GLADSTONE'S "FLOWING TIDE."
I was present at most of the bye-elections that led up to Gladstone's
great victory at the General Election of 1892.
In this way I was brought to many places interesting to us as Catholics
as well as Irishmen.
No spot in Great Britain is more sacred to us than Iona, an island off
the West coast of Scotland, which our great typical Irish saint,
Columba, made his home and centre when bringing the light of faith to
those regions. It will, therefore, be one of the memories of my life
most dear to me that I had the blessing of taking part in the famous
Pilgrimage to Iona on June 13th, 1888. The town of Oban, on the mainland
of Scotland, is generally made the point of departure for Iona, which is
not far off.
Oban is one of the five Ayr burghs which, combined, send a member to
Parliament, and it was singular that, at this time, there was a
bye-election going on. As creed and country have always gone together
with me, I did not think it at all inappropriate that I should do a
little work for Irish self-government while on this Pilgrimage. On the
contrary. Was not St. Columba himself a champion of Home Rule, for was
it not through his eloquent advocacy of their cause before the great
Irish National Assembly that the Scots of Alba, as distinguished from
the Scots of Erin, obtained the right of self-government?
One of the best numbers of my Irish Library was the "Life of St.
Columbkille," written for me by Michael O'Mahony, one of a band of young
Irishmen, members of the Irish Literary Institute of Liverpool, who did
splendid service for the Cause in that city. Michael was, of these,
perhaps the one possessing the most characteristic Irish gifts. He has
written some admirable stories of Irish life, and is a poet, although he
has not written as much as I would like to see from his pen.
There are no Irish residents in Iona itself, but I found a few in Oban,
on whom I called to secure their votes for Home Rule.
To hear Mass on the spot made sacred by the feet of our great Irish
saint, in the building, then a ruin, erected by his successors to
replace that which he himself had raised here as a centre of his great
missionary labours, was an experience to treasure until one's latest
day. What made the celebration the more memorable was the sermon in
Gaelic by Bishop MacDonald of Argyll and the Isles. I had the pleasure,
after Mass, of having dinner with him, and some most interesting
conversation.
I told him I had read with great interest a pastoral of his, issued some
five years before, in which he said that an interesting peculiarity of
his diocese, in respect of which it stood almost alone in the country,
was that its Catholicity was almost exclusively represented by districts
which had always clung to the faith, places where in the Penal days no
priest dared show himself in public, but visited the Catholic centres in
turn as a layman by night and gathered the children together to instruct
them as far as he was able. This was, he said, of extraordinary interest
on a day like that, when we were specially honouring the memory of the
great saint who had sown the seeds which had continued to bear fruit
through so many centuries. We also spoke of the singular fact that he
had that day preached on the spot on which St. Columba himself had
stood, and in the same language that he spoke, a language which had been
in existence long before the present English tongue was spoken. As
showing that the Scottish and Irish Gaelic were practically the same, as
distinguished from the Celtic tongue spoken by the Welsh and Bretons,
Bishop MacDonald told me he could read quite easily a book printed in
the Irish characters.
As a bye-election brought me to the sacred scene of the labours of our
great Irish saint, Columba, so did another bye-election bring me to the
spot where a martyr for Ireland suffered in 1798--Father O'Coigly. There
was a bye-election at Maidstone, where the martyr priest had been tried
for treason, and near it is Pennenden Heath, where he was executed, so
that both places will for ever be held sacred by patriotic Irishmen.
Besides securing a pledge for Home Rule from one of the candidates, and
organising the small Irish vote in his favour, I took the opportunity of
inaugurating a movement for the erection of a memorial to Father
O'Coigly. With the co-operation of the London branches of the United
Irish League the movement was brought to a successful issue. On two
succeeding years there were Pilgrimages to the spot where Father
O'Coigly was executed, at which Mr. James Francis Xavier O'Brien, who
himself had been sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered, was the
chief speaker one year, and Mr. John Murphy, M.P., on the other.
