THE WALKING GALLOWS.
Brief reflections on the Irish Revolution of 1798—Mutual atrocities of the Royalists and Rebels—Irish humour buoyant to the last—O’Connor, the schoolmaster of County Kildare—“’Tis well it’s no worse”—The Barristers’ corps—Its commander—Lieutenant H—— —His zeal for loyalty, and its probable origin—Indemnities unjustly obtained for cruelty against the insurgents—Lieutenant H——’s mode of executing a rebel—His sobriquet, and its well-earned application.
Never was there an era in the history of any country which, in so short a space of time, gave birth to such numerous and varied circumstances as did the memorable year 1798 in Ireland: nor was there ever yet an event so important as the Irish insurrection, but has afforded a veracious—or, at least, a tolerably impartial narrative. But the party rancour and virulent hatred of the religious sects in the south, the centre and west of Ireland (where the rebellion principally raged), operated to prevent any fair record of those scenes of bloodshed and atrocity which, on both sides, outraged every principle of morality and justice, and every feeling of consanguinity, honour, or humanity. The very worst qualities were fostered to full maturity, and the better ones turned adrift like discarded servants. Blood, fire, and famine were the only umpires resorted to by the contending parties.
Those barbarities were nearly, if not altogether, unexampled either in ancient or modern Europe: but it is now thirty years since their termination; the surviving contemporaries are old enough to have their blood cooled and their prejudices moderated;—and they should have grown sufficiently dispassionate to speak of those scenes (if at all) with honesty and candour.
I was myself in the midst of the tumult: a zealous loyalist; an officer in the corps of barristers; an active partizan; in a word, a strong adherent of government—but not a blind one. I could not shut my eyes; I could not close my ears; I would not pervert my reason; and the full use of those faculties at that time, enables me now to state as an historic fact—which some will deny, and many may discredit—that the barbarities of that period (though not precisely) were pretty nearly balanced between the conflicting parties.[[31]] Mercy was alike banished by both; and the instruments employed of death and torture, though dissimilar, were alike destructive: the bullet, sabre, bayonet, lash, and halter, being met by the pike, the scythe, the blunderbuss, the hatchet, and the firebrand.
[31]. Never did there appear a more extravagant and therefore mischievous historian than Sir Richard Musgrave proved himself in his “History of Irish Rebellions, and principally that of Ninety-eight,”—almost every chapter whereof is distinguished by misconception and fanaticism. Lord Cornwallis disclaimed the baronet’s dedication—who, on sinking into the grave, left a legacy to his country—having fomented prejudices against her in Great Britain which another century may not extinguish.
Yet while human blood was pouring out in streams, and human beings consuming in fire, or writhing either upon rebel pikes or royal bayonets—will it be believed?—men had grown so familiarised to scenes of horror, that the eccentric humour of the Irish people was insusceptible of decrease. In the midst of tortures, either suffered or inflicted, it frequently broke out into the most ludicrous actions and expressions, proving to me that an Irishman’s humour is so drilled into his nature, as to be inexhaustible even to the moment of his death (if that is not unusually too deliberate).[[32]]