CHAPTERII.
We embarked in the beginning of June for Ireland, on board of the Europa of 60, and the Van Tromp of 54 guns. We had a narrow escape from running ashore amongst the rocks, in a fog, upon the Irish coast: the fog, however, cleared away just in time for us to see our danger. A new scene began to open to us: Ireland was in a state of insurrection; and we were but ill informed of the nature and extent of it. We were told by a pilot, that we got upon the coast to conduct us into Dublin, that the insurgents had taken Wexford. The prospect of being engaged in a civil war, made me thoughtful, and agitated me not a little. On the18thJune we anchored in Dublin bay, and landed at the Pigeon-house in the evening. We were here met by Lord Huntly, our Colonel, who had been made a Brigadier General on the Irish staff. We remained on the mole near the Pigeon-house, which is about three miles from Dublin, until day-break next morning, and then marched into the city with drums beating and colours flying, announcing to the sleeping inhabitants, at the early hour of three o'clock, the arrival of fresh troops for the support of the government.
As we now entered into a scene of civil war, I will take the liberty of stating a few of the particulars of the Irish insurrection.
The city of Dublin was under strict police: patrols of cavalry paraded the streets during the day to prevent crowds from assembling. Numerous and strong guards were posted through the city and suburbs, and upon all the roads leading to the country. These guards were reinforced at night with additional garrison troops, and large parties of volunteer yeomanry, both horse and foot. Many citizens of the first respectability, and not a few of the nobility, were in the ranks of the yeomanry; and it was not an uncommon thing for a poor Highlander to have a wealthy citizen, or noble lord, posted along with him on sentry. All the inhabitants were ordered to be in their own houses by a set time at night. Strong patrols then scoured the streets and made prisoners of all they found upon them, and entered every house where they heard any disturbance. Every house had a written list of the inmates upon the door, and was liable to be visited during the night; and if any one was amissing, the owner might be taken up; or if any were in the house whose names were not on the door, or if any one was found in his neighbour's house, he was taken up and fined before being set at liberty. Every precaution was used, to prevent plots from being formed, and all means was used to find them out. In such a state of society, opportunity is afforded to private malice and ill-will, to injure the objects of their enmity. When I was upon the Grand Barrack guard, two respectable old citizens were brought in prisoners. They were men who were unfit, and very unlikely to have any active hand in conspiracy against the state. They were confined in the guard-room all that day and night; whether they were liberated next day after I was relieved, or removed to some other place, I know not. While they were in the guard-room, they were exposed to the interrogatories of the ignorant and unthinking, who took every such prisoner to be an insurgent. They were protected, however, by the interposition of the more intelligent and humane. I had a little conversation with them, and they told me it was their belief, that it was an apprentice of theirs with whom they had a difference on account of bad behaviour, who had, out of revenge, given false accusation against them; such as, that they were holding correspondence with the insurgents in the country, &c. They told me that such cases were frequent. Every person accused was taken up, and kept until the case should be examined: and as this, from the great number daily apprehended, could not be instantly done, individuals often suffered seriously, before they obtained their release.
The conduct of persons, whose political sentiments or behaviour, were in any measure suspicious, was closely watched. And when they were found transgressing any of the police rules, their cases were strictly examined. I saw an instance of this, in the case of a respectable gentleman, who was confined in the same guard-room upon another day. He had been found out of his own house after the appointed time at night. He pled that he was only a short time in a neighbour's house: and that the person in whose house he was, was himself a very loyal man, and a yeoman. He said he had always been a very loyal man himself. He acknowledged, that at a certain public meeting, (which had taken place some time previous to this) where a certain political question had been discussed, he had spoken warmly,too warmly; but that that was the only thing in the course of his life, that could have any tendency to create any suspicion of his loyalty. He remained in the common guard-room during the day, and was removed to another place at night. He was liberated next morning when I saw him, and he told me, that nothing farther than his being out of his own house at night was brought against him; and that he had gotten his liberty on condition of paying ten pounds to the fund for the relief of the widows and children of soldiers who had fallen in the insurrection. He said that he happened to have as much money upon him, and that he paid it cheerfully; for those that were to get it well deserved it. I mention these cases as certain evils arising out of a state of civil war.
During the time we lay in Dublin, the insurrection was raging in various parts of the country, and much blood was shedding. Dublin itself was kept in a state of tranquillity, by the vigilance of the police, and the power of the military. Our stay in it was short. On the 1st of July, the volunteer cavalry were employed in going through the city, pressing all the coaches, gigs, and other vehicles, and collecting them in one of the squares. At six o'clock at night we paraded, and went into them, and set off for Arklow. We travelled all night. We were all accommodated at the outset, but fell into considerable confusion on the way, by some of the coachmen getting drunk, and striving to get past one another; which caused several of the carriages to break down, and others, by running into ditches, to upset. It was conjectured that some of the coachmen did this wilfully, from aversion to the service they were upon. Numbers had thus to walk in the rain, which was heavy; and several had their muskets damaged, by the breaking down or upsetting of the carriages. One man had his firelock completely bent; and when he was asked by the people of the villages through which we passed, what kind of a gunthatwas, he told them it was one of a new construction, for the purpose of shooting round corners.
