Part 17

“I dare say,” replied Sir Hercules; “but did you ever hear, Mr. Dundas, of any of your countrymen _returning_ to _Scotland_ from transportation?”

At country fairs, the feasting and drinking were still more boisterous—what they call _obstropulous_ in Ireland; but being generally held in towns, there was less character exhibited, and consequently less food for observation to spectators. The fighting, too, was of a different nature, and far more serious than at Donnybrook. I will cite a fair that I seldom missed attending for several years, solely in order to see the fight which was sure to conclude it. It was called the fair of Dysart, held in a beautiful country in the valley below the green Timahoe hills, and close to one of the most interesting and beautiful of Irish ruins, the rock of Donnamase, where, in ancient times, sword-duels were fought, as I have heretofore mentioned. Cromwell battered it, and slaughtered the warders of the O’Moores, who held their hereditary fortress while they had an arm to defend it.

To this fair resorted sundry factions—as they were termed; a _faction_ consisting of one of two parishes, baronies, or town-lands, that were very good friends in small parties or individually, but had a prescriptive deadly hatred to each other at all great meetings, fairs, returns from alehouses, &c. At races or hurlings, where gentlemen presided, no symptoms of animosity were apparent.

But a tacit compact was always understood to exist that the _factions_ should fight at the fair of Dysart once a year; and accordingly, none of them ever failed to attend the field of battle with their wives, and generally a reasonable number of infant children, whose cries and shrieks during their _daddies’_ conflict formed a substitute for martial music—mingled, indeed, with the incessant rattle of the ladies’ tongues, as they fought and struggled, like the Sabine women, to separate combatants, who would come on purpose to fight again.

The fair went on quietly enough at first as to buying, selling, and _trucking_ of cows, pigs, frieze and other merchandise: but when trade grew slack, the whisky got in vigour, and the time came when the same little “whacking, plase your honour, that our fathers before us always did at Dysart,” could no longer be deferred. There being however no personal or ostensible cause of dispute, one or two _boys_ were always sent out to _pick_ a quarrel and give just reason for the respective _factions_ to come to the rescue.

Their weapon was almost exclusively an oaken cudgel:—neither iron, steel, nor indeed any deadlier substance, so far as I ever saw, was in use among them; and “boxing matches,” as before observed, were considered altogether too gross and vulgar for the direct descendants of Irish _princes_, as in fact many of them were. The friends and neighbours of the pugnacious factions, always in bodies, joined more or less warmly in the fray. In truth, it would be totally impossible to keep an Irish peasant, man or woman (if _the drop_ was in), from joining in any battle going merrily on. Before the fray had ended, therefore, the entire assemblage was engaged in some degree; and it was commonly a drawn battle, seldom concluding till all parties and each sex, fairly out of breath, were unable to fight any more. Two hours or thereabouts was considered as a decent period for a beating match, and some priest generally put an end to it when the _factions_ were themselves tired.

These battles commenced in the most extraordinary manner; the different modes of picking a quarrel being truly comical. One fellow generally took off his long frieze coat, and flourishing his shillelah, which he trailed along the ground, vociferated, “Horns! horns! ram’s horns! who dares say any thing’s crookeder than ram’s horns?”

“By J—s, I know _fat_ will be twice crookeder nor any ram’s horns before the fair’s over,” another sturdy fellow would reply, leaping, as he spoke, out of a tent, armed with his “walloper” (as they called their cudgel), and spitting in his fist—“By J—s, I’ll make your own skull crookeder nor any ram’s horn in the barony.” The _blow_ of course followed the _word_;—the querist was laid sprawling on the ground;—out rushed the _factious_ from every tent, and to work they fell—knocking down right and left, tumbling head over heels, then breaking into small parties, and fighting through and round the tents. If one fellow lost his “walloper,” and was pressed by numbers, he sometimes tugged at a wattle till he detached it from a tent, and sweeping it all around him, prostrated men, women, and children:—one, tumbling, tripped up another; and I have seen them lying in hillocks, yet scarcely any body in the least injured. Sometimes one faction had clearly the best of it; then they ran away in their turn, for there was no determined stand made by any party—so that their alternate advancing, retreating, running away, and rallying, were productive of huge diversion. Whoever got his head cut (and that was generally the case with more than half of them), ran into some tent, where the women tied up the hurt, gave the _sufferer_ a glass of whisky, and kept him fair and easy till news arrived that the priest was come—when the combatants soon grew more quiet. The priest then told them how sinful they were. They thanked his reverence, and said “they’d stop, _becaize_ he desired them; but it wasn’t _becaize_ they wouldn’t like to make _sartain_ who’d have the best of it.”

