‘The rebellion which rendered this county notorious, has been called a rebellion of the Catholics. It is false; it was first begun in the north of Ireland by Protestants—Presbyterians if you will. A grand political scheme was then in agitation,—the withdrawing the semblance of a government from this country. Great opposition was expected. This rebellion, properly managed, would afford a pretext for the measure, and prepare the way for the important change. The conspiracy might have been crushed at the outset; but instead of that, it was allowed to spread its ramifications through the whole island. This it did more rapidly than was at first imagined, and as Samson of old, when deprived of his eyesight, and brought out to make sport for the lords of the Philistines, made a dreadful end of their amusement, our rulers ran some danger of being involved in the commotion which ensued.
“Divide to govern,” seems to have been the Machiavelian policy by which this unhappy country has been always ruled. As the only measure to save themselves was to create distrust between those implicated, the Catholics were stigmatized as the movers of the rebellion, and their end to overturn the Protestant religion. This had the desired effect: the Protestants, for their secession from the cause, were invested with the office of hunting us down,—how they performed their task, is in this country too well known. As those who commit wrong are more implacable and unforgiving than those injured, the Protestants have ever since nourished a deadly hatred towards us, and knowing the tenure on which they hold their power, dread that we should ever be placed on a par with them.
Would your countrymen suffer what we have done without trying to shake themselves free of the yoke?—no, they would not. When an attempt was made to saddle Episcopacy upon them, to a man they resisted the attempt; and the consequence was, that, like us, they were hunted as wild beasts, their houses were burned, their property robbed, their women violated, and themselves brought to the torture and the gibbet. They bore it all, animated by a determined spirit, and, aided by good fortune, they triumphed; and now in possession of dear-earned privileges, you look back with pride and exultation on what they achieved. But what is in you esteemed a virtue, is with us a crime. Poor Ireland has not been so fortunate; her efforts to assert her birthright, through the want of unanimity amongst her children, have been unsuccessful, and are still stigmatized as rebellion, while yours are lauded to the skies. Remember, I do not attempt to vindicate the insurrection of that period, which was at best but an insane project, and even had it succeeded, would have produced no permanent advantage to this country.
‘Above all other people, you ought to feel most sympathy for us; but if I mistake not, the measure of our emancipation meets with more virulent opposition in Scotland than in any other place. I repeat it again, that our creeds do not cause the deadly hatred which exists between the Catholic and Protestant in Ireland. See how peaceably they live together in England and Scotland, where they do not feel the irritation which excites us here. Nothing will ever restore our unhappy country to a state of quiet, but removing the disgraceful bonds with which we are weighed down to the earth. An enthusiasm pervades the country to emancipate the West Indian negroes; let them first remove the taint from their own constitution, let them eradicate the plague-spot from themselves, and then, with a clear conscience, they may go on and prosper; until then, their exertions in that cause will appear hypocritical and absurd—But I am talking to you as if you were interested in the matter. I forget that soldiers have nothing to do with politics, and far less soldiers who are here to keep the peace among the wild Irish.’
The conflicting statements here given may serve to give a tolerably correct idea of the state of party feeling in Ireland; at present I refrain from making any observations of my own on the subject.
CHAPTER III.
ARREARS.
When we had been a few weeks in Wexford, we received about six months’ pay, of which we had fallen in arrear while in the Peninsula, amounting to a considerable sum each man; and as it could scarcely be spent by individuals like us, who had been exiled from home and all its enjoyments for a number of years, without some spreeing, the commanding-officer wisely resolved to relax the reins of discipline a little. In such cases I have always found that severe restraint creates the evil that it is meant to prevent; but when humoured in some degree, the ebullition passes over,—foolishly enough certainly, but in general harmlessly. Nothing is more natural than that men’s judgment should be carried away by their animal spirits on such occasions, and those who purse up their mouths and treat the matter as a crime, know nothing at all about it.
Our poor fellows, when they got their money, in the joy of their hearts, played such fooleries as could challenge comparison with any ship’s crew that ever came into port. It would be an endless task to portray every extravagance they ran into; all joined, however, in a greater or less degree, in paying their addresses to the whisky; each heart then became unveiled, and a very common observer could have told the ruling passion of each individual in the regiment. Some showed their devotion to the fair sex, by hauling in every female with whom they had the slightest acquaintance, and treating them to gowns, caps, or anything they chose to ask. Others gratified their ambitious longings by hiring horses, coaches, gigs, or jaunting cars, and riding into the country or about the town. Dennis and I were in the throng, no doubt, and on receiving our cash sallied forth in quest of adventures. Dennis could not brook the idea of entering a common public-house on that day. ‘We have not long to act the gentleman,’ said he, ‘we may as well make a good use of our time;’ so saying, he led the way to the head inn, and with the utmost pomp bawled out ‘waiter!’—The waiter made his appearance.—‘Bring us a bottle of wine.’—The waiter smiled, and looked as if he thought him mad.—‘Go along, sir, and do as I order you,’ said Dennis; ‘you stare, you spalpeen, as if you never saw a gentleman before.’ The waiter made his escape, and having consulted with his master, brought the wine. We had scarcely seated ourselves when two of our officers entered,—the one was a good fellow, generous, brave, and feeling; the other was the reverse. ‘Mr G.,’ said Dennis, addressing the former, ‘will you be kind enough to drink with us?’
‘Certainly, my good fellow, it is not the first time you and I have drank together; I do not forget the time you gave me the last drop out of your canteen, on that long day’s march going up through Spain, when every one was dying with thirst, and no water to be had.’