Herself--Ireland

Front matter

The Four Courts, Dublin

Designed by Cooley, an Irish Architect (Page 6i)

HEESELF-IRELAND

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I Why I Went to Ireland .... 1

II The Rebellion of 1916 21

CHAPTER I It is not day yet

(Old Gaelic Proverb)

"Why do you go to Ireland?" said an English friend. " The country is under Martial Law, Dublin is in ruins, there is sure to be another uprising, and you will probably be shot."

" Nobody from Texas is afraid of a familiar little thing like a bullet, and nothing can be so good for the circulation as an insurrection. How the exaltation of spirit would make the blood race through the body. I shall go to Ireland the day after to-morrow."

" Is it necessary to select this particular time? You have never been interested in Irish politics."

" That's just it, I carry with me a nice clean mind, like a sheet of white paper, for Imperialist, Nationalist, Idealist or Sinn Feiner to write upon. The spring and summer are before me, and at this moment Ireland is the most interesting country in Europe. Men who were alive and loved life, loved Ireland more, and have just died for her."

" Once a rebel, always a rebel," said my friend.

" You were obliged to have Martial Law in your own country, you know something about it."

" Yes," I said, " and as long as the South was under mihtary disciphne she never raised her despairing head; it was a hopeless chaotic country until the reins of government were in her own hands again."

"Then you are already a Home Ruler?"

" I can better tell you what I am, after I have lived in Ireland."

" I'll forgive you Home Rule," said my friend, " but I draw the hne at a Sinn Feiner."

" Lines," I said, " are elastic, and are determined by time and point of view. A rebel of 1916 may be a hero in 2016. In 1836 a young uncle of mine who had just taken his degree at Bardstown — the college where Louis Phillipe was a professor, when they were after his head in France, even Monarchs are sometimes rebels — raised a regiment of soldiers, the flower of Kentucky manhood, and marched into Texas to capture it from the Mexicans. These young Southerners fought with desperate bravery, but were taken prisoners by the Mexicans, and shot. Mexico regarded them as traitors, and even the young United States thought them foolhardy visionaries. But they started the ball rolling, eventually Texas was wrested from the Mexicans, became a Republic, later a State; and to-day a granite monument of imposing dimensions, stands in front of the Capitol, to record the daring of Captian Burr Duval and his brave followers. The youth of Texas only know these men as heroes, not as rebels. So who can tell how history may, after a century or two have passed, regard the uprising in Ireland? "

" You 'say you are not a politician," said my friend, " but that does not modify your convictions. I am sure you think you could have averted this war."

*' Anybody could prevent war, who had power to send the King, the Privy Council, the House of Commons, the Cabinet, the House of Lords, the members of the Government, and all editors and journalists, to open the campaign. After three months' dignified, ponderous, middle-aged, and decorous fighting, the Army and Navy could then be called upon to join the fray."

" And in your native land, — what would you do there? "

" The President," I said, " the Cabinet, the Senate and House, the Judges of the Supreme Court, and all fire-eating editors and journalists, should bare patriotic breasts to the enemy, before reinforcements came from the Army."

" Your theories are too altruistic for adoption, but if you really intend going to Ireland, I'll drive you to the station, and you can make arrangements for your journey. Have you got a fur coat? If not I'll lend you mine."

" Even if I come back a Sinn Feiner? "

" Yes, if you'll only come back; you see I can talk to you, as if we both lived in a palace of truth. You are a fool, but not a vain fool."

When without misunderstanding, two women can call each other fools and liars, their house of friendship is built upon a rock.

" I don't want you to go to Ireland," said my confidante and comfort. Rose, " but of course I'll pack for you. Will you need clothes for a short or a long time? "

" That," I said, " is on the knees of the gods. A week will be long enough if I'm disappointed, if not I'U stay six months, or perhaps for ever, who knows, so there must be separations in my wardrobe, winter garments somewhere out of reach, a summer outfit for the later months, and spring garments to hand."

