RETROSPECT
The brief career of the Volunteer army stands as a unique example for
students of history to marvel at. Urged by a strange series of events,
Ireland, like Cinderella, rose up from her dustheap, and was clad by a
fairy in gorgeous garments. All at once she flung aside her mop, and
demanded to be raised from the three-legged stool in the scullery to
the dais whereon her wicked sister sat. And the wicked sister, being
at the time sorely put about through her own misconduct, embraced her
drudge with effusion on each cheek, instead of belabouring her with a
broom, as had been her pleasant way, vowing that the straw pallet and
short commons of a lifetime were all a mistake, and that nought but
samite and diamonds of the first water were good enough for the sweet
girl. She killed the fatted calf, and drew a fine robe out of
lavender, and grinned as many a spiteful woman will whom rage is
consuming inwardly, registering at the same time a secret oath to drub
the saucy minx when occasion should serve--a not uncommon practice
among ladies.
Events followed one another in this wise. France, natural enemy of
England, had suffered sore tribulation at the hands of my Lord
Chatham, who routed her armies and sunk her ships, and filled his
prisons with the flower of her youth. But my Lord Chatham's mighty
spirit succumbed to chronic gout; an incompetent minister took his
place, whose folly lashed the young colonies of America to rebellion,
and France saw with joy such a blow struck across the face of her too
prosperous rival as brought her reeling to her knees. This was the
moment for reprisals. France breathed again. Quick! she said, a deft
scheme of revenge! How shall we find out the weakest point? We will
invade Ireland which is defenceless, and so establish a raw in the
very flank of our enemy. But Ireland had no idea of tamely submitting
to a hostile French occupation. Unhappily for her, she was never
completely conquered, and was ever over-fond of nourishing wild hopes
of independence--of formal recognition as a nation among nations. To
become a slave to France would be no improvement upon her present
slavery, and she had already been a subject of conflict for centuries.
She cried out therefore to the wicked sister, 'Save me from invasion.
Send me men to garrison my fortresses; ships to protect my harbours.'
But England turned a deaf ear, being herself in a dire strait;
bandaging her own limbs, nursing her own wounds. 'Then,' said
Cinderella, 'give me arms at least. I come of a good fighting stock,
and will even make shift in the emergency to defend myself.' Here were
the horns of a dilemma. Unarmed and undefended, Ireland would of a
surety fall an easy prey to France, which would be a serious mishap
indeed. On the other hand, deliberately to place a weapon in the grasp
of a young sister whom we have wronged and hectored all her life, and
who ominously reminds us that though slavery has curbed her spirit she
comes of a good fighting stock, is surely rash. Forgiveness of
injuries savours too much of heaven for mere daughters of earth, and
it is more than probable that, having repulsed the invader, this child
of warlike sires will seize the opportunity to smite us under our own
fifth rib. However, there was nothing for it but to risk that danger;
so England sent over with a good grace a quantity of arms, and
secretly vowed to whip the naughty jade on a later day for having been
the innocent cause of the difficulty.
That which Britain feared took place. For six hundred years she had
persistently been sowing dragons' teeth in the Isle of Saints, and
perseveringly watering them with blood; and lo, in a night, they rose
up armed men--a threatening host of warriors, who with one voice
demanded their just rights, unjustly withheld so long. England bit her
lips, and parleyed. She felt herself the laughingstock of Europe, and
her humiliation was rendered doubly acute by the dignified bearing of
the new-born battalions. They did not bully; they did not revile.
They calmly claimed their own, with the least little click of a
well-polished firelock, the slightest flutter of a green silk banner.
'To suit your own selfish ends,' they declared, 'you have robbed us of
our trade and suborned our legislature. Give us back our trade; permit
us to reform our senate. You have stripped us of our commerce
piecemeal. Return it, to the last shred. In the days of the first
Tudor, when you were strong and we were weak, a decree of Sir E.
