In June, the brother, who was in Ireland, was
writing over sketches of rebellion as graphic
as those he had received. He had gone up to
Dublin, and found himself under martial law.
There, was no business doing, and every one had
to be at their homes by nine o'clock. He
accordingly left, and set sail for Wexford in a little
sloop, and found every thing there in consternation.
Only the night before some four thousand
of the insurgents had assembled outside
the town, and he relates, very graphically, the
engagement between them and the two
hundred men of the North Cork Militia, in which
the rebels killed every one of the party but
four. "I should have told you," he adds, in
an oddly placed way, " that my mother is in
Dublin. The whole country became later at
their mercy, and Tom M'Cord and I, and all
the Protestants, retreated into Duncannon; not
that I was a bit afraid of our own people, for
there was nothing they dreaded so much as
being forced, through dire necessity, to join
the insurgents." So he and Tom M'Cord sailed
in a little sloop and got over to Wales. In
his next, he begins that he takes up his pen
"to write the saddest letter you ever did, or, I
hope, you ever will, receive." He gives a little
vignette from this bloody chronicle. "My
Uncle Tom was killed at Arklow charging the
rebels at the head of his troops; but now to
freeze your very blood; my unfortunate Uncle
Cornelius was surrounded and kept a prisoner
in his own house by the rebels, when, in order
to save his life, he supplied them with
provisions; for doing which, when the army was
victorious and retook Wexford, they tried him
by a court-martial for aiding the rebels, and he
was hanged this day week. John Coclough, of
Craig, was also hanged; but he was always
suspected of being a United man. William
Hatten, John May, and many others are
hanged, and, I suppose, all the papist
merchants and gentlemen of Wexford also
suffered. There were many Protestants, who, to
save their own lives, were christened by a
priest, and pretended to side with the rebels:
such as my Uncle Cornelius, Tom Vokes, Tom
Richards, and many more. The women were
not injured anywhere, but were christened."
His brother replied: "Judge of the horror of
this perfidy that condemned the innocent,
while two others were losing their lives in the
service; but, my dear John, this is familiar.
I fear the tears that we have already shed are
not to be so soon dried, for the passions once
roused to the point they are, mutual vengeance
and ferocity produce long-continued effects."
But, presently, the Irish brother had to write that
he was in confinement at Dublin, for there had
been "several attempts made by Tottenham
of Ross and the Protestant ascendancy party
to suborn witnesses to swear against me, but in
vain." He had twice asked to be tried by
court-martial; and Tom M'Cord, the owner
of the sloop, was included in the same warrant,
but had escaped to London. His vessel was
seized and detained.

The exile travelling about the Continent
took these disastrous events very philosophically.
He was sure that justice would
presently "rise from the troubled surf."

The Irish brother was at last enlarged, and,
of course, after such an escape, returned a
frantic loyalist. "I have been here," he writes,
"three weeks, and can't bear almost to look
out, on account of my meeting the
villains of this place, for such a horrid set of
hellhounds never inhabited any country; they were
intent on nothing but blood and murder—the
greatest savages of Africa or America were
civilisation itself compared to them. You
cannot, nor did I, conceive it possible that man
could be so ferocious; as it was, B. Harvey
Keogh and J. C. were repeatedly in most imminent
danger, and Keogh was taken out to be
piked."

A little scene in Dublin. "Last Monday I
met Chas. Tottenham at Waddy's door. I told
him he was the greatest rascal in Ireland, but
I knew he would not take the notice of it a
gentleman ought; he never made the smallest
reply; and on the Friday following I met him
in the same place, and told him the same story,
when he mustered up passion enough to call
me a rascal. I told him he should hear from me;
but he was resolved he should not, for he went
to Judge Downs himself and gave information,
and that evening I was taken into custody and
brought before the judge, and bound in six
thousand pounds to keep the peace for three
years." This abortive attempt at a rencontre
is amusing, but the ingenious mode of giving a
challenge, because the other was goaded into
using the word "rascal," is highly
characteristic. Here is a sketch of the two
maidservants: "Katty and Kitty are at lodgings.
Moll is at present at Solmestown, but she is
to go to Tintern. She is fallen to drink again,
and is not perfectly in her senses. Katty and
she can't agree at all. Katty takes the drop
sometimes herself, and then is rather saucy."
The sale of a borough in these pure days, and
the terms of sale: "It is at length sold to Lord
Lismore and Sir William Meadows—acceptances
for eight thousand pounds payable in
ninety-one days, and five thousand pounds
payable with interest in one year." We get
glimpses of all sorts of strange arrangements,
as "Lord Lismore wants to sell the corporation
of Enniscortay; he asks five hundred
pounds, probably he would take four hundred
pounds."

It was now the year 1806, so that the Lord of
Tintern bids fair to become a regular foreigner.
Nothing could draw him homewards, he was so
absorbed in study and science. He was once more
a détenu, for the war had broken out, and he
seemed to have grown to dislike the notion of
returning. He was devoted to his inventions.
"Such pursuits," he wrote when they were pressing
him to become a candidate for his county,
"excite neither envy nor gratitude," which was
something in the shape of an epigram, "and
to them I owe my present tranquillity." For
the silk manufacturers of a town memorialised
the government, with the legal authorities of
the place, that he should be allowed to reside
on parole, an exception to the treatment of the