Speech in the Music Hall, June, 1848, at a meeting of the Irish Confederation, upon the trial and transportation of John Mitchel.
Citizens of Dublin, since we last assembled in this Hall, an event has occurred which decides our fate. We are no longer masters of our lives. They belong to our country—to liberty—to vengeance. Upon the walls of Newgate a fettered hand has inscribed this destiny—we shall be the martyrs or the rulers of a revolution. ‘One, two, three—ay, hundreds shall follow me,’ exclaimed the glorious citizen who was sentenced to exile and immortality upon the morning of the 27th of May. Such was his prophecy, and his children will live to say it has been fulfilled. Let no man mistrust these words; whilst I speak them I am fully sensible of the obligations they impose. It is an obligation from which there is no exemption but through infamy.
Claiming your trust, however, I well know the feeling that prevails amongst you—doubt—depression—shame! Doubt, as to the truth of those whose advice restrained your daring. Depression, inspired by the loss of the ablest and the boldest man amongst us. Shame, excited by the ease, the insolence, the impunity with which he was hurried in chains from the island to whose service he had sacrificed all that he had on earth—all that made life dear, and honourable, and glorious to him—his home, his genius, and his liberty. In those feelings of depression and shame I deeply share; and from the mistrust with which some of you, at least, may regard the members of the late Council, I shall not hold myself exempt. If they are to blame, so am I. Between the hearts of the people and the bayonets of the government, I took my stand, with the members of the Council, and warned back the precipitate devotion which scoffed at prudence as a crime. I am here to answer for that act. If you believe it to have been the act of a dastard, treat me with no delicacy, treat me with no respect—vindicate your courage in the impeachment of the coward. The necessities and perils of the cause forbid the interchange of courtesies. Civilities are out of place in the whirl and tumult of the tempest; and do not fear that the forfeiture of your confidence will induce in me the renunciation of the cause. In the ranks—by the side of the poorest mechanic—I shall proudly act, under any executive you may decree. Summon the intellect and heroism of the democracy, from the workshop, the field, the garret—bind the brow of labour with the crown of sovereignty—place the sceptre in the rough and blistered hand—and, to the death, I shall be the subject and the soldier of the plebeian king. The address of the Council to the people of Ireland—the address signed by William Smith O’Brien—bears witness to your determination; it states that thousands of confederates had pledged themselves that John Mitchel should not leave these shores but through their blood.
We were bound to make this statement—bound in justice to you—bound in honour to the country. Whatever odium may flow from that scene of victorious defiance, in which the government played its part without a stammer or a check, none falls on you. You would have fought, had we not seized your hands, and bound them. Let no foul tongue, then, spit its sarcasms upon the people. They were ready for the sacrifice; and had the word been given, the stars would burn this night above a thousand crimsoned graves. The guilt is ours—let the sarcasms fall upon our heads. We told you in the clubs, four days previous to the trial, the reasons that compelled us to oppose the project of a rescue. The concentration of 10,000 troops upon the city—the incomplete organisation of the people—the insufficiency of food, in case of a sustained resistance—the uncertainty as to how far the country districts were prepared to support us—these were the chief reasons that forced us into an antagonism with your generosity, your devotion, your intrepidity. Night after night we visited the clubs, to know your sentiments, your determination—and to the course we instructed you to adopt, you gave, at length, a reluctant sanction.
Now, I do not think it would be candid in me to conceal the fact, that the day subsequent to the arrest of John Mitchel, I gave expression to sentiments having a tendency quite opposite to the advice I have mentioned. At a meeting of the Grattan Club, I said that the Confederation ought to come to the resolution to resist by force the transportation of John Mitchel, and if the worst befel us, the ship that carried him away should sail upon a sea of blood. I said this, and I shall not now conceal it. I said this, and I shall not shrink from the reproach of having acted otherwise. Upon consideration, I became convinced they were sentiments which, if acted upon, would associate my name with the ruin of the cause. I feel it my duty, therefore, to retract them—not to disown, but to condemn them—not to shrink from the responsibility which the avowal of them might entail, but to avert the disaster which the enforcement of them would ensure.
You have now heard all I have to say on that point; and, with a conscience happy in the thought that it has concealed nothing, I shall exultingly look forward to an event, the shadow of which already encircles us, for the vindication of my conduct, and the attestation of my truth. Call me coward—call me renegade. I will accept these titles as the penalties which a fidelity to my convictions has imposed. I will be so for a short time only. To the end I see the path I have been ordained to walk, and upon the grave which closes in that path I can read no coward’s epitaph. Bitterly, indeed, might the wife and children of our illustrious friend lament the loss they have sustained, if his example failed to excite amongst us that defiant spirit which, in spite of pains and penalties, will boldly soar to freedom, and from the dust, where it has fretted for a time, return in rapturous flight to the source from whence it came. Not till then—not till the cowardice of the country has been made manifest—let there be tears and mourning round that hearth, of which the pride and chivalry have passed away. I said, that in the depression which his loss inspired, I deeply shared. I should not have said so. I feel no depression. His example—his fortitude—his courage—forbid the feeling. All that was perishable in him—his flesh and blood—are in the keeping of the privileged felons who won his liberty with their loaded dice. But his genius, his truth, his heroism—to what penal settlement have these immortal influences been condemned?
