It was late in the evening as the Knight of Gwynne entered Dublin, and took up his abode for the night in an obscure inn at the north side of the city. However occupied his thoughts up to that time by the approaching event in his own fortune, he could not help feeling a sudden pang as he saw once more the well-known landmarks that reminded him of former days of happiness and triumph. Strange as it may now sound, there was a time when Irish gentlemen were proud of their native city; when they regarded its University with feelings of affectionate memory, as the scene of early efforts and ambitions, and could look on its Parliament House as the proud evidence of their national independence! Socially, too, they considered Dublin—and with reason—second to no city of Europe; for there was a period, brief but glorious, when the highest breeding of the courtier mingled with the most polished wit and refined conversation, and when the splendor of wealth, freely displayed as it was, was only inferior to the more brilliant lustre of a society richer in genius and in beauty than any capital of the world.

None had been a more favored participator in these scenes than Darcy himself: his personal gifts, added to the claims of his family and fortune, secured him early acceptance in the highest circles; and if his abilities had not won the very highest distinctions, it seemed rather from his own indifference than from their deficiency.

In those days his arrival in town was the signal for a throng of visitors to call, all eagerly asking on what day they might secure him to dine or sup, to meet this one or that. The thousand flatteries society stores up for her favorites, all awaited him. Parties whose fulfilment hung listlessly in doubt were now hastily determined on, as “Darcy has come” got whispered abroad; and many a scheme of pleasure but half planned found a ready advocacy when the prospect of obtaining him as a guest presented itself.

The consciousness of social success is a great element in the victory. Darcy had this, but without the slightest taint of vain boastfulness or egotism; his sense of his own distinction was merely sufficient to heighten his enjoyment of the world, without detracting ever so little from the manly and unassuming features of his character. It is true he endeavored, and even gave himself pains, to be an agreeable companion; but he belonged to a school and a time when conversation was cultivated as an art, and when men preferred making the dinner-table and the drawing-room the arena of their powers, to indicting verses for an “Annual,” or composing tales for a fashionable “Miscellany.”

We have said enough, perhaps, to show what Dublin was to him once. How very different it seemed to his eyes now! The season was late summer, and the city dusty and deserted,—few persons in the streets, scarcely a carriage to be seen; an air of listlessness and apathy was over everything, for it was the period when the country was just awakening after the intoxicating excitement of the Parliamentary straggle,—awakening to discover that it had been betrayed and deserted!

As soon as Darcy had taken some slight refreshment, he set out in search of Daly. His first visit was to Henrietta Street, to his own house, or rather what had been his, for it was already let, and a flaring brass-plate on the door proclaimed it the office of a fashionable solicitor. He knocked, and inquired if any one “knew where Mr. Bagenal Daly now resided;” but the name seemed perfectly unknown. He next tried Bicknell's; but that gentleman had not returned since the circuit: he was repairing the fatigues of his profession by a week or two's relaxation at a watering-place.

He did not like himself to call at the club, but he despatched a messenger from the inn, who brought word back that Mr. Daly had not been there for several weeks, and that his present address was unknown. Worried and annoyed, Darcy tried in turn each place where Daly had been wont to frequent, but all in vain. Some had seen him, but not lately; others suggested that he did not appear much in public on account of his moneyed difficulties; and one or two limited themselves to a cautious declaration of ignorance, with a certain assumed shrewdness, as though to say that they could tell more if they would.

It was near midnight when Darcy returned to the inn, tired and worn out by his unsuccessful search. The packet in which he was to sail for England was to leave the port early in the morning, and he sat down in the travellers' room, exhausted and fatigued, till his chamber should be got ready for him.

The inn stood in one of the narrow streets leading out of Smithfield, and was generally resorted to by small farmers and cattle-dealers repairing to the weekly market. Of these, three or four still lingered in the public room, conning over their accounts and discussing the prices of “short-horns and black faces” with much interest, and anticipating all the possible changes the new political condition of the country might be likely to induce.