" It reminds me," said Rose, " of the good old days at Oakley Lodge, when Cook went up to you for orders, and asked, ' How many to dinner. Madam?' And you said, 'Ellen, I don't know if I'll be alone, or if there will be fourteen to dine.' "

" When I kept house I wasn't so bad as that, Rose. It sounds like me, but Ellen must have had a sense of character, and invented the conversation."

" No, she did not. Madam ; it was what you told her; for seven came, Ellen said it was a temptation to teach you a lesson, but she relented; for she really hked dinner parties. We all did."

Being equal to any emergency. Rose packed for the week, or the year, waked me in time for the early train, and I crossed by day to Dublin. I had been up late the night before, was tired and depressed, but when I set foot on Irish soil, a word of sympathy cheered me in the greeting of old Davy Stevens, the elderly newsboy of Kingstown, who observed my weary eyes, and said:

" Buy a picture paper Lady avick, then you won't have to read."

One of the most striking qualities of the Irish is perception. They divine your mental and physical condition by intuition, and even the lower classes have singularly good manners. With tradition behind them, manners are to them an instinct, for no matter how humble in occupation an O'Brien, or an O'Donohue, or an O'Grady may be, he is the kinsman of a one-time King or Prince. I know working people in Dublin, who washed — yes, I must acknowledge they would have to be washed — and suitably dressed, could pass muster in any society. I have met an Irishwoman married to an English gentleman, who began life as a furniture polisher. She is romantically pretty, and not only are her manners good, but she is serenely at ease, and is as cultivated and agreeable, as any woman of my acquaintance. Pretentiousness is vulgar. The lower classes in Ireland are never pretentious. But I regret to say, when they emigrate to America, they take on the worst featiu-es of the pushing polygot American. There, they too often exchange simplicity for self-assurance, and modesty for braggadocio, and the Irish Yankee who returns to his native country is seldom popular, with either priest or people.

On my arrival in Dublin, I went to the Shelbourne Hotel, where it is said, if you stay long enough, as in London and Paris, you will meet (every one you know. Enghsh people come to Dubhn, for the Horse Show, for the races, for the hunting, — they come for a thousand reasons, — but they come. And sooner or later at lunch or dinner, you meet your friends at the Shelbourne.

Putting aside any interest one may have in Ireland, the Hotel is an exceptionally comfortable and satisfactory place of abode. In the first place, there is hot water. Not warm water. But boiling water, like the natural geysers of Australia. You can take a cure by drinking it, and you can have an enlivening bath at any hour of the day or of the night. And such water! As soft and tender as the down on a newly hatched chicken's breast. A httle soap goes a long way in this pale blue limpid fluid. Hair after being washed is satinsmooth to the touch, and the lustrous Irish poplin, and the excellent stout and whiskey, are said to owe their renown to Dubhn water. The Shelbourne's other pleasant qualities, perceptible to sensitive olfactories, are an agreeable odour of good scrubbing soap. Ice pohsh, and clean linen. Generously proportioned, well-furnished bedrooms. Adequate and willing service. Constant attention at the telephone. A gopd table of elastic hours. A lounge large enough — no matter how fully peopled — to ensure a quiet corner with a friend, and an atmosphere withal of interest and friendly kindness. What more can be wanted, or asked for in any Inn? If I could always be sure of the same measure of comfort, I would start to-morrow on a journey around the world.

