informant had previously omitted to
mention, was—Anne Devlin.
Anne Devlin! Can anyone living to-day, with a drop of Irish blood in his
or her veins, hear that name without a great stirring of the heart? It
stands for a heroism, a fortitude, a devotion, a fidelity, a loyalty,
which even to have conceived, honours all human nature—and which to have
produced, ennobles Irish womanhood for all time. Anne Devlin! Amid the
great names of our race which thrill each Irish heart as with a trumpet
note, what name has power to move us as does that?
We owe it to Dr. Madden that the name means so much to us. Had he not
sought her out, and drawn her story from her lips, and raised her body
from its pauper burial place to lay it, in its rightful place amid the
noblest in Glasnevin, that name might have meant as little to us as it
did to the generation, which Dr. Madden’s appeal for her (in the first
edition of his “United Irishmen”) left unmoved, and which, during his
absence, from Ireland, left her to die of cold and hunger in a tenement
house, and be buried in a pauper’s grave.
* * * * *
“In the summer of 1843,” writes Dr. Madden, “accompanied by Anne
Devlin, I proceeded to Butterfield Lane, to ascertain the fact
of the existence or non-existence of the house in which Robert
Emmet had resided in 1803. For a length of time our search was
fruitless. The recollection of a locality at the expiration of
forty years is a very dim sort of reminiscence. There was no
house in the lane the exterior of which reminded my conductress
of her old scene of suffering. At length her eye caught an old
range of buildings at some distance, like the offices of a
farmhouse. This she at once recognised as part of the premises
of her father, and she was soon able to point out the well-known
fields around it, which had once been in her father’s
possession. The house, alongside of which we were standing, on
the right-hand side of the lane going from Rathfarnham road, she
said must be the house of Mr. Emmet, though the entrance was
entirely altered; however, the position of an adjoining house
left little doubt in her mind. We knocked at the door, and I
found the house was inhabited by a lady of my acquaintance, the
daughter of a Protestant clergyman, who had been, strange to
say, the college friend and most intimate acquaintance of Robert
Emmet, the late Dr. Hayden, of Rathcoole.
“The lady of the house, in whom I discovered an acquaintance,
left us in no doubt on the subject of the locality—we were in
the house that had been tenanted by Robert Emmet. The scene that
ensued is one more easily conceived than described. We were
conducted over the house—my aged companion at first in silence,
and then as if slowly awakening from a dream, rubbing her dim
eyes, and here and there pausing for some moments when she came
to some recognised spot. On the ground floor she pointed out a
small room, on the left-hand of the entrance—‘That’s the room
where Mr. Dowdall and Mr. Hamilton used to sleep.’ The entrance
has been changed from about the centre to the right-hand end;
the window of a small room there has been converted into the
door-way, and the room itself into the hall. ‘This,’ said Anne
Devlin, ‘was my room; I know it well—my mattress used to be in
that corner.’ There was one place, every corner and cranny of
which she seemed to have a familiar acquaintance with, and that
was the kitchen. On the upper floor, the principal bed-room at
the present time attracted her particular attention; she stood
for some time gazing into the room from the door-way; I asked
her whose room it had been. It was a good while before I got an
answer in words, but her trembling hands, and the few tears
which came from a deep source, and spoke of sorrow of an old
date, left no necessity to repeat that question—it was the room
of Robert Emmet.
“Another on the same floor was that of Russell. They slept on
mattresses on the floor—there was scarcely any furniture in the
house; they often went out after dark, seldom or never in the
day-time. They were always in good spirits, and Mr. Hamilton
used often to sing—he was a very good singer; Mr. Robert
sometimes hummed a tune, but he was no great singer, but he was
the best and kindest-hearted of all the persons she had ever
known; he was too good for many of those who were about him. Of
Russell she spoke in terms hardly less favourable than those in
which she expressed her opinions of Emmet.... At the rear of the
house, in the courtyard, she pointed out the spot where she had
undergone the punishment of half-hanging, and while she did so
there was no appearance of emotions, such at least as one might
expect recalled terror might produce, but there were very
evident manifestations of another kind, of as lively a
remembrance of the wrongs and outrages that had been inflicted
on her, as if they had been endured but the day before, and of
as keen a sense of those indignities and cruelties, as if her
cowardly assailants had been before her, and those withered
hands of hers had power to grapple with them.”
And then, amidst the very scenes which had been hallowed by Robert
Emmet’s presence and Anne Devlin’s sufferings Dr. Madden heard from her
lips the high, heroic tale once more.
* * * * *
“On July the 23rd at about eleven o’clock at night,” Anne Devlin
told Dr. Madden, “Robert Emmet, Nicholas Stafford, Michael
Quigley, Thomas Wylde, John Mahon, John Hevey, and the two
Perrotts from Naas came to the house at Butterfield Lane. She
first saw them outside of the house, in the yard; she was at
that moment sending off a man on horseback with ammunition in a
sack, and bottles filled with powder. She called out, ‘Who’s
there?’ Robert answered, ‘It’s me, Anne.’ She said, ‘Oh, bad
welcome to you, is the world lost by you, you cowards that you
are, to lead the people to destruction, and then to leave them.’
Robert Emmet said, ‘Don’t blame me, the fault is not mine.’ They
then came in; Quigley was present, but they did not upbraid him.
Emmet and the others told her afterwards that Quigley was the
cause of the failure....
“They stopped at Butterfield lane that night and next day, and
at night about ten o’clock, fled to the mountains, when they got
information that the house was to be searched. Her father, who
kept a dairy close by, got horses for three of them, and went
with them.
“Rose Hope, the wife of James Hope, had been there keeping the
house also. The reason of their stopping there that night was,
that Emmet expected Dwyer and the mountaineers down in the
morning by break of day, but Dwyer had not got Emmet’s previous
letter, and had heard of Emmet’s defeat only the next day, and
therefore did not come. Mr. Emmet and his companions first went
to Doyle’s in the mountains, and thence to the widow Bagenell’s.
Anne Devlin and Miss Wylde, the sister of Mrs. Mahon, two or
three days after, went up to the mountains in a jingle with
letters for them. They found Robert Emmet and his associates at
the Widow Bagenell’s, sitting on the side of the hill; some of
them were in their uniform, for they had no other clothes.
“Robert Emmet insisted on coming back with her and her
companion, he parted with them before they came to Rathfarnham,
but she knows not where he went that night, but in a day or two
after he sent her to take a letter to Miss Curran; he was then
staying at Mrs. Palmer’s, at Harold’s Cross.
“The day after ... a troop of yeomen came with a magistrate, and
searched the house. Every place was ransacked from top to
bottom. As for herself she was seized on when they first rushed
in, as if they were going to tear down the house. She was kept
below by three or four of the yeomen with their fixed bayonets
pointed at her, and so close to her body that she could feel
their points. When the others came down she was examined. She
said she knew nothing in the world about the gentlemen, except
that she was the servant maid; where they came from, where they
went to, she knew nothing about; and so long as her wages were
paid she cared to know nothing else about them.
“The magistrate pressed her to tell the truth—he threatened her
with death if she did not tell; she persisted in asserting her
total ignorance of _Mr. Ellis’s_ acts and movements, and of
those of the other gentlemen. At length the magistrate gave the
word to hang her, and she was dragged into the courtyard to be
executed. There was a common car there—they tilted up the shafts
and fixed a rope from the backband that goes across the shafts,
and while these preparations were making for her execution, the
yeomen kept her standing against the wall of the house, prodding
her with their bayonets in the arms and shoulders till she was
all covered with blood, and saying to her at every thrust of the
bayonet, ‘Will you confess now; will you tell now where is Mr.
