their feet; I was instantly surrounded, hustled, and prevented from
getting near it. I bore this good-humouredly, and the door being
quite close to me, I had no doubt they would ultimately let me in. But
whilst this scene was going on, a shout was raised by those who were
at a distance up the road leading to the town, and who had not heard
what had been said. "Bring him up--bring him up, and let us see him!"
In a moment I was seized, and though I resisted to my utmost, I was
dragged up the narrow road which led from Shirley House to the town. I
was kicked and beaten, and pushed and bruised, my hat knocked off, and
my clothes torn; and in this state I was dragged into the main street
of Carrickmacross.

'Here a scene of the wildest excitement took place, some cried one
thing--some another. I was beaten again, my clothes torn off my back,
and sticks whirled over my head. Four or five policemen met me as I
was being dragged along, but they might as well have attempted to
stop the rushing of an Atlantic wave, as to stern the crowd that had
assembled around me; _and they only looked on and let me pass_.'

If the sub-inspector, who was present, and his men acted in this
manner, I venture to say it is the only instance in the whole history
of the force in which the Royal Irish constabulary were guilty of such
a cowardly neglect of duty. However, not only the police, but the best
part of the crowd deserted this strange gentleman, and he was 'left
in the hands of the vilest and most furious of the mob.' Where was Mr.
Shirley? Where were the clergy and the respectable inhabitants of the
town? The mob dragged him along towards Loughfea Castle--a mile and a
half--whither they heard Mr. Shirley had fled, still beating, kicking,
and strangling their victim, without any object; for how could they
serve their cause by killing an agent who had never injured them? And