Lord Edward's Dagger, John Sheares, Ilchester Pak.

Chapter II

Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s dagger - United Irishmen: the Apologia of John Sheares - Doctor Dobbin’s kind deeds - The story of the Ilchester oak - An outlaw sportsman: his narrow escape and sad ending.

To return to my brother - the tone of those early verses, from which I have given quotations, as well as that of some of his later ballads, was due to his mother, who, as a girl, had been in her heart more or less a rebel. She told him of the hard fate which, in 98, befel many of those whom she knew and admired. She told him much of Lord Edward Fitzgerald and the fight he made for his life, and showed him the dagger with which he fought for it. It is many years now since she gave me that dagger, and with it the following written account of how it came into her possession:-

“I was almost a child when I possessed myself of the dagger with which Lord Edward Fitzgerald had defended himself so desperately at the time of his arrest. The circumstances connected with it are these: - Mrs. Swan, wife of Major Swan (Deputy Town Major), was a relative of my mother. Our family constantly visited at her house in North Great George’s Street. My mother often took my younger sister and me there. I often heard Major Swan describe the dreadful struggle in which he had himself received a severe wound from the dagger which he had succeeded in wresting from Lord Edward, and which he took a pleasure in showing as a trophy. The dreadful conflict is described in the Annual Register, and in the journald of the day. The death-wound which Lord Edward received, and the death of Captain Ryan, are known to every one. The character of Lord Edward, the position which he held, and his tragical death, the domestic happiness which he had enjoyed, and the affection in which he held those near to him, I need not describe. When I saw the dagger in the hands with which Lord Edward had striven in the last fatal struggle for life or death, I felt that it was not rightfully his who held it, and wished it were in other hands. Wishes soon changed into plans, and I determined, if possible, to get it. I knew the spot in the front drawing-room where it was laid, and one evening, after tea, when Major Swan and his guests were engaged in conversation in the back drawing-room, I walked into the front drawing-room, to the spot where it was. I seized it and thrust it into my bosom, inside my stays. I returned to the company, where I had to sit for an hour, and then drove home a distance of three miles. As soon as we left the house I told my sister, who was beside me, what I had done. As soon as we got home, I rushed up to the room which my sister and I occupied, and, having secured the door, I opened one of the seams in the feather bed, took out the dagger, and plunged it among the feathers. For upwards of 12 years I lay every night upon the bed which contained my treasure. When I left home I took it with me, and it has been my companion in all the vicissitudes of life. When he missed it Major Swan was greatly incensed, and not without apprehensions that it had been taken to inflict a deadly revenge upon him. Had he taken harsh measures against the servants, whom he might have suspected, I had resolved to confess that I had taken it; but after a time his anger and uneasiness subsided. I have often seen and heard this dagger described as a most extraordinary weapon, and have been ready to laugh when I heard it so described. Moore mentions it in his life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, as being in the possession of some other family. He is quite mistaken. This is the very dagger, which had not been many months in Major Swan’s hands, when it became mine in manner above described.

“Emma L. Le Fanu.

“April, 1847.”

It will be seen from this what an enthusiastic admirer of ‘lord Edward my mother was. There were two other United Irishmen whom she knew well; they were the brothers Sheares, whose base and cruel betrayal by another United Irishman, who was their trusted friend and companion, caused such intense indignation amongst all who knew them. They were barristers and men of good position and means, sons of Henry Sheares, M.P., a banker in Cork, and were friends of my mother’s father, the Rev. Doctor Dobbin. A short time before the capture of Lord Ed ward Fitzgerald they, with 12 other leaders of the insurrectionary movement, were arrested. The two brothers were tried for high treason and convicted, and were executed on the 14th of July, 1799. Amongst other letters of theirs I have two, which I give below, written, the one just before his sentence, the other the night before his execution, by John, the younger of the brothers” The first is to a Mr. Flemyng, a relative of my grandfather, the second to my grandfather himself.

“July 12, ‘98.

“Dear Harry,

“As I well know what will be my fate to-day, I enclose you a letter for my dear sister, which I request you will give her as soon after my execution as you shall think prudent. To such dear friends as you and William are, I know it is unnecessary to recommend my afflicted family, and particularly my ever-revered mother. I will require the performance of Doctor Dobbin’s kind promise as soon as I feel myself fit to receive him. I did intend giving into your hands a short defence relative to some points in which I know I shall be vilely calumniated. But I have not had time, as I prepared every syllable of our defence, and wrote letters, etc., etc. One of you ought to be present at my execution, yet this is too much to ask. No, I must endure misrepresentation - the hearts of my friends will justify me. Farewell, my ever kind, my ever valued friends. I am called to court. Farewell for ever.

