NAPOLEON--THE STORM--THE COVE--UP THE COUNTRY--THE TREMBLING
HAND--IRISH--TOUGH BATTLE--TIPPERARY HILLS--ELEGANT LODGINGS--FAIR
SPECIMEN
Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years,
the long continental war had been brought to an end, Napoleon was humbled
for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could well have
dispensed with them; we returned to England, where the corps was
disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life. I
shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of
interest as far as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the
sound of war was heard again, Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and
everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were again made,
our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it;
but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled, and chained
for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock. As the corps, however, though so
recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my
father's energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to
turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland
about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than
despatch it to that country.
In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in Essex; we were
some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large,
but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we
had nearly foundered. I was awakened early in the morning by the howling
of the wind and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is
still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result
with that apathy and indifference which violent sea-sickness is sure to
produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing
stays--which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth
tack--we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland.
On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland. The weather
was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain
green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I
believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our
nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for
some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what.
We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful
and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and, being nearly
land-locked, was sheltered from every wind. A small island, every inch
of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the
waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills,
which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the
west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green,
and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a
strange old castle half-way up the ascent, a village on a crag--but the
mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the
mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer
youthful eye; I may not describe it;--nor will I try.
Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we
came to a city, where we disembarked. It was a large city, as large as
Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little
neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled
along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars
abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of
laughter were heard on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions.
After a few days' rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My
father commanded the second, I walked by his side.
Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very
remarkable feature, it was pretty, but tame. On the second day, however,
its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant
mountains bounded the horizon. We passed through several villages, as I
suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones
without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they
seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were
naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the
doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men and women
working at a distance in the fields.
I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner
which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face,
appeared to consider a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently
reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a
trembling hand. I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly
refreshing. I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she
shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand,
murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before.
I walked on by my father's side, holding the stirrup-leather of his
horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved
cattle: the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic
frames--they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last,
however, dangled unoccupied: these cloaks appeared in tolerably good
condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad
slouching hats: the generality of them were bare-footed. As they passed,
the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the
fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they
said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild.
The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.
'A strange language that!' said a young officer to my father, 'I don't
understand a word of it; what can it be?'
'Irish!' said my father, with a loud voice, 'and a bad language it is, I
have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a
guardsman in London. There's one part of London where all the Irish
live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their
villainies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together
and makes them dangerous: I was once sent there to seize a couple of
deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge amongst their companions; we found
them in what was in my time called a ken, that is a house where only
thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of
business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well
I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty
ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking,
swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the
two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but
the rest, with an ubbubboo like the blowing up of a powder magazine,
sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry
sticks with them even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their
sleep, striking left and right.'
'And did you take the deserters?' said the officer.
'Yes,' said my father; 'for we formed at the end of the room, and charged
with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding
their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the
whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon
us--men, women, and children. Women, did I say!--they looked fiends,
half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up
the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and
Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially
as I did not understand it. It's a bad language.'
'A queer tongue,' said I; 'I wonder if I could learn it.'
'Learn it!' said my father; 'what should you learn it for?--however, I am
not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch, no person can learn it, save
those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do
not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed.'
Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running
north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the
skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of
these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated
it from the mountains. It was rather an ancient place, and might contain
some ten thousand inhabitants--I found that it was our destination; there
were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up
its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house
which stood in the principal street.
'You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain,' said the
master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man, who came up
whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of
the day of our arrival; 'they beat anything in this town of Clonmel. I
do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in
the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may
have the advantage of pleasant company, genteel company; ay, and
Protestant company, captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour
ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I'll
engage, not a Papist among them, they are too good-looking and
honest-looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of
your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup,
than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, "God
bless me," said I, "what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble
bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman. By the silver hairs of his
honour"--and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those
of your honour--"by his honour's grey silver hairs, and by my own soul,
which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them--it
would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a
father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military." And
then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the
face like a fairy as she is, "You may say that," says she. "It would be
but decent and civil, honey." And your honour knows how I ran out of my
own door and welcomed your honour riding in company with your son, who
was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment,
and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your
honour, and your honour's son, and your honour's royal military
Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I
am to have ye one and all; one, two, three, four, true Protestants every
one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret
which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your
family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from
Londonderry, to introduce to your honour's lady, and then we'll drink to
the health of King George, God bless him; to the "glorious and
immortal"--to Boyne water--to your honour's speedy promotion to be Lord
Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of
Padua.'
Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the
long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the high street
of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after
saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was.
'A bigot and an Orangeman!' Oh yes! It is easier to apply epithets of
opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history
and position. He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most
remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight
in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were
sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country,
where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they
have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have
their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have
held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children
like these her adopted ones. 'But they are fierce and sanguinary,' it is
said. Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the
savage pike. 'But they are bigoted and narrow-minded.' Ay, ay! they do
not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone! 'But their
language is frequently indecorous.' Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever
listen to the voice of Papist cursing?
The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number
of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position:
but they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own,
their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their
own. They have been vilified and traduced--but what would Ireland be
without them? I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons
no worse than these much-calumniated children of her adoption.