Poyning's became law, whereby we were to be ruled henceforth from
distant London. The operation of all English statutes was to extend to
Ireland; the previous consent of an English Council was necessary to
render legal acts passed at home. By the 6th of George III. this was
made absolute; the Irish senate was decreed to be a chapel of ease to
that of Westminster. When we were weak our gyves were riveted tightly
upon our legs. Now our conditions are reversed; yet claim we nothing
but our own. Bring forth the anvil and the hammer. Strike off with
your own hand these fetters, for we will wear no bonds but those of
equal fellowship. Give us a free constitution and free trade, and let
bygones be bygones.'
Attentive Europe admired the position of Ireland at this moment. A
change was creeping across the world of which this situation was a
natural result. A cloud, like a man's hand, had arisen on the horizon
of America, which in time was to overshadow the globe. A warlike fever
possessed the Irish people. They became imbued with an all-engrossing
fervour, an epidemic of patriotism. The important question was, could
they keep it up? Irish veterans, who had fought under Washington,
returned home invalided, to thrill their audience by the peat fire
with tales that sounded like fairy lore of Liberty and Fraternity and
Freedom of Conscience; to whisper that their country was a nation, not
a shire; that an end must be put to bigotry, that accursed twin-sister
of religion; that if the King of England wished to rule the Isle of
Saints, he must do so henceforth by right of his Irish, not his
English, crown, governing each kingdom by distinct laws according to
its case.
High and low were stricken with the new enthusiasm; some generously,
some driven by shame to assume a virtue which they had not. Laird,
squire, and shopkeeper--all donned the Volunteer uniform. All looked,
or affected to look, to the eagle of America as a symbol of a new
hope. A race of serfs were transformed into a nation of soldiers. Many
really thought themselves sincere who fell away when their own
interests became involved.
And this sudden upheaving was at first without danger to the body
politic. The French Revolution, with its overturning of social grades,
had yet to come. Classes found themselves for a brief space thrown
together, between whom usually a great gulf was fixed, and the
temporary commingling was, by giving a new direction to the mind, for
the mutual benefit of both. The very singularity of such a state of
things (in an age before democratic principles began to obtain) showed
a seriousness of purpose which caused the ruling spirits of the new
military association to carry all before them by the impetus of
self-respect. Their mother had suffered bitterly and long; no one
denied that. The time was come for her rescue. The task was arduous,
but the cause was excellent. It behoved her sons then to raise their
minds above the trammels of the earth--to become Sir Galahads--for was
not their task to the full as pious as the mystic quest after the
Grail? It behoved them, while the holy fervour lasted (alas! man is
unstable at the best, and the Irishman more so than most), to set
their house thoroughly in order, and the powerless English Cabinet
from across the Channel watched the operation with anxiety.
When a wedge is inserted in so unnatural a bundle as this was, it will
speedily fall asunder, and that which was a formidable coalition will
be reduced to a ridiculous wreck. Who was to insert the wedge? Would
time alone do it, or would perfidious aid from London be required?
That it should be inserted somehow, was decided _nem. con_. in London.
Alas! in the moment of supreme triumph, whilst the Volunteers caracole
so bravely down Sackville Street, we may detect grave symptoms of
danger, which argus-eyed England scans with hope, while the Viceroy is
laughing in the Castle.
Ireland had during ages been the butt of fortune. A train of English
kings had entreated her evilly, and the native bards reviewed the sad
story with untiring zeal.
First they sang of Norman thieves--turbulent barons who, troublesome
at home, were despatched to get rid of superfluous energy at the
expense of Keltic princes. They slurred over the reign of the first
Edward, for with him came a deceptive ray of hope. He threatened to
visit the island in person. Had he done so, he would have quelled the
Irish thoroughly, as he did the Welsh, and so have nipped their
delusive dream of freedom in the bud. The most aristocratic race in
the world would have become loyal, for they would have seen the face
of their lord, and the face of royalty is as a sun unto them. But they
did not become loyal, for they saw their lord's face as little then as
they see that of their lady now. Nor he, nor any of the brave
Plantagenets ever came to Ireland, for they were pursuing an _ignis
fatuus_ in France, instead of attending to their own business at home.
Henry V. and Edward III. sought fame, which might not be obtained,
they thought, by obscure squabbling with saffron-mantled savages in a
barbarous dependency.
