Speech at the Soiree, given by the Confederates of Limerick to Messrs. William Smith O’Brien, Meagher, and John Mitchel, previous to their trials for sedition, May, 1848.
Mr. Chairman, Ladies, and Gentlemen, the occurrences of this evening do not dishearten me. I am encouraged by your sympathy, and can, therefore, forgive the rudeness of a mob. Nor do I conceive that our cause is injured by these manifestations of ignorance and immorality. The mists from the marshes obscure the sun—they do not taint—they do not extinguish it. Enough of this. The wrongs and perils of the country must exclude from our minds every other subject of consideration. From the summer of 1846 to the winter of 1847, the wing of an avenging angel swept our soil and sky. The fruits of the earth died, as the shadow passed, and they who had nursed them into life read in the withered leaves that they, too, should die; and, dying, swell the red catalogue of carnage in which the sins and splendours of that empire—of which we are the prosecuted foes—have been immortalised. And, whilst death thus counted in his spoils by the score, we, who should have stood up between the destroyer and the doomed—we, who should have prayed together, marched together, fought together to save the people—we were in arms!—drilled and disciplined into factions!—striking each other across the graves that each day opened at our feet, instead of joining hands above them, and snatching victory from death! The cry of famine was lost in the cry of faction, and many a brave heart, flying from the scene, bled as it looked back upon the riotous profanation in which the worst passions of the country were engaged.
You know the rest—you know the occurrences of the last few weeks. At the very hour when the feud was hottest, a voice from the banks of the Seine summoned us to desist. That voice has been obeyed—we have trampled upon the whims and prejudices that divided us—and it is this event that explains the sedition in which we glory. The sudden re-construction of that power which, in 1843, menaced the integrity of the empire, and promised liberty to this island, dictated the language which has entitled us to the vengeance of the minister, and the confidence of the people. Nor this alone. It is not in the language of the lawyer, or the police magistrate, that the wrongs and aspirations of an oppressed nation should be stated. For the pang with which it writhes—for the passion with which it heaves—for the chafed heart—the burning brain—the quickening pulse—the soaring soul—there is a language quite at variance with the grammar and the syntax of a government. It is bold, and passionate, and generous. It often glows with the fire of genius—it sometimes thunders with the spirit of the prophet. It is tainted with no falsehood—it is polished with no flattery. In the desert—on the mountain—within the city—everywhere—it has been spoken, throughout all ages. It requires no teaching—it is the inherent and imperishable language of humanity! Kings, soldiers, judges, hangmen, have proclaimed it. In pools of blood they have sought to cool and quench this fiery tongue. They have built the prison—they have launched the convict-ship—they have planted the gallows tree—to warn it to be still. The sword, the sceptre, the black cap, the guillotine—all have failed. Sedition wears the crown in Europe on this day, and the scaffold, on which the poor scribes of royalty had scrawled her death-sentence, is the throne upon which she receives the homage of humanity, and guarantees its glory. Therefore, it is, I do not blush for the crime with which I have been charged.
Therefore, it is, you have invited a traitorous triumvirate to your ancient and gallant city, and have honoured them this evening. In doing so, you have taken your stand against the government of England, and I know of no spot in Ireland where a braver stand should be made than here, by the waters of the Shannon, where the sword of Sarsfield flashed. Whilst that old Treaty stone, without the Thomond gate, attests the courage and the honour of your fathers, the nerve and faith of Limerick shall never be mistrusted. No, there could be no coward born within those walls, which, in their old age, instruct so thrillingly the young hearts that gaze upon them with reverence—whispering to them, as they do, memories that drive the blood, in boiling currents, through the veins—telling those young hearts, not to doubt, not to falter, not to fear—that in a sunnier hour the Wild Geese shall yet return from France. These sentiments are, no doubt, seditious, and the expression of them may bring me within the provisions of this new Felony Bill—the bill, mind you, that is to strike this nation dumb! Yes, from this day out, you must lie down, and eat your words! Yes, you—you starved wretch, lying naked in that ditch, with clenched teeth and staring eye, gazing on the clouds that redden with the flames in which your hovel is consumed—what matters it that the claw of hunger is fastening in your heart—what matters it that the hot poison of the fever is shooting through your brain—what matters it that the tooth of the lean dog is cutting through the bone of that dead child, of which you were once the guardian—what matters it that the lips of that spectre there, once the pride and beauty of the village, when you wooed and won her as your bride, are blackened with the blood of the youngest to whom she has given birth—what matters it that the golden grain, which sprung from the sweat you squandered on the soil has been torn from your grasp, and Heaven’s first decree to fallen man be contravened by human law—what matters it that you are thus pained and stung—thus lashed and maddened—hush!—beat back the passion that rushes from your heart—check the curse that gurgles in your throat—die!—die without a groan!—die without a struggle!—die without a cry!—for the government which starves you, desires to live in peace!
Shall this be so? Shall the conquest of Ireland be this year completed? Shall the spirit which has survived the pains and penalties of centuries—which has never ceased to stir the heart of Ireland with the hope of a better day—which has defied the sword of famine and the sword of law—which has lived through the desolation of the last year, and kept the old flag flying, spite of the storm which rent its folds—what! shall this spirit sink down at last—tamed and crippled by the blow with which it has been struck—muttering no sentiment that is not loyal, legal, slavish, and corrupt? Why should I put this question? Have I not been already answered by that flash of arms, which purifies the air where the pestilence has been? Have I not already caught the quick beating of that heart, which many men had said was cold and dull, and, in its strong pulsation, have we not heard the rushing of that current, which, for a time, may overflow the land—overflow it, to fertilise, to restore, and beautify? The mind of Ireland no longer wavers. It has acquired the faith, the constancy, the heroism of a predestined martyr. It foresees the worst—prepares for the worst. The cross—as in Milan—glitters in the haze of battle, and points to eternity! We shall no longer seek for liberty in the bye-ways. On the broad field, in front of the foreign swords, the soul of this nation, grown young and chivalrous again, shall clothe herself, like the Angel of the Resurrection, in the white robe, and point to the sepulchre that is void; or shall mount the scaffold—that eminence on which many a radiant transfiguration has taken place—and bequeath to the crowd below a lesson for their instruction.