Ellis?’ Her constant answer was, ‘I have nothing to tell, I will
tell nothing.’
“The rope was at length put about her neck; she was dragged to
the place where the car was converted into a gallows; she was
placed under it, and the end of the rope was passed over the
backband. The question was put to her for the last time, ‘Will
you confess where Mr. Ellis is?’ Her answer was, ‘You may murder
me, you villains, but not one word about him will you ever get
from me.’ She had just time to say, ‘The Lord Jesus have mercy
on my soul,’ when a tremendous shout was raised by the yeomen;
the rope was pulled by all of them except those who held down
the back part of the car, and in an instant she was suspended by
the neck. After she had been thus suspended for two or three
minutes her feet touched the ground, and a savage yell of
laughter recalled her to her senses. The rope round her neck was
loosened, and her life was spared—she was let off with
half-hanging. She was then sent to town, and brought before
Major Sirr.
“No sooner was she brought before Major Sirr, than he, in the
most civil and coaxing manner, endeavoured to prevail on her to
give information respecting Robert Emmet’s place of concealment.
The question continually put to her was, ‘Well, Anne, all we
want to know is, where did he go to from Butterfield lane?’ He
said he would undertake to obtain for her the sum (he did not
call it reward) of £500, which he added, ‘was a fine fortune for
a young woman,’ only to tell against persons who were not her
relations; that all the others had confessed the truth—which was
not true—and that they were sent home liberated, which was also
a lie.”
Dr. Madden said to her with pretended seriousness, “You took the
money, of course.” Her indignant answer, accompanied by a look
to which Dr. Madden felt only a painter could do justice—was “Me
take the money—the price of Mr. Robert’s blood! No; I spurned
the rascal’s offer.”
“The major went on coaxing, trying to persuade her to confess.
He said everything had been told him by one of her associates.
Nay, what’s more, he repeated word for word, what she had said
to Mr. Robert the night of the 23rd, when he came back to
Butterfield lane—‘Bad welcome to you, etc.’ One of the persons
present with him then must have undoubtedly been an informer.
After she had been some time in Kilmainham, Mr. Emmet was
arrested and sent to that prison. Dr. Trevor had frequently
talked to her about him, but she never ‘let on’ that she had any
acquaintance with him. At this time she was kept in solitary
confinement for refusing to give information. One day the doctor
came and spoke to her in a very good-natured way, and said she
must have some indulgence, she must be permitted to take
exercise in the yard. The turnkey was ordered to take her to the
yard, and he accordingly did so; but when the yard-door was
open, who should she see walking very fast up and down the yard,
but Mr. Robert. She thought she would have dropped. She saw the
faces of people watching her at a grated window that looked into
the yard, and her only dread was that Mr. Robert on recognising
her would speak to her; but she kept her face away, and walked
up and down on the other side; and when they had crossed one
another several times, at last they met at the end. She took
care, when his eyes met hers, to have a frown on her face, and
her finger raised to her lips. He passed on as if he had never
seen her—but he knew her well; and the half smile that came over
his face, and passed off in a moment, could hardly have been
observed except by one who knew every turn of his countenance.
The doctor’s plot failed, she was taken back to her cell, and
there was no more taking of air or exercise then for her.
“She was in Kilmainham, a close prisoner, when Robert Emmet was
executed. She was kept locked up in a solitary cell, and indeed
always, with a few exceptions, was kept so during her
confinement the first year. The day after his execution she was
taken from gaol to the Castle, to be examined, through Thomas
Street. The gaoler had given orders to stop the coach at the
scaffold where Robert Emmet was executed. It was stopped there,
and she was forced to look at his blood, which was still plain
enough to be seen sprinkled over the deal boards.
“At the latter end of her confinement, some gentlemen belonging
to the Castle had come to the gaol and seen her in her cell. She
told them her sad story, and it was told by them to the lord
lieutenant. From that time her treatment was altogether
different; she was not only allowed the range of the woman’s
ward, but was permitted to go outside the prison, and three or
four times, accompanied by her sister and Mrs. Dwyer and one of
the turnkeys, was taken to the Spa at Lucan for the benefit of
her health; for she was then crippled in her limbs, more dead
than alive, hardly able to move hand or foot.
“At length Mr. Pitt died; it was a joyful day for Ireland. The
prisons were thrown open where many an honest person had lain
since the month of July, 1803.”
* * * * *
Anne Devlin’s narrative to Dr. Madden did not exhaust the full tale of
her sufferings. There is no mention in it of the fact that the whole of
her family, except one sister and a brother who were mere children, had
been thrown into prison, and their property ruined. As there was no
place for the little brother to go he found refuge in his father’s cell
in gaol. But the consolation of his boy’s company was not left long to
old Brian Devlin. Some communication having been discovered between him
and his daughter, the latter was removed from the new to the old gaol.
Some time after, the boy, then sick of a fever, was taken in the night
from his father’s cell and made to walk the mile which separated the new
from the old gaol. Here he died in circumstances which were looked on as
very suspicious.
So atrocious was the treatment meted out to Anne Devlin by Dr. Trevor
that the other prisoners made special mention of it in a Memorial they
presented to Lord Hardwicke: “His treatment,” they stated, “of all, but
especially of one unfortunate State prisoner, a female, is shocking to
humanity, and exceeds credibility. He drives, through exasperation, the
mind to madness, of which instances have already occurred.”
Of what befel Anne Devlin when, broken in health and crippled in limb,
she was at length liberated from Kilmainham we have no record. We must
fill in for ourselves the main features of the forty years that elapsed
before Dr. Madden discovered her in the old washerwoman, married to a
poor labourer in “a stable yard” off John’s Lane. Poverty, sickness,
grinding toil, hunger often, and want of every kind: these were her
portion through those long years of misery.
She might have had a different portion. She might have said the one
little word her captors wanted her to say. She might have stretched out
her hands for their five hundred golden guineas, and walked forth that
moment a free woman. She might have seen her father’s fields restored to
him and his business flourishing; and she, herself, the well-dowered
daughter of the prosperous dairyman, would surely have found a
husband—not too squeamish about the origin of his wife’s fortune—to keep
her in comfort all the days of her life. She might have had all that
most men hold most dear—as the price of a single word.
She chose instead—what seemed certain death, and then torture of every
description, both corporal and mental, until in the vile prison cell,
the strong mind snapped, and the vigorous body broke. But the will,
faithful to the end, never faltered.
* * * * *
The end of her story is told in a letter published by Dr. Madden in the
_Nation_ of September 27th, 1851:—
“Four years ago an appeal was made in the _Nation_ on behalf of
Anne Devlin, which was in some small degree responded to—very,
very inadequately, however. Afterwards we lost sight of her
entirely. So it seems did others of her friends until it was too
late. But last week, a gentleman who always took the warmest
interest in this noble creature, was informed that she was still
living in a miserable garret of No. 2 Little Elbow Lane, a
squalid alley running from the Coombe to Pimlico. On this day
week he sought that wretched abode, but she had died two days
previously, and had been buried in Glasnevin on the preceding
day. A young woman with an ill-fed infant in her arms,
apparently steeped in poverty, but kindly-looking and
well-mannered, in whose room Anne Devlin had lodged, said: ‘The
poor creature, God help her, it was well for her she was dead.
