Ireland as It Is, and as It Would Be Under Home Rule

No. 48 A Search for "Orange Rowdyism." ToC

Belfast is still of the same mind. Its citizens will not have Home Rule. They are more than ever determined that the fruits of their industry shall not be placed at the mercy of men who have consistently advocated the doctrine of plunder. The law-abiding men of Belfast will never submit to the rule of law-breakers, many of whom have expiated their offences in the convict's cell. This debt-paying community will not consent to be under the thumb of men whose most successful doctrine has been the repudiation of legal contracts. The famous merchants and manufacturers of the true capital of Ireland decline to place their future fortunes in the hands of the unscrupulous and beggarly adventurers who would form the bulk of a College Green Parliament. The hard-working artizans of Belfast are firm in their determination to resist the imposition of a legislature which will drive capital from the country, diminish the sources of employment, strangle all beneficial enterprise, and by destroying security undermine and wreck all Irish industry. They know how the agitation originates, and by whom it is directed. They have the results of Papal influence before their eyes. While Belfast as a whole is clean, open, airy, with splendid streets and magnificent buildings, the Catholic portions of the city are as much like the pestilent dens of Tuam and Tipperary as the authorities will permit. The uninstructed stranger can pick out the Home Rule streets. In Belfast as elsewhere, sweetness, light, and loyalty are inseparably conjoined, while evil smells and dinginess are the invariable concomitants of disloyalty and separatism. Fortunately for the Ulster city, the loyalists number three to one, which fact accounts for its general cleanliness, the thriving aspect of its commercial concerns, the decency and order of its well-kept thoroughfares. And whatever Belfasters want they pay for themselves. Belfast receives no Government grants for any municipal purpose, while disloyal Dublin, screaming for equality of treatment, is largely subsidised from Imperial sources. The Belfast people entirely support their hospitals. The Dublin hospitals are largely supported out of the public revenues. The Belfast Botanic Gardens are kept going by Belfast. The Dublin Botanical Gardens are wholly supported by Government. Further examples are needless, the facts being simple as they are undeniable. Dublin gets everything. Belfast gets absolutely nothing. Disloyalty is at a premium. Motley's the only wear. The screamers are always getting something to stop their mouths, a sop, not a gag. Steady, quiet, hard-working folks are of no account. The Belfast men ask for nothing, and get it. They want no pecuniary aid, being used to self-help, and liking it best. Stiff in opinion, they know their own minds, and are accustomed to victory. They do not in turn threaten and complain and cringe and curse and fawn. They keep a level course and run on an even keel. They are bad to beat, and can do with much letting alone. They are pious in their way, and talk like Cromwell's Puritans. They abhor Popery, judging the tree by its fruits, a test recommended by their chiefest classic. They believe that Protestantism is daylight, that Popery is darkness, and that the sun is rising. They believe with Carlyle that "Popery cannot come back any more than paganism, which also lingers in some countries." They also believe with the sage that "there is a perennial nobleness and even sacredness in Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man who actually and earnestly works; in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair." So they work every day and all the day, save on rare occasions, and for these holidays they make up by overtime. They think Home Rule is useless at best, and not only useless, but dangerous. They declare it would affect their liberties, and this notion is ineradicable. Touch them in their freedom and the secold Northerners become aflame. And while the Irish Kelts burn like straw—a flame and a puff of smoke, and there an end—these Scots settlers are like oaken logs, slow to take fire, but hard to extinguish. They prosper under the Union, and therefore, say they, the Union is good. What the poor Irish need is industry, not Acts of Parliament. The land is rich, the laws are just, the judges are honest, and industry is encouraged. The fault is in the people themselves, and in their pastors and masters. The convergence of Ulster opinion reminds me of an old line, which fitly illustrates the position of the Irish malcontent party—

Heu mihi! quam pingui macer est mihi taurus in arvo. Quaint old Thomas Fuller (as I remember) has rendered this—

My starveling bull,
Ah, woe is me,
In pasture full
How lean is he!

I am almost disposed to believe that Horace anticipated the case; or that, like Mr. John Dillon, he had the gift of remembering occurrences before they took place.

