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having command of myself enough to submit to 

 confinement in Dublin. All this fine summer, un- 

 usually so, has been lost in the smoke and dust of 

 a populous city. We seem secure here, and that is 

 the utmost can be said ; — but we live in a state of 

 siege. All the avenues into town are secured with 

 guards and palisades ; we must keep strict hours, 

 and be at home at nine o'clock : — that perhaps will 

 not appear to you a hardship, yet it is to sober 

 people like me an inconvenience, and sometimes 

 debars one from little indulgences. The pleasures 

 of rural excursions and country life are totally pro- 

 hibited. There is no safety, except military are quar- 

 tered at hand. What a misfortune is civil war ! 

 You can form no idea of it : and though it may be 

 supposed that, with the great force now collected 

 here, a rabble, undisciplined, without leaders of emi- 

 nence, or concerted plan, must be supprest ; yet it 

 will, their numbers being very great, require time ; 

 and we fear that when the days grow short, and 

 winter comes on, there will be numbers of irregular 

 banditti in various directions ; so that it will be ex- 

 tremely dangerous to stir from home. I don't choose 

 to mention particular facts ; it would be a long hi- 

 story, and not agreeable enough to compensate for 

 the trouble of reading it. I can say no more than 

 you will find in the newspapers ; and I am the less 

 inclined, as reports are spread every hour, and the 

 last always contradicting the preceding : — we are 

 confounded, and live in a state of constant suspense. 

 The night before last, the 9th, a sudden engage- 

 ment happened at a place within two miles of town. 



