England has confessedly failed; the world says it, the country admits it.
We have failed, and not because the so-called Saxon is incapable of
understanding the Celt, but owing to our system, suitable enough to us,
of rule by Party, which puts perpetually a shifting hand upon the reins,
and invites the clamour it has to allay. The Irish--the English too in
some degree--have been taught that roaring; in its various forms, is the
trick to open the ears of Ministers. We have encouraged by irritating
them to practise it, until it has become a habit, an hereditary
profession with them. Ministers in turn have defensively adopted the arts
of beguilement, varied by an exercise of the police. We grew accustomed
to periods of Irish fever. The exhaustion ensuing we named tranquillity,
and hoped that it would bear fruit. But we did not plant. The Party in
office directed its attention to what was uppermost and urgent--to that
which kicked them. Although we were living, by common consent; with a
disease in the frame, eruptive at intervals, a national disfigurement
always a danger, the Ministerial idea of arresting it for the purpose of
healing was confined, before the passing of Mr.
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