“I form that opinion because I believe that the people of the United States are eminently a sagacious people. I don’t think they are insensible to the glory of great dominion and extended empire, and I give them equally credit for being influenced by passions which actuate mankind, and particularly nations which enjoy such freedom as they do. But ... I do not think they would seize the moment of exhaustion as being the most favourable for the prosecution of an enterprise which would require great resources and great exertions.”
He then turned to the opinions which had been ventilated on American platforms and in certain American newspapers. He refused to judge the real American character and opinions by them. “I look upon them,” he said, “as I should look upon those strange and fantastic drinks ... which are such favourites on the other side of the Atlantic; and I should as soon suppose this rowdy rhetoric was the expression of the real feelings of the American people, as that these potations formed the aliment and nutriment of their bodies.” And he thus explained a point which I have already noticed: “There is another reason why this violent course will not be adopted. The democracy of America must not be confounded with the democracy of the Old World. It is not formed by the scum of turbulent cities: neither is it merely a section of an exhausted middle class, which speculates in stocks and calls that progress. It is a territorial democracy. Aristotle, who has taught us most of the wise things we know, never said a wiser one than this—that the cultivators of the soil are the least inclined to sedition and to violent courses. Now, being a territorial democracy, their character has been formed and influenced, in a manner, by the property with which they are connected, and by the pursuits they follow; and a sense of responsibility arising from the reality of their possessions may much influence their future conduct. On the other hand, this great change would certainly alter the spirit of society, and perhaps of government.” But he saw clearly the difficulties that still beset her. “... We must recollect that even if the Federal Government should be triumphant, it will have to deal with most perplexing questions and with a discontented population.... The slave population will then be no longer slaves. There will be several millions of another race emancipated and invested with all the rights of freemen; and, so far as the letter of the law is concerned, they will be upon an equality with the Saxon race, with whom they can possibly have no sympathy.... Nothing tends more to the discontent of a people than that they should be in possession of privileges and rights which practically are not recognised, and which they do not enjoy.”
Such were the elements of disunion. To cope with them a strong government was requisite; and that meant a centralising government with a military force at its command to uphold unity and order. Our colonies, on the other hand, were free from such obstacles, and were themselves developing an “element of nationality.” They would not be assailed. But none the less, we must reckon with the United States in “the balance of power.” He would not say that a class in America regarded old Europe “with feelings of jealousy or vindictiveness,” “... but it is undeniable that the United States look to old Europe with a want of sympathy. They have no sympathy with a country that is created and sustained by tradition.” We must, therefore, for the far future, foster and defend our colonies. If Canada had preferred absorption by America, “... we might terminate our connection with dignity, and without disaster.” But if, as appeared, Canada and our North American colonies desired deeply and sincerely “to form a considerable state and develop its resources, and to preserve the patronage and aid of England, ... then it would be the greatest political blunder that could be conceived, for us to renounce, relinquish, and avoid the responsibility of maintaining our interests in Canada.”
American Anglophobia once more engaged his attention in 1871. The pith of his criticism may be summarised by the purport of that elegant metaphor, “Twisting the lion’s tail.” With regard to the Alabama claims, their “indirect” demands, and the disputes with our colonies, which once more provoked British feeling, Disraeli now complained that America’s communications with England had been couched in arrogant terms, while those with Russia and Germany had been courteous. He declared that it was caused by rowdy rhetoric addressed to “irresponsible millions.” “... The reason of this offensive conduct,” he continued, “is this: there is a party in America, who certainly do not monopolise the intelligence, education, and property of the country, and who, I believe, are not numerically the strongest, who attempt to obtain political power and excite political passion by abusing England and its Government, because they believe they can do so with impunity.... The danger is this. Habitually exciting the passions of millions, some unfortunate thing happens, or something unfortunate is said in either country; the fire lights up, it is beyond their control, and the two nations are landed in a contest which they can no longer prevent.... Though I should look upon it as the darkest hour of my life, if I were to counsel, or even to support, a war with the United States, still, the United States should know that they are not an exception to the other countries of the world, that we do not permit ourselves to be insulted by any other country in the world, and that they cannot be an exception.” Nevertheless, with regard to these very matters, he reiterated as late as 1872: “Ever since I sat in this House, I have always endeavoured to maintain and cherish relations of cordiality and confidence between the United Kingdom and the United States. I have felt that between those two great countries the material interests were so vast, were likely so greatly to increase, and were in their character so mutually beneficial to both countries, that they alone formed bonds of union.... But I could not forget that, in the relations between the United States and England, there was an element also of sentiment, which ought never to be despised in politics, and without which there can be no enduring alliance. When the unhappy Civil War occurred, I endeavoured, therefore, so far as I could, to maintain ... a strict neutrality between the Northern and the Southern states.... There were some at a particular time ... who were anxious to obtain the recognition of the Southern states by this country. I never could share that opinion.... We were of opinion that, had that recognition occurred, it would not have averted the final catastrophe, ... and it would, at the same time, have necessarily involved this country in a war with the Northern states, while there were circumstances then existing in Europe which made us believe that the war might not have been limited to America.”
