My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 1 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 1 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
Can you conceive anything more glorious and touching than the quiet
gathering on the promontory of Duncannon? A towering fort frowns down
upon the harbour, commanding a spacious basin formed by the waters of
three rivers. Imagine the simple country gentlemen, the homely
squires, the traders of Belfast, abandoning for a while their vices
and their quarrels, to deliberate sword in hand over the grievous
shortcomings of their brethren. I see them in the gloaming, with
high-collared coats and anxious faces, puzzling their poor brains over
a way out of the labyrinth. The lovely land, stretched out on either
side in a jagged line of coast, whose slopes had been watered to
greenness with blood and tears, must haply be soaked again in the
stream of war. For the last time. Once more--only once--a final
sanctifying baptism which should leave it clean and sweet for
evermore. They penned a temperate document--a dignified manifesto.
Could they be single-minded to the end, or would discord fling her
apple among them?
So soon as the delegates of the North received the concurrence of the
provinces, the senate in Dublin changed its tone, for no immediate
succour could be hoped from England. It affected a complete
patriotism, and made believe to go all lengths with the Volunteers.
Patriots--real and sham--thundered in the House, and were applauded to
the echo. It was impossible to tell who was in earnest and who was
not. First, said the wily senators, make it clear that we are free,
and then by remodelling the Senate we will prove ourselves worthy of
the gift you have bestowed. Grattan towered above all others. He spoke
as one inspired, and the meshes of the web seemed to shrivel before
his breath.
The army patrolled the streets, and review succeeded review in the
Ph[oe]nix Park; the national artillery lined the quays. Loyalty,
Dignity, Forbearance, were grouped round the god of war. All the
virtues, posing around Mars, hovered in ether over Dublin. Never was a
city so happy or so proud. But the English Viceroy, though outwardly
perturbed, was laughing in the Castle while the ignorant people
jigged.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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