The hair being detached from about the cuts on the head, the cuts themselves dressed, rags applied to battered shins, &c., the whisky went round merrily again, and the several _factions_ seldom departed till they were totally _unable_ to fight any more. Some were escorted home by the priests upon garrons (their wives behind them); some on straw in cars; and some, too drunk to be moved, remained in the neighbourhood. No animosity was cherished; and until next fair they would do each other any kind office. I witnessed many of these _actions_, and never heard that any man was “dangerously wounded.” But if they fought on the road home, in very small parties, serious mischief was not unfrequently the consequence.

The _quere_ as to ram’s horns was only one of many curious schemes whereby to get up a quarrel. I have seen a fellow going about the fair dragging his coat, which was always considered a challenge, like throwing down a glove or gauntlet in olden times—and in fact was a relict of that practice. Another favourite mode was, exclaiming “black’s the white of my eye!—who dares say _black_ is _not_ the _white_ of my eye?”

These scenes certainly took place at a time when Ireland was reputed, and with truth, to be in a very rough state. It has since undergone plenty of civilization. Sunday schools, improved magistracy, and a regular police, have recently been introduced; and the present state of Ireland proves the great advances it has made in consequence. Of late years, therefore, though the factions still fight, as usual, it is with more civilised weapons. Instead of shillelahs and “wallopers,” swords, pistols, and guns are the genteel implements resorted to: and (to match the agriculturists) scythes, hatchets, bill-hooks, and pitchforks are used in their little encounters: and surely the increased refinement of the country is not to be relinquished on account of the loss of a few lives.

I fear some of my readers may call the latter observations _ironical_; but the best way for them to avoid that supposition is, to reflect what _savage_ Ireland was at the time I allude to, and what _civilised_ Ireland is at the moment I am writing;—in the year 1780, when the peasantry fighting at the fair of Dysart was in a savage state, the government were so stingy of their army that they would only spare the Irish five or six thousand soldiers, and no militia, to teach them to behave themselves: but after an interval of forty years, they are now so kind as to allow us five-and-thirty thousand troops to teach the new rudiments of civilization—the old six thousand having had nothing to do amongst these semi-barbarous islanders. Nay, the government finding that Ballinrobe (where, as I have stated, a sow and her ten _piggin riggins_ came to breakfast with two counsellors) was making slow progress to this desirable state of refinement, was so considerate as to send certainly the best-bred regiment in the king’s service to give lessons of urbanity to the people for three hundred and sixty-five days without intermission.

This boon to so backward a population as County Mayo presented, must ever be remembered with gratitude by the _undressed_ gentlemen of that county, though I have not seen any authentic _exposé_ of those beneficial effects which no doubt resulted.

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.

Footnote 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]

Footnote 32:

O’Connor, a fat, comely, cheerful-looking schoolmaster of County Kildare, was the first rebel executed for high treason. His trial gave rise to one of the most curious dialogues (between him and Judge Finucane) that ever took place in a court of justice. It ended, however, by the judge (who was a humane man) passing the usual sentence on him—“That he should be hanged by the neck, but not till he was dead: that while still alive his bowels should be taken out, his body quartered,” &c. &c. The culprit bore all this with firm though mild complacency; and on conclusion of the sentence bowed low, blessed the judge for his _impartiality_, and turning about, said, “God’s will be done! ’tis well _it’s no worse_!” I was surprised. I pitied the poor fellow, who had committed no atrocity, and asked him what he meant. “Why, Counsellor,” said he, “I was afraid his lordship would order me to be _flogged_!” Every rebel preferred death to the cat-o’-nine-tails! O’Connor’s head remained some years on the top of Naas gaol.

