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Tue Hitt oF VISION Bs 



THE Crock OF GOLD sy 

Tue Demi-Gops 3 





Copyright 1916. The Macmillan Co., New York 





















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Tue day before the rising was Easter Sunday, 
and they were crying joyfully in the Churches 
“Christ has risen.” On the following day 
they were saying in the streets “ Ireland has 
risen.” The luck of the moment was with 
her. The auguries were good, and, notwith- 
standing all that has succeeded, I do not be- 
lieve she must take to the earth again, nor be 
ever again buried. The pages hereafter were 
written day by day during the Insurrection 
that followed Holy Week, and, as a hasty im- 
pression of a most singular time, the author 
allows them to stand without any emendation. 

The few chapters which make up this book 
are not a history of the rising. I knew 
nothing about the rising. I do not know any- 
thing about it now, and it may be years before 
exact information on the subject is available. 
What I have written is no more than a state- 
ment of what passed in one quarter of our 
city, and a gathering together of the rumour 
and tension which for nearly: two weeks had 
to serve the Dublin people in lieu of news. It 






en Se er 



had to serve many Dublin people in place of 

To-day, the 8th of May, the book is finished, 
and, so far as Ireland is immediately con- 
cerned, the insurrection is over. Action now 
lies with England, and on that action depends 
whether the Irish Insurrection is over or only 

In their dealings with this country, English 
Statesmen have seldom shown political imagi- 
nation; sometimes they have been just, some- 
times, and often, unjust. After a certain 
point I dislike and despise justice. It is an 
attribute of God, and is adequately managed 
by Him alone; but between man and man no 
other ethics save that of kindness can give re- 
sults. I have not any hope that this ethic will 
replace that, and I merely mention it in order 
that the good people who read these words 
may enjoy the laugh which their digestion 

I have faith in man, I have very little faith 
in States man. But I believe that the world 
moves, and I believe that the weight of the 
rolling planet is going to bring freedom to 
Ireland. Indeed, I name this date as the first 



day of Irish freedom, and the knowledge for- 
bids me mourn too deeply my friends who are 

It may not be worthy of mention, but the 
truth is, that Ireland is not cowed. She is ex- 
cited a little. She is gay a little. She was 
not with the revolution, but in a few months 
she will be, and her heart which was wither- 
ing will be warmed by the knowledge that 
men have thought her worth dying for. She 
will prepare to make herself worthy of de- 
votion, and that devotion will never fail her. 
So little does it take to raise our hearts. 

Does it avail anything to describe these 
things to English readers? They have never 
moved the English mind to anything except 
impatience, but to-day and at this desperate 
conjunction they may be less futile than here- 
tofore. England also has grown patriotic, 
even by necessity. It is necessity alone makes 
patriots, for in times of peace a patriot is a 
quack when he is not a shark. Idealism pays 
in times of peace, it dies in time of war. Our 
idealists are dead and yours are dying hourly. 

The English mind may to-day be enabled to 
understand what is wrong with us, and why 



through centuries we have been “ disthress- 
ful.” Let them look at us, I do not say 
through the fumes that are still rising from 
our ruined streets, but through the smoke that 
is rolling from the North Sea to Switzerland, 
and read in their own souls the justification 
for all our risings, and for this rising. 

Is it wrong to say that England has not one 
friend in Europe? I say it. Her Allies of 
to-day were her enemies of yesterday, and 
politics alone will decide what they will be 
to-morrow. I say it, and yet I am not entirely 
right, for she has one possible friend unless 
she should decide that even one friend is ex- 
cessive and irks her. That one possible friend 
is Ireland. I say, and with assurance, that if 
our national questions are arranged there will 
remain no reason for enmity between the two 
countries, and there will remain many reasons 
for friendship. 

It may be objected that the friendship of 
a country such as Ireland has little value; 
that she is too small geographically, and too 
thinly populated to give aid to any one. 
Only sixty odd years ago our population was 
close on ten millions of people, nor are we yet 



sterile; in area Ireland is not collossal, but 
neither is she microscopic. Mr. Shaw has 
spoken of her as a “cabbage patch at the 
back of beyond.” On this kind of descrip- 
tion Rome might be called a hen-run and 
Greece a back yard. The sober fact is that 
Ireland has a larger geographical area than 
many an independent and prosperous Euro- 
pean kingdom, and for all human and social 
needs she is a fairly big country, and is 
beautiful and fertile to boot. She could he 
made worth knowing if goodwill and trust 
are available for the task. 

