It will be necessary to remark that a conspiracy that had been hatching for several years, from unforeseen circumstances had now been prematurely exploded. My father, with more _hardiesse_ than discretion, declined following the general example of abandoning his home for the comparative safety afforded by town and city. Coming events threw their shadow before, and too unequivocally to be mistaken, but still he sported _deaf adder_. In confidential communication with Dublin Castle, all known there touching the intended movements of the disaffected was not concealed from him. He was, unfortunately, the reverse of an alarmist--proud of his popularity--read his letters--drew his inferences--and came to prompt conclusions. Through his lawyer, a house ready-furnished in Leeson-street was secured. His plate and portable valuables were forwarded to Dublin, and reached their destination safely. Had our hearts been where the treasure was, we should, as in prudence bound, have personally accompanied the silver spoons--but the owner, like many an abler commander, played the waiting game too long. A day sooner would have saved some trouble--but my father had carried habits of absolute action into all the occurrences of daily life. Indecision is, in character, a sad failure, but his weak point ran directly in an opposite direction. He thought, weighed matters hastily, decided in five minutes, and that decision once made, _coute qui coute_, must be carried out to the very letter. He felt all the annoyance of leaving the old roof-tree and its household gods--conflicting statements from the executive--false information from local traitors--an assurance from the priest that no immediate danger might be expected--these, united to a yearning after home, rendered his operations rather Fabian. The storm burst, however, while he still hesitated, or rather, the burning of the mail-coaches and the insurrection were things simultaneous--and my father afterward discovered that he, like many a wiser man, had waited a day too long. Whether the colonel might have dallied still longer is mere conjecture, when a letter marked "haste" was delivered by an orderly dragoon, and in half an hour the "leathern conveniency" was rumbling down the avenue. The journey of the Wronghead family to London--if I recollect the pleasant comedy that details it correctly--was effected without the occurrence of any casualty beyond some dyspeptic consequences to the cook from over-eating. Would that our migration to the metropolis had been as fortunately accomplished!