Events shuffled along in slipshod, careless fashion, till the period
when crook-backed Richard met his end at Bosworth. By that time a
mixed population held undisputed possession of the island--a bastard
race, half Keltic, half Norman. The 'English of the Pale,' or early
settlers, had found Irish brides. They wore the saffron mantle and
spoke the Keltish tongue. But the first Tudor, who had no sympathy
with savages, declared 'this might not be.' He had a spite against
them which he was but too glad to gratify, for in the absence of a
king they had crowned an ape--or rather an impostor, Simnel. In
virtuous indignation, he vowed that it was revolting to see noble
knights reduced to the serfs' level; to which the chiefs replied with
one accord:
'We are no serfs, but freemen, as ye are yourselves; for Ireland was
never conquered, though she did lip-homage.'
The Tudor did not choose to be so bearded. 'Indeed! You were not
conquered?' he said, surprised. 'I will send commissioners who shall
straightway solve for me this riddle.' And he sent Sir Edward
Poynings, who arrived in state, with special instructions to set the
chiefs a-quarrelling.
The guileless princes received the commissioner cordially, who
diligently sowed dissensions, setting race against race, by declaring
(in 1494) that none of English blood might wed a Keltic wife, or hold
communion with the Irishry, or even learn their tongue. O'Neil was
pitted against Geraldine, Desmond against Tyrone, with double-faced
advice; and, his dastardly commission done, Sir Edward bowed himself
away with smiles, leaving behind the celebrated act which bears his
name, and which was as a red rag between the nations ever after, till
it was taken in hand by the Volunteers.
Up to this moment the frequent bickerings which disturbed the
fellowship of the two islands were concerning land or race; but with
the reign of the eighth Henry, the true demon of discord woke to wave
the sword of persecution over the distracted country. The Reformation,
which brought so much trouble on the world, was no kinder to the Irish
than to other nations. Henry, angry with a people who would not do as
they were bid, drove the natives from the holdings which their septs
had held for centuries, away to the wild fastness beyond the Shannon.
(A sinful scheme, which is often fathered upon Cromwell, who has much
besides to answer for.) He ravaged the land with fire and sword,
resolved at least that it should have the peace of death if none other
was attainable; and these tactics his dutiful child Elizabeth pursued,
till her dependency was a waste of blood and ashes. Like her
grandfather, she had a private cause for spite. As a nation, the Irish
declined to be anything but Catholics; and so, refusing to acknowledge
Queen Katherine's divorce, they looked on Anne Boleyn's daughter as a
bastard and a usurper. This prompted her to filial piety. Hardly was
she seated on the throne at Westminster, than she summoned a
parliament in Dublin, and shook her pet prayer-book at the Catholics.
The religion of Christ, the meek and lowly, she preached to them in
this wise. Every layman who should use any prayer-book but her pet one
was to be imprisoned for a year. On each recurring Sunday, every adult
of every persuasion was to attend Protestant service, or be heavily
mulcted for the benefit of her treasury. Not content with crushing
their faith, she let loose a horde of adventurers upon the unhappy
Irish. They fought for their fields as well as their religion. One of
the characteristics of her reign was a spirit of adventure, which
descended in regular gamut from the loftiest heroism to the vilest
cupidity. The eagles sought doubloons on the Spanish main; the
vultures swept down on Ireland with ravenous beaks. Elizabeth's own
deputy wrote thus to her in horror:
'From every corner of the woods did the people come, creeping on their
hands, for their legs would not bear them. They looked like anatomies
of death; they spake like ghosts; they did eat carrion, happy when
they could find them, yea, and one another; in so much that the very
carcases they spared not to scrape out of their graves.'
Indeed, Queen Bess left her dependency a reeking slaughter-house, in
so abject a misery, that when her successor cleared a whole province
to plant it with Scotchmen, the natives made no resistance, but
plodded listlessly away. Is it surprising that their descendants
should have hated England, and its truckling Anglo-Irish Senate?