As we advanced into the country, we began to see the effects of the insurrection. Burnt houses began to make their appearance in the villages, and their number increased as we proceeded. The coaches carried us to about three miles from Arklow, and then returned to Dublin. We entered Arklow in the evening. The place had been attacked by a large body of insurgents a few days before, who had been repulsed with great slaughter. They had some pieces of artillery, with which they had dismounted one of the guns of the military, and damaged some of the houses. They had also burnt that part of the town that lay next the sea-side, which was composed of low thatched houses, and was inhabited by fishermen. It was a very pitiable sight to see this scene of destruction; and those of my comrades who went to the ground where the insurgents had stood during the action, said it was disgusting. Numbers of dead bodies were still unburied; some of them lying in ditches, and the swine feeding on them. There was a number of prisoners in the place, who had been taken, whom they were trying by court-martial, and hanging; but I was not an eye-witness to any executions in this place. A part of the regiment was stationed in the church, which was not a large one. This was a new kind of quarters, but every part was occupied, pulpit and all; and the grave stones were the place where we cleaned our arms.
The insurgents were still in a body upon one of the hills in the vicinity, and kept the place in alarm; and we had frequently to stand to our arms during the night. On the fourth of July, we paraded in the street at 12 o'clock at night, in great haste. The right wing of the regiment got three days bread served out, when we marched away in a great hurry, without giving the left wing any. I was in the left wing, and had only a few crumbs left of that day's rations. We marched very quickly through by-roads; and when day began to break, we made a short pause, and loaded our muskets,—the first time I had done so in the expectation of fighting. There was a high hill before us, (called White Heaps) whose top was covered with mist, and that side which was next to us was very steep. The insurgents were said to be on the top of it. Their number, we afterwards learned, was 5000; of whom 1500 had firelocks, the rest pikes. There were about six troops of cavalry along with us: but our whole number did not amount to 1200, without artillery. We ascended the hill with difficulty, without being perceived by those on the top, the mist concealing us from each other. When we had nearly reached the summit, and had entered into the mist that covered it, our front was challenged by the insurgent sentinels, who demanded the countersign, to which the Lieutenant Colonel replied, "You shall have it in a minute." We moved a little further and formed our line. The fog cleared up a little for a minute, when we found that our left was near the enemy, who were collecting themselves into three bodies. The ground betwixt us and them was a wet bog; and the commander of the cavalry told our commanding officer, that if he advanced, the cavalry would not be able to act in such marshy ground as that before us. The fog again covered us, so that we could not see them, and a gust of wind, with a shower of rain, induced us to stand still. The insurgents then gave a loud cheer, and then a second, and they began a third; but it died away, and was not so full or loud as the others. We expected to be instantly attacked, as this was their signal of attack. They, however, had imagined that we were much stronger than what we were; and being terrified by the suddenness of our appearance, in place of coming forward to attack, they fled in great haste down the opposite side of the hill. We stood in uncertainty for some time, as we could see nothing; then hearing the fire of two guns, we moved in that direction, and got out of the fog, and descended the hill on the side opposite to that which we had ascended. We then learned that the insurgents had gone down the hill; and, having fallen in with another division of the army, had come upon them before they could get fully formed, and had come close to the guns, when they were fired upon and repulsed. It had been arranged, that different bodies of troops should have mounted the hill on opposite sides at the same time; but we had been sooner than the others, which disarranged the plan. The insurgents continued to fly, the cavalry went forward in pursuit, and we followed with all possible haste. When we reached the foot of the hill, I saw four of the insurgents lying dead. We continued to march with great haste, and frequently changed our route. We heard firing at no great distance; but the parties were always gone before we came up. The road was strewed with old clothes, oatmeal, oat bread, and dough, thrown away by the insurgents in their flight. The dragoons killed a great number of them in the fields. The insurgents, in their flight, fell in with some baggage belonging to some of the other divisions; attacked the guard, and killed and wounded several, before the rest of the army could come to their assistance; the insurgents were then totally dispersed, and a great many killed and wounded; but our regiment never could arrive in time to take share in any of the actions. Several women were among the dead, who were shot in the ranks of the insurgents. We had a most fatiguing march, of upwards of thirty Irish miles. In the evening we arrived at the town of Gorey, as did also two other divisions of the army.
