[24]

Nobody doubts that there was hot blood—misunderstanding—difficulty—at the beginning. It is clear enough, also, that many arrangements which followed were not of a soothing kind. Nor can it well be denied;—but stop a little! The other side of the question seems to be perpetually consigned to oblivion. Numbers of people are in ecstasies with the year 1782. The wildest democrats of the present day revert with pride to the glimpse of nationality exhibited by Ireland immediately before the Union. The grand choral cry of Repealers is for a Parliament once more in Dublin. Oh, melancholy, deplorable, almost ludicrous inconsistency! The year 1782 and Repeal! The independence of Ireland after 1782 and Repeal! The old Irish Parliament and Repeal! Plunket—a son of Ireland—talked of history being an old almanac. Memorable indeed was the year 1782. But its trophies were, the handiwork of the Saxon. Bright may have been the gleam of independence which succeeded that year. The whole movement owed character and solidity to great Saxon leaders. Conspicuous is the fame of those men who protested with fiery eloquence against the treaty of the Union; and these were all Saxons. It is very strange, but very true, that the sinews and loins of the agitation now-a-days are all begotten of Saxon spirit and Saxon freedom. There is not a letter in the alphabet of self-government—there is not a syllable in the code of municipal law—there is not a sentence in the charter of political liberty—of Ireland, which is not the lesson, the example, or the boon of the Saxon. Every thing that Ireland now demands is an imitation of a Saxon institution. And Ireland only demands these things, because for ages Saxon institution have pervaded her soil, and imbued her people. Grattan and Charlemont are Saxon names. In all the principles for which these remarkable men contended, no vestige of a Celtic idea can be traced. Until the Saxon—conqueror as he was—touched the Irish soil, there did not grow, blossom, or bear fruit any intelligible notion of social order, or public liberty. But the gratitude of nations is not different from the gratitude of individuals. Away with the Saxon!

Can nothing cure the madness? Large practical wisdom in legislation, exuberant boundless prodigality of munificence, are equally unavailing. Away with the Saxon! But disgust may at length do what force never could have done. Honest, sober, orderly folks in Britain begin to cherish strange thoughts. And the wings of thoughts are words outspoken.

Are ye ready, O Milesians! for such a dawn when it breaks?

There was nothing either very bright or very dull about the morning. Yet not a single human being you met was inclined even to whistle merrily or recklessly. And was there, then, silence over the whole land? Very far from it, I assure you. At the harbour of every sea-port, where a vessel of any size could come, there was a most unmistakeable noise. Heavily, steadily, dreadfully, came down along the rugged stones of each quay the continual tread and tramp of armed men, who, coldly and speechlessly as statues, marched towards the ships. But there was no other noise. The officers gave no word of command; nor was any command needed. Unbroken as the stream of the river, hundreds after hundreds, without any clash, or din, or tumult, passed from the solid land on board of the floating bulwarks of Old England, and without a shout or a sigh—without a murmur of adieu—without the momentary radiance of a smile on a solitary face—departed from Ireland. The Saxons were going. The quick strokes of the paddle-wheels whitened the waters;—the sail bellied bigly to the wind. From Erin the Green, the Saxons were GONE. Then rose from earth to sky—what?

For many a day thousands of eyes had been gazing at the bustling scene. At first, the spectacle of such crowds of all sorts of people going leisurely away with all their kith and kin, with all their bag and baggage, brought with it no distinct idea. The first loaded ship which left the harbour with such a freight took its departure beneath a shower of triumphantly derisive shouts. And so did many a vessel afterwards. But people become tired of shouting at the same thing. Likewise, a constant repetition of the same thing, which in certain circumstances will destroy wonder, does in other circumstances beget and spread wonder. The sameness of the business began to be painful. Countless throngs of lookers-on still choked the quay: but the gibe was rarely heard; the cheer had quite died away. It was incredible how time lagged in its flight. Suddenly, once more, a stir ran through these gazing tens of thousands. A feeble cry—more like a cry of pain than of joy—rang from the discord of the innumerable lips. Every body was gone, except the soldiers. Of the hated Saxons, all who lived by the arts or occupations of peace, all were at length away—men, women, and children. The soldiers remained till all their peaceful brethren were safely on the bosom of the treacherous sea—safer than the bosom of ungrateful Ireland. The soldiers now went themselves. It was not an hour or a day, in which that embarkation could be completed. On it went without interruption. And the people stood by, and saw it going on. Why was there not the continuous roar of exultation from moment to moment, as file after file, regiment after regiment, mass after mass of the bloody servants of the Saxon sullenly and silently retreated? Strange, surely, that it was not so! Strange, surely, that there was no whisper all this time from the bystanders! Strange, surely, that the bystanders, as the ships, ship after ship, sailed away with those very Saxon soldiers, began to turn their regards off altogether from the ships, and to fling unquiet doubtful glances one on the other! The detested foreigner was gone;—and was there, therefore, more neighbourly love among those that remained?

What! Erin Mavourneen, is not your emancipation come? Why is there no shout? The Saxons are going. The quick strokes of the paddle-wheels whiten the waters. Where is the pÆan of the ransomed and redeemed? The sail bellies bigly to the wind. From Erin the Green, the Saxons are gone. Then rose from earth to sky—what?

Ireland is left to itself—wholly, entirely, absolutely to itself. The Repealer has his wish. The sea runs between Ireland and England—and all that is Irish and all that is English. The cable is cut. The Emerald Isle is adrift. No Saxon soldier pollutes her soil; but not a Saxon shilling glistens in her purse. The British Viceroy is no more; neither is the British Chancellor of the Exchequer any more—THERE. Ireland has got its own parliament. Also Ireland has got its own poor. Not a stiver of English millions now crosses St George's Channel. Not for one death by starvation now is England or the Saxon answerable. Ireland has her own exuberant Exchequer. Ireland pours abundance into the myriad mouths of her famine-stricken People. Shout, then, O Ireland! shout!

The sail bellies bigly to the wind. From Erin the Green the Saxons are gone. The sun of Repeal is at its noon. Then rose from earth to sky—what?

And they looked into the faces of each other with a dull, blank look—and from earth to sky arose the yell of wild despair, of irretrievable confusion, and of maddening perdition.

The Repealer had his wish. The cable was cut. Ireland was adrift—and LEFT TO ITSELF. Order, law, justice, peace, trade, industry, money, prosperity, and—oh terrible truth!—Independence were gone away—quite away with the Saxon.

And the Milesian Republic endured—we blush to number the hours of its ephemeral and horrible existence. Every where the fair face of the beautiful Isle was hideously seamed with scars of civil war. Every where mounted upwards the smoke of roof-trees destroyed, and hearthstones desolated. Every where over the surface of the great surrounding ocean boomed the discordant wail of the land torn by the vultures of anarchy.

Again! at the harbours of sea-ports there was an unmistakeable noise. Over the rugged stones went the continual tramp and tread of armed men, who, with bursts of brutal insolence, marched from the ships. The clang of foreign arms again sounded in the cities, along the plains, and across the hills of Erin. Ireland had become the province of a foreign power which did not speak the English tongue. Ireland was that day trampled on by the iron heel of a new master.

Albion, from its white cliffs, saw the scene. But the ties had been long broken.