In due course followed Charles I., who, with the ingrained perfidy of
all the Stuarts, fleeced his Irish subjects, and then cheated them by
evading the graces for which they paid their gold. His creature
Strafford went too far, and they turned as worms will. There was a
grand Protestant massacre in Ulster, an appalling picture of a
vengeance such as a brutalised people will wreak on its oppressor; and
Cromwell took advantage of this as an excuse for still further
grinding down the Catholics. It was a fine opportunity to avenge the
sufferings of Protestants in other lands--the affair of Nantes,
Bartholomew, and so forth. He made a finished job of it, as he did of
most things to which he set his shoulder. It was no felony now to slay
an Irishman, whose very name was a reproach. He was well-nigh swept
from off the earth. Famine and pestilence reigned together alone.
Wolves roamed at will in the dismantled towns. Newly-appointed
colonists refused to build the walls of shattered cities, for the
stench of the rotting bodies poisoned the breeze.
It remained for Orange William and good Queen Anne (neither of whom
could be expected to feel interest in Ireland) to add a finishing
touch, and the Penal Code was a _chef d'[oe]uvre_. Under its sweet
influence no Catholic could dwell in Ireland save under such
conditions as no man who stood erect might bear, and so there
commenced an exodus of independent spirits, who flocked into the
service of France and Germany, and filled the navies of Holland and of
Spain. Thus did British rulers educate their dependency to loving
obedience, by teaching its children to revile the name of law. Verily
it is no wonder that they loathed the English; that they distrusted
British amenities, and looked askance at the half-English upper class.
When the Volunteers determined to regenerate their motherland,
there were two great evils with which they had to cope. Two deep
plague-spots. It remained to be seen whether they were wise enough and
steadfast enough to eradicate the virus. A rotten legislature, an
impossible Penal Code. Could Sir Galahad reform so base a parliament?
Would the champion dare to free the serfs from thraldom? The first was
a Herculean labour, because both Lords and Commons drew much of their
revenue from British ministers; the second was even a more Titanic
task. Possession is nine points of the law, and the soil was in
possession of the small knot of Protestants, who knew that their
existence depended on keeping the majority in chains. Like the
emigrants of the _Mayflower_, they said: 'Resolved, that the earth is
the Lord's, and the fulness thereof; that the Lord hath given the
earth as an heritage unto His saints; and that we are His saints.
_Ergo_: the earth is ours, to have and to hold by pillage and
persecution, and murder, if need be, just as the chosen people of old
seized and held Canaan, the land of promise, flowing with milk and
honey.'
Truly the parliament was a plague-spot fit to gangrene a whole body;
for it in nowise represented the nation, consisting as it did of three
hundred members, seventy-two only of whom were elected by the people.
The rest were nominees of large Protestant proprietors who returned
members for every squalid hamlet on their estates, and kept their
voters in the condition of tame dogs through a constant terror of
ejectment. Of three million Catholics not one had a voice in the
elections; for by law they existed not at all. Like Milton's devils
they occupied no space, while the Protestant angels filled the air
with their proportions.
It was said of the Irish gentry of the last century that they
possessed the materials of distinguished men with the propensities of
obscure ones, which is a picturesque way of admitting that they were
incorrigibly idle. To indolence add poverty and a propensity for
drink, and you have a promising hotbed for the growth of every ill.
The aristocratic pensioners were, as a rule, lapped in excessive
luxury, which could not be kept up without extraneous help; half
English by education as well as origin, they naturally leaned for
protection towards the English Government.
The gentry, ignorant and sensual, were given to profuse hospitality,
regardless of mortgaged acres and embarrassed lands. Dog-boys and
horse-boys hung about their gates; keepers and retainers lolled
upon their doorsteps, together with a posse of half-mounted poor
relations--all of them too genteel to do anything useful--fishing for
the speckled trout by day, drinking huge beakers of claret and
quarrelling among themselves by night, till in many cases there was
little left, after a few years, for the filling of a hundred mouths
beyond a nominal rent-roll and the hereditary curse of idleness. Not a
squire but was more or less floundering in debt, and (his sense of
honour blunted by necessity) only too anxious for a little cash at any
price. Government agents were always conveniently turning up ready and
willing to purchase mortgages and notes of hand, which were duly
stored in the coffers of the Castle as a means of prospective coercion
by-and-by.