One thing I would particularly notice here, is theferocityof civil war; it has barbarities not now practised in the national wars of Europe. In one spot, where seven had fled to a house, in which they were killed, their bodies had been brought out to the road side, where they lay, shamefully uncovered, and some of them mangled in a manner too indelicate to mention. At another place, I saw an insurgent, who had been taken and dragged by the hair of his head, which was long, for some distance along the road, and then shot through the heart. It was said, he was unwilling to inform upon the rest of the insurgents. Numerous and shocking barbarities were committed on both sides, sometimes originating in animosity, sometimes in wanton cruelty, and at other times in retaliation.
I was witness to a scene of the latter kind a few days after, in the town of Gorey. A man was brought to the back of the camp, to be hanged upon a tree on the road side, by a party of an English fencible regiment. The man was scarcely suspended, when the officer of the party fired the contents of two pistols into the body, and then drew his sword and ran it into it. I then turned from the sight with disgust; but those of my comrades who stayed, told me that the body was lowered down from the tree upon the road; that the soldiers of the party perforated it with their bayonets, cut off the head, cut it in pieces, and threw them about, tossing them in the air, calling out, "Who will have this?" They then dug a hole on the opposite side of the road, and buried the body and the mangled pieces of the head, in the presence of a few of the unhappy man's friends. I was informed that he had been a judge in the insurgent army for trying their prisoners: that a brother of the officer of the party had been taken prisoner by the insurgents, and had been sentenced by this man to be piked to death: and that this was the reason why he had been so used.
Piking to death was what the insurgents practised upon those of the king's troops that fell into their hands, particularly if they remained firm in their allegiance. The common method was for "two to stand behind, and two before the victim, and thrust their pikes into his body at once, and raise it from the ground, holding it suspended, writhing with pain, while any signs of life appeared. At other times, two men, with pikes, would come before the victim, and begin to stab him in the feet, and then the legs, and thighs, and belly, until they reached the heart. At other times they literally perforated the body all over, with pike wounds." Such barbarities could not fail to produce desire of revenge. But, as our regiment had not been in the country during the out-breaking of the insurrection, we had received no injury to provoke our resentment. And as we had not been employed in the execution of any of the rigorous measures resorted to by the government to prevent the insurrection, no one had any ill will against us. We were called into the service of suppressing this unhappy and calamitous insurrection, after it had begun to decline, and we were rather witnesses of its ruinous and distressing effects, than active hands in suppressing it by force. For it so happened, that although we several times pursued considerable bodies of the insurgents through the mountains, and were at times pretty close upon them, yet no one of us fired a musket, with the exception of one or two, who did it without orders, on the morning of the 5th July, on the White Heaps: neither was a musket fired at us; and the only loss the regiment sustained during this service, occurred one morning when we were pursuing a body of insurgents among the mountains. One of our men having fallen behind through weakness, was met by two or three insurgents in women's clothes, carrying pails of milk on their heads, as if returning from milking. They offered him drink; and, while he was drinking, one of them seized his musket, and after threatening to kill him, they allowed him to proceed to the regiment, with the loss of his musket and ammunition.
The sight of so many houses and villages, and parts of towns, burned and destroyed, and the great number of women and children, who were in a destitute state, because their husbands and fathers were either gone with the insurgents, or were fled for safety, touched most powerfully the sensibilities of our hearts, and diffused a feeling of generous sympathy through the regiment. It so happened at that time, that we had newly received a more than ordinary balance of arrears of pay, so that every man was in possession of money, less or more; and although we were very fond of milk, because we had been long living upon salt provisions, before our arrival in Ireland, yet there were none who would accept of a draught of milk for nothing, but would pay its price. And if the people of the house would not take payment, they would give the value of what milk they received to the children.
As this conduct in soldiers is more rare than even conspicuous courage in the field, the truth of what is here asserted, may be the more ready to be questioned. I shall, therefore, take the liberty of inserting a quotation from Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion. The author of that work is a clergyman, whose residence appears to have been in the vicinity of Gorey, and who had a personal knowledge of what took place there at that time. That author complains of the losses sustained by the inhabitants from the insurgents and the soldiery: he says, "on the arrival of the Marquis of Huntly, however, with his regiment of Scottish Highlanders, in Gorey, the scene was totally altered. To the immortal honour of this regiment, its behaviour was such, as, if it were universal among soldiers, would render a military government amiable. To the astonishment of the (until then miserably harassed) peasantry, not the smallest trifle, even a drink of butter milk, would any of these Highlanders accept, without the payment of at least the full value."—Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion,2deditLond.p.240.