I believe that what is known as the “ mas- 
tery of the seas” will, when the great war is 
finished, pass irretrievably from the hands or 
the ambition of any nation, and that more 
urgently than ever in her history England 
will have need of a friend. It is true that we 
might be her enemy and might do her sotne 
small harm—it is truer that we could be her 
friend, and could be of very real assistance 
to her. 

Should the English Statesman decide that 
our friendship is worth having let him create 
a little of the political imagination already 



spoken of. Let him equip us (it is England’s 
debt to Ireland for freedom; not in the man- 
ner of a miser who arranges for the chilly 
livelihood of a needy female relative; but the 
way a wealthy father would undertake the 
settlement of his son. I fear I am assisting 
my reader to laugh too much, but laughter is 
the sole excess that is wholesome. 

If freedom is to come to Ireland—as I 
believe it is—then the Easter Insurrection 
was the only thing that could have happened. 
I speak as an Irishman, and am momen- 
tarily leaving out of account every other con- 
sideration, If, after all her striving, free- 
dom had come to her as a gift, as a peaceful 
present such as is sometimes given away with 
a pound of tea, Ireland would have accepted 
the gift with shamefacedness, and have felt 
that her centuries of revolt had ended in 
something very like ridicule. The blood of 
brave men had to sanctify such a consumma- 
tion if the national imagination was to be 
stirred to the dreadful business which is the 
organizing of freedom, and both imagination 
and brains have been stagnant in Ireland this 
many a year. Following on such tameness, 



failure might have been predicted, or, at least 
feared, and war (let us call it war for the 
sake of our pride) was due to Ireland before 
she could enter gallantly on her inheritance. 
We might have crept into liberty like some 
kind of domesticated man, whereas now we 
may be allowed to march into freedom with 
the honours of war. I am still appealing to 
the political imagination, for if England 
allows Ireland to formally make peace with 
her that peace will be lasting, everlasting; 
but if the liberty you give us is all half- 
measures, and distrusts and stinginesses, then 
what is scarcely worth accepting will hardly 
be worth thanking you for. 

There is a reference in the earlier pages of 
this record to a letter which I addressed to 
Mr. George Bernard Shaw and published 
in the New Age. This was a thoughtless 
letter, and subsequent events have proved 
that it was unmeaning and ridiculous. I 
have since, through the same _ hospitable 
journal, apologised to Mr. Shaw, but have 
let my reference to the matter stand as an 
indication that electricity was already in the 
air. Every statement I made about him in 



that letter and in this book was erroneous; 
for, afterwards, when it would have been 
politic to run for cover, he ran for the open, 
and he spoke there like the valiant thinker | 
and great Irishman that he is. | 

Since the foregoing was written events 
have moved in this country. The situation 
is no longer the same. The executions have 
taken place. One cannot justly exclaim 
against the measures adopted by the military 
tribunal, and yet, in the interests of both 
countries one may deplore them. I have said 
there was no bitterness in Ireland, and it 
was true at the time of writing. It is no 
longer true; but it is still possible by generous 
Statesmanship to allay this, and to seal a true 
union between Ireland and England. 




Tuis has taken everyone by surprise. It is 
possible, that, with the exception of their 
Staff, it has taken the Volunteers themselves 
by surprise; but, to-day, our peaceful city is 
no longer peaceful; guns are sounding, or 
rolling and crackling from different direc- 
tions, and, although rarely, the rattle of 
machine guns can be heard also. 

Two days ago war seemed very far away— 
so far, that I have covenanted with myself to 
learn the alphabet of music. Tom Bodkin 
had promised to present me with a musical 
instrument called a dulcimer—I persist in 
thinking that this is a species of guitar, 
although I am assured that it is a number of 
small metal plates which are struck with 
sticks, and I confess that this description of 


its function prejudices me more than a little 
against it. There is no reason why I should 
think dubiously of such an instrument, but I 
do not relish the idea of procuring music 
with a stick. With this dulcimer I shall be 
able to tap out our Irish melodies when I am 
abroad, and transport myself to Ireland for 
a few minutes, or a few bars. 

In preparation for this present I had 
through Saturday and Sunday been learning 
the notes of the Scale. The notes and spaces 
on the lines did not trouble me much, but 
those above and below the line seemed inge- 
nious and complicated to a degree that 
frightened me. 

