Speech in the Music Hall, March 11th, 1848, at a meeting of the Irish Confederation, in moving the adoption of an address to the citizens of Dublin.1
Citizens of Dublin, I move the adoption of that address. In doing so, I will follow the advice of my friend, Mr McGee. This is not the time for long speeches. Everything we say here, just now, should be short, sharp, and decisive. I move the adoption of that address, for this reason—the instruction it gives you, if obeyed, will keep you in possession of that opportunity which the revolution of Paris has created. The game is in your hands, at last; and you have a partner in the play upon whom you may depend.
Look towards the southern wave, and do you not find it crimsoned with the flame in which the throne of the Tulleries has been consumed?—and, borne upon that wave, do you not hail the rainbow flag, which, a few years since, glittered from the hills of Bantry? Has not France proclaimed herself the protectress of weak nations, and is not the sword of the Republic pledged to the oppressed nationalities which, in Europe, and elsewhere, desire to reconstruct themselves? The feet that have trampled upon the sceptre of July have trampled upon the Treaty of Vienna. Henceforth the convenience of kings will be slightly consulted by France, where the necessities of a people manifest themselves. But do not wait for France. Do not beg the blood which, on the altar of the Madeleine, she consecrates to the service of humanity. Do not purchase your independence at the expense of those poor workmen, whose heroism has been so impetuous, so generous, so tolerant.
It is sufficient for us, that the Republic—to use the language of Lamartine—shines from its place upon the horizon of nations, to instruct and guide them. Listen to these instructions—accept this guidance—and be confident of success. Fraternise!—I will use the word, though the critics of the Castle reject it as the cant of the day—I will use it, for it is the spell-word of weak nations. Fraternise!—as the citizens of Paris have done; and in the clasped hands which arch the colossal car in that great funeral procession of the 4th of March, behold the sign in which your victory shall be won. Do you not redden at the thoughts of your contemptible factions—their follies—and their crimes? Do you not see, that every nation with a sensible head and an upright heart, laughs at the poor profligate passion which frets and fights for a straw in this parish—a feather in that barony—a bubble in that river? Have you not learned by this, that, whilst you have been fighting for those straws and bubbles, the country has been wrenched from beneath your feet, and made over to the brigands of the Castle? And what enables these sleek and silken brigands to hold your country? Have you fought them? Have you struck blow for blow, and been worsted in the fight? Think of it—you marched against them a few years back, and when you drew up before the Castle gates, you cursed and cuffed each other—and then withdrew. Withdrew! For what? To repair the evil? To reunite the forces?
Ah, I will not sting you with these questions—I will not sting myself. Let no Irishman look into the past. He will be scared at the evidences of his guilt—evidences which spring up, like weeds and briars, in that bleak waste of ruins. Between us and the past, let a wall arise, and, as if this day was the first of our existence, let us advance together towards that destiny, in the light of which this old Island shall renew itself. Citizens—I use another of the ‘cant phrases’ of the day, for this, too, is a spellword with weak nations—I speak thus, in spite of circumstances which within the last few days—I allude to the addresses from the University and the Orange Lodges—have darkened the prospect of a national union. I speak thus, in spite of that squeamish morality which decries the inspiration of the time, and would check the lofty passion which desires to manifest itself in arms.
But, I will not despair of this union, whoever may play the factionist. The people will act for themselves, and in their hands, the liberty of the country will not be compromised. At this startling moment—when your fortunes are swinging in the balance—let no man dictate to you. Trust to your own intelligence, sincerity, and power. Do not place your prerogatives in commission—the sovereign people should neither lend nor abdicate the sceptre. As to the upper classes—respectable circles of society—genteel nobodies—nervous aristocrats—friends of order and starvation—of pestilence and peace—of speedy hangings and green-cropping—as to these conspirators against the life and dignity of this Island, they must no longer be courted. They are cowards, and when they know your strength, they will cling to you for protection. Do I tell you to refuse this protection? Were I base enough to do so, you would remind me that the revolution of Paris has been immortalised by the clemency of the people.