Darcy could scarcely avoid smiling as he overheard some of these speculations, wherein the prospect of a greater export trade was deemed the most certain indication of national misfortune. His attention was, however, suddenly withdrawn from the conversation by a confused murmur of voices, and the tramp of many feet in the street without The noise gradually increased, and attracted the notice of the others, and suddenly the words “Fire! fire!” repeated from mouth to mouth, explained the tumult.

As the tide of men was borne onward, the din grew louder, and at length the narrow street in front of the inn became densely crowded by a mob hurrying eagerly forward, and talking in loud, excited voices.

“They say that Newgate is on fire, sir,” said the landlord, as, hastily entering, he addressed Darcy; “but if you 'll come with me to the top of the house, we 'll soon see for ourselves.”

Darcy followed the man to the upper story, whence, by a small ladder, they obtained an exit on the roof. The night was calm and starlight, and the air was still. What a contrast—that spangled heaven in all its tranquil beauty—to the dark streets below, where, in tumultuous uproar, the commingled mass was seen by the uncertain glimmer of the lamps, few and dim as they were. Darcy could mark that the crowd consisted of the very lowest and most miserable-looking class of the capital, the dwellers in the dark alleys and purlieus of the ill-favored region. By their excited gestures and wild accents, it was clear to see how much more of pleasure than of sorrow they felt at the occasion that now roused them from their dreary garrets and damp cellars. Shouts of mad triumph and cries of menace burst from them as they went. The Knight was roused from a moody contemplation of the throng by the landlord saying aloud,—

“True enough, the jail is on fire: see, yonder, where the dark smoke is rolling up, that is Newgate.”

“But the building is of stone, almost entirely of stone, with little or no wood in its construction,” said Darcy; “I cannot imagine how it could take fire.”

“The floors, the window-frames, the rafters are of wood, sir,” said the other; “and then,” added he, with a cunning leer, “remember what the inhabitants are!”

The Knight little minded the remark, for his whole gaze was fixed on the cloud of smoke, dense and black as night, that rolled forth, as if from the ground, and soon enveloped the jail and all the surrounding buildings in darkness.

“What can that mean?” said he, in amazement.

“It means that this is no accident, sir,” said the man, shrewdly; “it's only damp straw and soot can produce the effect you see yonder; it is done by the prisoners—see, it is increasing! and here come the fire-engines!”

As he spoke, a heavy, cavernous sound was heard rising from the street, where now a body of horse-police were seen escorting the fire-engines. The service was not without difficulty, for the mob offered every obstacle short of open resistance; and once it was discovered that the traces were cut, and considerable delay thereby occasioned.

“The smoke is spreading; see, sir, how it rolls this way, blacker and heavier than before!”

“It is but smoke, after all,” said Darcy; but although the words were uttered half contemptuously, his heart beat anxiously as the dense volume hung suspended in the air, growing each moment blacker as fresh masses arose. The cries and yells of the excited mob were now wilder and more frantic, and seemed to issue from the black, ill-omened mass that filled the atmosphere.

“That's not smoke, sir; look yonder!” said the man, seizing Darcy's arm, and pointing to a reddish glare that seemed trying to force a passage through the smoke, and came not from the jail, but from some building at the side or in front of it.

“There again!” cried he, “that is fire!”

The words were scarcely uttered, when a cheer burst from the mob beneath. A yell more dissonant and appalling could not have broken from demons than was that shout of exultation, as the red flame leaped up and flashed towards the sky. As the strong host of a battle will rout and scatter the weaker enemy, so did the fierce element dispel the less powerful; and now the lurid glow of a great fire lit up the air, and marked out with terrible distinctness the waving crowd that jammed up the streets,—the windows filled with terrified faces, and the very house-tops crowded by terror-stricken and distracted groups.

