A DANGEROUS LIFE.

Taranaki Daily News, 20 March 1920, Page 11

A DANGEROUS LIFE.

WORK OF THE IRISH POLICE, (By ail ex-District Inspector, in the Daily Mail). The attempt on the life of Lord French reminds me.tjiat the personal danger to which officers and men of the Royal Irish Constabulary are to-day exposed in'lreland has never been so great since the days of "Buckshot" Forster, Chief Secretary for Ireland in the Land League period, nearly forty years ago, which culminated in the murder of Mr. Burke and Lord Frederick Cavendish in Dublin's Phoenix Park. Buckshot cartridges were then served out to the constabulary, but they were quite ineffectual in cases of murder or murderous assaults on landlords or land agents. It is doubtful if the hand grenades recently added to the equipment of the R.I.C. will be of much more use. And it is equally doubtful if the tanks and aeroplanes now employed in Ireland will afford the police any personal protection, though undoubtedly they will exercise a moral effect in preventing these assemblies or stopping illegal drilling on some lonely country roadApart from the danger they run from the hooligan extremists of Sinn-Fein, the still vigorous and ruthless Clan-na-Gael and the Irish Brotherhood in America, the R.l.C's position with regard to the people among whom they live has greatly altered of late years. Where ten or twenty years ago they were popular and considered by tiie people as of their own kith and kin, they are now unpopular and in many cases isolated. The change is not due to Sinn-Fein alone, but is partly owing to the fact that the constabulary have to enforce a multitude of regulations, resulting mostly from land legislation, whereas formerly they had to deal solely with breaches' of the Excise laws, cattle trespass, drunkenness, and othei r>?tty session! offences

It was heartrending enough at that time to comply with the Excise law by pouring out keg after keg of potheen, with its deliciously smoky aroma, into the drainpipes of the barrack yard. What a soul-searching process the same measure would be to-day! However, in those days a keg or two very often happened to be overlooked. In those days the life of the R.I.C. district officer was almost halcyon in a country where lotus-eating is a fine art *nd where the national ideal is the maximum of comfort with the minimum of toil. He had to be in uniform in his office at the poliee barracks at 10 a.m-, sign a few forms with the assistance of his "head" (head constaible) and was then free for the rest of the day to go fishing or shooting, or if he could afford it, hunting- , His most disagreeable duty was attending the fairs and inspecting the barracks in on? or other of his five_ or six outlyir ■ sub-stations, and being present at tne petty sessions held in his district. His status with the local gentry was what he made it: if he was gentlemanly in his conduct and manners he was received, and often hospitably entertained by them; if not, he had to seek his society among the farmers and village shopkeepers. That was in a far lees democratic age than our own, and before the Irish farmers and village shopkeepers were the highly instructed folk they are now. At, present the district inspector has not time for either sport or society. He is fully occupied with, in addition to his ordinary duties, trying to hunt down the elusive Sinn Fein terrorist" and murderers, protecting the loyal inhabitants of his district, and, incidentally, taking his life in his hands wherever he goes. Formerly he spent much -of his time in uniform, how he dons it as seldom as is compatible with constabulary regulations. Naturally all R.I.C. men, being human, think any other profession or occupation more attractive than theiv own. And for once—if only for the time being—they are right. The Irish policeman's lot just now is not a happy one.