Besides this, chiefly through the exertions of Mr. John Brady, District
Organiser, funds were raised, and there have been erected in the
Catholic Church at Maidstone a Celtic Cross and three beautiful
stained-glass windows, of Irish manufacture, to commemorate the
martyrdom of Father O'Coigly.
A gratifying thing in connection with our Pilgrimage was, I reminded
those I addressed on Pennenden Heath, that a man pledged to support
self-government for Ireland, the Cause for which Father O'Coigly had
suffered, had been elected to Parliament for Maidstone.
In the bye-elections about this time, we often got the most satisfactory
results from places where the Irish vote was but small. I have before my
mind the Carnarvon Boroughs bye election of 1890. Here the seat had been
held by a Tory, and the Irish vote in the five towns, all told, was not
much more than 50. I was sent to the constituency by our Executive to
use every exertion to get our people to poll for David Lloyd-George, a
thorough-going Home Ruler, at that time an unknown man, though he has
since risen to the first political and ministerial rank. It was then I
made his acquaintance, and time has only increased the friendly feeling
between us.
Our meeting happened rather curiously. While on my round I came across
an unpretentious-looking young man who, I discovered, was also working
on the same side. We had chatted together for some time when I happened
to make some reference to the candidate. "Oh," he said, with a laugh, "I
am the candidate." It was Mr. Lloyd-George. We worked together with all
the more ardour being brother Celts. I frequently expressed to him my
admiration for a striking feature in their great meetings during the
election campaign. This was the singing in their native tongue of songs
calculated to rouse the enthusiasm of an emotional people like the
Welsh, the climax being reached at the end of each meeting with their
noble national anthem, sung in the native tongue of course, "Land of my
Fathers."
Since that time it is gratifying to realize the great progress which has
been made in the revival of _our_ native tongue through the
instrumentality of the Gaelic League. The success of our friends in this
direction ought to be an encouragement to us. The old Cymric tongue is
almost universal throughout Wales, side by side with the English, so
that it is not all visionary to think that a day may come when ours,
too, may become a bi-lingual people.
Mr. Edmund Vesey Knox, an Ulster Protestant Home Ruler, who was then a
member of the Irish Parliamentary Party, came to assist in the return of
Mr. Lloyd-George. At one of their great gatherings he told his audience
how much he was impressed by the enthusiasm created by their native
music and song. This reminded him, he said, that one of their great
Irish poets, Thomas Davis, was partially of Welsh descent, which no
doubt inspired one of his noblest songs "Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers,"
written to their soul-stirring Welsh air, "The March of the Men of
Harlech." After Mr. Knox, more singing, and then came a delightful
address from a distinguished Irish lady, Mrs. Bryant, who did splendid
service at many of these bye elections. Doctor Sophie Bryant, to give
her full title, is a lady of great learning and eloquence, and not only
a thorough Nationalist in sentiment, but an energetic worker in the
Cause. A literary lady colleague thus sums up her chief qualities: "She
is more learned than any man I know; more tender than any woman I have
ever met."
Mr. Lloyd-George was elected by the bare majority of 18 votes, so that
without the small Irish vote in the Carnarvon Boroughs he could not have
been returned at his first election for the constituency. Nor did he
forget the fact. On one occasion we were speaking together in the lobby
of the House of Commons when a friend of his came up. "This," said Mr.
Lloyd-George, slapping me on the shoulder, "is the man who brought me
here." In a sense it was true, so that I might claim to have assisted in
making a British Chancellor of the Exchequer.
I have spoken of the series of bye-elections which Mr. Gladstone
described as the "Flowing Tide" which had set in for Home Rule. I
remember with special pleasure one of these--that for the Rossendale
Division of Lancashire. It was a sample of all the other bye-elections
in 1892. The registration had been well done, and we knew to a man the
strength of the Irish vote. We had 438 on the Register. This was no mere
estimate, and we could give the figures at the time with equal accuracy
for most places where we had an Irish population. Every voter of ours
living in Rossendale had been visited. If he had removed from place to
place inside the district it was noted. If he had gone out of the
district he was communicated with, if possible through the medium of the
branch of his new location. We knew where to find them all, and it was
astonishing from what distant places men turned up to vote on the
election day, through the agency of the local branches of the places to
which the voters had gone.