The scene was truly an awful one; the fire raged in some houses exactly in front of the jail, pouring with unceasing violence its flood of flame through every door and window, and now sending bright jets through the roofs, which, rent with a report like thunder, soon became one undistinguish-able mass of flame. The cries for succor, the shouts of the firemen, the screams of those not yet rescued, and the still increasing excitement of the mob, mingling their hellish yells of triumph through all the dread disaster, made up a discord the most horrible; while, ever and anon, the police and the crowd were in collision, vain efforts being made to keep the mob back from the front of the jail, whither they had fled as a refuge from the heat of the burning houses.

The fire seemed to spread, defying all the efforts of the engines. From house to house the lazy smoke was seen to issue for a moment, and then, almost immediately after, a new cry would announce that another building was in flames. Meanwhile the smoke, which in the commencement had spread from the courtyard and windows of the jail, was again perceived to thicken in the same quarter, and suddenly, as if from a preconcerted signal, it rolled out from every barred casement and loopholed aperture,—from every narrow and deep cell within the lofty walls; and the agonized yell of the prisoners burst forth at the same moment, and the air seemed to vibrate with shrieks and cries.

“Break open the jail!” resounded on every side. “Don't let the prisoners be burned alive!” was uttered in accents whose humanity was far inferior to their menace; and, as if with one accord, a rush was made at the strongly barred gates of the dark building. The movement, although made with the full force of a mighty multitude, was in vain. In vain the stones resounded upon the thickly studded door, in vain the strength of hundreds pressed down upon the oaken barrier. They might as well have tried to force the strong masonry at either side of it!

“Climb the walls!” was now the cry; and the prisoners re-echoed the call in tones of shrieking entreaty. The mob, savage from their recent repulse at the gate, now seized the ladders employed by the firemen, and planted them against the great enclosure-wall of the jail. The police endeavored to charge, but, jammed up by the crowd, their bridles in many instances cut, their weapons wrested from them, they were almost at the mercy of the mob. Orders had been despatched for troops; but as yet they had not appeared, and the narrow streets, being actually choked up with people, would necessarily delay their progress. If there were any persons in that vast mass disposed to repel the violence of the mob, they did not dare to avow it, the odds were so fearfully on the side of the multitude.

The sentry who guarded the gate was trampled down. Some averred he was killed in the first rush upon the gate; certain it was his cap and coat were paraded on a pole, as a warning of what awaited his comrades within the jail, should they dare to fire on the people. This horrible banner was waved to and fro above the stormy multitude. Darcy had but time to mark it, when he saw the crowd open, as if cleft asunder by some giant band, and at the same instant a man rode through the open space, and, tearing down the pole, felled him who carried it to the earth by a stroke of his whip. The red glare of the burning houses made the scene distinct as daylight; but the next moment a rolling cloud of black smoke hid all from view, and left him to doubt the evidence of his eyesight.

“Did you see the horseman?” asked Darcy, in eager curiosity, for he did not dare to trust his uncorroborated sense.

“There he is!” cried the other. “I know him by a white band on his arm. See, he mounts one of the ladders!—there!—he is near the top!”

A cheer that seemed to shake the very atmosphere now rent the air, as, pressing on like soldiers to a breach, the mob approached the walls. Some shots were fired by the guard, and their effect might be noted by the more savage yells of the mob, whose exasperation was now like madness.

“The shots have told,—see!” cried the man. “Now the people are gathering in close groups, here and there.”

But Darcy's eyes were fixed on the walls, which were already crowded with the mob, the dark figures looking like spectres as they passed and repassed through the dense canopy of smoke.

“The soldiers! the soldiers!” screamed the populace from below; and at the instant a heavy lumbering sound crept on, and the head of a cavalry squadron wheeled into the square before the jail. The remainder of the troop soon defiled; but instead of advancing, as was expected, they opened their ranks, and displayed the formidable appearance of two eight-pounders, from which the limbers were removed with lightning speed, and their mouths turned full upon the crowd. Meanwhile an infantry force was seen entering the opposite side of the square, thus showing the mob that they were taken in front and rear, no escape being open save by the small alleys which led off from the street before the prison. The military preparations took scarcely more time to effect than we have employed to relate; and now began a scene of tumult and terror the most dreadful to witness. The order to prime and load, followed by the clanking crash of four hundred muskets; the close ranks of the cavalry, as if with difficulty restrained from charging down upon them; and the lighted fuses of the artillery,—all combined to augment the momentary dread, and the shouts of vengeance so lately heard were at once changed into piercing cries for mercy. The blazing houses, from which the red fire shot up unrestrained, no longer attracted notice,—the jail itself had no interest for those whose danger was become so imminent.

