Some odd memories of the Rebellion.

Reminiscences of the Rebellion.

The same hand which conveyed the foregoing traditional details from the Rev. S. F. Shearman, also brought to us from a venerable old lady, Mrs Anstace O’Byrne, a packet containing some curious reminiscences of the rebellion. We insert this document the more readily, inasmuch as it refers to persons and places already named in the text:-

An Informer’s Skeleton Dancing A Jig - Lord Edward - Bond - Sirr - A Camp Frolic In ‘98

What strange sights children sometimes get to see! Some years more than half a century ogo, the writer made one of a merry group of children who were frequently brought on summer evenings, by the middle-aged attendant who bad them in charge, to walk and play in “The College Park.” I do not know if the term is still used in common parlance in Dublin, but it then denoted all the greensward comprised within the boundary walls of Old Trinity, and appeared to be much greater in extent than now, and to hold trees of much larger girth than any to be found there at present.

One well-remembered evening our play was interrupted; the little stragglers were collected with a great air of mystery; powerful injunctions to silence were inculcated; we were told “we must be very good and quiet, as we were going to see ‘The ‘Natomy Honse,’” so the good woman called it, and so we duly called it after her until better instructed. What “The ‘Natomy House” meant, we neither knew nor cared; it involved something hitherto unknown, and we cheerfully followed our guide.

With stealthy steps, and sundry furtive glances around, which puzzled us amazingly, she led us to the door of a gloomy-looking house which, I suppose, it was not *en regle *that such visitors should enter. It was a square block of building made, I think, of a decayed-looking, blackish stone. I imagine it must have been long since removed, for, on a late research, I vainly essayed to find either it or the site on which it stood.

We were admitted to its interior by the guardian spirits of the place, a man and woman who had the care of, and, I believe, resided there. We soon entered that chamber of horrors, the Anatomical Museum of Trinity College, Dublin. The picture of it retained by my memory is that of a very lofty and very spacious apartment, the centre of which was cumbered and blocked up in some strange way which left only a margin of walk round the sides of the room; these sides had rows of shelves all round, filled with mysterious-looking glass vases.

My latest piece of reading just then had been a story by Madame de Genlis, ill which one of Charlemagne’s Paladins had gone on a tour of discovery to some mysterious chamber in search of a vase said to contain the senses of his friend Astolpho, who had gone demented; and which, having secured, he was taking off, when to his amazement he perceived another vase as duly labelled, which purported to contain his own senses, which he did not know he had lost. I immediately took it for granted that this was the kind of apartment visited by the renowned Roland, and enjoyed the roam through it very much. I merely record this little item to mark how easily the imagination of a child can be tinged by the mental aliment with which it is supplied.

But the great sight of the evening which our conductress had come to see was the skeleton of Jemmy O’Brien the informer dancing with that of an Irish giant; yes, suspended by the necks, there dangled from the ceiling of that apartment two skeletons, one a third part, or more, longer than the other. The rope by which they were fastened descended from their necks in a gradual slope to within three or four feet of the floor of the room at opposite ends.

By some mechanical contrivance, or perhaps a simple pulling of the rope by the man in charge, the fleshless forms immediately commenced to sway about above us with an easy undulating kind of motion, as if dancing to slow music. I could not convey an idea of the solemn grace with which these evolutions were performed; those of the Irish giant attracted most the attention of the juveniles. In scriptural lessons they had learned that a giant named Goliath had been killed by a boy called David; and in the juvenile literature of the day giants figured largely, and if not the most amiable, were certainly the most striking characters of the current stories. Of Jemmy O’Brien they never heard before that eventful evening; and even then nothing, except that “he was an informer,” and “that was his skiliton dancin’ up there.” I would like much to learn the antecedents of that remnant of an Irish giant; also if it is still above its parent earth, or has returned to the dust from whence it came.

It was many years after this visit, when I was mentioning to an aged relative my surprise that so steady a woman as the servant who brought us would lead children to a place so likely to produce a nervous shock, I was informed that her husband had been “done to death” by some of O’Brien’s *informations in one of the insurrectionary periods *gone by. Hence, when she was apprised through her acquaintance that the skeleton of her ancient enemy occasionally performed the evolutions here recorded, she was seized with a morbid desire to witness them, and gladly availed herself of the afforded opportunity, without consulting the friends of her young charge, on the fitness of the sight for them. With this ray of light on the subject, I could not avoid thinking how painful to the poor woman, who held such a hidden sorrow in her heart, must have been the glee of her young companions.

