like two lines of battle, and these extended along the town nearly from
one end to the other. It was curious to remark the difference in the
persons and appearances of the combatants. In the Orange line the men
were taller, and of more powerful frames; but the Ribbonmen were
more hardy, active, and courageous. Man to man, notwithstanding their
superior bodily strength, the Orangemen could never fight the others;
the former depend too much upon their fire and side-arms, but they are
by no means so well trained to the use of the cudgel as their enemies.
In the district where the scene of this fight is laid, the Catholics
generally inhabit the mountainous part of the country, to which, when
the civil feuds of worse times prevailed, they had been driven at the
point of the bayonet; the Protestants and Presbyterians, on the other
hand, who came in upon their possessions, occupy the richer and more
fertile tracts of the land; being more wealthy, they live with less
labor, and on better food. The characteristic features produced by these
causes are such as might be expected--the Catholic being, like his soil,
hardy, thin, and capable of bearing all weathers; and the Protestants,
larger, softer, and more inactive.
“Their advance to the first onset was far different from a faction
fight. There existed a silence here, that powerfully evinced the
inextinguishable animosity with which they encountered. For some time
they fought in two compact bodies, that remained unbroken so long as the
chances of victory were doubtful. Men went down, and were up, and went
down in all directions, with uncommon rapidity; and as the weighty
phalanx of Orangemen stood out against the nimble line of their mountain
adversaries, the intrepid spirit of the latter, and their surprising
skill and activity soon gave symptoms of a gradual superiority in the
conflict. In the course of about half an hour, the Orange party began to
give way in the northern end of the town; and as their opponents pressed
them warmly and with unsparing hand, the heavy mass formed by their
numbers began to break, and this decomposition ran up their line until
in a short time they were thrown into utter confusion. They now fought
in detached parties; but these subordinate conflicts, though shorter in
duration than the shock of the general battle, were much more inhuman
and destructive; for whenever any particular gang succeeded in putting
their adversaries to flight, they usually ran to the assistance of their
friends in the nearest fight--by which means they often fought three to
one. In these instances the persons inferior in numbers suffered such
barbarities, as it would be painful to detail.
“There lived a short distance out of the town a man nicknamed Jemsy
Boccagh, on account of his lameness--he was also sometimes called
'Hop-an'-go-constant,' who fell the first victim to party spirit. He
had got arms on seeing his friends likely to be defeated, and had the
hardihood to follow, with charged bayonet, a few Ribbonmen, whom he
attempted to intercept, as they fled from a large number of their
enemies, who had got them separated from their comrades. Boccagh ran
across a field, in order to get before them in the road, and was in the
act of climbing a ditch, when one of them, who carried a spade-shaft,
struck him a blow on the head, which put an end to his existence.*
* Fact. The person who killed him escaped to America
where he got himself naturalized, and when the British
government claimed him, he pleaded his privilege of
being an American citizen, and he was consequently not
given up. Boccagh was a very violent Orangeman, and a
very offensive one.
“This circumstance imparted, of course, fiercer hatred to both
parties,--triumph inspiring the one, a thirst for vengeance nerving the
other. Kelly inflicted tremendous punishment in every direction; for
scarcely a blow fell from him which did not bring a man to the ground.
It absolutely resembled a military engagement, for the number of
combatants amounted at least to four thousand men. In many places the
street was covered with small pools and clots of blood, which flowed
from those who lay insensible--while others were borne away
bleeding, groaning, or staggering, having been battered into a total
unconsciousness of the scene about them.
“At length the Orangemen gave way, and their enemies, yelling with
madness and revenge, began to beat them with unrestrained fury. The
former, finding that they could not resist the impetuous tide which
burst upon them, fled back past the church, and stopped not until they
had reached an elevation, on which lay two or three heaps of stones,
that had been collected for the purpose of paving the streets. Here they
made a stand, and commenced a vigorous discharge of them against their
pursuers. This checked the latter; and the others, seeing them hesitate
and likely to retreat from the missiles, pelted them with such effect,
that the tables became turned, and the Ribbonmen made a speedy flight
back into the town.