The few people I knew in Dublin happened to be away, and I should have felt lonely, the early days of my arrival, but for a friend. While unpacking I heard a coo-oo, coo-oo, and looking up found at the corner of my window, a pair of bright, curious eyes observing my movements. They belonged to a wine-coloured pigeon, of liberal dimensions. Without movement, he sat watching me place pincushion, comb, hairbrush, nail scissors, cold cream, and polisher on the dressing-table, but stretched his wings if I got too near. When I retired, he folded them close to his plump body, and coo-cooed with renewed confidence, indicating that he had appreciated my tact. After tea, when I returned to my room, it was not long before he Rew to the outer ledge to eat the crumbs I had brought him. The next morning I found a corn chandler, and bought a bag of maize. This thoughtful hospitality on my part, sealed our fellowship. Very soon he occupied the centre of the window-sill, and one day after a profound examination of me, with a trusting baritone coo, he proudly promenaded the dressing-table, leaving little muddy tracks on the toilet-cover.

"Glory be to God! I'll show him the windy, I will that," said my chambermaid, " traipsin' over the clane linen, like a Christian, an' lavin' black tracks all up and down — and him with heels like a jay -bird."

" No," I said, " please don't show him either the window or the door. I want him encouraged to come; not to go."

And I made one other friend. A ten o'clock duck. — He lived on the pond in Stephen's Green. At the last stroke of the clock, I am sure he looked up at my window and quacked, " Go to bed! Go to bed!" After a few ten o'clocks, I walked over to the Green, found the little lake, and as the ducks swam towards me, I recognised my portly friend's quacks. His enunciation was better than the others'. He was quicker to discern food, and his appetite was very sound.

I have an affection for ducks. They are more benign than chickens, more trustful, and they have less idle curiosity.

Every night I listened at ten o'clock, for that penetrating quack, and he never failed me. And every morning, during my six weeks' stay, my wine-coloured pigeon woke me with his deepthroated note. I travelled about Ireland during the summer, and returned to Dublin in September. My chambermaid said:

" Ye couldn't have belaved how that bird carried on, whin you went away. He was here the whole day, peerin' in the room, an' if I opened the door sudden, he'd be sittin' on the dressin'-table, lukin' at himself, an' as plain as anny thing, he axed me where you were." But he never came back during my second visit, and a little wine-coloured feather is all that I have of our friendship.

There are certain cities where one can be alone, and others where loneliness is unbearable. New York, for instance. There life assumes a ruthless and belligerent aspect, intimidating to the strongest spirit. London is too vast, and grey, sombre, and indifferent, to endure solitariness. Belfast is uninteresting enough to create restlessness. But Washington, where one can spend weeks, among the treasures of the Capitol, or Florence, where the architecture is of unforgettable beauty, or Madrid, sitting for- hours before the immortal work of the great Masters — making them one's own in memory — or New Orleans, caressed by the softly perfumed air of the South, and surrounded by the past glories of old France, or Dublin, which possesses a charm peculiar to itself, in all these cities, of a friendly size and atmosphere, loneliness is not only possible, but even restful and agreeable.

I like to wander alone, in the streets of a strange town, to loiter before the shop -windows, and look at old pictures, old silver, old fans, or old china. A collector of old jewelry placed a whole heap of antiquated rings before me; they included one or two specimens of Claddagh marriage rings, and engraved in the thin gold circles I found these different love phrases:

" In thee I find content of mind." " Let love abide, till death divide." " God for me appointed thee."

" Love fixt on virtue lasteth." "My love and I, till death divide." Walking along Lower Leeson Street in the early morning, I noticed a child, with the bluest eyes that eyes can endure, and although he was not more than four or five years old, some phase a z

O

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O of life seemed already to have made an impression upon him.

" What is that pretty badge you are wearing on your innocent breast?" I asked, pointing to a round disc of green, white, and yellow.

He straightened his sturdy little figure, swelled out his small chest, and said, " The colours of the Irish Republic, Sorr — Mam," he corrected, and there was the steady light of battle in his eye, which I queUed with a bag of chocolates.

" Now kiss me good-bye, Sinn Feiner of the eyes so blue," I said. " Go to America, and be good." And we parted to meet no more.