I must now consider Fenianism. Every one now knows that Fenianism, at its inception in 1865, though its pretext was Ireland and its rallying centre America, was really an international ruffianism for the disruption of the foundations of social order—was, in fact, an alliance of anarchists with soldiers of misfortune. Disraeli discerned this from the first. Plots and conspiracies of all kinds piqued at once his curiosity, his skill, and his fancy. I was told, more than thirty years ago, by an old gentleman who was a schoolfellow of Disraeli, that he remembered a boyish mutiny. Disraeli headed the conspiracy, and the head-master himself listened at the keyhole, spellbound by the eloquence that controlled it. He loved to unravel their machinations, to contrast their underground conclaves with their open appearance. Conspiracies abound in Vivian Grey, Alroy, Iskander, Contarini Fleming, Sybil, and Tancred; these very secret societies, together with those of Jesuitry, pervade Lothair. “Mirandola” and “Captain Bruges” are drawn from life. When Fenianism raged in Ireland, Disraeli himself crossed the Channel and attended their meetings. He spoke about what he knew; and if secret societies were his hobby, he was yet undoubtedly right in ascribing most of the unforeseen abroad to their initiation.
Adverting, in 1872, to its fatal influence on Ireland, he remarked: “... The Civil War in America had just ceased, and a band of military adventurers, Poles, Italians, and many Irishmen, concocted at New York a conspiracy to invade Ireland, with the belief that the whole country would rise to welcome them. How that conspiracy was baffled ... I need not now remind you.... You remember how the constituencies were appealed to, to vote against the Government who had made so unfit an appointment as that of Lord Mayo to the Viceroyalty of India. It was by his great qualities when Secretary for Ireland, by his vigilance, his courage, his patience, and his perseverance, that this conspiracy was defeated. He knew what was going on at New York, just as well as what was going on in the city of Dublin?...” And when, only a year before, the then Lord Hartington, at a moment of Fenian resurrection, withdrew his motion for a secret committee, Disraeli inveighed against an indecision that would be flashed in an hour across the Atlantic. This new movement of Fenianism brought America into dangerous relations with England. And in many disguises and under mitigated forms, it half associated itself with the agitation for repeal, and the restless intrigues of the Papacy. Paid Nationalists and peasant priests were brought into connection with these Swiss guards of treason, ready to compass the destruction of property and authority in any country, and for any cause. It had been otherwise before its invention in America. When O’Connell—the great O’Connell as, despite everything, Disraeli publicly confessed when he died—supported Disraeli (who began as an “Independent”) at his first election in 1832, he did so on the common ground that both abominated the Whig system and desired the extension of reform. It was only afterwards, when O’Connell pronouncedly lent himself to what tended towards a repetition of “Captain Rock,” and became at once an agitator for dismemberment[137] and a pillar of the Whigs, that the young Disraeli denounced the fellowship of the dagger with the mitre, and incensed the degenerating patriot into insult. But the violence in Ireland of O’Connell’s days was native. It sprang from, and it disgraced, the soil. Fenianism, however, added to the ancient terrors of a country distressed to madness and goaded into crime, the worst horrors of cosmopolitan conspiracies mated with every movement for the unsettlement of Europe; and for a while it tainted every breath of Irish nationalism, not only with detestation of England, but with enthusiasm for her enemies. The “Clan-na-gael” still foments the last vestiges of genuine discontent; but the headquarters seem to have shifted from New York to a European capital. And yet so unconcerted and unprepared was Ireland herself, however equipped and compact were these mercenary foreigners, that Disraeli makes “Captain Bruges” exclaim in Lothair, after his rescue of the hero at the meeting, held under the sham banners of St. Joseph and harangued by a mock priest, “They manage their affairs in general wonderfully close, but I have no opinion of them. I have just returned from Ireland, where I thought I would go and see what they really are after. No real business in them. Their treason is a fairy tale, and their sedition a child talking in its sleep.”
* * * * *
And this brings me to Disraeli’s ideas concerning the romantic, the persecuted, the generous, the witty, the pathetic Ireland.
No one who has studied his career can question his intense sympathy. Many of his earliest friends had been brilliant Irishmen and Irishwomen. He too sprang from a race once persecuted, still pathetic, always witty and romantic. Already, in 1843, Disraeli had exclaimed: “You must reorganise and reconstruct the Government, and even the social state of Ireland.... By really penetrating into the mystery of this great misgovernment” might be brought about “a state of society which would be advantageous both to England and Ireland, and which would put an end to a state of things that was the bane of England and opprobrium of Europe.” But his ideas are conspicuously set forth in the great speech of 1844, which won the high praise of Macaulay, which Mr. Gladstone, some quarter of a century later, described as one of the “most closely woven tissues of argument and observation that had ever been heard in the House,” and the reperusal of which he recommended as an intellectual “treat;” though Disraeli himself then ironically observed that when he delivered it, nobody appeared to listen. “It seemed to me that I was pouring water upon sand, but it seems now that the water came from a golden goblet.” He showed that, politically, Ireland was an open question. It was not the Tories who started the penal code. Mr. Pitt would have settled the question long ago had not the great war diverted his policy. Again, the grievances of Ireland were not due to Protestantism. They were owing to Puritanism—Puritanism in disloyal rebellion against which loyal Ireland rebelled. Ireland, he proved, was never so contented as in 1635. There was then perfect civil and religious equality. “At that period there was a Parliament in Dublin called by a Protestant king, presided over by a Protestant viceroy, and at that moment there was a Protestant Established Church in Ireland; yet the majority of the members of that Parliament were Roman Catholics. The government was at that time carried on by a council of state presided over by a Protestant deputy, yet many of the members of that council were Roman Catholics. The municipalities were then full of Roman Catholics. Several of the sheriffs also were Roman Catholics, and a very considerable number of magistrates were Roman Catholics. It is, therefore, very evident that it is not the necessary consequence of English connection—of a Protestant monarchy, or even of a Protestant Church—that this embittered feeling at present exists; nor that that system of exclusion, which either in form or spirit has so long existed, is the consequence of Protestantism.”
It was not the Protestantism, not the connection, but the kind of Protestantism, the sort of connection, the exclusive and selfish spirit, that filled Ireland with ferment.