They are followed by the famous ballad by the Wolfe Tones but first here is that famous speech from the dock, which he made following his conviction on June 29th , in full. My Lord Chief Justice, as I wish my words to reach a much wider audience than I see before me here, I intend to read all that I propose to say. What I shall read now is something I wrote more than twenty days ago. I may say, my lord, at once, that I protest against the jurisdiction of this court in my case on this charge, and the argument, that I am now going to read, is addressed not to this court, but to my own countrymen.
The law of that day did not permit a man to forsake his Church, or deny his God, save with his life. If true religion rests on love, it is equally true that loyalty rests on love.
The law that I am charged under has no parentage in love, and claims the allegiance of today on the ignorance and blindness of the past. I am being tried, in truth, not by my peers of the live present, but by the fears of the dead past; not by the civilization of the twentieth century, but by the brutality of the fourteenth; not even by a statute framed in the language of the land that tries me, but emitted in the language of an enemy land — so antiquated is the law that must be sought today to slay an Irishman, whose offence is that he puts Ireland first.
Loyalty is a sentiment, not a law. It rests on love, not on restraint. The government of Ireland by England rests on restraint, and not on law; and since it demands no love, it can evoke no loyalty…. The Kings of England, as such, had no rights in Ireland up to the time of Henry VIII, save such as rested on compact and mutual obligation entered into between them and certain princes, chiefs, and lords of Ireland. That he shall be tried by his peers. With all respect, I assert this court is to me, an Irishman, charged with this offence, a foreign court — this jury is for me, an Irishman, not a jury of my peers to try me on this vital issue, for it is patent to every man of conscience that I have a right, an indefeasible right, if tried at all, under this statute of high treason, to be tried in Ireland, before an Irish court and by an Irish jury.
This court, this jury, the public opinion of this country, England, cannot but be prejudiced in varying degrees against me, most of all in time of war. I did not land in England. I landed in Ireland.
Yet for me, the Irish outlaw, there is a land of Ireland, a right of Ireland, and a charter for all Irishmen to appeal to, in the last resort, a charter, that even the very statutes of England itself cannot deprive us of — nay more, a charter that Englishmen themselves assert as the fundamental bond of law that connects the two kingdoms.
What was the evil example I set to others in the like case, and who were these others? To Englishmen I set no evil example, for I made no appeal to them. I asked no Englishman to help me. I asked Irishmen to fight for their rights. How, then, since neither my example, nor my appeal was addressed to Englishmen, can I be rightfully tried by them?
If I did wrong in making that appeal to Irishmen to join with me in an effort to fight for Ireland, it is by Irishmen, and by them alone, I can be rightfully judged. If they find me guilty, the statute may affix the penalty, but the statute does not override or annul my right to seek judgment at their hands. This is so fundamental a right, so natural a right, so obvious a right, that it is clear that the Crown were aware of it when they brought me by force and by stealth from Ireland to this country.
It was not I who landed in England, but the Crown who dragged me here, away from my own country to which I had returned with a price upon my head, away from my own countrymen whose loyalty is not in doubt, and safe from the judgment of my peers whose judgment I do not shrink from. I admit no other judgment but theirs. I accept no verdict save at their hands. I assert from this dock that I am being tried here, not because it is just, but because it is unjust.
But I shall accept no meaner finding against me, than that of those, whose loyalty I have endangered by my example, and to whom alone I made appeal. If they adjudge me guilty, then guilty I am. It is not I who am afraid of their verdict — it is the Crown. Get the best home, property and gardening stories straight to your inbox every Saturday. Enter email address This field is required Sign Up. Little Belgium was not a great power, but the avaricious Leopold was determined to grab a piece of empire for himself.
At the Berlin Conference, he proposed that Belgium would found and oversee a Congo Free State to improve the lives of the natives. Under the cover of this supposedly noble enterprise, Leopold raped the Congo. He enslaved millions into forced labour, extracting a fortune in ivory and rubber.
Historians differ on how many natives died under Leopold's brutal regime, but a figure of some ten million is widely accepted.
Leopold's mercenary Force Publique instigated the foul punishment - seen during the Rwandan genocide of the s - of chopping off the hands of transgressors. Roger Casement arrived into the Congo as the Belgian king prepared his land-grab. Casement quickly realised that Stanley's Association was a flimsy front for Leopold's evil exploitation of the land. Casement ran into the Polish writer Joseph Conrad and they compared notes on the appalling treatment of the natives by the Belgian colonists.
In , Conrad published his devastating critique, Heart of Darkness, which exposed the racism and savagery of white imperialists. Conrad's novel would be transposed to the big screen many decades later by Francis Ford Coppola as Apocalypse Now. He spent weeks travelling about the Congo Basin interviewing enslaved native workers, their overseers and even the mercenaries of the hated Force Publique. The result was The Casement Report published in Packed with devastating eyewitness statements, the report laid bare "the enslavement, mutilation and torture of natives on the rubber plantations".
The impact of Casement's report was swift and powerful. The following is the speech he made from the dock following his verdict. What I shall read now is something I wrote more than twenty days ago. I may say, my lord, at once, that I protest against the jurisdiction of this Court in my case on this charge, and the argument that I am now going to read is addressed not to this Court, but to my own countrymen. With all respect I assert this Court is to me, an Irishman, not a jury of my peers to try me in this vital issue for it is patent to every man of conscience that I have a right, an indefeasible right, if tried at all, under this Statute of high treason, to be tried in Ireland, before an Irish Court and by an Irish jury.
This Court, this jury, the public opinion of this country, England, cannot but be prejudiced in varying degree against me, most of all in time of war. I did not land in England; I landed in Ireland.
Yet for me, the Irish outlaw, there is a land of Ireland, a right of Ireland, and a charter for all Irishmen to appeal to, in the last resort, a charter that even the very statutes of England itself cannot deprive us of—nay, more, a charter that Englishmen themselves assert as the fundamental bond of law that connects the two kingdoms.
To Englishmen I set no evil example, for I made no appeal to them. I asked no Englishman to help me. I asked Irishmen to fight for their rights. How, then, since neither my example nor my appeal was addressed to Englishmen, can I be rightfully tried by them? If I did wrong in making that appeal to Irishmen to join with me in an effort to fight for Ireland, it is by Irishmen, and by them alone, I can be rightfully judged.
If they find me guilty, the statute may affix the penalty, but the statute does not override or annul my right to seek judgment at their hands. This is so fundamental a right, so natural a right, so obvious a right, that it is clear the Crown were aware of it when they brought me by force and by stealth from Ireland to this country. It was not I who landed in England, but the Crown who dragged me here, away from my own country to which I had turned with a price upon my head, away from my own countrymen whose loyalty is not in doubt, and safe from the judgment of my peers whose judgment I do not shrink from.
I admit no other judgment but theirs. I accept no verdict save at their hands. I assert from this dock that I am being tried here, not because it is just, but because it is unjust. Place me before a jury of my own countrymen, be it Protestant or Catholic, Unionist or Nationalist, Sinn Feineach or Orangemen, and I shall accept the verdict and bow to the statute and all its penal ties.
But I shall accept no meaner finding against me than that of those whose loyalty I endanger by my example and to whom alone I made appeal.
If they adjudge me guilty, then guilty I am. It is not I who am afraid of their verdict; it is the Crown. If this be not so, why fear the test? I fear it not.
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