One afternoon in Grafton Street, while in a shop giving directions about the repairs of a silver box, two young ladies came in, stood by my side, and asked to see rings. The clerk who served me said in an undertone:

" That is Mrs. Plunkett, the young widow who married her husband during the rebellion, just before he was shot, and a friend who is constantly with her."

As they looked neither to the right nor to the left, it gave me an opportunity of observing them. Mrs. Plunkett wore no mourning except a broad band of black on her white hat, and on the sleeve of her coat. Her dress was of emerald-green tweed. Her face was pale, the wide-open blue eyes observed what passed before them with quiet indifference, and never have I seen a jewel selected so quickly.

" Are the diamonds good? " the dark young girl asked.

The salesman said, " Yes, all these rings are of the best quality."

" I will take this one. Send me the bill," said the dark-eyed girl, and with that brief direction, these interesting ladies departed. It seemed to me a tragedy lurked in the background of that sparkling circle. Perhaps it was purchased by his fiancee, at the request of one of the Insurrectionists, before being deported.

Mrs. Plunkett had expressed no opinion about the ring. And I thought of the difference there would have been in my own happy land, if two American girls had entered Tiffany's on a like errand. Tray after tray of rings would have been brought forward, dozens of them tried on, and flashed in the light with breathless exclamations of:

"Oh, Mary, don't you just love rubies!"

" My dear, look at this, it's a perfect vision! "

Eventually half-a-dozen rings would have been ordered home for " Poppa " to see, and with not a care in the world, the lively pair would have fluttered out of the shop, and stepped briskly forth on Fifth Avenue. I can scarcely believe that I saw such an important thing as a diamond ring bought in two minutes, but then strange things happen in Ireland.

The very first of my serious sight-seeing was to view the mail-clad figure of Strongbow the Dane, in Christ Church, where in one of the vaults St. Patrick said the first Mass in Ireland. The ancient warrior has very tender associations for me, for as soon as my son, Francis Howard, could draw, he pictured Strongbow. How many times have I regretted his noble proportions on my best notepaper. Sometimes he was surrounded by his military monks, the Knights Templar, sometimes he was alone, and occasionally he divided honours with Rufus and his spider. I paused before the beautiful Norman door, and the exquisite interior of the Church delighted me, but my coign of vantage was the tomb bearing the recumbent figure of a Knight in chain armour. By his side is a smaller tomb, with a half-length figure of his son, whom he slashed in twain for cowardice in battle. I suppose that is why there is only half a son lying by him. Spartanism is admirable in heroes, but not in fathers; the tie of blood should temper it with mercy.

The monument of the nineteenth Earl of Kildare, the father of the first Duke of Leinster, is quite beautiful, and there are two chapels of consideration, one of St. Lorcan, the Abbot of

Glendalough, the second saint canonised in Rome after St. Malachy, and the Lady Chapel, which was the original chapel of St. Nicholas. The red Cork marble, the green Galway marble, and the black Kilkenny marble, have all been used to great advantage in the building of the pulpit. These various stones, with their warmth of colour, including Irish blue marble, are quite as valuable for decoration, as any of the Italian marbles, and architects might well make use of them, both in England and in America. The crypt is not only interesting to the antiquary — from various evidence, it is proved a Danish built Christian church — but the wooden stocks and quaint candlesticks, used in the celebration of Mass during the reign of James II, the silver gilt Dutch plate, presented to the Cathedral by William III are objects which would be appreciated by the most casual observer. I should like also to see a reproduction of the royal palace, built of peeled wands, in which Henry II Hved just outside Dublin. It must have been of the same character as the picturesque cabins, built of wattles, and so poetically appreciated by Yeats.

" I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made : Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey

bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

" And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes

dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the

cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

*' I will arise and go now, for always night and day, I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore ; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core."

Henry II may have had nine bean rows and a hive for honey bees, but peace is not for Kings. He was obhged to leave his castle of peeled wan,ds and return to England. John, his son, who was made Lord of Ireland, was never popular in the country, what a pity the fine title was allowed to lapse! Perhaps one day if Ireland should find favour in Royal eyes, a Lord of Ireland may reign again in the Emerald Isle.