Oh! to have checked the evil promptly—to have secured their crown and government against him and his teachings—to have done their treacherous business well, they should have read his mission, and his power, in the star which presided at his birth, and have stabbed him in his cradle. They seized him thirty years too late—they seized him when his steady hand had lit the sacred fire, and the flame had passed from soul to soul. Who speaks of depression, then? Banish it! Let not the banners droop—let not the battalions reel—when the young chief is down. You have to avenge that fall. Until that fall shall have been avenged, a sin blackens the soul of the nation, and repels from our cause the sympathies of every gallant people.
For one, I am pledged to follow him. Once again they shall have to pack their jury box—once again, exhibit to the world the frauds and mockeries—the tricks and perjuries—upon which their power is based. In this island, the English never—never, shall have rest. The work begun by the Norman never shall be completed. Generation transmits to generation the holy passion which pants for liberty—which frets against oppression; and from the blood which drenched the scaffolds of 1798, the ‘felons’ of this year have sprung. Should their blood flow—peace, and loyalty, and debasement may here, for a time, resume their reign—the snows of a winter, the flowers of a summer, may clothe the proscribed graves—but from those graves there shall hereafter be an armed resurrection. Peace, loyalty, and debasement, forsooth! A stagnant society!—breeding, in its bosom, slimy, sluggish things, which to the surface make their way by stealth, and there, for a season, creep, cringe, and glitter in the glare of a provincial royalty. Peace, loyalty, and debasement! A mass of pauperism!—shovelled off the land—stocked in fever sheds and poorhouses—shipped to Canadian swamps—rags, and pestilence, and vermin. Behold the rule of England!—and in that rule, behold humanity dethroned, and Providence blasphemed.
To keep up this abomination, they enact their laws of felony. To sweep away the abomination, we must break through their laws. Should the laws fail, they will hedge the abomination with their bayonets and their gibbets. These, too, shall give way before the torrent of fire which gathers in the soul of the people. The question so long debated—debated, years ago, on fields of blood—debated latterly in a venal senate, amid the jeers and yells of faction—the question, as to who shall be the owners of this island, must be this year determined. The end is at hand, and so, unite and arm! A truce to cheers—to speeches—to banquets—to ‘important resolutions’ that resolve nothing, and ‘magnificent displays,’ which are little else than preposterous deceptions. Ascertain your resources in each locality—consolidate, arrange them—substitute defined action for driftless passion—and in the intelligent distribution and disciplined exercise of your powers, let the mind of the country manifest its purpose, and give permanent effect to its ambition. In carrying out this plan, the country shall have the services of the leading members of the Council, and from this great task—the organisation of the country—we shall not desist until it has been thoroughly accomplished. When it is accomplished, the country may resume its freedom and its sovereignty. To the work, then, with high hope and impassioned vigour.
There is a black ship upon the southern sea this night. Far from his own, old land—far from the sea, and soil, and sky, which, standing here, he used to claim for you with all the pride of a true Irish prince—far from that circle of fresh young hearts, in whose light, and joyousness, and warmth, his own drank in each evening new life and vigour—far from that young wife, in whose heart the kind hand of heaven has kindled a gentle heroism, sustained by which she looks with serenity and pride upon her widowed house, and in the children that girdle her with beauty behold the inheritors of a name which, to their last breath, will secure for them the love, the honour, the blessing of their country—far from these scenes and joys, clothed and fettered as a felon, he is borne to an island where the rich, and brilliant, and rapacious power, of which he was the foe, has doomed him to a dark existence. That sentence must be reversed—reversed by the decree of a free nation, arrayed in arms and in glory. Till then, in the love of the country, let the wife and children of the illustrious exile be shielded from adversity. True—when he stood before the judge, and with the voice and bearing of a Roman, told him that three hundred were prepared to follow him—true it is, that, at that moment, he spoke not of his home and children—he thought only of his country—and to the honour of her sons bequeathed the cause for which he was doomed to suffer. But, in that one thought, all other thoughts were embraced. Circled by the arms and banners of a free people, he saw his home secure—his wife joyous—his children prosperous. This was the thought which forbade his heart to blench when he left these shores—this the thought which calls up to-night, as he sleeps within that prison ship, dreams full of light and rapturous joy this the thought which will lighten the drudgery, and reconcile his proud heart to the odious conditions of his exile.
Think! oh, think! of that exile—the hopes, the longings, which will grow each day more anxious and impatient. Think! oh, think! of how, with throbbing heart and kindling eye, he will look out across the waters that imprison him, searching in the eastern sky for the flag that will announce to him his liberty, and the triumph of sedition. Think! oh, think! of that day, when thousands and tens of thousands will rush to the water’s edge, as a distant gun proclaims his return—mark the ship as it dashes through the waves and nears the shore—behold him standing there upon the deck—the same calm, intrepid, noble heart—his clear, quick eye runs along the shore, and fills with the light which flashes from the bayonets of the people—a moment’s pause!—and then, amid the roar of cannons, the fluttering of a hundred flags, the pealing of cathedral bells, the cheers of millions—the triumphant felon sets his foot once more upon his native soil—hailed, and blessed, and welcomed as the first citizen of our free and sovereign state!