Much has been spoken and written in England concerning "Orange rowdyism." I saw the twenty thousand Orangemen who walked through Belfast to Knocknagoney on Wednesday last. They had nearly five miles to march on a hot day before they reached the meeting-place, some hours to stand there listening to speeches, and then the long march back again. Large numbers went to the Orange Halls, there to conclude the day. I followed them thither, heard their speeches, noted their modes of enjoyment, watched them unnoticed and unknown, save in one instance, until they finally dispersed. Next day I went to Scarva, forty miles away, to see the great sham fight which annually takes place there between representatives of King James and King William of Orange. There were sixty-four special trains, at cheap fares, running to Scarva, besides the ordinary service, and let it be remembered that Scarva is on the main line from Dublin to Belfast. Now let me state precisely what I saw.

The Belfast procession was very like the tail of the Belfast Balfour demonstration, and with good reason, for both consisted of twenty thousand Orangemen. But on Wednesday the Orangemen, instead of being preceded by a hundred thousand citizens of Ulster, had it all to themselves. The authorities know the character of Orangemen. They know that scorching weather and long dusty marches are apt to lead to copious libations, especially in holiday time. They know that political feeling runs high, and that the present moment is one of undue excitement. They know that the Papist party have taunted Orangemen with the supposed progress of the bill, and that the same people say daily that Orangeism will be at once abolished, and that this year sees the last Orange procession in Belfast. "This is yer last kick before we kick ye to hell," said a broken-nosed gentleman at the corner of Carrick Hill. The authorities knew all these things, and taking into account the known character of Orangeism, with the special exasperation of the moment, and remembering their own responsibility in the matter of order, how many extra policemen were drafted into the city?

Not one. The men who really know Orangemen knew that no precautions were needed.

There were brass bands, drum and fife bands, and bands of bagpipes. The drums were something tremendous. The Belfast drumming is a thing apart, like a Plymouth Brother. We have nothing like it in England. The big drums run in couples, borne by stout fellows of infinite muscle, and tireless energy. The kettle-drums hunt in packs, like beagles. The big drums are the biggest the climate will grow, and the drummers lash them into fury with thin canes, having no knob, no wrapper of felt, no softening or mitigating influence whatever. The bands played "God save the Queen," "Rule Britannia," "The Boyne Water," and "The Death of Nelson." The fifes screamed shrilly, the brass tubes blared, and every drummer drummed as if he had the Pope himself under his especial care. The vigour and verve of these marching musicians is very surprising. You cannot tire them out. The tenth mile ended as fresh as the first, though every performer had worked like a horse. There is a reason for this. Their hearts are in the work. To them it means something. The scarves and busbies and uniforms and desperate paroxysms of drumming are somewhat comical to strangers, but the people looked earnest, and as if engaged in serious business. Thousands of well-dressed people walked with the procession, or looked gravely on. There was no horse-play, and no noise other than the music. No bare feet, no bare heads, no rags, no dirt, no disorder. A Papist sprang from his lair in a side street and tried to snatch the scarf from a young man, who promptly drove him back to his den. Nothing else happened. At midnight there were for the whole city twenty police cases against thirty-nine for last year's twelfth. So much for Orange rowdies in the streets. Let us look upon their private orgies.

At seven o'clock I went to the Orange Hall, Clifton Street, the headquarters of the body. The various lodges were dispersed in several rooms, where they seemed to be taking tea with their sisters and their cousins and their aunts. A turn outside landed me opposite Saint Patrick's Roman Catholic Church, and here was a strong guard of police. The neighbouring streets of Carrick Hill, North Street, and another, literally swarmed with filthy, bare-footed women, wearing the hooded shawl of Limerick, of Tuam, of Tipperary. The men had a dangerous look. Many were drunk, and some had bandaged heads. More policemen half-way down Carrick Hill, and more still at the end. The people who pay no taxes cost most to keep in order. I have somewhere seen a body of returns showing that while the Unionist population requires only ten or twelve policemen to every ten thousand people, the Home Rule provinces take from forty-eight to fifty-two to manage the same number. Returning to the Orange Hall a number of dirty, bare-footed children walked in procession past the door singing vociferously. They sung with great spirit to the tune of "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching," and seemed to enjoy it amazingly. I did not catch the words. They stopped as I came up, but a young fellow on guard at the hall said, "They grind up the children in songs of a party nature, and send them here to annoy us. Of course, we can't notice little children."