“In the meantime several Orangemen had gone into Sherlock's, where a
considerable number of arms had been deposited, with an intention of
resorting to them in case of a defeat at the cudgels. These now came
out, and met the Ribbonmen on their flight from those who were pelting
them with the stones. A dreadful scene ensued. The Ribbonmen, who had
the advantage in numbers, finding themselves intercepted before by
those who had arms, and pursued behind by those who had recourse to the
stones, fought with uncommon bravery and desperation. Kelly, who was
furious, but still collected and decisive, shouted out in Irish, lest
the opposite party might understand him, 'Let every two men seize upon
one of those who have the arms.'
“This was attempted, and effected with partial success; and I have no
doubt but the Orangemen would have been ultimately beaten and deprived
of their weapons, were it not that many of them, who had got their
pistols out of Sherlock's, discharged them among their enemies, and
wounded several. The Catholics could not stand this; but wishing to
retaliate as effectually as possible, lifted stones wherever they could
find them, and kept up the fight at a distance, as they retreated. On
both sides, wherever a solitary foe was caught straggling from the rest,
he was instantly punished with a most cruel and blood-thirsty spirit.
“It was just about this time that I saw Kelly engaged with two men, whom
he kept at bay with great ease--retrograding, however, as he fought,
towards his own party. Grimes, who had for some time before this
recovered and joined the fight once more, was returning, after having
pursued several of the Ribbonmen past the market-house, where he spied
Kelly thus engaged. With a Volunteer gun in his hand, and furious with
the degradation of his former defeat, he ran-over and struck him with
the butt-end of it upon the temple--and Denis fell. When the stroke was
given, an involuntary cry of 'Murder,--foul, foul!' burst from those
who looked on from the windows; and long John Steele, Grimes's
father-in-law, in indignation, raised his cudgel to knock him down for
this treacherous and malignant blow;--but a person out of Neal Cassidy's
back-yard hurled a round stone, about six pounds in weight, at Grimes's
head, that felled him to the earth, leaving him as insensible, and
nearly in as dangerous a state as Kelly,--for his jaw was broken.
“By this time the Catholics had retreated out of the town, and Denis
might probably have received more punishment, had those who were
returning from the pursuit recognized him; but James Wilson, seeing the
dangerous situation in which he lay, came out, and, with the assistance
of his servant-man, brought him into his own house. When the Orangemen
had driven their adversaries off the field, they commenced the most
hideous yellings through the streets--got music, and played party
tunes--offered any money for the face of a Papist; and any of that
religion who were so unfortunate as to make their appearance, were
beaten in the most relentless manner. It was precisely the same thing on
the part of the Ribbonmen; if a Protestant, but above all, an Orangeman,
came in their way, he was sure to be treated with barbarity; for the
retaliation on either side was dreadfully unjust--the innocent suffering
as well as the guilty. Leaving the window, I found Kelly in a a bad
state below stairs.
“'What's to be done?' said I to Wilson.
“'I know not,' replied he, 'except I put him between us on my jaunting
car, and drive him home.'
“This appeared decidedly the best plan we could adopt; so, after putting
to the horse, we placed him on the car, sitting one on each side of him,
and, in this manner, left him at his own house.
“'Did you run no risk,' said I, 'in going among Kelly's friends, whilst
they were under the influence of party feeling and exasperated passion?'
“'No,' said he; 'we had rendered many of them acts of kindness, and
had never exhibited any spirit but a friendly one towards them; and
such individuals, but only such, might walk through a crowd of enraged
Catholics or Protestants quite unmolested.'
“The next morning Kelly's landlord, Sir W. E------, and two magistrates,
were at his house, but he lay like a log, without sense or motion.
Whilst they were there, the surgeon arrived and, after examining
his head declared that the skull was fractured. During that and the
following day, the house was surrounded by crowds, anxious to know his
state; and nothing might be heard amongst most of them but loud and
undisguised expressions of the most ample revenge. The wife was frantic;
and, on seeing me, hid her face in her hands, exclaiming.
“'Ah, sir, I knew it would come to this; and you, too, tould him the
same thing. My curse and God's curse on it for quarrelling! Will it
never stop in the counthry till they rise some time and murdher one
another out of the face?'