There was a coffin got from the Society for her, and she was
buried the day before.’ To the enquiry, what complaint she had
died of, the answer was—‘She was old and weak indeed, but she
died mostly of want. She had a son, but he was not able to do
much for her, except now and then to pay her lodging, which was
fivepence a week. He lived away from her, and so did her
daughter, who was a poor widow, and was hard enough set to get a
living for herself. About ten or twelve days ago a gentleman
(she believed of the name of Meehan) called there, and gave the
old woman something. Only for this she would not have lived as
long as she did. _She was very badly off, not only for food, but
for bed-clothes. Nearly all the rags she had went at one time or
another, to get her a morsel of bread._’”[102]
Footnote 102:
Dr. Madden has with delicate reticence veiled his own charity
to Anne Devlin. It was during one of his absences abroad that
she was lost sight of immediately before her death. The
gentleman “of the name of Meehan” referred to in poor Anne’s
landlady’s statement was Rev. C. P. Meehan, the historian.
Father Meehan, Edward Kennedy (Miles Byrne’s half-brother),
and Dr. Madden—let us remember their three names with
gratitude, because out of their own scanty means, they tried
to save the Irish nation from the disgrace of allowing Anne
Devlin to die of hunger.
* * * * *
“It is a hard service they take, who help the Poor Old Woman....
But for all that they think themselves well paid.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SOME OTHER ROMANCES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some Other Romances of ’Ninety-Eight
“A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love.”—_Yeats._
“LOVE and pain and death”—these, in the final analysis, are the
substructure of life, and when some great force tears apart the
concealing surface, the revelation which makes plain one of them,
discovers the inevitable comradeship of the others. So when the mighty
cataclysm of ’Ninety-Eight revealed the Pain and Death which are two of
the foundations of life, there was revealed also, with a clearness which
ordinary times know not, the third foundation, Love.
* * * * *
When we think of Betsy Grey, it is as the heroine of a very tender and
sorrowful love-story. She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer called
Hans Grey, and was born near Granshaw, a few miles from Bangor, Co.
Down. Her mother died when she was young, and her father, anxious to
make up the loss as far as in him lay, sent his beautiful girl to one of
the best boarding schools of the time. She returned, a lovely,
high-spirited, clever, thoughtful girl, extremely well-educated and
accomplished, and ardently interested in the burning questions of the
day. Willie Boal, a young farmer of the district, speedily lost his
heart to his charming neighbour, and when he found that his patriotic
dreams for Ireland were shared by her, his love quickened and deepened.
Willie Boal and Betsy’s brother, George Grey, were sworn United Men, and
it is believed that Betsy, like so many other women of those times, had
also taken the test.
When the men of Down took the field in June, ’98, Betsy sought a place
in their embattled ranks. Father and brother and lover set themselves to
oppose her, and, as the best means of escaping her importunities, George
and Willie stole away to the muster at Ballynahinch, without letting her
know of their departure. When she discovered it, she went out into the
yard, yoked her mare to a cart, filled the latter, with bread, butter
and cheese, and gallantly set off unaccompanied. She arrived at the hill
of Ednavady on the night of June the 12th, and the next day took part in
the battle. The popular memory has preserved a vision of her, a
bright-faced, beautiful girl, dressed in green silk, mounted on her
gallant mare, and brandishing her burnished sword above her head, while
side by side with Munroe she led one victorious charge after another.
Unfortunately the success attained by the contingents on her side of the
field was not general, and the close of the battle saw the patriots
routed from the field.
Betsy, in company with her brother, and her sweetheart, gained a rough
tract of country, all broken with rocks and furze. Here they were
overtaken by a party of Annahilt yeomen, and all three ruthlessly
butchered.
The bodies lay there all day, but at nightfall, the wife of the farmer
on whose land the tragedy had occurred, stole out with her little
son—and kind and reverent hands laid Betsy with her brother and lover in
their grave “in the vale of Ballycreen,” which even to-day is a place of
patriotic pilgrimage.
* * * * *
Both Dr. Madden and W. J. Fitzpatrick make frequent mention of Miss
Moore (afterwards Mrs. MacCready), and often quote her authority for
some of the most interesting episodes they relate. She was the daughter
of James Moore, a wealthy merchant, with two large establishments in
Thomas Street. She was educated in a convent at Tours, France, and
before the outbreak of the French Revolution had made her return to
Ireland necessary, had acquired an unusual mastery of the French
language. In Dublin her beauty, set off by her French toilettes, and her
cleverness, set off by her French education, made something of a
sensation, and she had many suitors. The favoured one was Dr. MacNevin.
Madden says that it was she who administered the United Irishmen’s oath
to him, and in this connection he reveals her romance. “There can be now
no impropriety in stating that the attachment which subsisted between
MacNevin and Miss Moore was not solely a political one, and that there
was a very ardent desire on the part of the former to make the fair
Roland of her day, an Irishwoman legally _united_ to him.” Miss Moore
herself had taken the oath from John Cormick, of Thomas Street, and she
informed Dr. Madden that, to her own knowledge, several women were sworn
members of the Society.
She was often employed in bringing messages to the societies from Lord
Edward, and not unfrequently passed through the streets in Dr. Adrien’s
carriage, as a patient, with her arm bandaged and blood on her clothes.
Lord Edward was a great friend of her father’s, and stayed at their
house more than once, during the time he was in hiding, passing as her
French tutor.
About May the 16th, Lord Edward being then under their roof (while the
Government Proclamation offered £1,000 reward for his arrest), a
carpenter called Tuite happened to be doing some repairs in Dublin
Castle. He heard the Under-Secretary, Cooke, say that James Moore’s
house was to be searched, and he made an excuse to leave the Castle and
warn Mr. Moore. As the latter had not only Lord Edward—but a
commissariat for about 500 men on his premises—he thought the further he
could get away from Dublin the better; so he fled to the banks of the
Boyne, leaving his wife and daughter to provide for the
Commander-in-Chief. Miss Moore, who, of course, had no reason to
distrust Francis Magan, thought that there could be no safer place for
the fugitive than in Magan’s house on Usher’s Island. She accordingly
arranged with Magan for his reception there, and “for safety sake” it
was suggested by Magan that, instead of coming in by his front door, the
party accompanying Lord Edward were to seek admittance through his
stables in Island Street. On the evening determined on, Mrs. and Miss
Moore, accompanied by the latter’s “French tutor” (Lord Edward), and
escorted by Mr. Moore’s confidential clerk, Gallagher, and his friend,
Palmer (in reality Lord Edward’s bodyguard), set off for an evening
stroll. They were met by Major Sirr and his men, who had (as, of course,
we know now) got the word from Magan. A conflict ensued, in which Sirr
fell to the ground and Gallagher was wounded, but Lord Edward and Miss
Moore got off. She conveyed him to Murphy’s, the feather merchant’s, and
returned home satisfied of his safety for the present.
The next day Magan called on her, ostensibly to enquire why his expected
guest had not turned up, and professing the most genuine concern for
him. Miss Moore told him the whole story of their encounter of the night
before, and, still, of course, suspecting nothing, informed Magan that
Lord Edward was at Murphy’s. Magan at once communicated the tidings to
his employers—and that evening Lord Edward was taken up.
