Speech in the Pillar Room of the Rotunda, on the policy of the Irish Confederation, February, 1848.
Sir, I beg leave to say a few words upon the question before the chair. They shall be very few indeed, for I find myself engaged in this debate quite unexpectedly. I arrived from England at rather a late hour this morning, and it was not until my arrival here that I was made acquainted with the proceedings of the last two evenings. Such being the case, I now speak under very unfavourable circumstances, for I speak without that preparation which the importance of the question requires. Previous to my going into the question at issue, however, I beg to express—and I do so sincerely—the same sentiment as that to which Mr. Reilly, in the commencement of his speech, gave utterance. I trust that we who are about to conclude this discussion, may not, by any mishap, disturb the good feelings that have prevailed all through it; and I fervently pray, that, in this conflict of opinions, we shall preserve those feelings which have so long united us in a sincere and devoted companionship.
Now, as to the question before us, I think that Mr. Mitchel has brought it, most conveniently for me, into the smallest possible space. The real question (he says) which we have to decide is, whether we are to keep to constitutional and parliamentary agitation or not? Precisely so; you have to decide nothing less, and nothing more than this—whether ‘constitutional agitation’ is to be given up, or to be sustained. This is the one, simple point that we are to determine; for, upon all other points, connected with the policy and action of the Confederation, there appears to be, amongst us all, perfect concurrence of opinion. At all events, whatever decision you may come to, with regard to the utility of our pursuing, any further, a constitutional course of action, I believe that, by this time, we have become quite agreed, that all this vague talk should cease, with which your ears have been vexed for so long a period. All this vague talk about a ‘crisis is at hand’—’shouts of defiance’—’Louis Philippe is upwards of seventy’—‘France remembers Waterloo’—‘the first gun fired in Europe’—all this obscure babble—all this meaningless mysticism—must be swept away. Ten thousand guns, fired in Europe, would announce no glad tidings to you, if their lightning flashed upon you in a state of disorganisation and incertitude.
Sir, I know of no nation that has won its independence by an accident. Trust blindly to the future—wait for the tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, may lead to fortune—envelop yourselves in the mist—leave everything to chance and be assured of this, the most propitious opportunities will rise and pass away, leaving you still to chance masters of no weapons—scholars of no science—incompetent to decide—irresolute to act—powerless to achieve. This was the great error of the Repeal Association. From a labyrinth of difficulties, there was no avenue opened to success. The people were kept within this labyrinth—they moved round and round—backwards and forwards—there was perpetual motion, but no advance. In this bewilderment are you content to wander, until a sign appears in heaven, and the mystery is disentangled by a miracle? Have you no clear intelligence to direct you to the right path, and do you fear to trust your footsteps to the guidance of that mind with which you have been gifted? Do you prefer to substitute a driftless superstition in place of a determined system—groping and fumbling after possibilities, instead of seizing the agencies within your reach? This, indeed, would be a blind renunciation of your powers, and thus, indeed, the virtue you prize so justly—the virtue of self-reliance—would be extinguished in you. To this you will not consent. You have too sure a confidence in the resources you possess to leave to chance what you can accomplish by design.