With such materials for a national 'Lords and Commons,' it is little
wonder if a sudden revulsion in favour of patriotism on the part of a
body of enthusiasts should threaten to set the country agog. How was
the parliament to be purified? That was the rub. Was it to be exhorted
to virtue gently, or flogged into improvement? The leaders of the
Volunteers had carried their first point with a rush. The parliament
was with them, or feigned to be so. But what if the existence of the
Parliament should come to be threatened? The sincerity of its
professions would be put to a crucial test. Careless lords and
impecunious squires babbled of freedom and cackled of free trade,
because it was become the fashion and pleased the Volunteers. What
cared they for free trade? That was a question which affected the men
of Ulster, to whom commerce was as lifeblood, and who indeed were the
prime workers in this movement. The dissenting traders of Belfast had
demanded a free trade, and British ministers had given way. Therefore
Lords and Commons joined in the popular cry, and pretended that it
interested them. The position was a paradox. Here was all at once a
military supremacy independent of the crown, and ministers in London
were compelled to countenance it. It was humiliating; but their
comfort lay in this. Would the Volunteer leaders allow zeal to
overstep prudence? Probably they would. They might be coaxed by crafty
submission to do so. If a collision could only be brought about
between a self-elected military despotism and an effete but
constitutional senate, there were the materials for such a pretty
quarrel as might produce a repetition of the fate of the Kilkenny
cats. One would devour the other, and England would gloat over the
tails. The British premier made a parade of 'doing something for
Ireland' to oblige the Volunteers.
With a flourish of alarums he repealed some obnoxious laws, which
graceful conduct was received in Dublin with gratitude, till somebody
pointed out that Albion was at her tricks again: whilst seeming
gracefully to give way, she was really strengthening her own position
by establishing a new precedent on the basis of the Poynings statute,
to the effect that such favours were in the gift of England's
Parliament--not Ireland's--and might accordingly be withdrawn at any
time. The Volunteers were furious, Albion was perfidious; the Irish
senate was playing a double game, there was no use in mincing matters
in the way of compromise. England must distinctly abdicate all
parliamentary dominion; parliament must be remodelled on new lines. In
the future the senate must be upright, zealous, independent,
incorruptible; English gold must be as dross; an English coronet hold
no allurement.
As might be expected, the new cry created a commotion. Patriots there
were both in Lords and Commons, who were prepared to sacrifice part of
their income for the general good, but they were few. If pensions were
withdrawn and mortgages foreclosed and proprietors in prison, what
mattered to these last a national liberty? The notion was an insult,
and parliament stood at bay. But the ardour of the Volunteers would
brook no dallying. Ulster, as usual, took the lead. Sharpwitted,
frugal, Scotch, the battalions of the North convened a general
assembly. On Feb. 15, 1782, one of the most impressive scenes which
Ireland ever witnessed took place at Duncannon, where two hundred
delegated volunteers marched two and two, calm, steadfast, virtuous,
determined to pledge themselves before the altar of that sacred place
to measures which might save their motherland or kill her. After
earnest thought, a manifesto was framed--a dignified declaration of
rights and grievances, a solemn statement of the people's will, a
protest against English craft and Irish corruption--inviting the armed
bodies of other provinces to aid in the process of regeneration.
Can you conceive anything more glorious and touching than the quiet
gathering on the promontory of Duncannon? A towering fort frowns down
upon the harbour, commanding a spacious basin formed by the waters of
three rivers. Imagine the simple country gentlemen, the homely
squires, the traders of Belfast, abandoning for a while their vices
and their quarrels, to deliberate sword in hand over the grievous
shortcomings of their brethren. I see them in the gloaming, with
high-collared coats and anxious faces, puzzling their poor brains over
a way out of the labyrinth. The lovely land, stretched out on either
side in a jagged line of coast, whose slopes had been watered to
greenness with blood and tears, must haply be soaked again in the
stream of war. For the last time. Once more--only once--a final
sanctifying baptism which should leave it clean and sweet for
evermore. They penned a temperate document--a dignified manifesto.