On one occasion during these troubled times, Dr. Gahan, the Augustinian,
was visiting the Moores. Miss Moore had accompanied him to the hall, and
was seeing him out when a great double knock came to the door. When it
was opened, a body of soldiers marched in. Dr. Gahan stood politely
aside to let them pass, but the brutes seized the poor old man and
suspended him by the _queue_ to a hook in the warehouse, while they
proceeded to search the house. Miss Moore cut him down, and then made
off as swiftly as she could to warn the Directory, who were holding a
meeting in James’s Gate. They escaped by a window opening into a
neighbouring tanyard. As she returned, a soldier saw her, called her a
vile name, and made a lunge at her with his bayonet. She stooped and
thus saved herself, but the bayonet cut her shoulder. At that moment a
shot rang out, and her assailant fell dead. A bullet from the gun of one
of the best snipers the United Irishmen had in their ranks, had laid him
low. Subsequently her father was arrested, and lodged in Birmingham
Tower in the Castle. Miss Moore gave £500 to the doctor attending the
prisoners to certify that her father was insane. Major Sirr was rather
sceptical as to James Moore’s insanity, but the latter acted his part so
convincingly that he was released.
Owing perhaps to the circumstance that the particulars of the lives of
Dr. MacNevin and Mrs. MacCready were furnished to Madden and Fitzpatrick
respectively, by a daughter in the one case, and a son in the other, no
mention of this romance of their early life occurs in either narrative.
We are left to conjecture the reasons why it ended as it did. On March
12th, 1798, Dr. MacNevin was arrested with the other leaders, and for
the next four years he was kept a prisoner, first in Dublin and
afterwards in Fort George. Did old James Moore, who, for all his
attachment to the Cause, had the bump of prudence and caution well
developed, take the opportunity of the doctor’s long exile to marry his
daughter to Mr. MacCready? That might well be. In 1810 Dr. MacNevin,
then in successful practice in America, married Mrs. Jane Margaret Tom,
widow of a New York merchant, and sister of his intimate friend, Mr.
Richard Riker.
* * * * *
Another heroine of a ’98 romance is Maria Steele, the “Stella” of John
Sheares’s love verses. It was from her that Dr. Madden learned much of
the information he has embodied in his memoir of the ill-fated brothers.
The question of using or withholding her name in connection with the sad
story was left by the lady to Dr. Madden’s own discretion. “Exercising,”
as he states, “that judgment to the best of my ability, and with all the
consideration that would be due to the feelings of that most estimable
lady were she living, and that I owe to her memory now that she is no
more, I give her name without reserve; because I feel in all sincerity
that the name of Maria Steele will be associated with that of John
Sheares, as that of Sarah Curran is with Robert Emmet’s; and that these
names will be remembered with tenderness and pity.”
It was in 1794 that John Sheares first became acquainted with Maria
Steele, the elder daughter of the deceased Sir R. Parker Steele. The
widowed Lady Steele and her girls were then living in Merrion Square,
not very far from the Baggot Street residence of the Sheareses. In the
early part of 1798 John Sheares made formal proposals to Lady Steele for
her daughter’s hand, but though Maria’s mother was very fond of the
young man, and he was on the most affectionate and familiar footing with
her, the impression she had gathered of his religious sentiments made
her refuse to entrust her child’s future to him. This decision is held
responsible for having thrown John more violently into politics, than
had hitherto been the case.
As for Maria’s own feelings there is no doubt but that they were deeply
engaged. Up to her latest hour she never mentioned his name “without
tenderness and sorrow”; she treasured the piteous little relics which
were associated with her brief romance. He had been lying for nearly
forty years in the tragic vaults of St. Michan’s, when she sketched the
portrait of him which adorns Madden’s pages. That picture is so lifelike
because love guided the artist’s hand. Mary McCracken’s portrait of
Thomas Russell, and Maria Steele’s of John Sheares, these two, are
painted under the same inspiration. I find infinite pathos in the lines
with which Maria, then an old woman, accompanied the copies of the
papers in her possession which she had promised to Dr. Madden: “I should
have sent the originals of these sad memorials to you had I suspected
that I could still feel as I felt while copying them. I thought age and
infirmity had made me a better philosopher. Three of these have never
been opened except when you saw them, for more than thirty-four years.”
The romance of Surgeon Lawless, the friend of John Sheares, and Miss
Evans does not, strictly speaking, belong to ’98. But it is connected
with it by sufficiently close ties to justify its inclusion here.
William Lawless, a distinguished Dublin surgeon, and a relative of Lord
Cloncurry’s, was a close friend of Lord Edward’s, and like the
Sheareses, whose neighbour and intimate he was, became very active in
the Cause after the arrest of the leaders at Bond’s on March 12th. On
the Saturday on which Lord Edward was arrested (May 19) Surgeon Lawless
received information at the College of Surgeons from his colleague,
Surgeon Dease, that he was about to be taken up. He accordingly made
arrangements to escape to France. He is said to have made his way on
board a vessel in the disguise of a butcher’s man carrying a side of
beef, and in this capacity met Major Sirr himself on the quays!
Arrived in France, he entered the Army and made a great career for
himself in the Napoleonic campaigns. Miles Byrne makes frequent mention
of him, and it is to Byrne we owe our knowledge of the pretty romance of
his marriage.
Among the Irish exiles then resident in Paris the family of Hampden
Evans[103] was very prominent. As Mr. Evans had a large fortune, and was
hospitality itself, he loved to gather his fellow-countrymen around him;
and among those who visited his house frequently was William Lawless.
With him Mary Evans fell in love; but so well did she keep her secret
that neither he nor any of her family suspected it, and he marched away
with his regiment without a word of affection on either side. Shortly
after came the news of the siege of Flushing by the English, with the
destruction of the Irish battalion defending it, and the death of its
Commander, William Lawless. “Mary Evans fell ill, and for more than six
weeks her life was despaired of.... Mrs. Tone being in the habit of
going to Mr. Hampden Evans’s house, and being on the most intimate terms
with his daughters, might have suspected something of Miss Evans’s
secret, but this secret was only divulged when she heard the man she
loved was no more. She then told her mother, saying life to her now was
not worth preserving, and wondering how Mrs. Tone could have survived
the death of her heroic husband....”
Footnote 103:
Hampden Evans was an exile of ’98.
But Commandant Lawless was not dead; and one day the gallant tale of how
he had saved, at Walcheren, the French colours and the Eagle entrusted
by the Emperor to the Irish Brigade, reached Paris. He had wrapped the
flag round his body, plunged into the waves, and swam to an open boat a
considerable distance from the shore; “then proudly exhibiting the
standard of France amid a shower of bullets from the beach he bore it
off in triumph.” For this exploit Lawless was named by the Emperor,
knight of the Legion of Honour, and Lieutenant-Colonel of the Irish
regiment, and the year after, full Colonel of it.
On receipt of the news, “Mr. Evans begged his friend, John Sweetman, to
come to the house to prepare his daughter by degrees to learn the joyful
news, lest a sudden communication of it might be injurious to her....
