civil to run out and welcome such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military.”  And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, “You may say that,” says she.  “It would be but decent and civil, honey.”  And your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed your honour riding in company with your son, who was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your honour, and your honour’s son, and your honour’s royal military Protestant regiment.  And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all; one, two, three, four, true Protestants every one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Londonderry, to introduce to your honour’s lady, and then we’ll drink to the health of King George, God bless him; to the “glorious and immortal”—­to Boyne water—­to your honour’s speedy promotion to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of Padua.’

Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the high street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was.

‘A bigot and an Orangeman!’ Oh yes!  It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position.  He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones.  ‘But they are fierce and sanguinary,’ it is said.  Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike.  ‘But they are bigoted and narrow-minded.’  Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone!  ’But their language is frequently indecorous.’  Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing?

The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position:  but they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their own.  They have been vilified and traduced—­but what would Ireland be without them?  I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse than these much-calumniated children of her adoption.