I never really liked the work of poet Walt Whitman, but I never realized
what a hater he was of Catholics and the Irish.
He just seemed pretentious and long winded.
https://whitmanarchive.org/published/periodical/journalism/tei/per.00398.html
Will the democracy yield? Shall a gang of false and villainous priests, whose despicable souls never generate any aspiration beyond their own narrow and horrible and beastly superstition—shall these dregs of foreign filth—refuse of convents—scullions3 from Austrian monasteries—be permitted thus to dictate what Tammany4 must do?
The bulwark of truth—the "unterrified democracy,"5 ruled by a tattered, coarse, unshaven, filthy, Irish rabble! Americans, high in reputation, degrading themselves worse than the slavish nobles who of old kissed the toe of the triple crowned! They knelt to the Pope himself; Americans, to the abjectest menials of the Pope.
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Last edited Fri Jun 15, 2018, 12:04 PM - Edit history (1)
I guess I should of used the sarcasm thing. 
Won't make that mistake again.
Yeah, discrimination against Irish was a real thing. That's why the caricature of the beat cop was of an Irish guy who couldn't get a better job.
1854: No Irish Need Apply
By Mark Bulik
Sept. 8, 2015
25
This feature looks at some of the earliest mentions of famous names or terms in The Times. Have an idea for someone or something you would like to read about? Leave a suggestion in the comments section.
It’s a terse summation of the job discrimination that Irish immigrants faced in America in the mid-19th century: “No Irish need apply.”
The phrase turned up in The Times in a classified ad on Nov. 10, 1854:
?quality=90&auto=webp
(humorously) the prevailing attitudes about the Irish in his time (1871). Here's an excerpt from "Niagara":
The noble Red Man has always been a friend and darling of mine. I love to read about him in tales and legends and romances. I love to read of his inspired sagacity, and his love of the wild free life of mountain and forest, and his general nobility of character, and his stately metaphorical manner of speech, and his chivalrous love for the dusky maiden, and the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. Especially the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. When I found the shops at Niagara Falls full of dainty Indian beadwork, and stunning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures representing human beings who carried their weapons in holes bored through their arms and bodies, and had feet shaped like a pie, I was filled with emotion. I knew that now, at last, I was going to come face to face with the noble Red Man.
A lady clerk in a shop told me, indeed, that all her grand array of curiosities were made by the Indians, and that they were plenty about the Falls, and that they were friendly, and it would not be dangerous to speak to them. And sure enough, as I approached the bridge leading over to Luna Island, I came upon a noble Son of the Forest sitting under a tree, diligently at work on a bead reticule. He wore a slouch hat and brogans, and had a short black pipe in his mouth. Thus does the baneful contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the picturesque pomp which is so natural to the Indian when far removed from us in his native haunts. I addressed the relic as follows:
“Is the Wawhoo-Wang-Wang of the Whack-a-Whack happy? Does the great Speckled Thunder sigh for the war-path, or is his heart contented with dreaming of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest? Does the mighty Sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface? Speak, sublime relic of bygone grandeur–venerable ruin, speak!”
The relic said:
“An’ is it mesilf, Dennis Hooligan, that ye’d be takon’ for a dirty Injin, ye drawlin’, lantern-jawed, spider-legged divil! By the piper that played before Moses, I’ll ate ye!”
I went away from there.
By and by, in the neighborhood of the Terrapin Tower, I came upon a gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench with her pretty wares about her. She had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his abdomen to put his bow through. I hesitated a moment, and then addressed her:
“Is the heart of the forest maiden heavy? Is the Laughing Tadpole lonely? Does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her race, and the vanished glory of her ancestors? Or does her sad spirit wander afar toward the hunting-grounds whither her brave Gobbler-of-the- Lightnings is gone? Why is my daughter silent? Has she ought against the paleface stranger?”
The maiden said:
“Faix, an’ is it Biddy Malone ye dare to be callin’ names? Lave this, or I’ll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye sniveling blaggard!”
I adjourned from there also.
“Confound these Indians!” I said. “They told me they were tame; but, if appearances go for anything, I should say they were all on the warpath.”
I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one. I came upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making wampum and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of friendship:
“Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, War Chiefs, Squaws, and High Muck- a-Mucks, the paleface from the land of the setting sun greets you! You, Beneficent Polecat–you, Devourer of Mountains–you, Roaring Thundergust –you, Bully Boy with a Glass eye–the paleface from beyond the great waters greets you all! War and pestilence have thinned your ranks and destroyed your once proud nation. Poker and seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your purses. Appropriating, in your simplicity, the property of others has gotten you into trouble. Misrepresenting facts, in your simple innocence, has damaged your reputation with the soulless usurper. Trading for forty-rod whisky, to enable you to get drunk and happy and tomahawk your families, has played the everlasting mischief with the picturesque pomp of your dress, and here you are, in the broad light of the nineteenth century, gotten up like the ragtag and bobtail of the purlieus of New York. For shame! Remember your ancestors! Recall their mighty deeds! Remember Uncas!–and Red jacket! and Hole in the Day!– and Whoopdedoodledo! Emulate their achievements! Unfurl yourselves under my banner, noble savages, illustrious guttersnipes–“
“Down wid him!” “Scoop the blaggard!” “Burn him!” “Bang him!” “Dhround him!”
It was the quickest operation that ever was. I simply saw a sudden flash in the air of clubs, brickbats, fists, bead-baskets, and moccasins–a single flash, and they all appeared to hit me at once, and no two of them in the same place. In the next instant the entire tribe was upon me. They tore half the clothes off me; they broke my arms and legs; they gave me a thump that dented the top of my head till it would hold coffee like a saucer; and, to crown their disgraceful proceedings and add insult to injury, they threw me over the Niagara Falls, and I got wet.