That evening at tea, Mr. Sweetman, as usual, was asked the news of the
day, Miss Evans lying on the sofa, and listening to the conversation. He
said that it was reported in some of the newspapers that officers
believed to have been killed at Flushing had escaped to Antwerp, their
names not being given. On the following day he was more explicit, and
then the conversation was turned to some other topic. The next evening
Sweetman came to tell them that a Lieutenant O’Reilly, of the Irish
regiment, was one of those who had arrived at Antwerp. ‘Then,’ said Miss
Evans, ‘perhaps Mr. Lawless is not dead.’ The whole family expressed
their opinion that as he and Lieutenant O’Reilly were great friends,
they probably escaped together.”
The rest of the charming story is soon told. The following day Mr.
Hampden Evans learned from John Sweetman that Commandant Lawless had
arrived in Paris, but was confined to bed with an attack of Flushing
fever. Mr. Evans lost no time in calling on him, and making him
acquainted with his daughter’s sentiments. Matters were soon arranged
for a speedy marriage, “and then Miss Evans was allowed to read all the
newspapers containing the orders of the day of the army at Antwerp,
giving an account of Commandant Lawless’s arrival there, with the
colours and eagle of the Irish regiment; of his brilliant conduct during
the siege of Flushing, his miraculous escape from thence, etc., etc.”
In those days among the Irish in France it was difficult to think of
Lawless without thinking of his bosom friend, John Tennant. These two
were true brothers-in-arms. “They were named captains the same day in
1803 at the organisation of the Irish Legion. In 1813, at Sonenberg, in
Silesia, when Lawless was colonel, commanding the Irish regiment,
Tennant was _chef de bataillon_. On August the 19th, 1813, Tennant was
killed in our hollow square, literally cut in two by a cannon ball, and
on August 21st, the second day after, Colonel Lawless, at the passage of
the Bober, at the town of Sonenberg, and in the presence of Napoleon,
had his leg shot off by a cannon ball. “It was my painful and melancholy
duty,” writes Miles Byrne, “to get the grenadiers to dig a grave for
poor Tennant, after we had retaken our position and beaten the enemy off
the field of battle.... Whilst the men were preparing the grave, Colonel
Lawless never ceased weeping, and indeed both the officers and men who
were present were much affected, and shed tears of sorrow over poor
Tennant’s grave.”
Poor Tennant’s romance had been of a less happy character than his
friend’s. In the early days of the _United Irishmen_ he had become
devotedly attached to the beautiful Miss Hazlett, the story of whose
early death has been already narrated in the chapter on the Sisters of
’Ninety-Eight. Writing of her thirty years after, Charles Teeling feels
the tears starting to his eyes at the memory of the “youth, innocence,
beauty” consigned thus untimely to the tomb.... Never shall I forget the
impression which this mournful event [_i.e._ the death of Miss Hazlett]
caused in the circle of our little commonwealth. The lovely subject of
our distress had been endeared to us all, not less by the sweetness of
her disposition than the fascinating powers of a cultivated mind. Her
brother’s happiness was the object of her most anxious concern, but the
benevolent feelings of her heart extended to every soul in distress.”
Charles Teeling, with a delicate reticence which is characteristic, has
merely hinted at his own romance, and said nothing of his brother’s. The
object of Charles’s devotion was Miss Catherine Carolan, daughter of Dr.
James Carolan, of Carrickmacross. The glimpses we get of the Carolans
are interesting, and make us long to know more of them. The celebrated
harper, Arthur O’Neill, tells us of a visit he paid to Dr. Carolan’s
hospitable house in Carrickmacross, when he was on his bardic rounds;
and Mr. Denis Carolan Rushe, the doctor’s descendant, has in his
possession a copy of a religious rule of life, drawn up for her own
observance by another daughter of the Doctor’s, a sister of Catherine’s.
These two facts indicate a household where all the best characteristics
of true Irish Catholic gentlefolk—their hospitality, their love for, and
generous patronage of art, their deep sense of religion—were carefully
cultivated.
Of Bartle Teeling’s devotion to Lady Lucy Fitzgerald, and of the ring
she gave him, we have already spoken elsewhere.
Mary Anne McCracken’s unreturned love for Thomas Russell is among the
most pathetic romances of ’Ninety-Eight. He may have loved another
better; but it is her name we join with his, when we stand in
Downpatrick, beside the tomb she made for him; and perhaps it is because
her love has written itself in them that the words she has chosen for
the inscription move us so strangely, in their austere simplicity:
“The Grave of Russell.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SOME OBSCURE HEROINES OF ’NINETY-EIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some Obscure Heroines of ’Ninety-Eight
“All Ulster over, the weemen cried
For the stanin’ crops in the lan’.
Many a sweetheart an’ many a bride
Wud liefer ha’ gone till where _he_ died,
An’ murned her lone by her man.”—FLORENCE WILSON.
AFTER the defeat of the insurgent army at Antrim, the yeomen were let
loose in the country, and the most terrible outrages committed. Cannon
were trained on the houses situated in what is known as “the Scotch
quarter,” in Antrim town, and a shot having struck one of them, the
inmates of the neighbouring house, a man called Quin, and his lovely
sixteen-year-old daughter, made their escape from their home, and
crossing the garden, made towards Belmount. They were pursued by the
yeomen, shot dead, and buried where they fell. So shallow was the grave
made for them that for several days after, the long beautiful hair of
the girl, which was only partially covered, was seen waving in the wind.
The gentleman who related this incident to Dr. Madden noted that it
excited more sympathy among the poor people than many horrid barbarities
of the time. I think we can understand why it should be so. Even, at
this distance of time, one cannot think of the long golden hair of the
murdered girl, tossing in the wind above her shallow grave, without
being gripped by the sense of pity and tragedy in a most poignant
way—and feeling that here we have found the very heart of the sorrow of
’Ninety-Eight.
In the same way, it seems to me, that it is in the story of the more
obscure heroines that sentiment is most inherent. The stories of the
other women with which we have dealt have left us, after all, with an
overwhelming feeling of “the glorious pride” of ’Ninety-Eight. But for
the “sorrow” which also fills its name, we must go to the “short and
simple annals of the poor.”
Very pitiful is the story, told by Cloney, of the fate of a woman called
Fitzpatrick and her husband in Kilcomney. Like the other defenceless
inhabitants of Kilcomney, a hundred and forty of whom were murdered that
day by the yeomanry under Sir Charles Asgill, their sole “offence” was
that the insurgent army had passed through their district on its retreat
from Scollagh Gap. When the butchering “yeos” entered the cabin of
Patrick Fitzpatrick, the poor wife, with her baby in her arms, ran to
her husband’s side, and while she was endeavouring to protect him, a
volley was poured into them, and they fell dead at the same moment. “The
cabin was then set fire to as a matter of course over the heads of the
children of this unfortunate couple—six in number; and five of them,
‘poor innocent creatures,’ ran into the house of a neighbour, who had
escaped the massacre, one of them crying out, ‘My daddy is killed—my
mammy is killed—and the pigs are drinking their blood.’ A poor woman of
the name of Kealy, an aunt of theirs, took the children home, and when
her scanty means were exhausted for their support, she became a beggar
to get them bread; the neighbours helped her, they gave her assistance,
and God, in His mercy to her, enabled her to bring them up.” “There may
be no space,” writes Madden with that quick sentiment of his for heroic
deeds which gives to his work an atmosphere so inspiring, “in the
records of the noble deeds of women for the goodness of this poor
creature; but her conduct will not be forgotten, at all events, on that
day when virtue is destined to receive its own exceeding great
reward—the awful recompense of all its sufferings and sacrifices here
below, and when the man of blood will find no act of indemnity available
for his sanguinary and inhuman deeds.”