My sight-seeing, which in a city of so many interests can never end, began to be intermittent, as friends came and went from the Hotel. The Insurrection had been over for some weeks, but every one, especially those who had seen it, been thrilled and terrified and inconvenienced by it, still talked of nothing else. The Government was held responsible by some, John Redmond, the Leader of the Irish Party, by others; and even his followers, particularly the young men, felt that at the beginning of the War, by too great impulsive generosity, he had thrown his own great chance and that of Ireland to the winds. A young Irish gentleman, the son of a Unionist, but himself a believer in Home Rule, with no ambition for political place, only a burning desire for the welfare of his country, said to me:

" John Redmond missed his opportunity at the beginning of the AVar. Instead of pledging Ireland to England in a very fine and dramatic speech, and offering them Irish soldiers, he should have demanded Home Rule in exchange for Irish Regiments. He should have demanded Ireland's freedom for the lives of her sons. There might have been hot controversy in the House of Commons, but, eventually, he would have got Home Rule. England has always understood better than any other nation barter and exchange. She also understands a gun as well, or better, than any other country. Was it Mr. Dooley who told Mr. Hennessy that when John Bull was at dinner, the butler interrupted him and said:

" ' There's a man outside, who wants to see you, with a grievance.'

" * Tell him to go away,' said John Bull, ' I don't want to see a man with a grievance.'

" In a short time the butler returned and said :

" ' The man with the grievance is back again. This time he has got a gun.'

" ' Has he? ' said John Bull; ' then show him in, and we'll have a talk about it.'

" As England wanted Ireland to shoulder the gun, John Bull should have made him a loyal subject by putting Home Rule into operation. There are probably, or there were, before the slaughter (for Irishmen went to fight when England was short of ammunition, and had only the breasts of soldiers as a defence against German guns) 170,000 Irishmen in the Army. If we had got Home Rule we could have doubled this number, and without conscription. Probably Mac- Donagh, and the O'Rahilly, and Connolly, and other leaders of the uprising, would have died with the Victoria Cross on their breasts, fighting for, instead of against, England."

" But surely," I said, " these men if they were not madmen, must have known that death was inevitable? "

" They were not mad, they were exalted visionaries and fanatics, burning with the unquenchable spirit of nationality. Bloodshed is losing its terrors. The papers contained a daily Roll of Honour. Irish soldiers arrived from the Front wounded, maimed, and dying. Death hovered in the air, and became a familiar friend. These men resolved to die for Ireland. They thought her patience to await events was weakening the Irish character. Irish Nationality was being withered, like a blight. Parnell said that no Irish member was useful to Ireland after he had served two years in a British Parliament. The Insurrectionists had lost faith in Irish parliamentarians. Mr. Birr el must have heard of the uprising. It was openly whispered over Ireland that an insurrection was in the air of such dimensions that after the War, at the table of peace, Ireland would be exalted to consideration by the International Council of the World. And though she was not mentioned by name, America loomed large in the foreground, for the Sinn Fein movement made a strong appeal to young Irish America."

" And," I said, " Germany must have been somewhat involved? "

" Germany, I am sure, had little to do with the actual uprising; it was too small a thing to engage her attention — and too hopeless, but undeniably there was a hidden hand somewhere. England has been, and is. Master of the Seas. In spite of her submarine warfare, Germany has a hungry realisation of this fact. Possibly she furnished a certain amount of arms and ammunition. She also furnished arms and ammunition to Ulster, for which she has never been paid, — the war interfered with that."

"What a pity," I said, "the very varied interests of Ireland are not fused together. If

Cork and Belfast were united, couldn't The Irish Question be settled at once and for ever? "

" Perhaps, but you are opening up a wide field now. I must send you to Belfast, to talk with my brother-in-law. He is a Resident Magistrate there, a very broad-minded and intellectual man; my sister will be delighted to have you pay her a visit."

