that the hopeless struggle would end once for
all, and that he might sink down to the very
bottom of the dark waters of his well. Surely
if to the man who saves another's life by defence
with a strong arm and sword, peculiar recognition
is due, much honour is due to the lawyer fighting
for his charge hour by hour, inch by inch—
never faltering—struggling against hopelessness
of success, and to the very end making desperate
battle. And there is a skill and artful method
lurking under all the vain—as it would seem—
skirmishing, that attends on State prosecutions;
for with this fencing about, "challenging,"
"panels," "pleas in abatement," and the like,
succeeding one another, it might appear, with a
foolish and profitless succession—the artful
counsel may fetch the Crown advocates some
little prick or puncture through their armour
which at the moment may not be perceived — or if
perceived and submitted to the Physician presiding,
may be dismissed as "nothing"—but which,
when submitted after the verdict to the Great
College of Judicial Physicians, may be found to be
a palpable hit and fatal stab to the indictment.

Finally, the work is done. The conspirator
has his little dramatic finish, his bit of
heroism, before sinking down. That speaking
of the speech and protest against sentence being
passed, is always a little comfort, which it would
be hard to grudge any prisoner; and our
conspirator does his part with good effect. Then
comes the Sentence. Down is he drawn to the
very bottom of the waters of the well, never to
reappear. The show is over—the play is played
out—the finery and tinsel of " risings,"
"uniforms," "pikes," "tyranny," and what not,
fade and crumble into powder. Now come
the grim prison walls where the soldiers are
waiting, and the grey convict clothing.

It is curious to be in a city of so many old
departed glories, though they now seem a
little theatrical. Think of the Parliament, a
House of Lords and Commons, voting money
and supplies, and with a series of Lords'
and Commons' journals, sumptuous folios—
"huge armfuls," Elia would say—that would
delight a bibliomaniac. Think of the huge
coffee-house, or gaming club-house — "Daly's"
—next door, now partitioned into insurance
offices — where estates were lost and won;
where strange duels were " arranged;"
whither one Honourable Member, having told
another Honourable Member " that he had the
heart of a toad," and was, besides, " the
auctioneer of his country," deriving his remoter
ancestry from " the mixed throng that with
Romulus and Remus were the early founders of
Rome," adjourned promptly, to settle a meeting
by the agency of " friends." Every corner of it
has some historic memory. Swift — Grattan—
Trinity; even that College-green where the
equestrian William sits on a bronze horse (with
a bent fore-leg, which, on measurement, is found
to be nearly a foot longer than the other three
—but this steed is of English breed), and where,
with a boastful inscription, he preaches a
Glorious and Pious Memory. Round this statue
have been endless battles — "Town and Gown"
riots—Gown walking in reverent procession
round the Deliverer, and Town inflamed to fury
by the homage. At last one night people were
awakened by an explosion, and in the morning
the Deliverer's saddle was found empty. He
had been unhorsed. The steed was there,
riderless. The head of the Deliverer had been
blown to a field more than a mile away; his
limbs were recovered in various portions of the
city. The whole were carefully collected and
put together, and the Deliverer remounted.
Will it be credited, that down to fourteen years
ago, it was the custom, on the arrival of a new
lord-lieutenant, for a regiment to be formed in
square round this contested statue, and, at a
given signal, fire three volleys in honour of the
Glorious and Pious Memory?

About this old city are many pleasant walks,
by sea, and through green lanes, which have a
pleasant variety. By sea, for instance, taking
that long pier, which makes one side of the
port, and was considered a stupendous
engineering work in its day, constructed by the old
Irish parliament, and which stretches some
miles out. You can get as fine a bath of sea-air
there, as man could desire. It is only a few
feet above the water, has no parapet, so that
with a full tide, and on a breezy day, you seem
to be walking through the sea, and it becomes a
business of peril to "dodge" the breakers.
Near the end, bulges out that old fort called so
oddly the Pigeon House—all on the old model,
with the old uneffective defences and ancient
carronades, and where was the old Custom
Houses in the days of the Irish parliament,
where the packets from Parkgate arrived. A
very pleasant walk indeed, and from this pier
you look out on the great bay, so often likened
to that of Naples, and the Hill of Howth opposite,
and Ireland's Eye where the dramatic
Kirwan murder was done, and to the Kingstown
harbour, which glitters afar off, out of
which the packets are always steaming back
and forwards.

Of a Sunday, only a few days back, I walked
out in this direction; and it had the charm of
being a lonely and solitary walk. The previous
night had been an angry one, and the waves
were heavy and sullen, and the breeze was
sharp and strong, and far off the " white horses"
were riding about furiously. The long pier did
not seem encouraging. But, pushing on to get
a nearer view, I found the old Pigeon House
altogether metamorphosed. It was like a
pantomime trick. Some military harlequin had
come with his wand and touched the place.
There were stockades and outposts. The old
guns had been furbished up, and their old open
jaws grinned down the road with an air of menace.
The battlements glittered with soldiers, and the
drawbridge was up. The long pier was in a
state of siege, and all access hopelessly cut off.
This abridgment of a favourite walk, I set down
to the account of the Ogre, Fenianism.

Turning back, I found, half way down the
unabridged portion of the pier, a little " slip,"