Could they be single-minded to the end, or would discord fling her
apple among them?
So soon as the delegates of the North received the concurrence of the
provinces, the senate in Dublin changed its tone, for no immediate
succour could be hoped from England. It affected a complete
patriotism, and made believe to go all lengths with the Volunteers.
Patriots--real and sham--thundered in the House, and were applauded to
the echo. It was impossible to tell who was in earnest and who was
not. First, said the wily senators, make it clear that we are free,
and then by remodelling the Senate we will prove ourselves worthy of
the gift you have bestowed. Grattan towered above all others. He spoke
as one inspired, and the meshes of the web seemed to shrivel before
his breath.
The army patrolled the streets, and review succeeded review in the
Ph[oe]nix Park; the national artillery lined the quays. Loyalty,
Dignity, Forbearance, were grouped round the god of war. All the
virtues, posing around Mars, hovered in ether over Dublin. Never was a
city so happy or so proud. But the English Viceroy, though outwardly
perturbed, was laughing in the Castle while the ignorant people
jigged.
'Fools!' he scoffed. 'The meeting at Duncannon, of which you are so
vain, was but the thin end of the wedge which we were looking for. You
shall be played one against the other--people against parliament and
parliament against people--till you break your silly pates. We stoop
to conquer, as your own Goldy hath it. A little more and you will be
undone. A little, little more!'--and he was right. The Commons, with
mortgages before their eyes, wavered and prevaricated. The Volunteers,
exasperated, openly denounced the senate. The people, taking fire,
vowed they would obey no laws, whether good or bad, which were
dictated under the rose by the perfidious one. The statute-book was
rent in pieces; anarchy threatened to supervene; England prepared to
take possession again. But the Volunteers, sublime at this moment,
came once more to the rescue. They chid the weak and reproved the
strong; even formed themselves into a night-police for the security of
the capital. This hour was that of pride before a fall.
In prosperity they gave way to indiscretion. Enjoying as they did an
unnatural existence, for which the only excuse was transcendent
virtue, it was the more needful for them to be of one mind as to a
chief. But they split on this important point. One party declared for
the Earl of Charlemont, an amiable nobleman of whose mediocrity it was
said that his mind was without a flower or a weed; another was for my
lord of Deny, a bold, unsteady prelate, who, sincere or not, was but
too likely to lead his flock into a quagmire.
They wavered, when to hesitate was to be lost. They did worse; they
dirtied their own nest in a public place. Each rival chief, in his
struggle for supremacy, lost more than half his influence. Tongues
wagged to the discredit of all parties. Sir Galahad, feeling that he
was in the toils of sirens, made a prodigious effort to escape with
dignity. If parliament were not remodelled the fire would end in
smoke. _Coute qui coute_, this must be done at once, or England would
step in triumphant, and dire would be the vengeance. All hands were
quarrelling. Was it already too late? A wild and desperate effort must
be made to regain ground, lost by infirmity of purpose. The
Volunteers, all prudence cast aside, determined to strike a blow in
sledge-hammer fashion. They deliberately decided to send three hundred
of their number in open and official manner to Lords and Commons,
bidding them reform themselves at once; offering even to teach them
how to do it. And so the extraordinary spectacle came to be seen in
Dublin, of two governments--one civil, one military--sitting at the
same moment in the same city--within sight of each other--each equally
resolved to strain every nerve in order that the other might not live.
Sir Galahad blundered woefully! He had concentrated his attention with
all his muddled might and main on the lesser instead of the greater
plague-spot. 'Free Trade' had been his shibboleth, then a 'Reformed
Parliament,' though how it was to be reformed he did not know. It
escaped the shortness of his vision that 'Freedom of Conscience' would
have been the nobler cry. Had he first freed the three million slaves
from the bondage of the half million, the air would have been cleared
for the disinfecting of his senate. But no. He was blind and tripped,
and England saw the stumble. Well might the Viceroy laugh, while he
made believe to tremble, as he thought of the Kilkenny cats.