bers of the governing body of the University.

In the conduct of the visitation, Lord Clare's demeanour was characterized

by his usual arrogance. When a student hesitated to be sworn, or to answer, he frequently asked him "if he was a fool, or a madman?" and if in his examination, he indulged in the expression of any democratic or popular sentiment, the vice-chancellor's observation was, "The young gentleman seems to have his reason affected." With all this, he evinced more kindness of heart than his assessor, Dr. Duigenan; and always leaned to the side of mercy, when the latter urged greater severity.

In moving the address to the lord lieutenant, on the 23rd April, in the House of Lords, Lord Glendore took occasion to express his regret at the state of the University. Lord Clare, in reply to this observation, expressed his satisfaction, with much warmth, at the result of the visitation, in proving that so few in the college were really infected with revolutionary principles; and passed a high eulogium on the general loyalty of the body.

LORD CLARE'S FUNERAL.

I never again saw Lord Clare. Long before the next college visitation he had died. I was, however, present at his funeral, and was a witness of the abominable scene which then took place.

He died at his house in Ely-place, Dublin. An immense crowd collected in the small street in expectation of his funeral; and the scene was a melancholy exhibition of some of those traits which unfortunately mark the Irish as a peculiar people. In every other nation, however uncivilized, there is a solemnity attached to death which awes and, as it were, humanizes the heart, awakening a kindred feeling in all who contemplate the common lot of humanity. But with an excited Irish mob this impression is not made; death is no atonement for past offences, and the bitter feelings of prejudice and passion pursue the offender even in his grave. The mob assembled there were not the serious assemblage usual at a funeral. They were excited to yells and shrieks of the most appalling kind, curses loud and deep, and ribaldry the most revolting and disgusting. They followed the funeral procession to Peter's Church. It was hoped that the solemn sight of graves and coffins the awful thought of death and judgment-would give some check to their passion. But no; they seemed to think the grave would only too soon shelter the body from them, and the

earth would hide it before they had glutted their malice and revenge. They showered mud and dirt on the burial place, and at last one ruffian hurled a dead cat on the coffin. Lord Clare was reputed to have used some expression to the effect that he would make the seditious as tame as domestic cats, and this ruffianly retort was received by the mob with shouts of applause. The circle of honourable and generous men who attended the funeral out of respect to this great and talented man, however they might differ in political opinions, could not contain their indignation and disgust. Truly did the lines suggested by the occasion express their feelings

"Cold is thy heart and still thy voice,
While round thy sacred urn
Rapine and fraud and guilt rejoice,
But truth and virtue mourn."

The

The thought suggested by this scene was horror at the peril of letting loose on society such a horde of every thing that was wicked, base, and cruel. excesses of the French revolution never displayed a scene of more heartless depravity. The infidel rabble of Paris having once removed their victims by a death, comparatively free from suffering, allowed their remains to be committed to the earth with decency and respect. But their imitators in Ireland followed no such example; their victims were slowly suffocated in a burning barn, or their quivering limbs rent with pikes and exhibited on a bridge, in protracted and agonizing suffering. Even death did not snatch their victims from their pursuit. They were followed by outrage, curses, and blasphemy to the grave. That the authors of such horrors did not succeed in Ireland was mainly owing to the sagacity, energy, and activity of Lord Clare, and hence the persevering malignity with which this great man was pursued, even in the tomb.

This is a melancholy picture by an eye-witness in Ireland not fifty years ago. It is fresh in the recollection of our readers that a similarly atrocious scene occurred at the funeral of Lord Limerick, not two years since. The calendars of Tipperary and some other counties bear terrible testimony how little the lapse of fifty years has weaned the excited populace of those districts from their thirst for blood. Were it possible that the frantic demagogues who laud the heroes of '98 could succeed in letting loose those fierce and merciless passions on the land-væ victis !

THE GIBS' PARLIAMENTARY PRIVILEGES.

From the manuscript before referred to, we extract also the following sketch :

The Irish House of Commons was a Rotundo, the most ill-contrived in point of convenience that ever was built. Round it ran a narrow circular gallery for spectators. This was enclosed by a high partition, having behind it a passage opening into the seats in front, which looked down into the body of the house below, but were so narrow that a very few spectators filled them. The greater number who were admitted were squeezed together behind the high partition, between it and the wall, where they could neither hear nor see. The incon

venience and danger in case of fire was fearful; the whole of the persons shut up in this gallery must have perished of suffocation before they could extricate themselves. Admission to this place was obtained by a member's order only, except by students of the University, who were always admitted.

