There is a schoolboys' joke of ancient vintage concerning Phoenicia, an island within the British Empire which had eagerly adopted British ways, but because it was so remote, was seldom visited by anyone from the Colonial Office. The islanders therefore learned about the functioning of law and governance from the Times, which arrived by P&O steamship in large bundles twice a year.
One day, however, Carruthers, an official from the Colonial Office arrived at Phoenicia and expressed a desire to attend a court hearing; his masters in London had heard strange things about the rule of law on the island. To his satisfaction, the court appeared to function precisely as it would in High Holborn. The judge wore a heavy black gown and a long and ornate wig, though the temperature was in the low hundreds; and the barristers were attired just as they would be in England, their manner as gratifyingly pompous and supercilious as that of even their Irish cousins. The primary difference from "the home country" lay in the presence of large numbers of bare-breasted women in the court.
All was going well until the judge made a small joke, at which point a tiny official jumped up from his seat beside the clerk and dashed round the court, squeezing the breasts of all the women present. They appeared to enjoy the performance, the little man certainly did, and the judge himself seemed far from displeased.
Learning from England
The court subsided, the trial resumed, and some time later the judge made another witty aside - at which point the little man repeated his mammary-squeezing performance. Astounded, after the day's hearing, Carruthers went to the judge's chambers, where the judge was anxious to hear his opinion of the proceedings.
Carruthers expressed deep satisfaction, but for one thing. What was the little man doing running round the court, squeezing breasts?
"Ah yes," said the judge. "We learned that you do that in England from your most excellent newspaper, the Times."
"The Times!" cried Carruthers. "You learned that we engage in such revolting intimacies from the Times?"
"Indeed we did, Mr Carruthers. We read that every time a judge makes a joke, a titter ran through the court."
Slavish imitations
And a titter running through the court is precisely what we will be experiencing this autumn when we elect a President, just as a titter ran through the court last month when we had elections for the Seanad. Both are largely slavish imitations of British institutions which do not reflect Irish aspirations or Irish habits or Irish ways; in its own way, each is a little man squeezing bosoms, in the belief that it is essential for the rule of law and the maintenance of democracy.
The Seanad, to be sure, in its origins had high-minded intentions - the inclusion of minorities who were numerically too insignificant to achieve a voice in the Dail. But in essence the functions of the Seanad were a titter running through the court, based on the House of Lords; and the destruction of the homes of senators by the predecessors of the present government was not merely an expression of republican idiotnihilism - it also showed the extent to which the Seanad had reverberations through Irish life. It had none. It responded to nothing in the Irish political soul.
The same for this thing called the Presidency. We have given to the Presidency the same marginal role that the British monarch possesses in the creation of law. But, as we can see, the British monarch has enormous symbolic power in British life. No matter how ridiculously individuals within the royal family might behave, the institution of the monarchy possesses a ceremonial gravity and a puissance unimaginable in Irish life.
Yet we have created a meaningless facsimile of this monarchy, a small man squeezing bosoms in the belief that it is a worthwhile function of democracy. It is not. And in our hearts we know this.
That is why we sigh with relief whenever there is to be no presidential election and we do not have to imitate passions we do not feel over an institution most of us know for the most part is merely a pasture for jaded old nags.
And when the Aras is not just a retirement home for decrepit politicians, and when it is being used as a springboard for grander ambitions, we feel a little cheated; as we have every right to be. We arranged these institutions to reflect the British model, and as facsimiles, they were ends in themselves. We never expected or intended them to be used as catapults to serve as for loftier, more vaulting aspirations, any more than the British monarchy is a halfway house to the secretary-generalship of the UN.
Abolish the Presidency
Why can we not do the sensible thing and abolish the Presidency? We could have the legal powers of the presidency exercised by a Council of State. Aside from that, we do not really need a personal head of State. The sovereignty of this Republic is represented by the Taoiseach; it was no more assured by the actual persons of the unelected President Erskine Childers or the unelected President Cearbhall O Dalaigh or the unelected President Patrick Hillery than it would have been if we had no such individuals in office. And our sovereignty will not be assured by whatever stale old jade is elected to the Aras this autumn. Deep within, we know it is all meaningless; a mere titter running through the park of Phoenicia.