“As soon as the swelling in his head was reduced, the surgeon performed
the operation of trepanning, and thereby saved his life; but his
strength and intellect were gone, and he just lingered for four months,
a feeble, drivelling simpleton, until, in consequence of a cold, which
produced inflammation in the brain, he died, as hundreds have died
before, the victim of party spirit.”
Such was the account which I heard of my old school-fellow, Denis
Kelly; and, indeed, when I reflected upon the nature of the education he
received, I could not but admit that the consequences were such as might
naturally be expected to result from it.
The next morning a relation of Mrs. Kelly's came down to my brother,
hoping that, as they wished to have as decent a funeral as possible, he
would be so kind as to attend it.
“Musha, God knows, sir,” said the man, “it's poor Denis, heavens be his
bed! that had the regard and reverence for every one, young and ould, of
your father's family; and it's himself that would be the proud man, if
he was living, to see you, sir, riding after his coffin.”
“Well,” said my brother, “let Mrs. Kelly know that I shall certainly
attend, and so will my brother, here, who has come to puy me a visit.
Why, I believe, Tom, you forget him!”
“Your brother, sir! Is it Master Toby, that used to cudgel the half of
the counthry when he was at school? Gad's my life, Masther Toby (I was
now about thirty-six), but it's your four quarters, sure enough! Arrah,
thin, sir, who'd think it--you're grown so full and stout?--but, faix,
you'd always the bone in you! Ah, Masther Toby!” said he, “he's lying
cowld, this morning, that would be the happy man to lay his eyes wanst
more upon you. Many an' manys the winther's evening did he spind,
talking about the time when you and he were bouchals (* boys) together,
and of the pranks you played at school, but especially of the time you
both leathered the four Grogans, and tuck the apples from thim--my poor
fellow--and now to be stretched a corpse, lavin' his poor widdy and
childher behind him!”
I accordingly expressed my sorrow for Denis's death, which, indeed,
I sincerely regretted, for he possessed materials for an excellent
character, had not all that was amiable and good in him been permitted
to run wild.
As soon as my trunk and traveling-bag had been brought from the inn,
where I had left them the preceding night, we got our horses, and, as we
wished to show particular respect to Denis's remains, rode up, with
some of our friends, to the house. When we approached, there were large
crowds of the country-people before the door of his well-thatched and
respectable-looking dwelling, which had three chimneys, and a set
of sash-windows, clean and well glazed. On our arrival, I was soon
recognized and surrounded by numbers of those to whom I had formerly
been known, who received and welcomed me with a warmth of kindness and
sincerity, which it would be in vain to look for among the peasantry
of any other nation. Indeed, I have uniformly observed, that when no
religious or political feeling influences the heart and principles of an
Irish peasant, he is singularly sincere and faithful in his attachments,
and has always a bias to the generous and the disinterested. To my own
knowledge, circumstances frequently occur, in which the ebullition of
party spirit is, although temporary, subsiding after the cause that
produced it has passed away, and leaving the kind peasant to the
natural, affectionate, and generous impulses of his character. But
poor Paddy, unfortunately, is as combustible a material in politics or
religion as in fighting--thinking it his duty to take the weak side*,
without any other consideration than because it is the weak side.
* A gentleman once told me an anecdote, of which he was
an eye-witness. Some peasants, belonging to opposite
factions, had met under peculiar circumstances; there
were, however, two on one side, and four on the other--
in this case, there was likely to be no fight; but, in
order to balance the number, one of the more numerous
party joined the weak side--“bekase, boys, it would be
a burnin' shame, so it would, for four to kick two;
and, except I join them, by the powers, there's no
chance of there being a bit of sport, or a row, at all
at all!” Accordingly, he did join them, and the result
of it was, that he and his party were victorious, so
honestly did he fight.
When we entered the house I was almost suffocated with the strong
fumes of tobacco-smoke, snuff, and whiskey; and as I had been an old
school-fellow of Denis's, my appearance was the signal for a general
burst of grief among his relations, in which the more distant friends
and neighbors of the deceased joined, to keep up the keening.