I never chanced to meet with more than one person who had seen Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Pamela, and hers was but a passing glance from a street-corner during a period of excitement, when, like O’Connell on stirring occasions in later times, the patriot could not move through the streets without being gazed at and followed by admiring crowds.

On this occasion, Lord Edward was seated in a very high phaeton, with the beautiful Pamela beside him. He held the reins, and was driving at a very dashing pace through College Green and Dame Street in the direction of the Castle; and having only just brought her home as his bride from France, Pamela shared with him the plaudits of the people. With respect to the lady, I could only elicit from my informant that “she was beautiful” without any particular definition; but Lord Edward was vividly described as a smart, light, dapper-looking man, with boyish features, which beamed with delight at the cheers of the multitude, and the admiration excited by the beauty of Pamela. With respect to the attire of either personage, nothing dwelt on memory, but that Lord Edward “wore a green silk or tabinet kerchief round his neck, tied with very large bows, and very conspicuous-looking.”

Oliver Bond was a very comely, portly-looking man, noted for having very handsome legs, of which he was thought to be a trifle vain, and he always wore silk stockings, which displayed them to the best advantage. But it would scarcely be fair to infer from the above souvenir that handsome legs and silk stockings were scarce about the period of 1798. Clonskeagh Castle, the first demesne residence beyond Clonskeagh Bridge to the right, now occupied by David Thompson, Esq., J.P., was, at the period of the rebellion, the residence of Mr Jackson, the father-in-law of Oliver Bond; their tombs are side by side in the churchyard of St Michan’s, Church Street, Dublin, - the inscription on Bond’s being simply, “An honest man is the noblest work of God.”

Clonskeagh Castle was, during the reign of terror, searched by Major Sirr, and sacked by his myrmidons, who made so free with the fine wines in the cellar, that they were rushing inebriated through the streets of Dublin, and could not be quieted down for two or three days.

I often saw “the Major,” but never until he was far advanced in life, when it was usual for him to pass daily, about one o’clock or so, to his demesne residence at Cullenswood, from his apartments at the Castle of Dublin. He generally went through Dame Street, George Street Aungier Street &c. instead of the more fashionable line of College Green, Grafton Street, &c. As I did not see him walking, I could form no idea of his figure. In the car, he was always wrapped up in a large dark blue camlet or cloth cloak.

His face was rather bony looking, his colour high; he had a stern, hut not repulsive countenance, and should be accounted the remnant of a handsome man. Without knowing who he was, I suspected that he was some remarkable person, and when. I at last heard his name, which, strange as the fact may seem, I had often asked in vain, my informant told me also sundry of the on *dits *which were current regarding him - viz., that he never went out without steel armour under his clothes, and purposely wore the cloak to conceal his figure, lest shots might he aimed at him by some avenging hand, - that he could not sleep by night, - that the periods at which I saw him were when he was going to “his country house to take a few hours’ sleep in the broad daylight,” having accomplished which feat he always returned to dine in Dublin, and there sought to wile away the night hours in the pleasures of society.

The sundry nods and shakes of head which accompanied these *on dits *served to convey the idea that this strange mode of life was the result of a troubled conscience. I had at hand no means by which to test these reports, and just give them as a sample of opinions which were afloat in Dublin forty years ago respecting “the Major” in the minds of some who have ceased to exist.

A man who witnessed the occurrence told me that, during the last year of Major Sirr’s presidency at the head police-office, some chance business led him to enter just as “the Major” was sentencing to temporary imprisonment an aged weather-beaten forlorn-looking female, who was accused of having been troublesome over night, in consequence of a visit she paid to Sir John Barleycorn. On hearing the sentence, she gave a weird kind of shout, and commenced a long and loud recapitulation of sundry objectionable acts committed by “the Major” in the year 1798. The recital, whilst permitted to last, had a powerful effect on the old man, who placed his hands on his ears, looked helplessly about for a moment, and then shouted to the police, “Take her away ! take her away! For H---n’s sake take her away!”

Some twelve years ago I visited th. large camp field which forms portion of a farm then occupied by the late Mrs E B , of Loughaunstown, near Cabinteely, and now in the possession of her daughter. From the field I proceeded to the little ruined church of Tullagh or Tully Beg, which overlooks it, and, after reading the inscription on a large, well-preserved, fiat gravestone at the upper end, belonging to a family of the name of Walsh, heard the traditional particulars which follow respecting a former tenant of that tomb.

