In general their aim was revenge, not plunder; but a few of the most hardened and daring of them were regular robbers and house-breakers—a gang of six or seven of whom were apprehended while I was there, and sent into jail. At the ensuing assizes they were tried; one or two got off through want of evidence, and others were transported for life. I happened to be present when the trial of one of them came on, who, from his activity and forwardness in their depredations, was considered a ringleader. If I recollect right, there was some murder connected with the robbery with which he was charged. I do not now remember the exact particulars of his trial, but I cannot forget the boldness and audacity of his conduct while at the bar. Evidence after evidence was examined, and although there was much circumstantial proof of his guilt, yet there seemed to be a connecting link wanting, without which it must fall to the ground. One evidence (a woman) had been repeatedly called, but she did not appear; and the eye of the prisoner beamed triumph and defiance. The public prosecutor stood up to close his case. ‘He was compelled to own,’ he said, ‘that it had been but imperfectly made out, and he would therefore not trouble’—At this moment a bustle was heard in the court. ‘Make way for the witness,’ said the crier, and she stood before them. All were surprised; but I cannot convey an idea of the effect her appearance had upon the prisoner; he stood as if turned into stone, his face grew deadly pale, and he reeled back from the bar, while, with a convulsive fetch of his breath, he uttered, ‘I am sold.’ She went on with her evidence; it was clear and conclusive, and filled up every blank. The prisoner had recovered himself, and stood listening to her story with his livid lips strongly compressed, his hands clenched, and the cold sweat standing on his forehead. When she concluded, he caught her eye as she turned to descend from the table, and gave her a withering look, full of deadly revenge, and summoning up his remaining energy for the effort, he uttered a curse upon her, with an emphasis worthy of a demon, and sunk back in the dock. He was sentenced to death. There is little time allowed in Ireland between sentence and execution, and this he employed in steeling his mind to every feeling. On the morning of his execution, his relations from the country were admitted to see him; they had drank whisky before they came in, to drown their grief, and a scene took place between them and the dying man, which, were I to attempt to draw in the ludicrous light it was presented, would not be credited. The drop was in front of the jail, and his relations accompanied him to the foot of the stairs he had to ascend: as they parted with him, ‘Here, Murthy,’ said he, shuffling off his shoes, ‘take them—no hangman rascal shall get my shoes.’