I have often, indeed always, felt that there! is something extremely
touching in the Irish cry; in fact, that it breathes the very spirit
of wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry, whenever a death
takes place, are exceedingly happy in seizing upon any contingent
circumstances that may occur, and making them subservient to the
excitement of grief for the departed, or the exaltation and praise
of his character and virtues. My entrance was a proof of this--I had
scarcely advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with the
deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels, were adverted to
with a natural eloquence and pathos, that, in spite of my firmness,
occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow. They spoke, or chaunted
mournfully, in Irish; but the substance of what they said was as
follows:--
“Oh, Denis, Denis, avourneen! you're lying low, this morning of
sorrow!--lying low are you, and does not know who it is (alluding to me)
that is standing over you, weeping for the days you spent together in
your youth! It's yourself, _acushla agus asthore machree_ (the pulse and
beloved of my heart), that would stretch out the right hand warmly to
welcome him to the place of his birth, where you had both been so often
happy about the green hills and valleys with each other! He's here now,
standing over you; and it's he, of all his family, kind and respectable
as they are, that was your own favorite, Denis, _avourneen dhelish!_
He alone was the companion that you loved!--with no other could you be
happy!--For him did you fight, when he wanted a friend in your young
quarrels! and if you had a dispute with him, were you not sorry for it?
Are you not now stretched in death before him, and will he not forgive
you?”
All this was uttered, of course, extemporaneously, and without the least
preparation. They then passed on to an enumeration of his virtues as
a father, a husband, son, and brother--specified his worth as he stood
related to society in general, and his kindness as a neighbor and a
friend.
An occurrence now took place which may serve, in some measure, to throw
light upon many of the atrocities and outrages which take place in
Ireland. Before I mention it, however, I think it necessary to make
a few observations relative to it. I am convinced that those who are
intimately acquainted with the Irish peasantry will grant that there is
not on the earth a class of people in whom the domestic affections of
blood-relationship are so pure, strong, and sacred. The birth of a child
will occasion a poor man to break in upon the money set apart for his
landlord, in order to keep the christening, surrounded by his friends
and neighbors, with due festivity. A marriage exhibits a spirit of joy,
an exuberance of happiness and delight, to be found only in the Green
Island; and the death of a member of a family is attended with a
sincerity of grief, scarcely to be expected from men so much the
creatures of the more mirthful feelings. In fact, their sorrow is a
solecism in humanity--at once deep and loud--mingled up, even in its
deepest paroxysms, with a laughter-loving spirit. It is impossible that
an Irishman, sunk in the lowest depths of affliction, could permit his
grief to flow in all its sad solemnity, even for a day, without some
glimpse of his natural humor throwing a faint and rapid light over the
gloom within him. No: there is an amalgamation of sentiments in his mind
which, as I said before, would puzzle any philosopher to account for.
Yet it would be wrong to say, though his grief has something of an
unsettled and ludicrous character about it, that he is incapable of the
most subtle and delicate shades of sentiment, or the deepest and most
desolating intensity of sorrow. But he laughs off those heavy vapors
which hang about the moral constitution of the people of other
nations, giving them a morbid habit, which leaves them neither strength
nor firmness to resist calamity--which they feel less keenly than an
Irishman, exactly as a healthy man will feel the pangs of death with
more acuteness than one who is wasted away by debility and decay. Let
any man witness an emigration, and he will satisfy himself that this is
true. I am convinced that Goldsmith's inimitable description of one in
his “Deserted Village,” was a picture drawn from actual observation. Let
him observe the emigrant, as he crosses the Atlantic, and he will find,
although he joins the jest, and the laugh, and the song, that he will
seek a silent corner, or a silent hour, to indulge the sorrow which he
still feels for the friends, the companions, and the native fields that
he has left behind him. This constitution of mind is beneficial: the
Irishman seldom or never hangs himself, because he is capable of too
much real feeling to permit himself to become the slave of that which
is factitious. There is no void in his affections or sentiments, which a
morbid and depraved sensibility could occupy; but his feelings, of what
character soever they may be, are strong, because they are fresh and
healthy. For this reason, I maintain, that when the domestic affections
come under the influence of either grief or joy, the peasantry of no
nation are capable of feeling so deeply. Even on the ordinary occasions
of death, sorrow, though it alternates with mirth and cheerfulness, in
a manner peculiar to themselves, lingers long in the unseen recesses
of domestic life: any hand, therefore, whether by law or violence, that
plants a wound here, will suffer to the death.