On June the 3rd, 1798, occurred the massacre of Gibbet Rath—“the place
of slaughter”—on the Curragh of Kildare. There the insurgents, who had
entered into terms with General Dundas, assembled, according to
stipulation, to lay down their arms and receive the “protections” which
were to enable them to return to their homes without further
molestation. Suddenly on their unarmed ranks fell Sir James Duff with
his cavalry, and Lord Roden’s “Fox-Hunters,” and the slaughter began.
“Three hundred and fifty men, admitted into the king’s peace, and
promised his protection, were mowed down in cold blood.”
Let us turn our eyes for a moment from that bloody “Place of Slaughter,”
where the gory corpses of their men lay all through that bright June
day, to the cabins where the women vainly awaited them through its
slowly passing hours. To help us to realise the scenes that must have
taken place in many of them, we have the story, related by Fitzpatrick,
of Mrs. Denis Downey, the grandmother of Canon O’Hanlon, the
distinguished hagiologist.
She was a young wife, with two little children, when the “word” came
which called her husband to the fight. As their home in Grey Abbey near
Kildare was attacked by the soldiers, she and her babies took refuge at
her parents’ house near the River Barrow. The day before that fixed for
the surrender of the insurgents, it was said that Lord Roden’s
“Fencibles” (or “Fox-Hunters”) paraded the streets of Kildare, mad with
drink, and carrying articles of apparel on the end of their bayonets,
shouted “we are the boys who will slaughter the croppies to-morrow at
the Curragh.” On this account a great many of the insurgents wisely
stayed away. Unfortunately Denis Downey was not one of them. Mounted on
a fine horse he presented himself with his comrades. When the massacre
began he leaped on his horse, and in all probability would have made
good his escape, had he not stopped to take up a relative. A bullet
found him, and he fell dead from the saddle. His riderless horse, which
had been stabled at his father-in-law’s place, galloped thither, mad
with terror.
That night his wife, who had felt all day the most harrowing
presentiment of impending woe, had a dream of her husband lying
weltering in his blood. Her wild cries roused the household, and her
father, finding his efforts at comfort unavailing, finally determined to
go out and seek for news. At the end of the lane leading from his house
to the highway he met his son-in-law’s riderless horse, saddled and
bridled and covered with foam—and the early June dawn discovered groups
of country people passing along the highway with faces and gestures and
voices, all eloquent of some dreadful tragedy. “What news from the
Curragh?” he asked a group which passed. “Bad news, bad news,” came the
answer like some tragic chorus, “our friends were all slaughtered on the
Curragh, to-day.”
When her father came home with his tidings, Mrs. Downey insisted on
getting out one of the carts, and proceeding to the place of the
slaughter to search for her husband’s body—for she was quite convinced
that her dream was true, and she would find him among the slain. She
came at last to the bloody plain, and found it littered with corpses.
She turned over two hundred dead bodies before she discovered her
husband’s. She laid him in the cart, covered him with straw and a quilt,
and proceeded to the house of a relative to wake him. But the word had
gone round that wherever a rebel corpse should be found the house
sheltering it would be burned by the “yeos.” Without waiting even for a
coffin, the broken-hearted young widow had to wrap her man in a sheet,
and so see him laid in the hastily made grave. When quieter days came
and she was able to return to the home he had made for her, she found it
a wreck. She sold her farm and went to live in Monasterevan.
Her story presents to our imagination the tragedy of the “Widows of the
Massacres” in concrete form. But it is the story of only one woman.
Think of it as multiplied by the number of all the women who were left
desolate on that day—and estimate the sum of woman’s misery caused by
that one day alone—if our hearts dare!
Think of the women left desolate by the wholesale massacre of Carnew, of
Gorey, of New Ross, of Enniscorthy, of Carrigrew, of Killoughrim
Woods—and estimate these contributions to the sum of woman’s misery—if
our hearts dare!
* * * * *
To renew our courage, it is time to tell a tale with a happier ending,
though it, too, has to do with one of the most horrible massacres which
disgraced the period—the Massacre of Dunlavin.
One day, Captain Saunders of Saunders’ Grove, reviewing his yeomanry,
suddenly announced that he knew those who were United Irishmen among
them, and ordered them to fall out. About thirty-six of them did; but
the others, imitating the example of one Pat Doyle (who had had word of
what was forward from the Captain’s brother) stayed in their places. The
thirty-six who had “given themselves away,” were locked up in the
market-house of Dunlavin, and on the Fair Day of Dunlavin, they were
marched out to a hollow near the Catholic Church, while a number of
Ancient Britons were posted on a height at some little distance. The
word was given; the Ancient Britons fired—and the men fell in their
blood, amid the shrieks and groans of the bystanders, among whom were
their widows and relatives.
Among the victims was a man named Prendergast. In his case the ball made
two orifices, but he had sufficient presence of mind before he lost
consciousness, to detach his cravat and stop the blood of one orifice
with it, while his clenched hand acted as a styptic for the other. A
brave girl happened to see the motion, and she found an opportunity to
staunch the wounds with her shawl, while she went off to Prendergast’s
house, whence she presently returned with his brother, leading a horse
and cart. They put the wounded man into the cart, covered him with
bloody straw and carried him back to his widowed mother’s home. News
reached Saunders that “some of the croppies were getting alive again,”
so he sent back the Ancient Britons to finish their work, and hack and
gash any of the bodies which might possibly harbour a spark of life. He
then proceeded to Prendergast’s house, and genially addressed the widow.
“Well, widow, I hear that that croppy scoundrel of a son of yours is
living still.” “Yes, your honour,” said the poor woman, “the Lord has
been pleased to grant the poor boy a longer day.” “Come on now,” said
his Honour, forcing his way into the house, “I will put him out of pain;
he can’t possibly recover, and your time can’t be taken up by attending
on him.” The poor mother found strength to hold the great brute back,
while the wounded man was conveyed out of the house by some of the
neighbours. An angry crowd gathered round the Captain, and he thought it
better to get away. At nightfall Michael Dwyer came down from the hills
and carried off young Prendergast to his eyrie. And here during many
months the wounded boy was nursed by Michael Dwyer and his “Mountain
Mary”—and he lived to marry the brave girl who had saved his life.
And this, did space permit, would be the appropriate place to tell the
story of one of the bravest women of ’Ninety-Eight—Mrs. Michael Dwyer
(we have already met her name in connection with Anne Devlin, her
husband’s niece). She was a beautiful Wicklow girl, the daughter of a
“strong” farmer named Doyle; but she left all the comforts of her
father’s well-stocked farm to share the outlaw’s “wild and uncertain
life in hill and vale, in mountain cave and fastness.” The story of her
romantic marriage is the subject of a well-known and very stirring
ballad which tells how:—
As the torrent bounds down from the mountain
Of cloud-helméd stormy Kaigeen
And tosses, all tawny and foaming,
Through the still glen of lone Carragean;
So dashed a bold rider of Wicklow,
With forty stout men in his train,
From the heart of the hills, where the spirit
Of Freedom had dared to remain.
Thou leader of horsemen! Why hasten
So fleetly to Brusselstown hill?
