A general family movement was decided on.  My aunt’s demise required, my father’s presence in the metropolis.  My mother’s wardrobe demanded an extensive addition,—­for, sooth to say, her costume had become, as far as fashion went, rather antediluvian.  Constance announced that a back-tooth called for professional interference.  May heaven forgive her if she fibbed!—­for a dental display of purer ivory never slily solicited a lover’s kiss, than what her joyous laugh exhibited.  My poor mother entered a protest against the “spes ultima gregis,” meaning myself, being left at home in times so perilous, and when all who could effect it were hurrying into garrisoned towns, and abandoning, for crowded lodgings, homes whose superior comforts were abated by their insecurity.  The order for a general movement was consequently issued, and on the 22d of June we commenced our journey to the capital.

With all the precision of a commissary-general, my father had regulated the itinerary.  Here, we were to breakfast, there, dine, and this hostelrie was to be honored with our sojourn during the night-season.  Man wills, fate decrees, and in our case the old saw was realized.

It will be necessary to remark that a conspiracy that had been hatching for several years, from unforeseen circumstances had now been prematurely exploded.  My father, with more hardiesse than discretion, declined following the general example of abandoning his home for the comparative safety afforded by town and city.  Coming events threw their shadow before, and too unequivocally to be mistaken, but still he sported deaf adder.  In confidential communication with Dublin Castle, all known there touching the intended movements of the disaffected was not concealed from him.  He was, unfortunately, the reverse of an alarmist—­proud of his popularity—­read his letters—­drew his inferences—­and came to prompt conclusions.  Through his lawyer, a house ready-furnished in Leeson-street was secured.  His plate and portable valuables were forwarded to Dublin, and reached their destination safely.  Had our hearts been where the treasure was, we should, as in prudence bound, have personally accompanied the silver spoons—­but the owner, like many an abler commander, played the waiting game too long.  A day sooner would have saved some trouble—­but my father had carried habits of absolute action into all the occurrences of daily life.  Indecision is, in character, a sad failure, but his weak point ran directly in an opposite direction.  He thought, weighed matters hastily, decided in five minutes, and that decision once made, coute qui coute, must be carried out to the very letter.  He felt all the annoyance of leaving the old roof-tree and its household gods—­conflicting statements from the executive—­false information from local traitors—­an assurance from the priest that no immediate danger might be expected—­these, united to a yearning after home, rendered his operations rather Fabian.  The storm burst, however, while he still hesitated, or rather, the burning of the mail-coaches and the insurrection were things simultaneous—­and my father afterward discovered that he, like many a wiser man, had waited a day too long.