" Can you invite me, a stranger, to your sister's house? " I said, smihngly.

"Certainly I can," he said, cordially; "and to half-a-dozen other houses in Ireland. To my mother's in County Cork, and my brother's in Queenstown, and a cousin's in Kerry. You must make them all visits.'*

This hospitality was as whole-hearted as that of the South, although less compelhng. A story is told of a man riding through my own State, Texas, in the early days, who looked up, and saw a negro seated on a fence tremblingly pointing a rifle at him.

" Damn you, put that down, it will go off in a minute — what the hell are you trying to shoot me for? "

" I ain't gwine to shoot you. Sir, if you'll only do what my ole Massa axes you to do," said the negro.

" What the devil does he want me to do? " said the man. "It must be something inhuman if it has to be done at the muzzle of a gun."

" No it ain't. Sir — ole Massa's mighty lonesome, livin' on dis big ranch by hisself, an' he says to me dis morning, ' Jim, go down to de road, an' bring me a visitor. Ef you don't I'll blow out yo' brains an' mine.' I bin sittin' here some time, an' I seen two other men go by, but I knowed dey wouldn't er suited ole Massa. He might er blowed out dur brains, along wid mine and his'en. But you an' ole Massa will git along togedder. I knowed you was a gentleman de minute I heard you cuss."

The man threw himself off his horse, walked with the negro to the house, and said at the end of his enforced visit he never spent a pleasanter fortnight.

CHAPTER II God Save Ireland and the People in it

(Old Gaelic Proverb)

I MADE no haste to see the ruins of Sackville Street; the great plate windows of the Shelbourne, decorated with holes, from which zigzag lines sprang like violent spiders' webs, were reminder enough of Dublin's tragic week. And from those who were eye-witnesses I could visualise all that had happened. A journalist describing his experiences said to me:

" On Easter Monday, I was writing my daily column, when I heard the tramp, tramp of marching men. It was no unusual sound, but the rhythm of those steady feet somehow thrilled me. I dropped my pen. Ran to the window. Threw it up. Heard a shot. Saw a policeman fall. A priest hurried to his side. Sharp firing began, and though dazed I reaHsed it was an attack on Dublin Castle. A few minutes later the premises of the Evening Mail were seized, and I was mentally preparing a column more vital than the one I had been forced to abandon. As they say in the

Vernacular of your country, there was not only a * story ' opening before me, but a living drama, unleavened by comedy, and submerged in blood, and tears, and death."

" Yes," I said, " ' The filling up of graves, the wringing of drenched hands,' — and then? "

" The Insurrectionists held our office all the afternoon, and Monday night the battle still raged. The Volunteers fought with red-hot courage, desperately, as men fight who put an extravagant resolve to the test. The bullets swarmed like deadly gnats; from Cork Hill they formed a zone in which nothing could live. Men in khaki tried in vain to storm the fortress. The Insurgents fired with unerring aim, and the soldiers fell dead or wounded in groups of three or four, until the end of the siege, when the final assault made the Sinn Feiners lay down their arms.

" Tuesday, fighting was going on all day, snipers firing from the houses in the neighbourhood of Cork Hill, and the soldiers dared death in trying to find them. Men going from house to house duty were almost certain to be killed or wounded. I saw two brave Colonials, a captain and his corporal, hunting for rebels, the latter with an amateur bandage about his jaw, and the former with an awkward bandage round his hand. Although both should have been in hospital, they were clearing the streets, firing at windows and roofs, and being fired at in return. Thursday, I saw them again, and I watched the captain until he was wounded in the leg, but even then he continued on duty, and if he had been in France fighting against the Germans, instead of in Dublin fighting against the Irish — very probably he was himself of Irish extraction — undoubtedly he would have won the Victoria Cross."