It is not in the nature, or within the comprehension, of the sober English people to form any judgment of what a true-born Irishman is capable of saying or doing in his deepest extremities: and I am sure they will give me little credit for veracity when I mention some instances which, I own, in any other country might be reasonably considered incredible. In no other place existing could the cruel and ludicrous be so mingled, as they were in the transactions of the sanguinary period in question; nor do I think there can be a better way to inform and amuse the reader, than by giving alternate anecdotes of the _royalists_ and the _rebels_, leaving it to his own judgment to draw conclusions.—This one observation, however, it is necessary, in justice, to premise;—that the royalists were, generally speaking, of a higher class than the rebels—and had received the advantages of education, while the rebels were in a state of total ignorance and beggary. The wanton barbarities, therefore, of the more enlightened classes have less ground of palliation than those of a demi-savage peasantry, urged by fanaticism, and blinded by ignorance. This observation was strongly impressed on my mind throughout the whole of that contest; and it would be acting unfairly toward the officer who so judiciously commanded the military corps I was then attached to, not to say, that, though an unqualified Protestant—an hereditary Huguenot, filled with that spirit of sectionary zeal which drove his eloquent ancestor from his native country; yet, during the whole of the rebellion, Captain Saurin never suffered the corps he led to indulge any religious distinctions;—scarcely, indeed, could his own sect be discovered by any particular of his acts, orders, or conduct; nor did that corps ever participate in, or even countenance, the violent proceedings so liberally practised by other military yeomen.[33]

Footnote 33:

I knew at least but of one exception to this remark respecting the lawyers’ corps. Very early in the rebellion an officer took down a detachment of that corps to Rathcool, about seven miles from Dublin, without the knowledge of the commandant. They were not aware of his object, which turned out to be, to set fire to part of the town. He captured one gentleman, Lieutenant Byrne, who was hanged;—and returned to Dublin, in my mind _not_ triumphant.

He got several severe lectures, but none so strong as one from the late Sir John Parnell, then chancellor of the exchequer, whose heir, the present Sir Henry Parnell, was among those unwittingly taken down.

This line of conduct was most exemplary; and from a thorough knowledge of the constitutional attributes of the man, I am convinced that neither his philanthropy, toleration, humility, or other good qualities have been much increased by his _schooling_, for the last twenty years, in the Irish Four Courts.

Among the extraordinary characters that turned up in the fatal “ninety-eight,” there were few more extraordinary than Lieutenant H——, then denominated the “walking gallows;”—and such he certainly was, literally and practically.[34]

Footnote 34:

This circumstance is mentioned in my “Historic Anecdotes of the Union,” among several others, which were written before the present work was in contemplation. But the incident now before the reader is so remarkable that I have gone into it more particularly. Many will peruse this book who will never see the other, into which have been interwoven, in fact, _numerous_ sketches of those days that I now regret I did not retain for the present work, to which they would have been quite appropriate.

Lieutenant H—— was an officer of the line, on half pay. His brother was one of the solicitors to the Crown—a quiet, tremulous, _vino deditus_ sort of man, and a leading Orangeman;—his widow, who afterward married and survived a learned doctor, was a clever, positive, good-looking Englishwoman, and, I think, fixed the doctor’s avowed _creed_: as to his genuine _faith_, that was of little consequence.

Lieutenant H—— was about six feet two inches high;—strong, and broad in proportion. His strength was great, but of the dead kind, unaccompanied by activity. He could lift a ton, but could not leap a rivulet; he looked mild, and his address was civil—neither assuming nor at all ferocious. I knew him well, and from his countenance should never have suspected him of cruelty; but so cold-blooded and so eccentric an executioner of the human race I believe never yet existed, save among the American Indians.[35]

Footnote 35:

His mode of execution being perfectly novel, and at the same time _ingenious_, Curran said, “The lieutenant should have got a patent for cheap strangulation.”