The student's passport was his gown. He rapped at the wicket, and the porter looked through a grating; the applicant held up his gown, and the door was opened, admitted him, and again closed. This was a privilege always abused. The students' gowns were lent out indiscriminately to friends and acquaintances, and the gallery appeared sometimes half full of gownsmen, not half of whom were members of the University. When I first entered college I was very fond of using this privilege. It was a proud thing for a "Gib" to present himself to a crowd round the door, hear many a cry, "make way for the gentleman of the college," pass the avenue made for him, find the door expand to the "open sesame" of his gown, and himself admitted alone to the great council of the nation, while the suppliant crowd were excluded.

Some of the hot-headed members of the "Back-lane Parliament,' as the Society of United Irishmen who met in Dublin were called, had committed themselves on a point of privilege with the House of Commons. The most prominent was James Napper Tandy. It had been determined by some of them, that if anything offensive was said by a member of the House of Commons, the individual offended should seek personal satisfaction from the offender. Tandy became committed thus with Toler, then solicitor-general, and it was supposed that a hostile meeting must ensue between them; but it did not take place; for Tandy, apprehensive of arrest by a messenger of the

speaker, made his way out of the back window, and absconded. He was after. wards arrested, and imprisoned in Newgate with other distinguished leaders of the United Irish Society. It was currently reported, that these men intended, after a very seditious publication which they avowed, to present themselves in the gallery of the House of Commons, dare the arrest, and so try the question of privilege with the speaker. As this became a subject of universal excitement and deep interest, I was determined to be present if possible.

Be

On the 27th February, 1792, a group of collegians, of whom I was one, sacrificed our commons, and were seated, from an early hour, in breathless expectation, in the gallery of the house. tween five and six o'clock, just as the speaker had taken the chair, after prayers, a voice was heard issuing from the roof, shouting down, "Fire! fire!" Smoke was seen rolling down, and in a short time filled the space between the roof and gallery. An immediate rush was made, and notwithstanding the comparatively small number of persons in the house at that early hour, the avenues were nearly choked up. I found myself jammed in the narrow winding passage between the high partition and the wall, in total darkness, and with a sense of suffocation coming over me; and it was not till a rush was made along the ave nue and I was carried in the current and found myself pushed into the open air, that I breathed freely. A vast crowd of spectators were collected outside, and the scene appeared to me unspeakably grand and awful. The fire had, by this time, run round the base of the dome, and appeared to raise it up and support it, on a column of flame. For a short time it seemed to remain suspended above its base, and hovering in the air, when suddenly the fiery columns appeared to give way, and the vast dome sank, with a crash, within its walls. The circle of the wall was one hundred and seventy-five feet in circumference, and a volume of smoke and flame seemed to issue from it as from a crater, and exhibited the aspect of a na tural volcano. The flames ascended in a cone of fire, to a considerable height, with a roaring sound, and the vibration seemed to shake the houses in Collegegreen, like the accompaniment of an earthquake. After some time, the smoke and flame sunk within the wall, the torrent of molten metal from the covering of the dome pouring down like a stream of lava. It was the most magnificent imitation of nature that was ever artificially displayed.

Among the crowd that filled: Col

were seen

lege - green prominently some of the most violent demagogues of the day. A rumour was spread that the fire was not accidental, but the result of a premeditated design to crush, at once, the members of the House of Commons, take advantage of the confusion that would ensue, and instantly proclaim a provisional government, independent of England. This sudden conflagration, while the house was sitting in secure debate within, seemed so like the design and attempt of the "gunpowder plot," that many yielded readily to the conviction that the motives and actors in both were similar, and the escape equally providential. It turned out, however, on a close inspection, and strict examination of the circumstances, that the fire was purely accidental. It was caused by the breaking of one of the flues, which ran round the walls, to heat the house, and by which the fire was communicated to the wood-work supporting the roof. The massive walls of the Rotundo protected the other part of the magnificent building, and the damage of the fire was entirely confined to the seeming volcano in the centre.

After the fire, the business of the house was adjourned to the speaker's chamber, and the students of Trinity College were particularly favoured. At the end of the apartment, behind the speaker's chair, there was a deep and convenient gallery, which was exclusively devoted to the gownsmen. They were instantly admitted here, on presenting themselves, and listened to the debate at their ease, while the public in general now found it difficult to obtain passes, and when they got admission, were confined to a narrow strip of a gallery, from some parts of which they could neither see nor hear.