In my letter, last week, to the Council of the Confederation, I stated it was not my wish to urge any suggestion as to the course we should now pursue. Upon reflection, however, I think I am called upon to declare to you my opinion upon this question, for it would not be honourable, I conceive, for any prominent member of the Confederation to shield himself at this crisis. And I am the more anxious to declare my opinion upon this question of ways and means, since I had not the good fortune of being present at your two previous meetings, and, perhaps, my absence may have occasioned some suspicion. I think, then, that from a meeting—constituted, as the Repealers of Kilkenny have suggested, of delegates from the chief towns and parishes—a deputation should proceed to London, and, in the name of the Irish people, demand an interview with the Queen. Should the demand be refused, let the Irish deputies pack up their court dresses—as Benjamin Franklin did, when repulsed from the court of George III—and let them, then and there, make solemn oath, that when they next demand an admission to the throne room of St. James’s, it shall be through the accredited ambassador of the Irish Republic. Should the demand be conceded, let the deputies approach the throne, and, in firm and respectful terms, call upon the Queen to exercise the royal prerogative, and summon her Irish parliament to sit, and advise her, in the city of Dublin. Should the call be obeyed—should the sceptre touch the bier, and she ‘who is not dead, but sleepeth,’ start, at its touch, into a fresh and luminous existence—then, indeed, may we bless the Constitution we have been taught to curse; and Irish loyalty, ceasing to be a mere ceremonious affectation, become, with us, a sincere devotion to the just ruler of an independent State. Should the claim be rejected—should the throne stand as a barrier between the Irish people and their supreme right—then loyalty will be a crime, and obedience to the executive will be treason to the country. I say it calmly, seriously, and deliberately—it will then be our duty to fight, and desperately fight. The opinions of Whig statesmen have been quoted here to-night—I beg to remind you of Lord Palmerston’s language in reference to the insurrection at Lisbon, last September—
‘I say that the people were justified in saying to the government, If you do not give us a parliament in which to state our wrongs and grievances, we shall state them by arms and by force.’
I adopt those words, and I call upon you to adopt them likewise. Citizens of Dublin, I know well what I may incur by the expression of these sentiments—I know it well—therefore, let no man indulgently ascribe them to ignorance or to idiotcy. Were I more moderate—as some Whig sympathiser would say—more sensible—as he might add, without meaning anything personal, of course,—more practical—as he would further beg leave to remark, without at all meaning to deny that I possessed some excellent points—in fact, and in truth, were I a temperate trifler, a polished knave, a scientific dodger—I might promise myself a pleasant life, many gay scenes, perhaps no few privileges. Moderate, sensible, practical men, are sure to obtain privileges just now. Paid poor-law guardianships are plentiful, now-a-days, and the invitations to the Castle are indiscriminate and innumerable.
But, I desire to be, neither moderate nor sensible, neither sensible nor practical, in the sense attached to these words by the polite and slavish circle, of which his Excellency is the centre. It is the renunciation of truth, of manhood, and of country—the renunciation of the noblest lessons with which the stately genius of antiquity has crowned the hills of Rome, and sanctified the dust of Greece—the renunciation of all that is frank, and chivalrous, and inspiring—it is the renunciation of all this which makes you acceptable in the eyes of that meagre, spectral royalty, which keeps ‘open house’ for reduced gentlemen upon the summit of Cork Hill. Better to swing from the gibbet, than live and fatten on such terms as these. Better to rot within the precincts of the common jail—when the law has curbed your haughty neck, young traitor!—than be the moderate, sensible, practical villain, which these Chesterfields of the Dublin promenades and saloons would entreat you to be, for the sake of society, and the success of the Whigs.
