When the cholera first broke out in France, a worthy prefect in a
district of the south published an edict to the people, recommending
them by all means to eat well-cooked and nutritious food, and drink
nothing but _vin de Bourdeaux_, Anglice, claret. The advice was
excellent, and I take it upon me to say, would have found very few
opponents in fact, as it certainly did in principle. When the world,
however, began to consider that _filets de bouf à la Marengo_, and
_dindes truffées?_ washed down with _Chateau Lafitte_ or _Larase_,
were not exactly within the reach of every class of the community, they
deemed the prefect's counsel more humane than practicable, and as they
do at every thing in France when the tide of public opinion changes,
they laughed at him heartily, and wrote pasquinades upon his folly. At
the same time the ridicule was unjust, the advice was good, sound, and
based on true principles, the only mistake was, the difficulty of its
practice. Had he recommended as an antiseptic to disease, that the
people should play short whist, wear red nightcaps, or pelt stones at
each other, there might have been good ground for the disfavour he
fell into; such acts, however practicable and easy of execution, having
manifestly no tendency to avert the cholera. Now this is precisely the
state of matters in Ireland at this moment: distress prevails more or
less in every province and in every county. The people want employment,
and they want food. Had you recommended them to eat strawberries and
cream in the morning, to drink lemonade during the day, take a little
chicken salad for dinner, with a light bread pudding and a glass of
negus afterwards, avoiding all stimulant and exciting food--for your
Irishman is a feverish subject--you might be laughed at perhaps for your
dietary, but certes it would bear, and bear strongly too, upon the case
in question. But what do you do in reality? The local papers teem with
cases of distress: families are starving; the poor, unhoused and unfed,
are seen upon the road sides exposed to every vicissitude of the season,
surrounded by children who cry in vain for bread. What, I ask, is the
measure of relief you propose? not a public subscription; no general
outburst of national charity--no public work upon a grand scale to give
employment to the idle, food to the hungry, health to the sick, and
hope to all. None of these. Your panacea is the Repeal of the Union; you
purpose to substitute for those amiable jobbers in College-green, who
call themselves Directors of the Bank of Ireland, another set of
jobbers infinitely more pernicious and really dishonest, who will call
themselves Directors of Ireland itself; you talk of the advantage to the
country, and particularly of the immense benefits that must accrue to
the capital. Let us examine them a little.
Dublin, you say, will be a flourishing city, inhabited by lords and
ladies: wealth, rank, and influence will dwell in its houses and parade
its streets. The glare of lamps, the crash of carriages, all the
pride, pomp, and circumstances of fashion, will flow back upon the
long-deserted land, and Paris and London will find a rival to compete
with them, in this small city of the west. Would that this were so;
would that it could be! This, however, is the extent of what you promise
yourselves: you may ring the changes as you please, but the “refrain”
of your song is, that Dublin shall “have its own again.” Well, for
argument's sake, I say, be it so. The now silenced squares shall wake
to the echoes of thundering equipages, peers and prelates shall again
inhabit the dwellings long since the residence of hotel-keepers,
or still worse, those little democracies of social life, called
boarding-houses. Your theatre shall be crowded, your shops frequented,
and every advantage of wealth diffused through all the channels of
society, shall be yours. As far as Dublin is concerned, I say--for, mark
me, I keep you to this original point, in the land of your promise you
have strictly limited the diffusion of your blessings by the boundary of
the Circular road; even the people at Ringsend and Ballybough bridge
are not to be included, unless a special bill be brought in for their
benefit. Still the picture is a brilliant one: it would be a fine
thing to see all the pomp and ceremony of proud popery walk the land
at noon-day, with its saints in gold, and its relics in silver; for of
course this is included in the plan. Prosperous Ireland must be Catholic
Ireland, and even Spain and Belgium will hide their diminished heads
when compared with the gorgeous homage rendered to popery at home. The
“gentlemen of Liffey-street chapel,” far better-looking fellows than any
foreign priest you 'll meet with from Trolhatten to Tivoli, will walk
about _in pontificalibus_; and all the exciting enthusiasm that Romanism
so artfully diffuses through every feature of life, will introduce
itself among a people who have all the warm temper and hot blood of the
south, with the stern determination and headlong impulse of the north of
Europe. By all of which I mean to say, that in points of strong popery,
Dublin will beat the world, and that before a year of such prosperity
be past, she will have the finest altars, the fattest priests, and the
longest catalogue of miractes in Europe. Lord Shrewsbury need not then
go to the Tyrol for an “estatica,” he'll find one nearer home worth
twice the money. The shin-bone of St. Januarius, that jumped out of
a wooden box in a hackney coach, because a gentleman swore, will be
nothing to the scenes we'll witness; and if St. Patrick should sport
his tibia at an evening party of Daniel O'Connell's, it would not in the
least surprise me. These are great blessings, and I am fully sensible of
them. Now let me pass on to another, which perhaps I have kept last as
it is the chief of all, or as the late Lord Castlereagh would have said,
the “fundamental feature upon which my argument hinges.”