When we entered the town of Gorey, it was, in great part, deserted by the inhabitants. Nothing was to be procured for money. After the very fatiguing march we had on the day we entered it, we received one biscuit and one glass of whiskey. On the next day we marched to a considerable distance, in quest of the insurgents, and returned back; we got a draught of milk, and one day's allowance of boiled beef, which had arrived from Arklow; but no bread.—The day was very warm, and I was considerably exhausted. That day passed over, and the next day, until the evening, without any word of any more provisions. The dread of having to pass another night in our present hungry state, determined other two and myself, to go in quest of something that we could eat. We saw some who had purchased some old potatoes at the mill of the place. We made all haste to the mill; but the potatoes were all sold. We felt disappointed; but, observing that the mill was at work, we entered it to see what was grinding. We found a man attending the mill, who said he was not the miller, but had just set the mill to work to grind some barley. There were but a few handfuls ground; and we resolved, rather than want, that we would wait until some greater quantity was done, when we would endeavour to get it cleaned, so as to be capable of being turned into food. After stopping a few seconds in the mill, I began to look about, when I perceived a number of sacks that were, less or more, filled with something: I said to my comrades, "Perhaps there may be something in some of these sacks that will serve us: we had better examine them and see." We were indeed loath to touch any thing; but we were in absolute want of food, and were willing to pay for it. Observing a sack about half full, standing beneath another that was full, and was bent over it, we thought we would see what was in the broken sack first. We instantly removed the full sack, and, to our great joy, we found the other was about half full of excellent oatmeal, ready for use. The miller's wife came in, in great agitation, and said, that she durst not sell it, for it belonged to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who was a Captain of the Yeomen. I replied, that we were in absolute need, and must have it; but that we would pay a fair market price for it, which she could give to the gentleman who owned the meal; that he would likely be able to procure a supply to himself elsewhere; that he perhaps was not in the immediate want of it, but that we were, and did not know any where else to find it; and that she might state this to the owner, and that would remove all blame from her. She assented to the justice of this; and said, that one shilling and six-pence was a fair price for the stone weight. The weights were quickly erected; we weighed a stone, paid the price, and set out to get it cooked, leaving a number more of our comrades, who had come to the mill, to be supplied in the same way as we had been. While passing along the street, looking for an inhabited house, where we might get our meal cooked, we met other three of our comrades, who had gone to the country in quest of provisions, but could get nothing but milk, of which they had their canteens full. We agreed that we would give them a share of our meal for a share of their milk. We then went into a house, in which was a woman with one child. She said her husband was a blacksmith, and that the insurgents had forced him to go with them, to forge their pikes.[3]We told her that we wanted her to make us some porridge, and that she should get a share of it for her trouble. She instantly cleaned her pot, (which was but a small one,) and got it on the fire. We procured some wood for fuel; and, the first pot full being soon made, and poured into a dish to cool, we desired her to make haste and get the second ready, for we were very hungry, and what was in the dish would do little to fill us: we then sat down, all six, to satisfy our hunger. What was in the dish would have been a very scanty meal for three; yet, after we had eagerly swallowed a few spoonfuls, we began to slacken our speed, and (although the milk and porridge were exceedingly good) to swallow them slowly, and with difficulty; and we were all reluctantly compelled to leave off before our little mess was nearly finished, and the poor woman got the remains, and the second pot full for her trouble. We told her, that we would call back next day after parade, to get another meal. On returning to our quarters, we found that our provisions had arrived in our absence; but as we could not know that they were to arrive that night, we felt satisfied with what we had done. We did call back at our cook's next day; and, after taking a little more porridge, desired her to make use of the rest of that meal as she needed it, for that we had now got plenty of other provision, and were not likely to require it.
The town and adjacent country were in a most distressing state. Numbers of the cattle were going through the corn-fields, and destroying more than they were eating. The milk-cows were lowing most piteously for want of being milked. And as the town had been more than once in the hands of the insurgents, the alternate movements of the army and the insurgents created always fresh alarm to the peaceable and helpless, who were liable to suffer by every change. The insurgents harassed those who did not join with them; and when the insurgents had to fly, the soldiers harassed those whom they found at home, on pretence that they were friends or favourers of the insurgents: so that it was next to impossible, for even those who were unable to take any part on either side, to escape being involved in the distresses attendant on the quarrel.
The following circumstance will in part show this. Three of our men went from Gorey, to the country, in quest of provisions; (I think it was the same three that gave us milk formerly.) They went to a farm house, into which they entered, but could find no one within. They went through all the apartments, but could discover no one. They saw that the fire was unextinguished; the milk, and every thing about the house, showed that the inhabitants could not be far away. When they had waited a good while, in the hope that some of them might make their appearance, a young child came into the house. This convinced them that the mother could not be far off. They spoke kindly to the child, and gave it a penny. It then left them, and in a short time reappeared with its mother and the rest of the women and children belonging to the house. The soldiers told them that they wanted to buy some milk; to which they replied, that they might take whatever they wanted, and welcome. The soldiers said, they did not want any thing for nothing, but would pay for what they got; but the women insisted that they should take freely what they wanted, and said, that was not the way they had been used by the soldiers that had visited them before, for they took what they wanted without asking their liberty, and sometimes ill used themselves; adding, "We saw you coming, and we were afraid, and went and hid ourselves; but when the child came into our hiding-place, and showed us a penny it had got from you, this encouraged us to make our appearance; and God bless you, take what you want freely." The soldiers got their canteens filled with milk, but the inhabitants had no other provisions that they could spare. They then left them, (after giving the children as many pence as they thought the milk was worth,) highly pleased with their visit.