In this Rossendale election I had two of the most capable lieutenants a
man need wish to have, Patrick Murphy and Daniel Boyle, both then
organisers of our League. Dan Boyle (now Alderman Boyle, M.P.) took the
Bacup end of the Division; Pat Murphy took Rawtenstall; and I made my
headquarters at Haslingden, for I had a _grah_ for the place, on
account of its connection with my old friend, Michael Davitt.
There can be no better test of a man's sterling qualities than the
opinions held of him by the friends of his youth. Several times I had
had occasion to visit Haslingden, the little factory town in North-East
Lancashire, where Martin Davitt, the father of Michael, and his family
lived when they came to this country after being evicted from their home
in Mayo. Here I met Mr. Cockcroft, the bookseller, who gave Michael
employment after he had lost his arm in the factory, and he and his
family bore the Irish lad in kindly remembrance. But it was among his
own people--those who had been the companions and friends of his
youth--that I found the greatest admiration for "Mick," as they
familiarly called him. I need scarcely say that they watched with pride
the noble career of one who had grown to manhood in their midst.
I was able to turn that feeling to good account on the occasion of this
Rossendale election. I asked the Liberal candidate, Mr. Maden, a young
and wealthy cotton spinner of Rossendale, who had given us satisfactory
pledges on Home Rule, to invite Michael Davitt's assistance. He did so.
I backed up the request by a personal appeal, which he never refused if
it lay in his power to do what I wished. He came, and words fail to
describe his loving and enthusiastic reception by his own people.
I have alluded to the perfect way in which the Irish Vote had been
organised. Michael Davitt came into our committee room one day, and it
was with intense pride he turned over the leaves of our books to show
Mr. Maden, the candidate, how well we were prepared to poll every Irish
vote on the election day. Davitt was a tower of strength to us in this
election, not only amongst our own people, but amongst the English
factory operatives, who form the majority in Rossendale. As in other
bye-elections which had preceded it, we won the Division by a handsome
majority.
I was at once amused and amazed some time ago to hear of a so-called
biography of Davitt, the keynote of which was a suggestion that he was,
first and foremost, an "Anti-Clerical." The idea is an absurd one. He
was an intense lover of right, and one who scorned to be an opportunist.
Consequently, he never hesitated to speak out, no matter who opposed
him, priest or layman. But none knew better than he that there have been
times when the priests were the only friends the Irish peasantry had;
and no one knew better than he that the influence they have had they
have, on the whole, used wisely. If individual clerics have gone out of
their proper sphere of influence it is certain they would have found
Davitt in opposition to them where he thought them wrong. I have been
placed in the same unpleasant position myself, but I too have always
carefully distinguished between the individual priest who needed
remonstrance, and his wiser colleague; and also between the legitimate
use of a priest's influence and its abuse. So that to classify Davitt as
an "Anti-cleric" deserves a strong protest from one who loved him as
well and as long as I did.
As I have said, when I asked him to come to Rossendale to help to
further the cause of self-government for Ireland, he never refused a
request of mine if it lay in his power to grant it, and, in this way, he
wrote for me one of the books of my "Irish Library"--"Ireland's Appeal
to America."
Michael has gone to his reward, and there are two things I shall always
cherish as mementoes of him. One is a bunch of shamrocks sent to me,
with the message:
"With Michael Davitt's compliments,
"Richmond Prison, Patrickstide, 1883"
The other is his last letter to me, written not long before his death.
It was dated "St. Justin's, Dalkey, Co. Dublin, 7th March, 1906." In
this he said: "I hope you are in good health and not growing too old. I
shall be 60! on the 25th inst.!!!" Was this a premonition that his end
was near? He died on May 31st, within three months of the time he wrote
the letter.