A young girl, a member of the Walsh family, who, though moving in the middle sphere of life, was, most probably, from the burial-place selected, a descendant of the ancient branch of the “Walshes of Carrickmayne,” (now Carricknimes,) died some years previous to the memorable era of 1798. When summoned to the tomb, she was in the bloom of youthful beauty, and had a reputation for such rare sanctity, that her friends considered her a saint, and departed from the precincts of her grave, having the darkness of their sorrow for her loss brightened by the hope of her salvation.

The course of some years again brought to the lonely ruined church a funeral train, bearing to that grave the chill form of another member of the Walsh family. The covering stone was removed, and the grave-digger plied his dreary task until his spade struck on the lid of the coffin of Miss Walsh. When the earth was cleared away, it was discovered that his sturdy strokes had shattered the roof of her frail resting-place. When the loose boards were removed a strange sight was revealed to the awe-stricken beholders. “Decay’s’ effacing fingers” had not touched the features of the fair girl who had been so long a denizen of the tomb; they still wore the look of calm unspotted beauty and innocence which had been their character in life, and the bystanders murmured in low tones, “She must be a saint.”

When the emotion of the grouped people had somewhat subsided, the boards were reverently replaced, the new claimant for the grave deposited, the clay, with perhaps a lighter touch than usual, flung over both coffins, the tombstone was replaced, and the funeral train departed, leaving to her quiet sleep

“The loveliest corpse amongst the dead.”

The marvel reached the neighbouring hamlets, and the villagers would frequently visit and occasionally point out to strangers what they fondly called “The Saint’s Grave.”

But that grave was doomed to be desecrated. The memorable year of 1798 brought a crowd of British troops, under orders from Lord Carhampton, to bivouac in the adjoining celebrated Camp Field, in which the army of King James II. had once encamped, and had remained for several days after the battle of the Boyne.

The tradition of the unspoiled beauty of the fair sleeper in the tomb within the old church which overlooked their camping place, reached the ears of the soldiers, and awakened such an unreverent curiosity, that one night when the watch-fires were blazing high, and the maddening glass was circulating freely in the tents of the officers, a godless band of them rushed forth exclaiming that “they would bring the young beauty down from her cold tomb to grace their revels.”

It is the traditional belief of the neighbourhood that they kept their word, and dug up, and brought to the scene of their orgies, the form which death had spared. I was naturally anxious to learn the conclusion of this strange tale, but its narrator not being the “oldest inhabitant,” I could only further glean from her that the form of Miss ‘Walsh was never seen more. [We have heard it traditionally stated that the soldiers converted Miss Walsh’s corpse into a target for ball practice. The military, including Captain Armstrong, who betrayed the Sheares, were encamped here in 1798; and it was part of Armstrong’s proposal to Sheares to gain over the soldiers, and betray the camp at Loughaunstown to the rebelforces, - W. J. F.]

I feel regret that I did not copy the inscription on the tombstone, as it most probably held the dates of the respective deaths of the members of the family, and thus told how long the body of Miss Walsh had lain in the grave before the secret of its preservation was discovered.

There was a respectable Protestant family in Dublin named Clements, consisting of several brothers, of whom two served as yeomen, and two joined the rebel ranks as United Irishmen. A suspected croppy, while undergoing severe flogging in Beresford’s Riding School in presence of a strong detachment of military and yeomanry, confessed that “two young men named Clements had been sworn in as rebels.” The two brothers, who were present in the capacity of yeomanry, took no action in the matter; but a jeweller, named Neville, who lived in Stafford Street, and who was also on the spot with his corps, left the riding school on some pretext, and gave warning to the young men who were implicated, just in time to save them from arrest. The Earl and Countess of Moira, who resided on Usher’s Island, had popular sympathies; in the hurry of the dilemma Lady Moira was appealed to for protection: she opened her house to receive the young Clements, and they remained under her generous roof until the troubled season had passed over. This anecdote is given on the authority of Mr G---n, a well-known and esteemed solicitor of Dublin, whose mother was the sister of the brothers Clements. Moira House, the scene of so much stirring incident in days gone by, is now an institution for mendicants; but it is reduced in height, the top story having been removed.

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