'82), Lord Cornwallis wrote that he was no better than an old doll. The jaws of the ancient lion were toothless. 'Grattan,' he said, 'degraded as he is in the opinion of the respectable portion of the community, yet has a certain influence with the Roman Catholics of Dublin, who are disaffected, and hate British connection.' Of Curran also he felt no dread, for the little man was no longer in parliament--his silver tongue was gagged; he was apparently worn out by his efforts on behalf of the state-prisoners--was sickening (as he put it) with a 'constitutional dejection of the heart, which could find no remedy in water or in wine.' No wonder if he felt unwell. He saw members moved, like beasts, in droves--a picture of human degradation never equalled since Nebuchadnezzar went to grass. Practically the question was already settled long before young Robert looked out for the running up of the new flag. Not but what the Dublin populace were quite prepared for riot. They seized private carriages and tossed them into the Liffey; marched about with political effigies, and danced round the bonfires which consumed them. All this was very harmless vapouring in the eyes of those who yet heard the shrieks of the victims of '98--yet saw the Reign of Terror, with its pitch-caps, its cardings, its picketings, and triangles. No one took heed of the street mobs, even though my Lord Clare himself, in his carelessness, came once quite near to danger. It was on the morning of one of the last struggles. The debate had lasted, without a pause, for eighteen hours, and the members were wearily dispersing, when the crowd manifested a desire to 'shilloo' the speaker, who had behaved with refreshing patriotism. His horses were taken from his carriage, a hundred men dashed forward to seize the pole. At this moment the lord chancellor appeared upon the steps, with insolent chin in air, dressed in his great flapped wig and rustling laced robes. 'Harness him to the carriage!' cried a wag. My Lord Clare started round with an indignant reprimand; but perceiving from his vantage-ground a sea of some ten thousand threatening heads, he retreated backwards with caution, as a countryman might do before a bull, flourishing a toy-pistol in his hand, with which he swore to blow out the brains of the first man who came within six paces of him. The extraordinary pageant moved slowly along; so singular a spectacle that it tickled the humorous side of the Hibernian character--the lord chancellor of Ireland walking backwards through the mud, holding up his robes with one hand lest he should trip over them, pointing with the other a tiny firearm at ten thousand enemies. Sure, this alone was a glorious triumph for King Mob. Choosing his moment, he whisked with a swift dash into a house, the door of which withstood the battering of myriad kicks until Lord Clare made good his escape by a back way. But there were mobs and mobs, in Dublin as elsewhere. This one happened to be a good-tempered