I cannot imagine why my mother chose this particular day to take me to see our relatives, except it was the inveterate longing which her early surroundings and training had given her to assist at the “batin’ of an Orangeman,” or why I should have been the chosen one of the family to come, unless it was that she thought I was the one most after her own heart in her warlike propensities.  However this may have been, there we were in the first-floor front room of my Uncle Hughey’s.  Every room, from cellar to garret, was crowded with stalwart dock labourers—­at that time these were almost to a man Irish—­prepared to support another contingent of Hibernians who garrisoned McArdle’s in a similar manner.  Hearing outside the cry—­“he Orangemen!” I looked out of the window and up the street, and there, sure enough, was a strong body of them marching down, armed with guns, swords, and ship carpenters’ hatchets.  At once the word was passed to the contingent in Crosbie Street to be prepared to meet the threatened attack.

Nearer and nearer the Orangemen came.  They had got within some thirty yards of Roneys when, between them and the object of their attack, out of Simpson street, which at this point crosses Blundell Street at right angles, there intervened the head of a column of police, under the Liverpool Chief Constable, an Irishman, Michael James Whitty.  There was a desperate engagement, but, notwithstanding their murderous weapons, the Orangemen were utterly routed, flying before the disciplined charge of the police, who freely used their batons on their retreating opponents.

A few words about Michael James Whitty, who led the charge with right good will, may not be inappropriate here.  Many years afterwards, when we were both engaged in the profession of journalism, I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance through my reviewing in the “Catholic Times” a very able book of his, a “Life of Robert Emmet.”  He asked Mr. Thomas Gregson, his private secretary, a friend of mine:  Who had written this review?  Upon hearing who it was, he asked Mr. Gregson to bring us together.  When we met, he told me how pleased he was with my review, and that there was somebody on the “Catholic Times” who could appreciate his book.

He became Chief Constable of Liverpool in 1828.  About this time Messrs. Rockliffs published a weekly newspaper called the “Liverpool Journal,” which came into the hands of Mr. Whitty after he had resigned the office of head constable.  An offshoot of the “Journal” was the “Daily Post,” which, in Mr. Whitty’s hands was (and indeed has been ever since under the direction of Sir Edward Russell, who still holds the reins) a powerful organ of Liberalism.  One of Whitty’s sub-editors on the “Daily Post” was Stephen Joseph Meany, a somewhat prominent figure in the Young Ireland and Fenian movements.

As showing the power of the Press, there is no doubt that Whitty and Meany, in the “Journal” and “Post,” and through their influence otherwise, did much to secure recognition of a great Irish actor.  This was Barry Sullivan, who was, I think, the finest tragedian I have ever seen.  He is still remembered with appreciation by many in England, and, I am sure, in Ireland too.