We stayed in the town of Gorey a fortnight, during which time public confidence was greatly restored. The bulk of the inhabitants had returned, and the grocers' shops began to be replenished. There was no whiskey, or drink of any kind, to be had when we entered it; but whiskey was distilled and sold some days previous to our departure, which consumed the soldiers' money much faster than the buying of milk did, although the milk was by far the preferable article, had they been so wise as to have contented themselves with it. We left Gorey, and had two days march to Blessington, twelve miles from Dublin. Our route led us through a part of the country that had suffered severely. Almost every change of landscape presented to our view the roofless walls of cabins and of gentlemen's country seats, many of which were spacious and elegant. The populous village of Carnew, where we halted for a night, had been almost totally burnt. The inhabitants had sheltered themselves within the walls of their cabins the best way they could; but, in wet weather, their condition was pitiful. A great part of the town of Blessington had also been destroyed. We pitched our tents in the rear of the Marquis of Downshire's fine house, which had also been burnt. A large body of military was encamped in the pleasure grounds, and great openings were made in the walls and hedges to admit of a ready communication between the different parts of the camp, and every thing was in a ruinous state. We were here put under the orders of Sir John Moore, then a Major General, and in a few days he marched with our regiment, and the Hompesch dragoons, and two pieces of artillery, and encamped in the glen of Eimal, among the mountains of Wicklow; where several detached bodies of insurgents were still in arms. When we entered the glen, which was a fruitful valley of considerable extent, the inhabitants kept their houses, because some of the military, who had been there before us, had spread a report that we were uncommonly ferocious. But this impression was of short duration; we were soon great favourites with them, and our camp became a place of public resort, particularly upon Sundays. The young men and women were entertained with whiskey, music, and dancing; to which exercise they were encouraged by the attendance and approbation of a neighbouring Catholic priest, who excited the young women to dance with the military, even with very profane language. This drew forth the remarks of the soldiers; and even the most openly profane among them condemned their own sins when committed by a priest.—A circumstance of a different kind took place here, which was remarked as uncommon among us. Two of the soldiers quarrelled, and had a long vociferous wrangle, consisting chiefly in profane oaths and curses. They were not far from the Major's tent; (the Major was a Catholic;) he was so disgusted at the horrid profanity of their language, that he ordered them extra drill, as a punishment, and complained to Lord Huntly, who gave out an order prohibiting the practice, and threatening to put the Articles of War in force, and to fine every man in a shilling for every oath. This was a temporary check to the very public commission of it, but it was only of short duration; for the practice was too general among all ranks, and the order was soon as if it had never been.
While we lay in this camp, Sir John Moore marched twice with us into the interior of the mountains, where the insurgents still kept in small bodies. They made a show of resistance, but fled when we got near them. We pursued them slowly; Sir John did not allow any to fire at them, though it might, at times, have been done. It appeared to be his intention to intimidate them from remaining in arms, and by showing them forbearance, to induce them to return to their allegiance. This wise conduct of the general, along with the conciliatory behaviour of the soldiers, had a happy effect. For, during the time that we were encamped here, the greater part of them came in and delivered up their arms. The whole would have submitted in the course of a day or two, if the French had not landed at Killala. It was said, that the only remaining leaders were in the camp, and had left it to fetch in their followers the next day; but that the report of the French having landed[4]reaching them in the evening, revived their hopes of a revolution: and, our marching suddenly away next morning to oppose the French, confirmed them in the belief that they were in great force. In consequence of this, they remained in arms during the autumn and winter, committing petty depredations, and skulking among the mountains. It was lamentable to see the ignorance of the people who had been in arms. They were indeed no judges of political questions. Petty local animosity, and an aversion to Protestants, was all that operated with the great body of them; and beyond these, they could not be made to look by those who saw farther.
Their bigotry to the Romish religion was so strong, that although their oaths, as united Irishmen, bound them to "persevere in endeavouring to form a brotherhood of affection among Irishmen ofeveryreligious persuasion," they were no sooner up in arms, than they began to show that Protestants would not be tolerated. They put many Protestants to death, in the most cruel manner, some of whom were fighting in their own ranks. And had they succeeded in overturning the government, they would not have spared even those Protestant gentlemen that were their chief leaders, nor yet those of their own communion that were favourers of toleration. Their secular leaders, whether Protestant or Catholic, were soon convinced, that because they did not approve of intolerance, their lives would fall a sacrifice to their own party if it was successful. They preferred surrendering themselves to the clemency of the government, as soon as it was in their power, to staying among the insurgents; for, although they had forfeited their lives by their insurrection, they had a greater chance of being spared by the clemency of the government, than of escaping the bigotry of those whom they themselves had stirred up to rise in arms against it. One Garret Byrne, a Roman Catholic gentleman, of landed property, surrendered after the affair of the White Heaps, and was sent to our camp, and was employed by Sir John Moore to guide us through the mountains, when we went in pursuit of the insurgents.