What foemen, what yeomen await thee
To question in Wicklow thy will?
But though armed to the teeth, the grey-friezed horsemen were on no
business of blood to-day:
Their leader he loves a young maiden
And he’s speeding to make her his bride.
They come to the home of the bride, and presently
Mary came out in her beauty
The loveliest maid in Imale;
The loveliest flower that blossomed
In all the wild haunts of the vale.
Arrayed in an emerald habit
And the green and the white in her hair.
* * * * *
They led out a horse on the heather;
She patted his neck with her hand,
Then sprang on his back like a feather,
And stood in the midst of the band.
Then to the priest’s house for the wedding—
Away dashed the cavalcade fleetly,
By beauty and chivalry led,
With their carbines aflash in the sunlight
And the saucy cockades on their head!
No braver tale could be told of any woman than the story of Mary Dwyer
during the years that followed. She stood by her husband, ready to
endure to the end in the struggles of ’98 and ’03; she shared the
horrors of the prison ship that bore him into exile. She stood by his
deathbed in 1805, and lived on, herself, to rear his children in a
manner such that their father and their native land might be proud of
them—though, alas! it was not Ireland that was to enjoy the finished
work. When she died in 1861, the touching obituary notice of her in the
Sydney _Freeman’s Journal_ could say of her with truth: “All her wishes
in life were accomplished before her eyes closed in death. When she
lived to see her two grandchildren sheltered under the guardianship of
Mother Church—one a holy young priest, the other a dweller in the
peaceful shadow of the cloister, she sang her hymn of resignation, ‘Now
Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord.’”
Another brave woman whose _Nunc Dimittis_ was sung in a foreign land was
Mrs. Gallagher. Her husband was a confidential clerk of James Moore’s,
and he often acted as one of Lord Edward’s bodyguard when the Chief went
abroad for any purpose during the weeks he was “on his keeping.” On the
night on which Lord Edward was going to Magan’s and was met by Major
Sirr, Gallagher was wounded in the encounter, which ensued with the
Major’s men. He was afterwards identified through this wound, and
ordered for execution. He managed, it is said, to save his life at the
foot of the scaffold by his possession of the Masonic signal. He was
then taken back to prison. During all this time the executions were
proceeding in Thomas Street, and the blood from the block on which “the
rebels” were beheaded and quartered flowed in such quantities that it
clogged the sewers, and was licked up by the dogs. The Lady Lieutenant,
passing one day, fainted at the horrible sight; and at her urgent
entreaties the executions were stopped. Transportation to one of the
Penal Colonies was substituted for the death-sentence. Gallagher was
conveyed from his prison to one of the convict ships, heavily ironed.
But by a special grace the irons were taken off him while he bade
farewell to his wife, who had made her way on board to see him for the
last time. She stayed on until nightfall, and before she took her
departure she managed to convey to her husband one end of a coil of rope
she had concealed under her cloak. The other end she carried ashore with
her, as she rowed back. After her departure Gallagher was about to be
ironed again, but he pleaded so eloquently for “one minute more” that it
was granted him. That minute was sufficient for him to leap into the
dark waters—and be towed ashore by his faithful wife. He subsequently
made his escape to France in a lugger of smuggled salt—and died, in
1813, a wealthy ship-broker of Bordeaux.
Miles Byrne knew the Gallaghers very well. He tells us of meeting Mrs.
Gallagher, who was then on a visit with Mrs. Thomas Addis Emmet, when he
called to take leave of the latter before joining his regiment in 1803.
Mrs. Gallagher he found “handsome and highly accomplished, and worthy of
her patriotic husband. I had the pleasure of dining with them at
Bordeaux, in 1812, when I was returning from Spain; and I was happy
indeed to see them so prosperous; he was in the shipbroking trade, and
he was carrying on a vast business with the Americans. Their children
were growing up very handsome. Poor Gallagher’s health was then
delicate. He died at Bordeaux the following year, much regretted by his
countrymen and friends. To his last moment, he spoke of Lord Edward
Fitzgerald with the greatest veneration.”
No story of the Women of ’Ninety-Eight would be complete without some
mention, at least, of Rosie Hope, the heroic wife of James Hope. But in
truth her life deserves a fuller account than the plan of this work now
allows for her.
It was while he worked in her father’s house as a journeyman linen
weaver that James Hope first met and loved Rosie Mullen. He himself has
described her for us both in prose (“a young woman gifted with noble
qualities, with every advantage of mind and person, she was everything
in this world to me, and when I lost her, my happiness went to the grave
with her. She died in 1831”); and in very tender and dainty verse, with
a pretty play of words on her name:—
THE ROSE-BUD
In life’s sprightly morning, how pleasant the hours,
When roaming the fields, and surveying the flowers,
I picked up a rose-bud, select from the rest,
And divested of thorns, it remained in my breast.
Its fragrance refreshed me, inspiring with love,
Till that fragrance was drawn to the regions above.
And now every wish of my heart’s to repose,
In that region of love with my own little rose.
In the _Shan Van Vocht_ of March, 1896, _à propos_ of a letter of James
Hope’s therein first published, we find an interesting editorial note:
“James Hope brought his wife and younger children up from Belfast to
Dublin as soon as he undertook the work of organising under Emmet, this
not without a reason. Rose Hope was a valuable and courageous ally in
her patriot husband’s work, and before the northern rising had helped to
provide the United Men with arms and ammunition, carrying them backwards
and forwards through the country as she went a marketing. The same good
work she daringly undertook in Dublin, and had some narrow escapes as
she threaded her way through the streets with the arms carefully hidden
under her cloak along with her baby. This younger child was called
Robert Emmet, after the patriot.” Another child was called after Henry
Joy McCracken, and another Luke, after Mr. Luke Teeling. For Jamie Hope
was much attached to the McCrackens and the Teelings, for both of which
families he had worked.
Some of Rosie’s adventures are related by her husband. They occurred
during Jamie’s absence in the North with Russell when they were trying
to get Ulster to rise in support of Emmet:
“In 1803, a short time after Henry Howley’s arrest, and the death of
Hanlon, who was shot by him, while the soldiers were bringing Hanlon’s
body on a door, through a street in the Liberty, my wife was passing,
with her youngest child in her arms, having under her cloak, a
blunderbuss and a case of pistols, which she was taking to the house of
Denis Lambert Redmond, who suffered afterwards. She stepped into a shop,
and when the crowd had passed, she went on, and executed her orders. On
another occasion, she was sent to a house in the Liberty, where a
quantity of ball-cartridges had been lodged, to carry them away, to
prevent ruin being brought on the house and its inhabitants. She went to
the house, put them in a pillow-case, and emptied the contents into the
canal, at that part of it which supplies the basin.”
“At the death of Pitt, the system underwent a change. The Castle spies
were discharged, and the State prisoners set at liberty. My wife sent in
a memorial to the Duke of Bedford, in her own name, acknowledging that I
had fought on the side of the people, and had been driven like
thousands, unwillingly to do so.” As a consequence, Hope and his family
were allowed to return to the North.
Rosie Hope had been lying for more than fifteen years in her last bed in
Mallusk graveyard when Dr. Madden first met Jamie Hope in the flesh. And
yet he noted that when Hope spoke of his wife it seemed “as if he felt
her spirit was hovering over him, and that it was not permitted to him
to give expression to the praise which rises to his lips when her name
is mentioned. There is something of refinement—rare as it is pleasing to
contemplate, in the nature of his attachment—in the ties which bound him
to that amiable, exemplary, and enthusiastic creature; for such she is
represented to have been by those who knew her, amongst whom was Miss
McCracken, of Belfast.”
