a year from the Crown,
and with the abhorrence of the Roman Catholic population. After living
in wealth, luxury and infamy, during a quarter of a century, Henry
Luttrell was murdered while going through Dublin in his sedan chair;
and the Irish House of Commons declared that there was reason to suspect
that he had fallen by the revenge of the Papists. [134] Eighty years
after his death his grave near Luttrellstown was violated by the
descendants of those whom he had betrayed, and his skull was broken
to pieces with a pickaxe. [135] The deadly hatred of which he was the
object descended to his son and to his grandson; and, unhappily, nothing
in the character either of his son or of his grandson tended to mitigate
the feeling which the name of Luttrell excited. [136]

When the long procession had closed, it was found that about a thousand
men had agreed to enter into William's service. About two thousand
accepted passes from Ginkell, and went quietly home. About eleven
thousand returned with Sarsfield to the city. A few hours after the
garrison had passed in review, the horse, who were encamped some miles
from the town, were required to make their choice; and most of them
volunteered for France. [137]

Sarsfield considered the troops who remained with him as under an
irrevocable obligation to go abroad; and, lest they should be tempted to
retract their consent, he confined them within the ramparts, and ordered
the gates to be shut and strongly guarded. Ginkell, though in his
vexation he muttered some threats, seems to have felt that he could not
justifiably interfere. But the precautions of the Irish general were
far from being completely successful. It was by no means strange that a
superstitious and excitable kerne, with a sermon and a dram in his head,
should be ready to promise whatever his priests required; neither was it
strange that, when he had slept off his liquor, and when anathemas were
no longer ringing in his ears, he should feel painful misgivings. He
had bound himself to go into exile, perhaps for life, beyond that dreary
expanse of waters which impressed his rude mind with mysterious terror.
His thoughts ran on all that he was to leave, on the well known peat
stack and potatoe ground, and on the mud cabin, which, humble as it was,
was still his home. He was never again to see the familiar faces round
the turf fire, or to hear the familiar notes of the old Celtic songs.
The ocean was to roll between him and