“Yours affectionately,

“John Sheares.”

“To the Rev. Doctor Dobbin, D.D.

“Newgate, 12 o’clock at night,

“July 13th, 1798.

“My Dear Sir,

“As to-morrow is appointed for the execution of my brother and me, I shall trouble you with a few words on the subject of the writing produced on my trial, importing to be a proclamation. The first observation I have to make is that a considerable part of that scrolled production was suppressed on my trial, from what motive or whether by accident I will not say. Certain it is that the part which has not appeared must have in a great measure shown what the true motives were that caused that writing, if it had been produced. To avoid a posthumous calumny, in addition to the many and gross misrepresentations of my principles, moral and political, I shall state, with the most sacred regard to truth, what my chief objects were in writing, or rather in attempting to write it, for it is but a wretched patched and garbled attempt. It was contained in a sheet of paper, and in one or two pieces more which are not forthcoming.

“The sheet alone has been produced. It is written in very violent revolutionary language, because, as it in the outset imports, after a revolution had taken place could it alone be published. And the occurrence of suck an event I thought every day more probable. The first sentence that has produced much misrepresentation is that which mentions that some of the most obnoxious members of Government have already paid the forfeit of their lives. I cannot state the words exactly. From this it is concluded that I countenanced assassination. Gracious God! but I shall simply answer that this sentence was merely supposititous, and founded on the common remark, oftenest made by those who least wished it verified, that if the people had ever recourse to force and succeeded, there were certain persons whom they would most probably destroy. The next most obnoxious sentence, more obnoxious to my feelings, because calculated to misrepresent the real sentiments of my soul, is that which recommends to give no quarter to those who fought against their native country, unless they should speedily join the standard of freedom.* [In the original a line is drawn with the pen through these words.] With this latter part of the sentence I found two faults, and therefore draw my pen over it as above. The first fault was that the word ‘speedily’ was too vague, and might encourage the sanguinary immediately to deny quarter, which is the very thing the sentence was intended to discountenance and prevent. The next fault was that it required more than ever should be required of any human being, namely, to fight against his opinions from fear. The sentence was intended to prevent the horrid measure of refusing quarter from being adopted by appearing to acquiesce in it at some future period, when the inhuman thirst for it should no longer exist. But as the sentence now stands, in two parts of the sheet, it would appear as if it sought to enforce the measure I most abhor. To prevent it was in fact one of my leading motives for writing the address. But I had also three others, that are expressed in the pieces of paper which made part of the writing, but which, though laid in the same desk, have disappeared. The three objects alluded to are these: the protection of property, preventing the indulgence of revenge, and the strict forbiddance of injuring any person for religions differences. I know it is said that I call on the people to take *vengeance *on their oppressors, and enumerate some of their oppressions; but this is the very thing that enables me to describe the difference between *private revenge *and *public vengeance. *The former has only a retrospective and malignant propensity, while the latter, though animated by a recollection of the past, has ever, and only, in view the removal of the evil and of its possibility of recurrence. Thus the assassin revenges himself, but the patriot avenges his country of its enemies by overthrowing them and depriving them of all power again to hurt it. In the struggle some of their lives may fall, but these are not the objects of his vengeance. In short, the Deity is said, in this sense, to be an *avenging *Being, but who deems Him revengeful?

“Adieu, my dear sir. Let me entreat you, whenever an opportunity shall occur, that you will justify my principles on these points.

“Believe me,

“Your sincere friend,

“John Sheares.”

The Doctor Dobbin referred to in the first of these letters was my grandfather. He had been a Fellow of Trinity College, “Dublin, but he resigned his fellowship in order to take to him a wife (the fellows had then to be celibate). The wife he took was Miss Catherine Coote, of Ash Hill Towers, in the county of Limerick, aunt of the late Sir Charles Coote. She died before I was born, but him I can remember well - a very small man in a full-bottomed wig, knee-breeches, black silk stockings, buckles in his shoes, and in his hand a gold-headed cane. He was long remembered in Dublin and its neighbourhood for his goodness and kindness to the poor, and many stories were told of his simplicity and charity. Once a man was begging at his carriage window; he had no change about him, so he handed the man a guinea, and said to him, “Go, my poor man, get me change of that, and I will give you a shilling.” I need hardly say he saw that beggar’s face no more. Another day his wife, on coming tome, found him in the hall with his bands behind his back. She soon perceived that he was hiding something from her, and insisted on knowing what it was. He timidly brought out from behind his back a leg of mutton which had been roasting in the kitchen, and which he had surreptitiously removed from the spit to give to a poor woman who was waiting at the door.