A deliberate plan of action is, then, essential—something positive—something definite. Now, there are but two plans for our consideration—the one, within the law: the other, without the law. Let us take the latter. And I will, then, ask you—is an insurrection practicable? Prove to me that it is, and I, for one, will vote for it this very night. You know well, my friends, that I am not one of those tame moralists who say that liberty is not worth a drop of blood. Men who subscribe to such a maxim are fit for out-door relief, and for nothing better. Against this miserable maxim, the noblest virtue that has served and sanctified humanity, appears in judgment. From the blue waters of the Bay of Salamis—from the valley, over which the sun stood still, and lit the Israelite to victory—from the cathedral, in which the sword of Poland has been sheathed in the shroud of Kosciousko—from the convent of St. Isidore, where the fiery hand that rent the ensign of St. George upon the plains of Ulster, has crumbled into dust—from the sands of the desert, where the wild genius of the Algerine so long had scared the eagle of the Pyrennees—from the ducal palace in this kingdom, where the memory of the gallant Geraldine enhances, more than royal favour, the nobility of his race—from the solitary grave which, within this mute city, a dying request has left without an epitaph—oh! from every spot where heroism has had a sacrifice or a triumph, a voice breaks in upon the cringing crowd that cheers this wretched maxim, crying out—‘Away with it, away with it.’ Would to God that we could take every barrack in the island this night, and with our blood purchase back the independence of the country! It is not, then, a pedantic reverence for common law—it is not a senseless devotion to a diadem and sceptre—it is not a whining solicitude for the preservation of the species—that dictates the vote I give this night in favour of a constitutional movement. I do so, not from choice, but from necessity.
Gentlemen, I support this constitutional policy, not from choice, but from necessity. My strongest feelings are in favour of the policy advised by Mr. Mitchel. I wish to heavens that I could defend that policy. It is a policy which calls forth the noblest passions—it kindles genius, generosity, heroism—it is far removed from the tricks and crimes of politics—for the young, the gallant, and the good, it has the most powerful attractions. In the history of this kingdom, the names that burn above the dust and desolation of the past—like the lamps in the old sepulchres of Rome—shed their glory round the principles, of which a deep conviction of our weakness compels me this night to be the opponent. And in being their opponent, I almost blush to think, that the voice of one whose influence is felt through this struggle more powerfully than any other, and whose noble lyrics will bid our cause to live for ever—I almost blush to think, that this voice, which speaks to us in these glorious lines—
‘And the beckoning angels win you on, with many a radiant vision,
Up the thorny path to glory, where man receives his crown—’
should be disobeyed, and that, for a time at least, we must plod on in the old course, until we acquire strength, and discipline, and skill—discipline to steady, skill to direct, strength to enforce the claim of a united nation. To an insurrectionary movement, the priesthood are opposed. To an insurrectionary movement, the middle classes are opposed. To an insurrectionary movement, the aristocracy are opposed. To give effect to this opposition, 50,000 men, equipped and paid by England, occupy the country at this moment. Who, then, are for it? The mechanic and the peasant classes, we are told. These classes, you will tell us, have lost all faith in legal agencies, and, through such agencies, despair of the slightest exemption from their suffering. Stung to madness—day from day gazing upon the wreck and devastation that surround them, until the brain whirls like a ball of fire—they see but one red pathway, lined with gibbets and hedged with bayonets, leading to deliverance! But will that pathway lead them to deliverance? Have these classes, upon which alone you now rely, the power to sweep, like a torrent, through that pathway, dashing aside the tremendous obstacles which confront them? You know they have not. Without discipline, without arms, without food—beggared by the law, starved by the law, diseased by the law, demoralised by the law opposed to the might of England, they would have the weakness of a vapour (A voice, ‘No, no’).
Yes, but you have said so; for what do you maintain? You maintain that an immediate insurrection is not designed. Well, then, you confess your weakness; and, then, let me ask you, what becomes of the objection you urge against the policy we propose? The country cannot afford to wait until the legal means have been fully tested—that is your objection. And yet, you will not urge an immediate movement—you will not deal with the disease upon the spot—you will permit it to take its course—your remedy is remote. Thus, it appears, there is delay in both cases—so, upon this question of time, we are entitled to pair off. But, at no time, you assert, will legal means prevail—public opinion is nonsense—constitutional agitation is a downright delusion. Tell me, then, was it an understanding, when we founded the Irish Confederation, this time twelvemonth, that if public opinion failed to Repeal the Act of Union in a year, at the end of the year it should be scouted as a ‘humbug?’ When you established this Confederation in January, 1847—when you set up for yourselves—did you agree with ‘public opinion’ for a year only? Was that the agreement, and will you now serve it with a notice to quit? If so, take my advice and break up your establishment at once. You have no other alternative, for the house will fall to pieces with a servant of more unruly propensities. After all, look to your great argument against the continuance of a parliamentary or constitutional movement. The constituencies are corrupt—they will not return virtuous representatives—the tree shall be known by its fruits! The constituencies are knaves, perjurers, cowards, on the hustings—they will be chevaliers, sans peur et sans reproche, within the trenches! The Thersites of the polling-booth, will be the Achilles of the bivouac!