On Saturday I got the Irish Times, and 
found in it a long article by Bernard Shaw 
(reprinted from the New York Times). One 
reads things written by Shaw. Why one does 
read them I do not know exactly, except that 
it is a habit we got into years ago, and we 
read an article by Shaw just as we put on 
our boots in the morning—that is, without 
thinking about it, and without any idea of 

His article angered me exceedingly. It 



was called “Irish Nonsense talked in Ire- 
land.” It was written (as is almost all of his 
journalistic work) with that bonhomie which 
he has cultivated—it is his mannerism—and 
which is essentially hypocritical and untrue. 
Bonhomie! It is that man-of-the-world atti- 
tude, that shop attitude, that between-you- 
and-me-for-are-we-not-equal-and-cultured at- 
titude, which is the tone of a card-sharper 
or a trick-of-the-loop man. That was the tone 
of Shaw’s article. I wrote an open letter to 
him which I sent to the New Age, because I 
doubted that the Dublin papers would print it 
if I sent it to them, and I knew that the Irish 
people who read the other papers had never 
heard of Shaw, except as a trade-mark under 
which very good Limerick bacon is sold, and 
that they would not be interested in the 
opinions of a person named Shaw on any sub- 
ject not relevant to bacon. I struck out of 
my letter a good many harsh things which I 
said of him, and hoped he would reply to it 
in order that I could furnish these acidities 
to him in a second letter. 

That was Saturday. . 

On Sunday I had to go to my office, as the 



Director was absent in London, and there I 
applied myself to the notes and spaces below 
the stave, but relinquished the exercise, con- 
vinced that these mysteries were unattainable 
by man, while the knowledge that above the 
stave there were others and not less complex, 
stayed mournfully with me. 

I returned home, and as novels (perhaps it 
is only for the duration of the war) do not 
now interest me I read for some time in 
Madame Blavatsky’s “Secret Doctrine,” 
which book interests me profoundly. George 
Russell was out of town or I would have gone 

round to his house in the evening to tell him 
what I thought about Shaw, and to listen to 

his own much finer ideas on that as on every 
other subject. I went to bed. 

On the morning following I awoke into 
full insurrection and bloody war, but I did 
not know anything about it. It was Bank 
Holiday, but for employments such as mine 
there are not any holidays, so I went to my 
office at the usual hour, and after transacting 
what business was necessary I bent myself to 
the notes above and below the stave, and 
marvelled anew at the ingenuity of man. 

Peace was in the building, and if any of the 
attendants had knowledge or rumour of war 
they did not mention it to me. 

At one o’clock I went to lunch. Passing 
the corner of Merrion Row I saw two small 
groups of people. These people were regard- 
ing steadfastly in the direction of St. 
Stephen’s Green Park, and they spoke occa- 
sionally to one another with that detached 
confidence which proved they were mutually 
unknown. I also, but without approaching 
them, stared in the direction of the Green. I 
saw nothing but the narrow street which 
widened to the Park. Some few people were 
standing in tentative attitudes, and all look- 
ing in the one direction. As I turned from 
them homewards I received an impression of 
silence and expectation and excitement. 

On the way home I noticed that many 
silent people were standing in their door- 
ways—an unusual thing in Dublin outside of 
the back streets. The glance of a Dublin man 
or woman conveys generally a criticism of 
one’s personal appearance, and is a little hos- 
tile to the passer. The look of each person 
as I passed was steadfast, and contained an 


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eae r “= 2. 

enquiry instead of a criticism. I felt faintly 
uneasy, but withdrew my mind to a medita- 
tion which I had covenanted with myself to 
perform daily, and passed to my house. 

There I was told that there had been a great 
deal of rifle firing all the morning, and we 
concluded that the Military recruits or 
Volunteer detachments were practising that 
arm. My return to business was by the way 
I had already come. At the corner of 
Merrion Row I found the same silent groups, 
who were still looking in the direction of the 
Green, and addressing each other occasionally 
with the detached confidence of strangers. 
Suddenly, and on the spur of the moment, I 
addressed one of these silent gazers. 

“Has there been an accident?” said I. 

I indicated the people standing about. 

“What’s all this for?” 

He was a sleepy, rough-looking man about 
40 years of age, with a blunt red moustache, 
and the distant eyes which one sees in sailors. 
He looked at me, stared at me as at a person 
from a different country. He grew wakeful 
and vivid. 

“Don’t you know,” said he. 



