1828.) 
tive operations against the united Irish- 
men—of which government the late Lord 
Londonderry, then the Hon. Robert Ste- 
wart, was the most conspicuous agent. 
That nobleman himself had been a member 
of the Irish volunteers, and his name stands 
recorded among the distinguished persons 
who formed the great political association in 
Ulster—the Whig Club of Belfast—and no 
one knew better than himself who were the 
most stirring men of the time. Charles 
Hamilton Teeling, the author, was the first 
victim of Lord Castlereagh’s political delin- 
quency. On the 16th of September—then 
not eighteen years of age—he was arrested 
on a charge of high treason, and arrested by 
him in person. Lord Castlereagh was the 
friend of Teeling’s father, and well ac- 
quainted with the youth himself. The father 
and son were on horseback, and were met in 
the streets of Lisburne by Lord Castlereagh, 
who accosted them with his usual courtesy, 
and politeness, and rode with them till they 
reached the house of the Marquess of Hert- 
ford, Castlereagh’s relation, when Teeling 
and his father being about to proceed in 
another direction, Lord Castlereagh sud- 
denly said—“ I regret your son cannot ac- 
company you,” conducting him at the same 
moment through the outer gates, which were * 
instantly closed, and Teeling found himself 
surrounded by a guard of soldiers. With 
some difficulty the father was admitted to 
take leave of him. Teeling’s person being 
thus secured in Lord Hertford’s house, Lord 
Castlereagh proceeded to the father’s to 
search for papers, and placing a guard at 
each door, he himself held a pistol to the 
breast of Teeling’s brother, a lad of fourteen, 
and compelled him to accompany him in his 
search—opening successively every locker, 
from which he carried away such papers as 
he chose to select, and moreover a pair of 
pistols. In the evening, fatigued with the 
exertions of the day, he returned to Lord 
Hertford’s, and ordered dinner for himself 
and his prisoner—at which my Lord talked 
of his labours, and of the persons he had 
arrested, Nelson, Russel, &c.—to the great 
entertainment, of course, of his guest. In 
the dead of the night a string of ten car- 
riages, containing the prisoners, with a 
guard, set out for Dublin. At Newry they 
stopped to bait the horses, but no refresh- 
ment was allowed the prisoners—save what 
the “young and lovely daughters of the 
miaitre d’hétel”—the innkeeper we suppose 
—hastened to present them. The soldiers 
dared not resist “ innocence and beauty ;” 
and innocence and beauty accordingly crept 
under the very horses bellies to convey their 
cates and dainties to the prisoners. ‘ Heroic 
countrywomen,”’ exclaims the author, in his 
rhodomontade style—“ if courage had been 
wanting to animate our cause, your example 
would have taught us firmness.” 
On arriving at Dublin, they were quickly 
taken before Judge Boyd, and committed by 
him to Kilmainham gaol, andthe use of pen, 
‘Domestic and Foreign. 
189 
ink, and paper prohibited. Eventually these 
requisites were introduced under the paste of 
a Christmas pye, by the ingenuity of one of 
the author’s fair countrywomen—“ a minis- 
tering angel thou,” of course bursts from 
him. They were at first confined in separate 
cells, but were soon enabled by the negli- 
gence or connivance of the keepers to re- 
move the locks, and communicate; and 
the author himself, from the good will of 
the soldiers on guard, and others, had more 
than one opportunity of escaping, which he 
disdained to use. Occasionally Lord Car- 
hampton (Luttrell) amused himself with 
making nocturnal visits to the prison, and 
ence—but the author shall tell his own 
story. 
In one of those excursions in which none but the 
gloomy and tyrannie soul can take delight, our 
several departments were entered in succession by 
the commander-in-chief, aceompanied by two offi- 
cers of his staff, a brutal turnkey, and four soldiers 
with fixed bayonets. Aroused at the dead hour 
of the night by this unlooked for and unwelcome 
intrusion—the fell visage of the turnkey, with a 
dark lantern in his hand—the presence of soldiers 
under arms, and the horrid grimace of a counte- 
nance the most repelling I ever beheld—all con~ 
spired to fill my soul with terror—and the act of 
assassination presented itself to my mind as al- 
ready commenced. Isprang from my pallet, and 
under the influence of horror bordering on de- 
spair, determined not to surrender my life without 
a struggle, and unconsc‘ous of whom I assailed, 
my hand had already grasped at the throat of the 
noble. commander-in-chief. What a specimen of 
the puerile employment of the man, to whose 
courage and guidance was committed the protec- 
tion of the state, and that state hourly threatened 
with invasion from abroad, and tottering from 
dissensions at home! Whether a feeling of com- 
passion, or a sense of shame operated on the mind 
of this distinguished commander, was not the sub- 
ject of my inquiry—my person was uninjured, and 
my terrors allayed. “ Pray, Sir, how long have 
you been confined?” “ Since September 96.” «A 
long imprisonment.” “ A painful one,” was my 
reply. “You are Mr. ——?” “ And you, I pre- 
sume, my Lord Carhampton?” ‘* Ha! youknow 
me then—good night, Sir.’ ‘Good night, my 
Lord,’ and I resumed my pallet. 
The apartment inthe corridor adjoining to mine 
was oceupied by my friend Nelson, and to this his 
lordship directed his next visit. The unbarring 
ofthe heavy doors, and the hollow sound produced 
by the tread of feet, had alarmed many of the pri- 
soners, and Nelson was up and dressed when the 
guardian of Iveland’s safety entered his apart- 
ment, ‘You are late up,” said his lordship, ina 
hasty and irritated tone of voice. “ Rather early, 
I think, my lord,” said Nelson, “ for it is not sun- 
rise.” “ Pray, Sir, do you know me?” “Oh 
perfectly,’ replied Nelson, “ Allow me, Sir, to 
ask you where or when you have known me, for I 
cannot recollect that J have ever had the honour 
of your acquaintance?” “had the honour to be 
reviewed by your lordship in the first battalion of 
Irish volunteers, when the light cayalry on the 
plains of Brougshane—’ “Stop, Sir, stop,— 
those days are gone by—these are not fit subjects 
for prison reflections—go to bed, Sir, and dream 