In our earlier days at Abington our favourite haunts for nutting and bird-nesting were the Glen and the Old Deer Park of Cappercullen, which now form part of Glenstal, Sir Charles Barrington’s picturesque demesne. In the Old Park there stood, and still stands, the Ilchester oak, one great bough of which stretched just to the edge of the drive, and there came nearly to the ground. Many a time we sat on this great bough, as many a boy and girl had done before, and by touching our feet to the ground, made it spring up and down; it was a perfect spring-board. I did not then know how the old tree had got its name, but many years afterwards I was told this story by my father-in-law, Sir Matthew Barrington:- **

The Ilchester Oak**

‘Tis well nigh a hundred years, perhaps more, since Cappercullen House was tenanted by a widower named Grady - not rich, but of an old and honoured family. He had one only daughter, Mary, the prettiest and merriest little maid in all that countryside, one of whose favourite sports was riding on this old oak bough. Prettier and prettier year by year the maiden grew, till, when just 17, at her first dance at a Limerick race ball, she was declared by all to be the loveliest and the brightest girl in the county, which was then, and I believe still is, famous for the beauty of its lasses. It was there she met young Lord Stavordale, eldest son of Lord Ilehester, who had just joined his regiment, and whose admiration she at once attracted. Afterwards they often met, for he lost no opportunity of seeing her as often as he could. He would ride out to Cappercullen, and join her in her walks with her father through the Glen and the Old Deer Park. Soon he loved her with all the ardour of first love. Grady saw that his daughter liked the bright and handsome young fellow, but knowing that Lord Ilchester would be sure to object to his eldest son marrying the daughter of a poor Irishman, and fearing that his daughter’s affections should become too deeply engaged, he wrote to Lord Ilchester to the following effect:- “My Lord, I hope you will pardon the liberty I take in writing to you about your son. My only excuse is the great interest I take in the young man, and my fear that if he remains in Limerick he is likely to be involved in an unpleasant scrape. I would, therefore, most strongly advise you to have him moved elsewhere as soon as possible, and I trust to your honour that you will not tell him that I have written to you, or mention to him the subject of this letter.” He received a reply full of gratitude in which Lord Ilchester said that he regretted that he might probably never have an opportunity of thanking him in person for his kindness, but had requested his old friend, Colonel Prendergast, who was likely ere long to be in the south of Ireland, to call upon him to convey to him his thanks more fully than he could do by letter. Young Stavordale immediately disappeared from Limerick. The poor girl heard no more of him. She tried to be bright and cheery with her father, but he saw that her spirits sank, and that day by day she grew paler and more sad. Thus things went on for some months, when, late in autumn, a letter came from Colonel Prendergast to say that he expected to be in Limerick on the following Friday, and would, at Lord Ilchester’s request, call to see Mr. Grady on Saturday, if he would receive him. Grady wrote to say he would be delighted to see him, and hoped he would be able to arrange to stay for some little time at Cappercullen. The colonel arrived accordingly, and it was soon settled that he would stay for a week. At once he took a fancy to the girl, and many a walk they had together, and every day he was more charmed by her pale but lovely face, her gentle manners, and her pretty ways. The week was soon over, and the morning of his departure had arrived. Before leaving, he asked his host whether he could allow him to have a few words with him in private. When they were alone -

“I hope,” he said, “you will forgive me for speaking to you about your daughter. I have been closely observing her, and, though you do not seem to see it, I greatly fear she is far from strong. I dread the winter here for her, and I venture to urge you strongly to take her to a warmer climate for a time.”

“I am greatly obliged for the interest you take in my girl,” said Grady; “but I am glad to say you are quite mistaken as to her health. I am convinced that there is nothing serious the matter with her, and trust she will very soon be as well as ever.”

“I am afraid you are deceived,” said the other. “She is so pale, and at times so depressed and sad, that I fear she is more seriously ill than you suppose.”

“I see,” said Grady. “I may as well tell you, in the strictest confidence, what is really the matter with her; but you must promise never to let Lord Ilchester know what I now tell you. It was about her that young Stavordale was making a fool of himself; it is about him that she is depressed, but as she has never heard of or from him since he left, she will very soon get over it.”

Colonel Prendergast at once said, “My dear sir, you must really allow me to tell Lord Ilchester. I am certain if he knew what a charming girl, in every way, your daughter is, he would be only too glad that she should be his son’s wife.”

“No,”* *said Grady; “you must never tell him. I know he would never consent to that.”

“But I know he would,” said the other, “for I am Lord Ilchester, and shall be proud to have such a wife for my son.”