This proud distinction the gownsmen, however, soon forfeited. Lord Fitzwilliam had been sent over as a popular viceroy, and on his sudden recal a strong feeling of disappointment prevailed. On a night when the subject was brought before the house, our gallery was full, and I remember well the irrepressible excitement that seemed to actuate us all. At length it broke out. Grattan rose to deprecate the measure as one calculated to cause the greatest disturbance in Ireland, by what was considered the perfidy of the government, first exciting the high hopes of the people by promised measures of liberal policy, and then dashing them, by the sudden removal of the man who had been sent over expressly to accomplish them. At the conclusion of Grattan's inflammatory speech, the enthusiasm in the gallery was no longer capable of

restraint. We all rose as one man shouting and cheering with the boisterous tumult of a popular meeting. When this subsided, Foster's peculiar voice was heard through his nose ordering the students' gallery to be cleared, and a sergeant-at-arms, with a posse of messengers, entered among us. We were pushed out in a heap without the slightest ceremony, and were never again suffered to enter as privileged

persons.

The speaker had counted on the loyalty and propriety of the students of the University, and this display of what he considered riot and sedition, at once changed his estimate of their character. Many a penitent memorial was presented, and solemn promises were made of better manners in future, but Foster was inexorable. No student ever after found his gown a passport to the house, till the Union removed the parliament, and extinguished the hope of recovering the lost privilege for ever. Groups of us were constantly seen in the passages waiting to intercept the speaker, or intreating, with uplifted hands, a passage to his gallery; but stern Charon passed in at the door, leaving us like ghosts on the banks of the Styx, casting wistful and unavailing looks at the Elysium on the opposite side of the house.

On the 13th of October, 1796, the House of Commons was re-opened-a renewed edifice, risen like a phoenix from its ashes.

TRIAL OF TIGER ROCHE.

In a former number* we gave an account of the extraordinary character and still more extraordinary vicissitudes of fortune of David, or, according to the name by which he was better known, Tiger, Roche. The writer's attention was since directed, by a friendly correspondent, to an account of the last exploit and trial of this singular man given in "Walker's Hibernian Magazine" for December, 1795, and January, 1796. From this it appears that we were not correct in stating that Roche was lost sight of at the Cape of Good Hope, after the reputed murder of Lieutenant Fergu

son.

The papers in "Walker's Magazine" are written with the object of proving that Roche was innocent of the foul charge imputed to him; and powerful efforts appear to have been made to restore him to his

place in society. The uncertainty that hangs about the circumstances assorts strangely with the wild character of the man.

It appears he was tried by the Dutch authorities at the Cape, and acquitted. He then took a passage in a French vessel to Bombay, but the Vansittart, in which he had come from England to the Cape, had arrived in India before him; information had been given to the British authorities, charging Roche with Ferguson's murder; and Roche was arrested as soon as he landed. He urged his right to be discharged, or at least bailed, on the grounds that there was not sufficient evidence against him; that he had been already acquitted; and that as the offence, if any, was committed out of the British dominions he could only be tried by special commission, and it was uncertain whether the Crown would issue one or not, or if the Crown did grant a commission, when or where it would sit. He argued his own case with the skill of a practised lawyer. The authorities, however, declined either to bail or discharge him, and he was kept in custody until he was sent a prisoner to England, to stand his trial.

An appeal of murder was brought against him, and a commission issued to try it. The case came on at the Old Bailey, in London, before Baron Burland, on the 11th December, 1775. The counsel for Roche declined in any way relying on the formal acquittal at the Cape of Good Hope; and the case was again gone through. The fact of the killing was undisputed, but from the peculiar nature of the proceedings, there could not be, as in a common indictment for murder, a conviction for manslaughter; and the judge directed the jury, if they did not believe the killing to be malicious and deliberate, absolutely to acquit the prisoner. The jury brought in a verdict of acquittal.

The doubt about Roche's guilt arose on the following state of facts: On the evening of their arrival at the Cape, Ferguson and his friends were sitting at tea at their lodgings, when a message was brought into the room; on hearing which, Ferguson rose, went to his apartment, and having put on his sword, and taken a loaded cane in his hand, went out. A friend named Grant followed him, and found Roche