Disaffection had spread among the Protestants of the north, as well as among the Papists of the south; but, as soon as the Protestants in the north heard that the insurrection had taken a religious turn in the south, they were glad to be quiet, for they instantly saw that their safety (they being by far the fewer number) lay in the preservation of the government. This freed the government from the resistance of the Protestant insurgents of the north; who, from the superiority of their intelligence, were more to be dreaded than the Catholics of the south. Want of subordination in the insurgent armies, also, contributed materially to render the insurrection abortive. Their notions of liberty, for which they ignorantly pretended to be fighting, were of such a nature as to render every attempt to train them to arms utterly vain. They said, we are the sovereign people—we are free—we will not be drilled like those slaves of government, the red coats. To be drilled like a soldier was a degree of subordination which they had never been subject to; and, when they had been persuaded by those who stirred them up to insurrection, that they were slaves, and that they would obtain freedom by rising in arms, they could not see the consistency of this, with submitting to the slavery of being drilled like soldiers. Indeed, their actions showed that the liberty for whichthey were fighting, was a liberty to violate the laws of God and man, and indulge in licentiousness, riot, and dissipation, and the cruelties of superstition.
We had a long fatiguing march to the opposite coast of Ireland. We never came in contact with the French, but we were extremely glad when we heard of their surrender, as we were weary with hard marching. We escorted them as prisoners one day's march; their number was then, of all ranks, somewhat about 800. When they landed, they were 1100, (Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion,p.294.) There were several amongst them who had been prisoners in Corsica when our regiment was there, and they recognised some of our men as having been guards over them there.
They had brought a large quantity of arms, accoutrements, and clothing from France, to equip the Irish insurgents, many of whom had joined them after they had taken the town of Castlebar; but the major part left them, and went away with the arms, accoutrements, and clothing they had received, as soon as the French began to drill them. Muskets had been given to five thousand five hundred in Castlebar, but there were only about fifteen hundred that accompanied the French on their march from that place to Ballinamuck, where the French surrendered, when 500 of them were killed, and the rest dispersed. They were also dangerous as well as useless allies to the French; for they were not disposed to give quarter to prisoners. I heard of an instance of an insurgent who killed a soldier that had been taken prisoner: one of the French cavalry instantly cut the insurgent down with his sword. This restraint did not suit the sanguinary temper of the insurgents; but the French well knew that if their allies did not give quarter, no quarter would be given to them. The alliance was also very incongruous; for the insurgents were all bigotted Catholics, and the French enthusiastic infidels, who openly boasted that they had lately driven Mr. Pope out of Italy, and had not expected to find him so suddenly in Ireland. They smiled at the simplicity of the Irish, when they heard them declare that they came to take arms for France and the blessed Virgin. The priests were treated with the utmost contempt by the French general, although it was his interest to have acted otherwise. There can be no doubt that, although the French had succeeded in revolutionizing Ireland, their religious difference would have produced a new war between them and the Irish.
We did not return to the Wicklow mountains; but encamped during the autumn at Moat, twelve miles from Athlone, which is near the centre of Ireland; and, when winter set in, we went into Athlone for winter quarters. The number of the regiment was changed at this time from the100thto the92d.
We lay there from the end of October, 1798, to June, 1799. In this place it pleased God to lead my mind to serious and deep reflection, and to begin a work of sharp conviction, such as I had never before experienced. There was a Catholic Chapel, an English Church, and a Wesleyan Methodist Meeting-house in the town. In the Methodist Meeting-house, there were always public prayers evening and morning, and sermon on the Lord's day, and often twice a week in the evenings. I attended the Meeting-house pretty closely, and began to read my Bible with more than common attention. I reviewed my past life, and found that I was an exceeding great sinner in the sight of God: and God's goodness as my Creator, and merciful Preserver, appeared to my view in a much stronger light than ever it had done before. I read several religious books, amongst which were Baxter's Call to the Unconverted, and Young's Night Thoughts. The subject of life, death, and immortality, occupied my thoughts very much; the conviction of my ingratitude, in sinning against God, often made me weep in secret; and the fear of falling into the hands of a justly offended God, frequently made me shudder. The words of Scripture, "Repent and turn to the Lord," were strongly impressed upon my mind. I saw there was no salvation without pardon, and no pardon without repentance. I wept for my sins, and earnestly besought God to forgive them. I read the Scriptures, and found, as I imagined, pardon promised to the penitent. I followed, as far as circumstances permitted, in point of form, Baxter's directions. I devoted myself to God, and vowed to forsake sin, and to live a godly life for the future. I made this resolution in sincerity of heart, my understanding being convinced that it was my duty to hate sin, because God hated it; and that if I regarded sin in my heart, God would not hear my prayers, nor pardon my transgressions. I then began to attempt the performance of what I saw was my duty. I began to hunger and thirst after personal holiness; but of the nature of justification, by faith in the imputed righteousness of Christ, I had no conception; and of the nature and design of his sufferings, my ideas were very confused and erroneous. It was a sense of sin that pained my conscience, and I sought for relief in personal reformation, and founded my hope of pardon for the past, and of eternal life, in the success of the reformation, I had now commenced. Being convinced that I was liable to many and strong temptations, and that the conquest of sin would be no easy work, I conceived that it was my wisdom, as well as duty, to have recourse to every thing that could strengthen me against temptation, and assist me in the arduous task of working out what I conceived to be my salvation.