His inducement to the strange barbarity he practised I can scarcely conceive; unless it proceeded from that natural taint of cruelty which so often distinguishes man above all other animals when his power becomes uncontrolled. The propensity was probably strengthened in him from the indemnities of martial law, and by those visions of promotion whereby violent partizans are perpetually urged, and so frequently disappointed.[36]

Footnote 36:

“We love the treason, but hate the traitor,” is an aphorism which those who assume prominent parts in any public convulsion are sure to find verified. Many instances took place in Ireland; and in France exemplifications occurred to a very considerable extent. A blind _zealot_ is of all men most likely to become a _renegade_ if he feel it more convenient: prejudice and interest unite to form _furious_ partizans, who are never guided by _principle_—for principle is founded on judgment.

At the period alluded to, law being suspended, and the courts of justice closed, the “question” by torture was revived and largely practised. The commercial exchange of Dublin formed a place of execution; even _suspected_ rebels were every day immolated as if _convicted_ on the clearest evidence; and Lieutenant H——’s _pastime_ of hanging _on his own back_ persons whose physiognomies he thought characteristic of rebellion was, (I am ashamed to say) the subject of jocularity instead of punishment. What in other times he would himself have died for, as a murderer, was laughed at as the manifestation of loyalty: never yet was martial law so abused, or its enormities so hushed up[37] as in Ireland. Being a military officer, the lieutenant conceived he had a right to do just what he thought proper, and to make the most of his time while martial law was flourishing.

Footnote 37:

The open indemnification of Mr. Judkin Fitzgerald, of Tipperary, for his cruelties in that county, was one of the worst acts of a vicious government. The prime serjeant, Mr. St. George Daly, though then the first law officer, (a _Union_ one, too, as subsequently appeared,) voted against that most flagitious act of Parliament, which nothing but the raging madness of those times could have carried through any assembly. The dread of its recurrence did much to effect the Union.

Once, when high in blood, he happened to meet a _suspicious-looking_ peasant from County Kildare, who could not satisfactorily account for himself according to the lieutenant’s notion of evidence; and having nobody at hand to vouch for him, the lieutenant of course immediately took for granted that he _must_ be a rebel strolling about, and imagining the death of his Most Gracious Majesty.[38] He therefore, no other _court of justice_ being at hand, considered that he had a right to try the man by his _own opinion_; accordingly, after a brief interrogation, he condemned him to die, and without further ceremony proceeded to put his own sentence into immediate execution.

Footnote 38:

The lieutenant’s brother being a Crown solicitor, had now and then got the lieutenant to copy the high treason indictments: and he, seeing there that _imagining_ the death of a _king_ was punished capitally, very naturally conceived that _wishing_ it was twice as bad as _supposing_ it: having therefore no doubt that _all_ rebels wished it, he consequently decided in the tribunal of his own mind to hang every man who hypothetically and traitorously wished his majesty’s dissolution, which wish he also conceived was very easily ascertained by the wisher’s countenance.

A cabinet-maker at Charing Cross some years ago put on his board “patent coffin-maker to his majesty:” it was considered that though this was not an _ill-intentioned_, yet it was a very improper mode of _imagining_ the king’s death, and the board was taken down accordingly. Lieutenant H—— would surely have hanged him in Ireland.

However, to do the lieutenant justice, his _mode_ was not near so tedious or painful as that practised by the grand signior, who sometimes causes the ceremony to be divided into three acts, giving the culprit a drink of spring water to _refresh_ him between the two first; nor was it so severe as the burning old women formerly for witchcraft. In fact, the “walking gallows” was both on a new and simple plan; and after some kicking and plunging during the operation, never failed to be completely effectual. The lieutenant being, as before mentioned, of lofty stature, with broad and strong shoulders, saw no reason why they might not answer his majesty’s service upon a pinch as well as two posts and a cross-bar (the more legitimate instrument upon such occasions): and he also considered that, when a rope was not at hand, there was no good reason why his own silk cravat (being softer than an ordinary halter, and of course less calculated to _hurt_ a man) should not be a more merciful choke-band than that employed by any _Jack Ketch_ in the three kingdoms.