The Irish who remained within the English pale were, one and all, hostile to the English domination.  They were therefore subjected to a rigorous system of police, the natural though lamentable effect of extreme danger and extreme provocation.  A Papist was not permitted to have a sword or a gun.  He was not permitted to go more than three miles out of his parish except to the market town on the market day.  Lest he should give information or assistance to his brethren who occupied the western half of the island, he was forbidden to live within ten miles of the frontier.  Lest he should turn his house into a place of resort for malecontents, he was forbidden to sell liquor by retail.  One proclamation announced that, if the property of any Protestant should be injured by marauders, his loss should be made good at the expense of his Popish neighbours.  Another gave notice that, if any Papist who had not been at least three months domiciled in Dublin should be found there, he should be treated as a spy.  Not more than five Papists were to assemble in the capital or its neighbourhood on any pretext.  Without a protection from the government no member of the Church of Rome was safe; and the government would not grant a protection to any member of the Church of Rome who had a son in the Irish army.72

In spite of all precautions and severities, however, the Celt found many opportunities of taking a sly revenge.  Houses and barns were frequently burned; soldiers were frequently murdered; and it was scarcely possible to obtain evidence against the malefactors, who had with them the sympathies of the whole population.  On such occasions the government sometimes ventured on acts which seemed better suited to a Turkish than to an English administration.  One of these acts became a favourite theme of Jacobite pamphleteers, and was the subject of a serious parliamentary inquiry at Westminster.  Six musketeers were found butchered only a few miles from Dublin.  The inhabitants of the village where the crime had been committed, men, women, and children, were driven like sheep into the Castle, where the Privy Council was sitting.  The heart of one of the assassins, named Gafney, failed him.  He consented to be a witness, was examined by the Board, acknowledged his guilt, and named some of his accomplices.  He was then removed in custody; but a priest obtained access to him during a few minutes.  What passed during those few minutes appeared when he was a second time brought before the Council.  He had the effrontery to deny that he had owned any thing or accused any body.  His hearers, several of whom had taken down his confession in writing, were enraged at his impudence.  The Lords justices broke out; “You are a rogue; You are a villain; You shall be hanged; Where is the Provost Marshal?” The Provost Marshal came.  “Take that man,” said Coningsby, pointing to Gafney; “take that man, and hang him.”  There was no gallows ready; but the carriage of a gun served the purpose;