A very common topic of Irish eloquence is, to lament over the enormous
exportation of cattle, fowl, and fish, that continually goes
forward from Ireland into England. I acknowledge the justness of the
complaint--I see its force, and appreciate its value. It is exactly as
though a grocer should exclaim against his misery, in being compelled
to part with his high-flavoured bohea, his sparkling lump sugar, and his
Smyrna figs, or our publisher his books, for the base lucre of gain.
It is humiliating, I confess; and I can well see how a warm-hearted
and intelligent creature, who feels the hardship of an export trade in
matters of food, must suffer when the principle is extended to a matter
of genius; for, not content with our mutton from Meath, our salmon
from Limerick, and our chickens from Carlow; but the Saxon must even
be gratified with the soul-stirring eloquence of the Great Liberator
himself, with only the trouble of going near St. Stephen's to hear him.
I say near--for among the other tyrannies of the land, he is compelled
to shout loud enough to be heard in all the adjacent streets. Now this
is too bad. Take our prog--take even our poteen, if you will; but leave
us our Penates; this theft, which embodies the antithesis of Shakspeare,
is not only “trash,” but “naught enriches them, and makes us poor
indeed.”
Repeal the union, and you remedy this. You 'll have him at home
with you--not masquerading about in the disguise of a gentleman--not
restricted by the habits of cultivated and civilised life--not tamed
down into the semblance and mockery of good conduct--no longer the
chained-up animal of the menagerie, but the roaring, rampant lion,
roaming at large in his native forest--not performing antics before some
political Van Amburgh--not opening his huge jaws, as though he would
devour the Whigs, and shutting them again at the command of his
keeper--but howling in all the freedom of his passion, and lashing
his brawny sides with his vigorous “tail.” Haydn, the composer, had an
enormous appetite; to gratify which, when dining at a tavern, he ordered
a dinner for three. The waiter delayed in serving, as he said the
company hadn't yet arrived, but Haydn told him to bring it up at once,
remarking, as he patted complacently his paunch, “I am de compagnie
myself.” Such will you have the case in your domestic parliament--Dan
will be the company himself. No longer fighting in the ranks of
opposition, or among the supporters of a government--no more the mere
character of a piece, he will then be the Jack Johnson of the political
world, taking the money at the door--in which he has had some practice
already--he will speak the prologue, lead the orchestra, prompt the
performers, and announce a repetition of the farce every night of the
week for his own benefit. Only think what he is in England with his
“forty thieves” at his back, and imagine what he will be in Ireland
without one honest man to oppose him. He will indeed then be well worth
seeing, and if Ireland had no other attraction, foreigners might visit
us for a look at the Liberator. He is a droll fellow, is Dan, and there
is a strong dash of native humour in his notion of repeal. What strange
scenes, to be sure, it would conjure up. Only think for a moment of the
absentee lord, an exiled peer, coming back to Dublin after an absence
of half his lifetime, vainly endeavouring to seem pleased with his
condition, and appear happy with his home. Like an insolvent debtor
affecting to joke with the jailer, watch him simulating so much as he
can of habits he has long forgotten, while his ignorance of his country
is such, that he cannot direct his coachman to a street in the capital.
What a ludicrous view of life would this open to our view! While all
these men, who have been satisfied hitherto to send their sympathies
from Switzerland, and their best wishes for Ireland by an ambassador's
bag, should now come back to writhe beneath the scourge of a demagogue,
and the tyranny of a man who wields irresponsible power.
All Ireland would present the features of a general election--every one
would be fascinating, courteous, affable, and dishonest. The unpopular
debater in England might have his windows smashed. With us, it would
be his neck would be broken. The excitement of the people will be felt
within the Parliament; and then, fostered by all the rancour of party
hate, will be returned to them with interest. The measure discussed out
of doors by the Liberator, will find no one hardy enough to oppose it
within the House, and the opinions of the Corn Exchange will be
the programme for a committee. A notice of a motion will issue from
Merrion-square, and not from a seat in Parliament; and wherever he moves
through the country, great Daniel, like a snail, will carry “his
house” on his back. “Rob me the Exchequer, Hal!” will be the cry of the
priesthood, and no men are better deserving of their hire; and thus,
wielding every implement of power, if Ireland be not happy, he can only
have himself to blame for it.
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