An indiscriminate rush was made towards the narrow lanes for escape, and from these arose the most piercing and agonizing cries,—for while pressed down and trampled, many were trodden under foot never again to rise; others were wounded or burned by the falling timbers of the blazing buildings; and the fearful cry of “The soldiers! the soldiers!” still goaded them on by those behind.

“Look yonder,” cried Darcy's companion, seizing him by the arm,—“look there,—near the corner of the market! See, the troops have not perceived that ladder, and there are two fellows now descending it.”

True enough. At a remote angle of the jail, not concealed from view by the smoke, stood the ladder in question.

“How slowly they move!” cried Darcy, his eyes fixed upon the figures with that strange anxiety so inseparable from the fate of all who are engaged in hazardous enterprise. “They will certainly be taken.”

“They must be wounded,” cried the other; “they seem to creep rather than step—I know the reason, they are in fetters.”

Scarcely was the explanation uttered when the ladder was seen to be violently moved as if from above, and the next moment was hurled back from the wall, on which several soldiers were now perceived firing on those below.

“They are lost!” said the Knight; “they are either captured or cut down by this time.”

“The square is cleared already,” said the other; “how quietly the troops have done their work! And the fire begins to yield to the engines.”

The square was indeed cleared; save the groups beside the fire-engines, and here and there a knot gathered around some wounded man, the space was empty, the troops having drawn off to the sides, around which they stood in double file. A dark cloud rested over the jail itself, but no longer did any smoke issue from the windows; and already the fire, its rage in part expended, in part subdued, showed signs of decline.

“If the wind was from the west,” said the landlord, “there 's no saying where that might have stopped this night!”

“It is a strange occurrence altogether,” said the Knight, musingly.

“Not a bit strange, sir,” replied the other, whose neighborhood made him acquainted with classes and varieties of men of whom Darcy knew nothing; “it was an attempt by the prisoners.”

“Do you think so?” asked Darcy.

“Ay, to be sure, sir; there's scarcely a year goes over without one contrivance or another for escape. Last autumn two fellows got away by following the course of the sewers and gaining the Liffey; they must have passed two days underground, and up to their necks in water a great part of the time.”

“Ay, and besides that,” observed another,-for already some ten or twelve persons were assembled on the roof as well as Darcy and the landlord,—“they had to wade the river at the ebb-tide, when the mud is at least eight or ten feet deep.”

“How that was done, I cannot guess,” said Darcy.

“A man will do many a thing for liberty, sir,” remarked another, who was buttoned up in a frieze coat, although the night was hot and sultry; “these poor devils there were willing to risk being roasted alive for the chance of it.”

“Quite true,” said Darcy; “fellows that have a taste for breaking the law need not be supposed desirous of observing it as to their mode of death; and yet they must have been daring rascals to have made such an attempt as this.”

“Maybe you know the old song, sir,” said the other, laughing,—

“I have heard the ditty,” answered the Knight; “and if my memory serves me, the last lines run thus,—

“Devil a lie in that, anyhow, sir,” said the other, laughing heartily; “and an uglier tumble a man needn't have than to slip through Tom Galvin's fingers. But I see the fire is out now; so I 'll be jogging homeward. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night,” said Darcy; and then, as the other moved away, turning to the landlord, he asked if he knew the stranger.

“No, sir,” was the reply; “he came up with some others to have a look at the fire.”

“Well, I 'll to my bed,” said Darcy; “let me be awakened at four o'clock. I see I shall have but a short sleep; the day is breaking already.”