I have spoken of the necessity for our organisation doing registration
work at least as effectually as the Liberals and Tories do. It is not
always men of the highest intellectual attainments who make the best
registration agents. This fact came home to me very forcibly when
reading a biography of Thomas Davis. It was stated that in the Revision
Court he was not able to hold his own against the Tory agent. It is just
what I would have imagined, considering the sensitive nature of Davis.
A man with a face of brass, who _might_ be an able man, but who, on the
other hand, might be some low ignorant fellow, might easily do better
than Thomas Davis with his fine intellect and varied learning.
At the same time, I have known men of the highest attainments who have
made excellent agents, such a man as John Renwick Seager, who has for
many years been connected with the London Liberal organisation. Just
such another we have in our own ranks in Daniel Crilly who, before he
became a journalist or entered Parliament, was a very successful agent
in the Liverpool Courts.
One of the most efficient and conscientious of registration and
electioneering agents I ever met was John Mogan, of Liverpool. Besides
the annual registration work he was engaged on our side in nearly every
election of importance in Liverpool for over 30 years. He was so
engrossed in his work that, during an election he would, if required,
sit up several nights in succession to have his work properly done;
indeed, I was often tempted to think that John never considered any
election complete without at least _one_ "all night sitting."
We believed in fighting the enemy with his own weapons. On election days
in Liverpool there were shipowners who made it a practice of getting
their vessels coaled in the river. As, unlike the Liffey at Dublin or
the Thames at London, the Mersey at Liverpool is over a mile wide, and
as most of the coal heavers were Irishmen, this move of the shipowners
was to keep our men from voting. We were successful, to some extent, in
counteracting this, for owing to the patriotism of a sterling Irishman,
John Prendiville, the steam tugs which he owned were often used, on the
day of an election, to take our men ashore.
Sometimes the Revision Courts gave us the opportunity of teaching a
little Irish history. In South Wales most of our people hail from
Munster. In one of the Courts there was the case of Owen O'Donovan being
objected to, on the ground that he had left the qualifying property, and
that _Eugene_ O'Donovan was now the occupier. I explained to the
Barrister that in the South of Ireland the names of Owen and Eugene were
often applied to the same man, Eugene being the Latinized form of Owen.
I gave as an illustration our national hero, Owen Roe O'Neill, who, in
letters written to him in Latin, was styled Eugenius Rufus. A Welsh
official in Court suggested that O'Donovan was anxious to become a
Welshman by calling himself Owen. I replied that the name Owen was just
as Irish as it was Welsh, coming no doubt from the same Celtic stock,
and that, as a matter of fact, our man preferred being on the Register
as Owen. The Barrister, being satisfied that both names applied to the
same man, allowed the vote, and our voter would appear on the Register
as Owen O'Donovan.
In looking up our people to have them put upon the Register, or in
connection with an election, our canvassers are often able to form a
good judgment of the creed, or nationality, or politics of the people
of the house they are calling at by the pictures on the walls. If they
see a picture of St. Patrick, or the Pope, or Robert Emmet, they assume
they are in an Irish house of the right sort. One of my own apprentices,
when I was in business, came across a bewildering complication on one
occasion, for on one side of the room was the Pope, which seemed all
right, but facing him was a gorgeous picture of King William crossing
the Boyne. It was the woman of the house he saw, a good, decent
Irishwoman and a Catholic, who explained the apparent inconsistency. Her
husband was an Orangeman, "as good a man as ever broke bread" all the
year round, till it came near the twelfth of July, when the Orange fever
began to come on. (Our people at home in the County Down, as my father
used to tell us, often found it so with otherwise decent Protestant
neighbours.) He would come home from a lodge meeting some night, a
little the worse for drink, and smash the Pope to smithereens. The wife
was a sensible body, and knew it was no use interfering while the fit
was on him. When she knew it had safely passed away, she would take King
William to the pawnshop round the corner and get as much on him as would
buy a new Pope. He was too fond of his wife, "Papish" and all as she
was, to make any fuss about it, and would just go and redeem his idol,
and set him up again, facing the Pope, for another twelve months at all
events.