Paddy at Home ("Chez Paddy")

by baron de E. Mandat-Grancey

The remainder of my day was spent in several other calls, which I will mention in their proper place. They gave me an opportunity of exploring the city, which seems immense. In reality it has 249,000 inhabitants. The streets are superb and relatively clean; there are several fine monuments, and one or two charming parks; but the city is spoilt by the miserable expression worn by every one I meet. When I ended my conversations with the chiefs of the Land League, I felt almost converted to English doctrines; but the sight of these miserable faces drew me back to the Land League. It is really impossible to leave things as they are. When, during the day, I saw people who had evidently neither breakfasted that morning nor dined the day before, and who had absolutely no reason for supposing that they would be more fortunate to-morrow, it seemed incredible, and I could not help remembering the contemptuous air which Englishmen assume when they allude to what passes in view on the Continent.

Mr. Gladstone’s first political action was a letter in which he denounced King Ferdinand of Naples to all Europe. This document said that he deserved to lose his crown because he did not know how to govern his people. I do not see that Mr. Gladstone has succeeded much better. It is not enough to blame others; one must do better oneself. I have seen all the worst parts of Naples; I have seen the ghetto at Rome; both are, or rather were, charming localities if we compare them to a part of Dublin that I passed through to-day, called the “Liberties.” The only liberty that seems left to the inhabitants is the liberty of remaining unwashed and of dying by starvation. This district was peopled by a colony of French Huguenots, who introduced the poplin industry, which has now almost disappeared, but which at one time employed four thousand workmen. If these unfortunate people whom I saw this morning are really the descendants of our fellow-countrymen, I can only advise them to try a second emigration. I quite understand that the results of the first may not encourage them to attempt a second, but they have nothing to lose by a change now.

Here we see the great misfortune of this country. No industry that has been established here has been able to last: there is neither coal nor iron. How can they compete with England under these circumstances?

When I say that all industries have collapsed I am mistaken. One of them is a great success. It belongs to Mr. Guinness, a brewer, whose establishment now occupies nearly one district in the west of the city, on the banks of the river, with which it communicates by means of a tunnel made under the quay, which serves for the delivery of the barrels of beer on to the barges anchored in the muddy bed of the Liffey.

What an illusion the Liffey is! From the treacherous words of the Irish poets I had expected to find a superb river. I only saw a filthy ditch.

Mr. Guinness’s industry only prospers because everything that these unfortunate people earn is spent in drink. The Catholic priests, in spite of all their influence, cannot eradicate the vice of drunkenness, which is so deeply rooted in all northern populations. To-day, whilst passing through a fairly important street, I noticed a house with Temperance Hall painted in large letters above the door. In the window were hanging publications and pictures antagonistic to insobriety. But on the steps lay an old woman who had fallen there quite tipsy. Her grey hair fell over her stupefied face. One could see her skeleton legs through the holes in her dress. A younger woman, probably her daughter, a little more sober, but still scarcely able to stand, tried to persuade her to continue on her way. The old woman would not listen, but rolled helplessly on the pavement. At last the woman staggered off. What an eloquent commentary upon the sermons placed in the shop-window!

Two election meetings are announced for to-day. Mr. Gray is to speak at the first, which will be held in the city: but as I had told him that I should be delighted to see an election where a little noise was made, he advised me not to attend his, but to go instead to the one that would be held in the Town Hall at Rathmines, a large borough in the outskirts of Dublin, where they expect rather a tumult. Yesterday there was a very stormy meeting at the University, which returns two members. The Nationalist candidate, who, it is admitted, has not the shadow of a chance, was very badly treated by the students. They threw at him a dead cat, seventeen rotten eggs, one of which broke in the face of a courageous lady who had accompanied him on to the platform, and such a number of cabbage stalks that the most conscientious reporters were forced to give up the attempt to count them. At last he was forced to beat a retreat.

Now, it appears that the students, proud of their success yesterday, intend trying to disperse the meeting at Rathmines, or, at least, to make a disturbance there. Everything, therefore, points to an evening full of incident. It will be rendered doubly interesting because it is organised by the “Protestant Home Rule Association,” that is to say, by the few Protestants in the country who have joined Mr. Parnell—by the way, he is a Protestant himself—and who have now entered on the campaign in favour of Home Rule. They declare that, far from being alarmed, as the English often assert that they are, at the idea of being abandoned to the Catholics without some protection, some of the Irish Protestants are so convinced of the sentiments of justice and benevolence, or at least of tolerance, which animate the majority of their fellow countrymen, that they are among the most eager to demand separation.

A jaunting-car conveyed me in less than half an hour to the door of a very simple building, which is the Town Hall of Rathmines. If England’s tutelage, complained of by the Lord Mayor, has only the effect of recalling to the minds of the municipal architects the simplicity of style they so frequently lose sight of at home, this tutelage can scarcely be considered absolutely injurious. The street is already blocked by the crowd. Apparently the police are under the impression that there will be some work for them, for a hundred policemen are grouped in one corner, ready to interfere when necessary, but content to look on for the present. Some strong young men wearing a green badge, act as stewards and guard the doors. Every one desiring to enter must show a personal invitation. These cards have been sent out during the day. I have only an envelope signed by Mr. Gray. At first, therefore, I encountered some difficulties, because the signature was almost illegible; but as soon as it was recognised, one of the stewards gave me a formidable slap on the shoulder, exclaiming: “Bedad, sorr, with that name there isn’t any door in Ireland that wouldn’t be open to you!”