But the hour is on the stroke when these conceits and mockeries shall be trampled in the dust. The storm which dashed the crown of Orleans against the Column of July, has rocked the foundations of the Castle. They have no longer a safe bedding in the Irish soil. To the first breeze which shakes the banners of the European rivals they must give way. Be upon the watch, and catch the breeze! When the world is in arms—when the silence, which, for two and thirty years, has reigned upon the plain of Waterloo, at last is broken—then be prepared to grasp your freedom with an armed hand, and hold it with the same. In the meantime, take warning from this address—‘do not suffer your sacred cause to be ruined by stratagem or surprise.’ Beware of the ingenuity, the black art, of those who hold your country. By your sagacious conduct, keep them prisoners in their barracks on the 17th. There must be no bloody joke at your expense amongst the jesters and buffoons in St. Patrick’s Hall upon that night.
Citizens of Dublin, you have heard my opinions. These opinions may be very rash, but it would not be honest to conceal them. The time has come for every Irishman to speak out. The address of the University declares, that it is the duty of every man in the kingdom to say, whether he be the friend, or the foe, of the government. I think so, too, and I declare myself the enemy of the government. But if I am rash—it was Rome, it was Palermo, it was Paris, that made me rash. Vexed by the indiscretion—the fanaticism—of these cities, who can keep his temper—dole out placid law—and play the gentle demagogue? When the sections of Paris were thickening, like the clouds of a tempest, round the Tuillerigs, in 1793, Louis XVI put on his court dress, and, in his ruffles and silk stockings, waited for the thunderbolt. Is it thus that you will wait for the storm now gathering over Europe? Shall the language of the nation be the language of the Four Courts? Will the revolution be made with rose-water? Look up!—look up!—and behold the incentives of the hour. By the waves of the Mediterranean the Sicilian noble stands, and presents to you the flag of freedom. From the steps of the Capitol, the keeper of the sacred keys unfurls the banner that was buried in the grave of the Bandieras, and invites you to accept it. From the tribune of the French Republic where that gallant workman exclaimed—‘Respect the rights of property!—the people have shown that they will not be ill-governed—let them prove they know how to use properly the victory they have won’—from this tribune, where these noble words are uttered, the hand of labour—the strong hand of God’s nobility—proffers you the flag of independence. Will you refuse to take it? Will you sneak away from the noble, the pontiff, and the workman? Will you shut your eyes to the splendours that surround you, and grope your way in darkness to the grave?
Ah, pardon me this language—it is not the language which the awakening spirit of the country justifies. Taught by the examples of Italy, of France, of Sicily, the citizens of Ireland shall, at last, unite. To the enmities that have snapped the ties of citizenship, there shall be a wise and generous termination. Henceforth, the power of the Island shall be lodged in one head, one heart, one arm. One thought shall animate, one passion shall inflame, one effort concentrate, the genius, the enthusiasm, the heroism of the people. Thus united—to repeat what I have said before—let the demand for the reconstruction of the nationality of Ireland be constitutionally made. Depute your worthiest citizens to approach the throne, and, before that throne, let the will of the Irish people be uttered with dignity and decision. If nothing comes of this—if the constitution opens to us no path of freedom—if the Union will be maintained in spite of the will of the Irish people—if the government of Ireland insists upon being a government of dragoons and bombardiers, of detectives and light infantry—then, up with the barricades, and invoke the God of Battles! Should we succeed—oh! think of the joy, the ecstasy, the glory of this old Irish nation, which, in that hour, will grow young and strong again. Should we fail—the country will not be worse than it is now—the sword of famine is less sparing than the bayonet of the soldier. And if we, who have spoken to you in this language, should fall with you—or if, reserved for a less glorious death, we be flung to the vultures of the law—then shall we recollect the words of France—recollect the promise she has given to weak nations—and standing upon the scaffold, within one heart’s beat of eternity, our last cry upon this earth shall be—‘France! France! revenge us!’
1 At this meeting an address to the French Provisional Government was also adopted; and the address, which Meagher moved, called upon the people not to be led into a premature rising on the 17th of March, for which the Government were formidably prepared.