that _I_ want!” and plunged a pike into his lordship’s body. It was at this period, it is asserted, that Mr. Emmet, and the other leaders, who had been somewhat more than an hour engaged in a task far beyond their powers, retired in despair at finding all command disregarded, all efforts to produce subordination ineffectual; and their favorite project of seizing the castle rejected for the slightest opportunity that occurred of indulging the predatory disposition of their associates to rapine and murder. It has been urged in their favour, that shocked and disgusted at the murder of Lord Kilwarden, the chiefs instantaneously came to the resolution of abandoning their unprincipled followers. A detachment of the regular army coming up now, commenced a brisk fire on the remaining insurgents, and obliged them, after a short resistance, to seek safety in flight. A party of soldiers, stationed at the Coombe, under Lieutenant Douglas, was attacked by the mob who were retiring from Thomas-street, and made to give way after a severe skirmish. At this attack the bravery of a venerable old man shone conspicuous; his son was attacked and sorely pressed by the bayonet of one of the soldiers, and would inevitably have been sacrificed, had not the parent, who saw his danger, stept in and received the blow intended for the son. The soldier suffered the fate he gave; he was piked instantaneously by the infuriate youth, who retired with agonized feelings, leaving the two bodies side by side,—sad mementos of the effects of bad laws and misgovernment. It was never exactly known the numbers of lives lost on this night; it is supposed, however, there could not be less than eighty, including the loss on both sides. Emmet fled to the mountains; he arrived in time to prevent a contemplated rising of the insurgents. Immediately after, he and the other leaders in the conspiracy met in a glen in the Wicklow mountains, to consult on plans of future operations. “We had just gained the ascent of a lofty hill, on our way to the place of meeting, when a shrill whistle, apparently not far distant, brought us to a full stop, and in an instant, a dozen men started up, as if by some magical agency from the heath around us. “Your name and business?” demanded a gloomy-looking figure who stood before us, wrapped up in a great cloak. “Our names and business?” repeated Denis: ‘maybe we’ve neither; what would you have then?’ “Your life!” replied our interrogator, approaching us with a pistol in each hand. “Hold!” exclaimed a man rushing between us, “these are friends. You _spalpeen_, don’t you know Denis Howlan?” “Faith, Captain Dwyer,” said my companion, with the utmost _sang froid_, “it just is Denis Howlan himself, and this is a real friend of Giniral Emmet, though it is not himself that’s in it as he hasn’t got on his own clothes.”