The name of Rosie Hope reminds us of her friend, Miss Biddy Palmer, who
with Rosie and Anne Devlin, were associated in what we of to-day should
call _Cumann na mBan_ work in the Rising of 1803. Madden says of her:
“Miss Biddy Palmer, daughter of old John Palmer of Cutpurse Row, was a
confidential agent both of Emmet and Russell. She was a sister of young
Palmer who took a prominent part in the affairs of 1798. Biddy Palmer
was a sort of Irish Madame Roland; she went about when it was dangerous
for others to be seen abroad, conveying messages from Emmet, Long,
Hevey, Russell, and Fitzgerald to different parties.”
One half suspects, from the way Miles Byrne speaks of Miss Palmer, that
he was in love with her. Having mentioned Emmet’s “implicit confidence”
in her, he adds, “and indeed no one was ever more worthy of such trust
than this young lady, who had suffered severely in 1798 by her father’s
imprisonment and the ruin of his affairs, her brother’s exile and death
on the Continent. Still she bore up under all her misfortunes like a
heroine of the olden times, and was a comfort and a consolation to her
family and friends.” On the eve of Miles Byrne’s romantic escape to
France he called to take farewell of Miss Palmer and her father, and she
gave him a present of some French money for his _viaticum_.
Poor Biddy Palmer had a sad old age. Dr. Madden discovered her (she was
then a Mrs. Horan) “in very reduced circumstances, far advanced in
years, in the neighbourhood of Finsbury Square, London, earning a
miserable livelihood by keeping a little school for the female children
of the poor, in a neighbourhood where indigence and want abounds.”
For some reason (perhaps it was in part the long life and faithful heart
of Mary McCracken and the influence she radiated around her) the North
has kept a richer record of the sufferings and heroism of its obscurer
women in ’98 and ’03, than other parts of the country. Some very
precious _reliques_ have been gathered up in the pages of the _Shan Van
Vocht_, and make of them a most valuable repository of patriotic
memories.
One of these tells of a sister, whose brother, with another lad, had
undertaken the dangerous office of posting up Robert Emmet’s
proclamation around Carnmoney, a few miles to the north of Belfast. For
this they were subsequently hanged, drawn and quartered on the Gallow’s
Green at Carrickfergus. At dead of night the sister, who had walked all
the way from Carnmoney, was led by pitying friends to the spot where the
poor mangled bodies lay. “She knelt down and with stifled sobs and much
difficulty removed the clay that had been hastily piled above them. Her
hand first came upon a head which by the feel of the features she
thought was that of her brother. She wrapped it in her apron and carried
it back to her home, so absorbed in her grief that she felt not the
miles her speeding feet covered. When she arrived home, she discovered
that the head she had borne on that sorrowful journey was not her
brother’s, but that of the other poor lad. She retraced her steps,
running between the hedgerows in her anxiety to reach the Gallow’s Green
before the people should be afoot, stumbling on the uneven stones, and
praying with all her tortured heart that her strength might last until
her purpose should be accomplished.... She arrived at the grave,
reverentially deposited the head back in its place, and taking up the
one she had come to seek departed again for Carnmoney.”
It is to Mary McCracken that we owe our knowledge of the story of young
Willie Neilson, of Ballycarry, and his poor mother. Willie, who was only
fifteen years of age, had on the eve of the Antrim Rising formed one of
a party which made a prisoner of a Carrickfergus pensioner called
Cuthbert, and conveyed him to the Insurgent’s place of muster at
Donegore Hill. For this he was arrested, court-martialled and sent to
prison, where his two elder brothers were already lodged. But on account
of his extreme youth neither he nor his friends anticipated any danger
to his life.
At midnight he was taken from prison, and offered his freedom on
condition that he should give information against the leaders at Antrim.
He refused; and no amount of pressure could make him yield one inch.
They told him he must die; his only request was that he might see his
minister, and be allowed to say farewell to his brother, Sam. Sam
Neilson expected to share Willie’s fate, but that fact did not prevent
him from encouraging Willie to die rather than “inform.” Soon after
daybreak the boy was taken to his native village of Ballycarry, there to
die. On the way he met his poor mother, who had set out to visit the
prison. When she saw him in the midst of the soldiery, she rushed
towards him, and while the soldiers tried to separate them he caught her
hand, and exclaimed “Oh! my mother!” But they dragged him from her arms.
She threw herself at her landlord’s feet, as he rode past, in the midst
of the cavalry, begging him to intercede for her boy. His only answer
was, “Get out of my way, or I’ll ride over you.” They brought Willie to
his mother’s door to execute him there. But, brutes as they were, they
saw this would be too iniquitous, and they yielded to the boy’s prayer
and took him away to the end of the village. Even then the undaunted boy
had leisure of heart to think of his dear ones. He begged that the
sacrifice of his life might expiate the offences of his brothers, and
that his body should be given to his mother. The soldiers tried to make
him use the bandage for his eyes. But he refused with the proud word
“that he had done nothing to make him screen his face.” Then, looking as
his mother always remembered him afterwards, “very handsome and fair and
blooming, with his light hair tossing in the wind, and the open
shirt-neck, emphasising the youth of him,” Willie Neilson went forth to
his death—for Ireland.
* * * * *
Even in the most tragic moments of our history, a certain sense of
humour has never deserted us Irish. It has helped, perhaps, to keep us
sane in the midst of our woes; and it has certainly saved us from the
deplorable sentimentality, which we find so trying in our Teutonic
neighbours (including the Anglo-Saxon) and the emphatic bombast which
tinges with insincerity our Latin cousins. We may be sure there was many
a ludicrous incident in ’98, as in ’16—and the men and women of ’98 had
the same faculty as their descendants of to-day of seeing the humour of
the situation. Some of the jokes of ’98 are current to-day—and since
laughter is as characteristic of life as weeping, I will end my book
with one of them. It comes from the village of Ballyclare, and was first
told in print in the _Shan Van Vocht_.
On the morning of the fight in Antrim the wife of Billy Morrison rose
early and spread the table with the best in the house for her man’s
breakfast. There were fine home-cured bacon, and eggs, and tea, and
potato cake and oaten bread. When Billy had done justice to these good
things, and had his wife’s assurance that his pockets were full of more
of them, for the day’s provisions, he grasped his pike, and rose to go.
Then did his _guid wife_, “in lieu of sentimental, or patriotic, or
pious admonition,” thus address him in valediction:
“Ye hae got as guid a brekfust as ony mon in Ballyclare; sae kill
naebody till they kill you, and then doe for yerself, Billy Morrison.”
One fancies that Billy Morrison gave a good account of himself that day
in Antrim town, and did credit, with his strong pike arm, to his wife’s
good feeding. And so it has not seemed unfitting to evoke, from the
past, her homely sturdy form, and set her even by the side of the tragic
figure of Willie Neilson’s widowed mother. For from the sturdiness of
the one, no less than from the heroism of the other, proceeds the
unconquerable spirit of Ireland.
Finis.
_Printed by_ M. H. GILL & SON, LTD., _Dublin_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).
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