There was a lull of expectation in Dublin. Reports flew over the city--no one could tell how or whence they came--reports which set quiet citizens quivering in their beds. Hints of murder, rapine, kidnapping, explosion. Rumour swept howling over the city. The Castle would be blown into the air; it was known that the train was laid, that the match was ready. The lives of the Viceroy and his ministers were not worth a groat. What wonder if loyal yeoman souls were yet further set aflame? What wonder if the terrified senate acquiesced without murmuring at the line of action which the loyalists pursued. Soon so many prospective victims choked the alleys of the Riding-school that extra triangles had to be set up elsewhere. The Royal Exchange itself echoed with the thud of the cat; the screams of the victims for mercy could be heard in the viceregal apartments hard by. Happily for Lady Camden's peace of mind, she had fled long since. Soldiers were sent out at free quarters to the right and left, with hints that it would be well that their hosts should not forget their coming. Virgins were tossed naked in blankets, while their fathers and brothers were compelled to watch their shame. The pitch-cap was in daily use; gunpowder was exploded in the hair. A new and splendid jest was invented by a merry dog. Why not _picket_ the recalcitrant scum? What better joke than to poise an insolent fellow barefoot upon a pointed stake? His movements would be mirth-inspiring--so grotesque and comical! The only drawback was (as experiment showed) that he fainted all too soon. No; decidedly there was nothing better than the old-fashioned lash. Men swooned under it no doubt; some died; some went raving mad. But even when these misfortunes chanced there was diversion to be had from the expectant moans of those who were awaiting a like fate. Some even lost consciousness before they were tied up at all. Such a lack of humorous perception was disgusting. Why, a rat in a pit gives sport, though his fate is predetermined. A man, though low-born, should shame to be less plucky than a rat! It was rather amusing, and salutary to a certain point in its results, to shoot down children--babes and sucklings--before their mothers' eyes. Yet no! there was so little variety in the behaviour of the mothers. They all rocked themselves and stretched their palms to heaven. It was monotonous and dull. Even the imagination of the squireens, spurred as it was by enterprising colonels, began to flag. Perhaps, after all, they were not so very much more witty or more inventive than the French in the Reign of Terror. Their superiors grew ashamed of them, forgetting that in our imperfect state there is a limit to the human intellect. They grew ashamed of their own dearth of ingenuity, being by this time so swinish and sodden with alcohol and blood-quaffing, that the English and Scotch regiments turned their backs on them, declining to associate with their Irish comrades at all, even under