Your argument comes to this, that the constituencies of Ireland will be saved ‘so as by fire’—they will acquire morality in the shooting gallery—and in the art of fortification, they will learn the path to paradise. These constituencies constitute the elite of the democracy; and is it you, who stand up for the democracy, that urge this argument? To be purified and saved, do you decree that the nation must writhe in the agonies of a desperate circumcision? Has it not felt the knife long since? And if its salvation depended upon the flow of blood, has it not poured out torrents—into a thousand graves!—deep enough, and swift enough, to earn the blessing long before our day? Spend no more until you are certain of the purchase. Nor do I wish, gentlemen, that this movement should be a mere democratic movement. I desire that it should continue to be what it has been, a national movement not of any one class, but of all classes. Narrow it to one class—decide that it shall be a democratic movement, and nothing else—what, then? You augment the power that is opposed to you—the revolution will provoke a counter-revolution—Paris will be attacked by the Emigrants, as well as by the Austrians. You attach little importance to the instance cited by Mr. Ross—Poland is no warning to you. The Polish peasants cut the throats of the Polish nobles, and before the Vistula had washed away the blood, the free city of Cracow was proclaimed a dungeon. So much for the war of classes. But, there is the French Revolution—the revolution of Mirabeau, of La Fayette, of Vergniaud. There, you say, is democracy, triumphant against the aristocracy, winning the liberty of the nation! How long did that triumph last? Madame de Genlis took the present King of France, when he was only eighteen years of age, to see the ruins of the Bastile. To read him the lessons of liberty she brought him there. And did the son of Philippe Egalité learn the lessons of liberty from those great fragments, upon which the fierce hand of the French democracy had left its curse? He learnt a very different lesson—he learnt to rebuild the prison—he learnt to plant his throne within the circle of a hundred bastiles—and it is thus that the democracy of the revolution has triumphed. No; I am not for a democratic, but I am for a national movement—not for a movement like that of Paris in 1793, but for a movement like that of Brussels in 1830—like that of Palermo in 1848. Should you think differently, say so.
If you are weary of this ‘constitutional movement’—if you despair of this ‘combination of classes’—declare so boldly, and let this night terminate the career of the Irish Confederation. Do not spare the Confederation, if you have lost all hope in constitutional exertion. If you despair of the middle classes and the aristocracy, vote its extinction—renounce the principles you have so long maintained—precipitate yourselves into an abyss, the depth of which you know not—and let the world witness the spectacle of your death—a death which shall be ignominious, for it shall have been self-designed and self-inflicted! Yet, upon the brink of this abyss, listen, for a moment, to the voice which speaks to you from the vaults of Mount Saint Jerome; and if you distrust the advice of the friend who now addresses you—one who has done something to assist you, and who, I believe, has not been unfaithful to you in some moments of difficulty, and, perhaps, of danger—if you do not trust me, listen, at least, to the voice of one who has been carried to his grave amid the tears and prayers of all classes of his countrymen, and of whose courage and whose truth there has never yet been uttered the slightest doubt:
‘Be bold, but be wise—be brave, but sober—patient, earnest, striving, and untiring. You have sworn to be temperate for your comfort here and your well-being hereafter. Be temperate now for the honour, the happiness, the immortality of your country—act trustfully and truthfully one to another—watch, wait, and leave the rest to God.’