This time I dropped in the thick of the entertainment. A mild, mild man occupied the chair, young men and maidens, old men and children sitting around. They were inebriating on ginger beer and biscuits, and their wildest revelry was the singing of "The Old Folks at Home" by a young lady in white. Mr. E.J. Fullwood, of Birmingham, who was there as a visitor, made a rattling speech, and received a great ovation. A quiet gentleman, by special request, made a few remarks on the political situation. He said:—"We will resist a Home Rule Parliament at any cost and at every cost. We will not have it. Our faith is plighted, and we are not the men to go back of our word." His manner was very subdued, and the audience also kept very quiet. What these men say they say in their sober senses, and not by reason of excitement. Another room was livelier. An English gentleman was holding forth. Then the band played "No surrender," after which a lady sang "Killarney's hills and vales." In a third room a brother was calling on the brethren to give three cheers for "our beloved Queen," under whose benignant reign blessings had been shed upon the British Empire, "to which we belong, and to which we still belong, so long as they will have us." In a fourth room the listening Orangemen sat under a discourse on the efficacy of prayer, which they were urged to make a living part of their everyday life. All this was very disappointing, and when in Royal Avenue the helmeted watchman of the night assured me that nothing had happened, and that nothing was likely to happen, I abandoned all hope of Orange rowdyism.

Next day at ten, I went to Scarva, or, as the natives spell it, Scarvagh. A neat little place full of Black Protestants. The houses are clean and tidy, and the people have a well-to-do look. There was a great crowd at the station, and a band of drummers were laying on with such thundering effect that my very coat sleeves vibrated with the concussion. A big arch of orange lilies bore the one word Welcome, and the roadside was lined with stalls selling provisions and ginger beer. The church on the hill flew the Orange flag with the Union Jack. The Presbyterian meeting-house and a Methodist Chapel complete the tale of worship-houses. The place is without rags, dirt, beggars, or any other symptoms of Home Rule patriotism. Neither is there a Roman Catholic Chapel. The signboards bore Scots and English names. Mr. J. Hawthorne stood at his door, big-boned and burly, with a handsome good-humoured face. "Ye'll gang up the brae, till ye see an avenue with lots of folk intil it," said this "Irishman," whose ancestors have lived at Scarva from time immemorial.

"Yes, we pit up the airch o' lilies to welcome our friends. They come every year, and a gude mony o' them too, so we pit up that bit thing oot o' friendship like."

I told him this was to be the last occasion, as Mr. Dillon was determined to manage Ulster. He laughed good-naturedly.

"Mon alive, d'ye tell me that any mon said sic a fuleish speech? Mon, its borne in on me that we'll tak a dooms lot of managin'. These chaps dinna ken ower weel what they're talkin' aboot. An' they maun say somethin' to please the fellows that keep them in siller. These things hae gane on in Scarva sin' auld lang syne, an' nothin' e'er stappit them. They went on when the Party Processions Act was law, an' tho' the sojers ance cam frae Dublin to stop the demonstration, the Orangemen mustered in sic force that they never interfered aifter all. An' in Ulster we'll hauld our own, d'ye mind that? We've tauld them oor mind, an' that we wunna hae Home Rule. We've tauld them that, an' we'll stand by it. They've gotten oor ultimatum, an' they can mak a kirk or a mill o' it."