So they were wed, and many happy years* *they spent together. Long years have passed, and they are dead and gone; but the old Ilchester oak still stands in Cappercullen Park to remind us of them; and from this marriage are descended the present Earl of Ilchester and the Marquis of Lansdowne.

I give the story as it was told to me. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of all the details, but the main facts I believe to be perfectly true. Some years ago I told it to Miss Jephson, now Mrs. Boyle, and from it she took the plot of her charming novel, “An April Day.”

Soon after we went to Abington there was, in our neighbourhood, a famous outlaw named Kirby, who was “on his keeping;” that is, in hiding from the police. He had been engaged in any number of agrarian outrages, amongst them the shooting of a landlord near Nenagh. The Government had offered a large reward for his capture, and the magistrates and police in the district were doing all in their power to take him. In his early days he had been passionately fond of races, hunts, and sports of every sort; and even now, when a price was set on his head, he could, sometimes, not resist the temptation of going to a hunt or coursing match. At some of these he narrowly escaped capture. Our friend and neighbour, Mr. Coote, who was a magistrate as well as a clergyman, on coming home from a coursing match, said to one of his men, “Who was that fine-looking fellow that was so active at the match?” “It’s well for him,” said the man, “that your honour didn’t know him. That was Kirby.”

Perhaps the narrowest escape Kirby bad was one that also happened very near us. His mother, whom he rarely ventured to visit, lived in a one-roomed cottage about a mile from us, with her only other child, a daughter. One Sunday Kirby arrived, and, after much pressure from his mother, whom he had npt seen for a long time, he consented to stay with her till the next day. Meantime an informer, hoping to secure the reward, went into Limerick and told Major Vokes that Kirby was almost certain to be at his mother’s that night. Vokes held a position under Government analogous to that now held by a stipendiary magistrate. He was the most active magistrate in the south, and had detected more crime and brought more offenders to justice than any man in Ireland; and knowing how much it would add to his fame if he could arrest Kirby, he had often before searched the Widow Kirby’s house for him, but never found any one there but herself and her daughter.

On this Sunday evening Kirby’s sister, most fortunately for the outlaw, had gone to a wake in the neighbourhood, and stayed out all night. The old woman had gone to bed, and Kirby was sitting by the fire, his pistols on the table beside him. For some years he had seldom spent a night in the house. When he did so, he sat, as he now was sitting, by the turf fire, where the slightest sound was sure to awake him. His mother had not long been in bed when he heard the sound of a horse and car approaching the house. He sprang to his feet and seizing the pistols, said to his mother -

“At any rate I’ll have the life of one of them before I’m taken.”

Whisht, you fool!” said his mother. “Here, be quick!” put on Mary’s cap, take your pistols with you. Jump into bed, turn your face to the wall, and lave the rest to me.”

He was scarcely in bed when there was a loud knocking at the door, which his mother, having lit a rush, opened as quickly as possible.

In came Major Yokes, accompanied by two constables, who had driven from Limerick with him. “Where is your son?” said Yokes.

“Plaze God, he’s far enough from ye. It’s welcome ye are this night,” she said. “And thanks be to the Lord it wasn’t yestherday ye came; for it’s me and Mary there that strove to make him stop the night wid us; but thank God he was afeared.”

They searched the house but did not like to disturb the young girl in bed, and finding nothing, went, sadly disappointed, back to Limerick. The news of Kirby’s escape spread through the country. Vokes was much chaffed, but Kirby never slept another night in his mother’s house.

It was some months after this that the wife of a farmer who lived near Doon called one morning and asked to see our neighbour, Mr. Coote. When she came into his study, she said -

“Your reverence, could they do anything to Kirby if he was dead?”

“How could they, my good woman. What do you mean?”

“It’s what I was afeared, your reverence, that they might send his body to the prison to be dissected by the doctors.”

Mr. Coote, whom she thoroughly trusted, assured her that nothing of the kind could happen.

“Then,” said she, “come with me and I’ll show him to you dead.”

He went to her house with her, and there he saw, lying dead on the bed, the fine young fellow whom he had, not long before, seen at the coursing match.

“When and how did he die ?” he asked.

“Last night,” they said, “he was stopping with us, and when he heard steps coming towards the house, thinking it might be the peelers, he ran out through the back-door, with his pistol in his hand, into the little wood. We heard a shot after he went, but we didn’t much mind it at the time; but this morning we found him lying dead in the wood, with his foot caught in the briar that tripped him.”

In his fall the pistol must have gone off. He was shot through the heart. I do not recollect a larger funeral than his.

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