When under this temper of mind, I happened, with a number of other soldiers of the regiment, to be at the meeting-house one evening; and after the ordinary service of praise and prayer was over, the preacher desired the soldiers to remain, intimating that he had something to say to us. He then addressed us, on the propriety of joining in a class meeting, informing us how many soldiers had joined in a class meeting, in a neighbouring town, in his circuit. He said that some of us might scruple, because he was not of the same religious principles as those we had been brought up in. This might be true; but he remarked that we had no opportunity of joining with those, who were of the principles in which we might have been educated, there being none in the place; that, if we chose to form a class meeting, he did not require that we should be of the same principles with him in every thing; but that if we were concerned for the salvation of our souls, it would be for our benefit, while we were absent from home, to be united together, for the purpose of social worship and instruction.—I thought the proposal candid and reasonable, and put down my name, as one willing to join in a class meeting. I thought it would be a means of helping me in the work of personal reformation. For a short time I went on pretty well in my own estimation, abstaining from any thing that was open and flagrant; but secret sins overcame me, although I had set myself to resist them with all my might; and this broke my peace of mind. It happened, that there were a number of the regiment, and amongst them some of my own comrades, taken ill with dysentery; and several died of the disorder. This alarmed me much. I began more seriously than ever, to contemplate the uncertainty of life. I read seriously, and with great attention, those portions of Young's Night Thoughts that treat on that subject. I entered fully into the spirit of the poet, and applied to my conscience his reflections. My security of life was completely broken. Every night I lay down to sleep, I was afraid I might never awake, and every morning I arose, I was afraid I might die before night. I would say to myself in the morning, "Some of my fellow creatures, who are living at this moment, will be dead before night; and how can I tell but I may be one of them!" This subject never made so strong an impression on my mind as at this time. I never was so much afraid of death, except on occasions of evident danger. I could no longer place death at a distance. I saw myself in danger of being snatched away every moment in numberless ways, and put the question to myself, "Were I to die this moment, what hope have I of escaping hell and getting to heaven?" and I concluded, that I had no hope of heaven whatever, but every reason to fear that hell should be my portion.
I then began to look around me; and compare myself with the bulk of my comrades. I thought I was not so bad as they were. I began to reason with myself, that if God was to sendmeto hell formy sins, surely those that were worse than I was, would also be condemned; and, if that was the case, how few would there be that would escape! I would fondly have indulged the idea, that surely God would not be so severe, as to condemn so many, and would fain have cherished the hope, that because I was not so bad as the major part of those I knew, I should have a chance to escape. But when I reviewed my past life in the light of the word of God, I found nothing but condemnation; for I perceived that that word took cognisance of the quality of sin, as well as the quantity, and condemned both sins secret and sins open: I began to remember the means that I had enjoyed above others, of religious instruction and information; and the declaration of our Lord, "To whom much is given, of them shall much be required," rang in my ears. I remembered the impressions made upon my mind by early religious instructions; I recollected the resolutions I had made to forsake sin, and the convictions which had produced these resolutions; I thought of my breaches of these resolutions, and my former forgetfulness and indifference: and more particularly, my failing in keeping my last most solemn vow. I began to meditate and consider of God's dealings with me as an individual: and of the account he would require of meas an individual sinner. I no longer durst compare myself with other men. I knew not the extent, in number and heinousness, of any other man's sins. I knew not their secret sins and evil purposes of heart; and as God would bring all manner of sin into judgment, I durst no longer think in my heart that I was a whit better than the most wicked and profane person I knew; for I knew more evil of myself than I had known, or could know of another. This led me to look more strictly into my own heart, and to examine what was done in it, as I found that the word of God discerned the thoughts of the heart. This led me to investigate themotivesof my actions, and then I found that I did nothing that was pure. I called to mind the past goodness of God, the many mercies and deliverances he had given me; I reflected on my ungrateful behaviour, and was filled with wonder and astonishment that a God of such awful majesty, should have spared such an ungrateful and vile wretch so long; I was led afresh to consider, "What shall I do to escape the just vengeance of Almighty God?" and my resolution was to repent afresh of my sins, and devote my future life, with greater resolution to his glory. I durst not delay my repentance to a more convenient time, because the fear of death stared me in the face; and I was convinced, that as death left me, judgment would find me. I trembled at the thought of being called, by death, before the awful tribunal of God. I had nothing to look to on the one hand, but a broken law; and a holy, sin-avenging God on the other. This made me earnestly wish for the pardon of my sins, and I resolved that I would do any thing whatever that would procure it.