and him at the side of the house, round a corner, and heard the clash of swords, but refused to interfere. It was too dark to see what was occurring; but in a few moments he heard Roche going away and Ferguson falling. Ferguson was carried in, and died immediately. All his wounds were in the left side. The most violent vindictive feelings had existed between them; and there was proof of Roche's having threatened "to shorten the race of the Fergusons." The message, in answer to which Ferguson went out, was differently stated, being, according to one account," Mr. Mathews wants Mr. Ferguson," and to the other, "a gentleman wants Mr. Mathews." The case for the prosecution was, that this message was a trap to draw Ferguson out of the house, and that on his going out, Roche attacked him; and this was confirmed by the improbability of Roche's going out for an innocent purpose, in a strange place, on the night of his landing, in the dark, and in the neighbourhood of Ferguson's lodgings; and particularly by the wounds being on the left side, which they could not be if given in a fair fight with small swords. Roche's account was, that on the evening of his arrival, he went out to see the town, accompanied by a boy, a slave of his host's; that they were watched by some person till they came near Ferguson's, when that person disappeared, and immediately afterwards, Roche was struck with a loaded stick on the head, knocked down, and his arm disabled; that afterwards he succeeded in rising, and, perceiving Ferguson, drew his sword, and after a struggle, in which he wished to avoid bloodshed, killed his assailant in self-defence. This was, to some extent, corroborated by the boy at the Dutch trial, and by a sailor in England; but both these witnesses were shaken a little in their testimony. According to this account, the message was a concerted signal to Ferguson, who had set a watch on Roche, intending to assassinate him. The locality of Ferguson's wounds was accounted for by his fighting both with cane and sword, using the former to parry. If the second version of the message was correct, it would strongly confirm this account. There was no proof that Ferguson knew any one named Mathews.

WE rejoice that Hood's verses have been collected. The collection, the short preface to these volumes informs

us,

"is made in fulfilment of his own desire; it was among his last instructions to those who were dearest to him." The injunction only showed a just sense of the rights of his own remarkable and original genius. There is a phrase which seems to have been blown upon by Cockneyism, till one is nervous about using it, and yet, if Cockneyism would have let it alone, it is a pretty and expressive phrase enough; Hood's verses are "refreshing" specially refreshing to us professional explorers of poetical common-place-refreshing as rural breezes to one 66 long in populous city pent," who draws his easy and invigorated breath upon the slope of some heavenkissing Wicklow hill after days and weeks of Sackville-street and Merrionsquare in July.

We wish we had a half-sovereign (for our desires are moderate and reasonable) for every single individual who, opening these two neat little volumes, will give the first utterance to his thoughts in the three simple but weighty monosyllables-" Poor Tom Hood!" For Hood was a universal favourite a pet of the public. Men would as little have thought of sternly taking Hood to task, as of rebuking the quick-glancing fancies of a bright-eyed thoughtful child. He was one of those whom most of us who had never beheld his face in the flesh, knew, by a sort of indirect intellectual intimacy better than common quaintanceship. How often he came to us "as a pleasant thought, when such are wanted!" How often did the care-wrinkled forehead smooth under the passing influence of one of his incomparable fragments of humour, caught in the Poet's Corner of some country newspaper, where the smiling little violet modestly blossomed in the midst of thorny brakes-of pastorals (not of Theocritus, but) of Doctor

ac

MacHale, of speeches of Mr. Joseph Hume, and dissertations on railroads, and infallible receipts for the bite of a mad dog! And there is something peculiarly pathetic about the death of a humorist-of a humorist true-hearted and blameless as Hood was. Shakspere has embodied and immortalized the feelings of us all in the Yorick scene in Hamlet. Death-grim and ghastly Death-what business had the old scythesman, his crapes and his crossbones-with our Tom Hood? with this fellow of infinite jest and most excellent fancy”—his “ gibes, his gambols, and his flashes of merriment ?" Could he not have been well contentwe should not have had a word against it to take to himself a score of political economists, and leave us our own Tom Hood? Were there not critics weekly, monthly, quarterly? Had he no nice pickings in the Corn Law League? No Irish repealers under whose loss the world would have been meekly resigned? Were there no profoundly learned Doctors of Laws and of Divinity-no discoverers of" a new system of the philosophy of the human mind"-no grave statisticians powerful in population and poor-laws? or if he must have his "men of wit about town," was Brookes's, indeed, unpeopled of its Whigs, or the Tories of the Carlton all scattered and Peeled? Alas! that that brain-the exquisitely sensitive instrument of delicate thought-should now be formless dust! that tricksy spirit now naked and unbodied-no arch and flexible lip to quiver with the coming jest, no eye to twinkle with the inward joy of drollest fancies!

But Hood was much more than a humorist, he was (and his parting request shows that, with all his unaf fected modesty he knew it), a true and genuine poet. There have been spirits of loftier flight and more enduring wing, natives of the upper element, whose home was the empyrean; with these we dare not rank him; but the

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