I gangit up the brae through dense crowds constantly increasing as the sixty-four specials gradually came in. The way was sylvan and pretty, big beech trees and elms meeting overhead, the road running along the side of a steep hill sloping down to a small river, the slope carefully tilled, and showing good husbandry. Then a beautifully wooded and extensive demesne, and a mile of avenue, with many thousands of well-dressed orderly people, the ladies forming about half the company. Then a large low, brown mansion with a gravelled quadrangle, around which marched fife and drum bands playing "No Surrender" and "The Boyne Water." And everywhere incessant drumming and drinking of ginger beer. Banners were there of every size, shape, and colour, many with painted devices, more or less well done. The Lurgan Temperance Lodge exhibited Moses in the wilderness, holding up the brazen serpent. "Three-fourths of the Orange Lodges are based on temperance principles," said an Orange authority standing by, "and what is more, they don't allow smoking. We Orange rowdies are to a great extent temperance men." I remembered that the three meetings of the night before were smokeless concerts, and that the fourth resembled a Methodist love-feast, with an old brother telling his experiences. Also that Captain Milligen, a leading Plymouth Brother of Warrenpoint, had told me that he had been present at a Scarva meeting, and that from beginning to end he never heard a bad word, nor saw anything objectionable. The sham fight took place on a hill hard by. Two fine young fellows fenced with old cavalry swords, and King James, with green coat and plumes, succumbed to King William with orange coat and plumes, while their respective armies to the number of about thirty, fifteen on each side, fired in the air. I noticed that while a few had ancient brass-bound muskets, which looked as if converted from flint locks, most were armed with Snider rifles of army pattern. The drums excelled themselves, and the fifers shrieked martial airs. The people waved their hats and cheered, and that was the whole of it. Returning to the station, a good young man gave me a tract, wherein I found myself addressed as a Dear Unsaved Reader, and later as a Hell-deserving Sinner. Then a Salvation Army man telling a crowd to Escape for their lives, which I was just doing, and that once he had loved pleasure, which seemed likely enough. Then a big banner whereon was depicted David in the act of beheading Goliath with a yeomanry sword, the Wicklow mountains in the distance. Then an old man on the bridge declaring to the multitude that he would not be a Papist for all that earth could give, and that nothing could induce his fellow-citizens to submit to Home Rule for one second of time. "No, never, never, never. Rather than accept of Popish rule, we'll take arms in our hands as our fathers did, and like them we will conquer. Have we not their example before us? Are we such dastards as to give up that for which they shed their blood? Shall the sons be unworthy of the sires? Never shall it be said that the children were unworthy their inheritance of Freedom. Old as I am, I would take a musket, and go forth in the name of the Lord. Shame on the Scots and English if they desert us in our hour of need. Are they not our own kith and kin? But whether they aid us, or whether they desert us, we will stand firm, and be true to ourselves. Our cause is good, and we are bound to win, as we won before. Only stand firm, shoulder to shoulder. Shall we bow down to Popery? No, by the God that made us, No. Shall we truckle to Rome, shall we become slaves to Popish knaves, shall we become subservient to priestcraft and lying and roguery and trickery? Never shall it be said of us. We claim to be part and parcel of the glorious British Empire. We have helped to upbuild that Empire, and we claim our inheritance. We will NOT sell our birthright, we will NOT connive at the destruction of Britain's greatness, we will NOT have Home Rule. 'Shall we from the Union sever? By the God that made us, never!'"

The people listened silently, with grave, earnest faces. They mean business. During my first visit to Belfast I interviewed the leading citizens, the clergy, nobility, and gentry. This time I spoke with artisans and craftsmen, and I found the same feeling, a deep and immovable resolve to fight till the last extremity. It should be remembered that all Ulstermen are not Orangemen. But the religious bodies which have held aloof from Orangeism are just as determined. On the Irish Church question the Orange body stood alone. The dissenting sects were against them everywhere. All are united now, and the attempt to force Home Rule on these resolute men would be attended by the most awful consequences. They are not of a breed that easily knocks under. They remind you of the Scottish Covenanters. They are men with whom you would rather dine than fight. In Belfast, besides Mr. Fullwood, of Birmingham, previously mentioned, I met with Mr. Lyons, of Newcastle-on-Tyne, who in his walks abroad in the city had put down in his pocket-book the names of all streets he judged to be exclusively Catholic. He was right save in three cases, where the people were mixed. He also observed that in the poorer quarters the windows of all Protestant places of worship were protected by wire netting, but that the Catholic chapels were not so protected. As the Protestants are three to one, he thought this a curious commentary on the statements anent Orange rowdyism. Mr. Deacon, of Manchester, and the Englishmen hereinbefore mentioned were present at the Orange Hall, and all saw what I have related. Mr. Henry Charlton, J.P., of Gateshead-on-Tyne, agrees with them that the religious question is the secret of the whole agitation, and that the sooner a leading statesman meets the Home Rule movement on this, the true ground, the better for the country. "We are too squeamish in England. We fear to offend our Catholic friends, with whom there is no fault to be found. But we want an influential speaker to say at once that the conflict is reality between Protestantism and Popery. The best plan would be to state things as they are, and to meet the enemy directly." So spoke one of these visitors, a gentleman of great political experience. Is this opinion not well worth consideration? Is not the time for soft speaking nearly over?

Mr. Dillon says he will manage Ulster. He will need the British Army at his back. His Army of Independence will not avail him much. The position of the Nationalist members towards Ulster is not unlike that of the Chinaman who wanted an English sailor punished. "There he stands," said the skipper, "go and punch his head." "No, no," said the Celestial complainant, "me no likee-pikee that way. But spose three, five, 'leven big sailors tie him up, hold him fast, then very much me bamboo he." And that is how the Dillonites would hope to manage Ulster.

Belfast, July 15th.