I read the Scriptures, but chiefly in the Old Testament, often in Isaiah. To the clearer light of the New Testament, I did not so much attend. Its clear evangelical language did not strike my mind with that force as to fix my attention upon it. From those parts of the Scripture that caught my attention, I formed the following opinions:—that God promised mercy to the penitent returning sinner: this gave me a gleam of hope, which I believe prevented me from sinking into absolute despair; but I did not understand the nature of evangelical repentance, or the way by which the penitent should come to God, in order to be accepted. The state of my mind at that time was this; I thought that if I sincerely repented of my past sins, and did not commit sin for the future, God would pardon my sins. I also promised myself, that if I truly, and seriously, resolved to serve God for the future period of my life, God would on this account, give me strength to resist every kind of temptation, and to overcome every desire to sin. I promised myself, that, by constant endeavours, and unremitting exertions, I should overcome all obstacles, and finally merit eternal life. I saw that God required of the penitent sinner, future obedience: I was convinced that this was just: I thought that God did not require any thing but what he had given us power to perform, if we were but willing to do so. I resolved to be willing, and to try my strength to the utmost. I thought that if I did meet with any thing that was too hard for my present strength, God would give me additional strength; but that the only way to honour God was to use the power that he had already given me. I thought it would be affronting God to ask more, until I had first proved the insufficiency of what I now possessed: and that it would be insulting to divine goodness, to be seeking that which was already bestowed upon me. Under this frame of mind, I set about the performance of religious duties. I prayed more frequently and fervently; I read the Scriptures with greater diligence and attention; I abstained from every thing that was in my opinion sinful. But my past sins were still painful to me, because I was not yet assured that they were or should be pardoned. I was, however, certain that if I continued to commit sin, I should get no pardon, but if I forsook sin, Imightobtain pardon. The spirit of my prayers was, entreating God to pardon my sins, and promising to lead a holy life in future.
While in this state of mind, I went one evening to the meeting-house, and as I was returning to the barracks, pondering in my mind my guilt, as a sinner, and the goodness and sparing mercy of God, the powers of my mind having been buoyed up by the fervour of the exhortations and prayers I had heard, a sudden emotion started all at once into my mind, that my sins were pardoned by God, that God had promised pardon to such as me; and that all that was required was, that I should believe that God had pardoned my sins; that God was faithful to his promise, and it would be to me, even according to my faith. This emotion had a powerful influence upon me. It gave peace to my mind, for I took it to be one of those manifestations of the Spirit, spoken of by those who preached, exhorted, and prayed, at the meeting-house. Under the impressions produced by it, I went on very smoothly, abstaining from sins, to which I had formerly been a slave. I now thought myself happy, and promised to myself, that I would now be able to live such a life, as should be pleasing to God, and should procure and retain his favour.
But I must here add, that this impression that my sins were actually pardoned, was not accompanied with any increase of light to my understanding of the way in which God forgives sin. I was as blind to the nature of the great doctrines of the justifying righteousness and atoning blood of Christ, as I had been before. The views which at this time I entertained of Christ's death, were, that he had died to procure the pardon of such sins as were committed by sinners, while in a state of ignorance and impenitence. I believed that had Christ not died, there would have been no pardon for sin, but that his death had opened the door of mercy to penitent sinners of all descriptions. I thought all the design of God, was to bring men to a sense of their moral duty, and to put them once more in a fair way of discharging their moral obligations to him, as their Creator and Preserver; and that he had promised those who repented, his assistance in all things that were difficult, and his protection from outward danger; and that Christ's death justified God, in granting pardon to penitent sinners, on account of their penitence. I had some faint recollection of what I had read in Boston's Fourfold State, and the instructions I had received in the Sabbath school, and from others, and could discern that there was a difference between them and the instructions I was now hearing, particularly on the doctrine of election, and remaining corruption in believers; but I had no fixed ideas on these topics, only just as much as prevented me from thinking that the Methodists were right, in denying, that the doctrines of election, and of remaining depravity in all believers, were taught in the Bible. I thought they were, but they were not any part of my own fixed belief. I read Wesley on Christian perfection, and, although I did not think he gave a sound view of some Scripture texts, perfection was the thing I was striving to obtain; a perfect obedience to the divine law was what I had set out to accomplish; and the following lines of one of Mr. Wesley's hymns, were, for a time, very frequent in my mouth, and repeated in secret prayer to God;