When my brother and I entered the house, the body had just been put
into the coffin and it is usual after this takes place, and before it
is nailed down, for the immediate relatives of the family to embrace the
deceased, and take their last look and farewell of his remains. In the
present instance, the children were brought over, one by one, to perform
that trying and melancholy ceremony. The first was an infant on the
breast, whose little innocent mouth was held down to that of its dead
father; the babe smiled upon his still and solemn features, and would
have played with his grave-clothes, but that the murmur of unfeigned
sorrow, which burst from all present, occasioned it to be removed. The
next was a fine little girl, of three or lour years, who inquired where
they were going to bring her daddy, and asked if he would not soon come
back to her.
“My daddy's sleeping a long time,” said the child, “but I'll waken him
till he sings me 'Peggy Slevin.' I like my daddy best, bekase I sleep
wid him--and he brings me good things from the fair; he bought me this
ribbon,” said she, pointing to a ribbon which he had purchased for her.
The rest of the children were sensible of their loss, and truly it was
a distressing scene. His eldest son and daughter, the former about
fourteen, the latter about two years older, lay on the coffin, kissing
his lips, and were with difficulty torn away from it.
“Oh!” said the boy, “he is going from us, and night or day we will never
see him or hear him more! Oh! father--father--is that the last sight we
are ever to see of your face? Why, father dear, did you die, and leave
us forever?--forever--wasn't your heart good to us, and your words kind
to us--Oh! your last smile is smiled--your last kiss given--and your
last kind word spoken to your children that you loved, and that loved
you as we did. Father, core of my heart, are you gone forever, and your
voice departed? Oh! the murdherers, oh! the murdherers, the murdherers!”
he exclaimed, “that killed my father; for only for them, he would be
still wid us: but, by the God that's over me, if I live, night or day I
will not rest, till I have blood for blood; nor do I care who hears it,
nor if I was hanged the next minute.”
As these words escaped him, a deep and awful murmur of suppressed
vengeance burst from his relations. At length their sorrow became
too strong to be repressed; and as it was the time to take their last
embrace and look of him, they came up, and after fixing their eyes
on his face in deep affliction, their lips began to quiver, and their
countenances became convulsed. They then burst out simultaneously into a
tide of violent grief, which, after having indulged in it for some time,
they checked. But the resolution of revenge was stronger than their
grief, for, standing over his dead body, they repeated, almost word for
word, the vow of vengeance which the son had just sworn. It was really
a scene dreadfully and terribly solemn; and I could not avoid reflecting
upon the mystery of nature, which can, from the deep power of domestic
affection, cause to spring a determination to crime of so black a
dye. Would to God that our peasantry had a clearer sense of moral and
religious duties, and were not left so much as they are to the headlong
impulse of an ardent temperament and an impetuous character; and would
to God that the clergy who superintend their morals, had a better
knowledge of human nature, and a more liberal education!
During all this time the heart-broken widow sat beyond the coffin,
looking upon what passed with a stupid sense of bereavement; and when
they had all performed this last ceremony, it was found necessary to
tell her that the time was come for the procession of the funeral, and
they only waited for; her to take, as the rest did, her last look and
embrace of her husband. When she heard this, it pierced her like an
arrow; she became instantly collected, and her complexion assumed a dark
shade of despairing anguish, which it was an affliction even to look
upon, one then stooped over the coffin, and kissed him several times,
after which she ceased sobbing, and lay silently with her mouth to his.
The character of a faithful wife sorrowing for a beloved husband has
that in it which compels both respect and sympathy. There was not at
this moment a dry eye in the house. She still lay silent on the coffin;
but, as I observed that her bosom seemed not to heave as it did a little
before, I was convinced that she had become insensible. I accordingly
beckoned to Kelly's brother, to whom I mentioned what I had suspected;
and on his going over to ascertain the truth, he found her as I
had said. She was then brought to the air, and after some
trouble--recovered; but I recommended them to put her to bed, and not to
subject her to any unnecessary anguish, by a custom which was really
too soul-piercing to endure. This, however, was, in her opinion, the
violation of an old rite, sacred to her heart and affections--she would
not hear of it for an instant. Again she was helped out between her
brother and brother-in-law; and, after stooping down, and doing as the
others had done--