And then he saw that I did not know. 

“The Sinn Feiners have seized the City 
this morning.” 

“Oh!” said I. 

He continued with the savage earnestness 
of one who has amazement in his mouth : 

“ They seized the City at eleven o’clock this 
morning. The Green there is full of them. 
They have captured the Castle. They have 
taken the Post Office.” 

“My God! ” said I, staring at him, and in- 
stantly I turned and went running towards 
the Green. 

In a few seconds I banished astonishment 
and began to walk. As I drew near the 
Green rifle fire began like sharply-cracking 
whips. It was from the further side. I saw 
that the Gates were closed and men were 
standing inside with guns on their shoulders. 
I passed a house, the windows of which were 
smashed in. As I went by a man in civilian 
clothes slipped through the Park gates, which 
instantly closed behind him. He ran towards 
me, and I halted. He was carrying two small 
packets in his hand. He passed me hurriedly, 
and, placing his leg inside the broken window 


of the house behind me, he disappeared. 
Almost immediately another man in civilian 
clothes appeared from the broken window of 
another house. He also had something (I 
don’t know what) in his hand. He ran 
urgently towards the gates, which opened, 
admitted him, and closed again. 

In the centre of this side of the Park a 
rough barricade of carts and motor cars had 
been sketched. It was still full of gaps. 
Behind it was a halted tram, and along the 
vistas of the Green one saw other trams 
derelict, untenanted. 

I came to the barricade. As I reached it 
and stood by the Shelbourne Hotel, which it 
faced, a loud cry came from the Park. The 
gates opened and three men ran out. Two 
of them held rifles with fixed bayonets. The 
third gripped a heavy revolver in his fist. 
They ran towards a motor car which had 
just turned the corner, and halted it. The 
men with bayonets took position instantly 
on either side of the car. The man with the 

NOTE—As I pen these words rifle shot is cracking from three 
different directions and continually, Three minutes ago there 
was two discharges from heavy guns. These are the first heavy 
guus used in the Insurrection, 25th April. 


revolver saluted, and I heard him begging the 
occupants to pardon him, and directing them 
to dismount. A man and woman got down. 
They were again saluted and requested to go 
to the sidewalk. They did so. 

The man crossed and stood by me. He was 
very tall and thin, middle-aged, with a 
shaven, wasted face. “I want to get down to 
Armagh to-day,” he said to no one in parti- 
cular. The loose bluish skin under his eyes 
was twitching. The Volunteers directed the 
chauffeur to drive to the barricade and lodge 
his car in a particular position there. He did 
it awkwardly, and after three attempts he 
succeeded in pleasing them. He was a big, 
brown-faced man, whose knees were rather 
high for the seat he was in, and they jerked 
with the speed and persistence of something 
moved with a powerful spring. His face was 
composed and fully under command, although 
his legs were not. He locked the car into the 
barricade, and then, being a man accustomed 
to be commanded, he awaited an order to de- 
scend. When the order came he walked 
directly to his master, still preserving all the 
solemnity of his features. These two men did 



not address a word to each other, but their 
drilled and expressionelss eyes were loud with 
surprise and fear and rage. They went into 
the Hotel. 

I spoke to the man with the revolver. He 
was no more than a boy, not more certainly 
than twenty years of age, short in stature, 
with close curling red hair and blue eyes—a 
kindly-looking lad. The strap of his som- 
brero had torn loose on one side, and except 
while he held it in his teeth it flapped about 
his chin. His face was sunburnt and grimy 
with dust and sweat. 

This young man did not appear to me to be 
acting from his reason. He was doing his 
work from a determination implanted pre- 
viously, days, weeks perhaps, on his imagi- 
nation. His mind was—where? It was not 
with his body. And continually his eyes went 
searching widely, looking for spaces, scan- 
ning hastily the clouds, the vistas of the 
streets, looking for something that did not 
hinder him, looking away for a moment from 
the immediacies and rigours which were im- 
pressed where his mind had been. 

When I spoke >,he looked at me, and I know 


that for some seconds he did not see me. I 
said :— 

“What is the meaning of all this? What 
has happened ? ” 

He replied collectedly enough in speech, 
but with that ramble and errancy clouding 
his eyes. 

“We have taken the City. We are expect- 
ing an attack from the military at any 
moment, and those people,’ he indicated 
knots of men, women and children clustered 
towards the end of the Green, “won't go 
home for me. We have the Post Office, and 
the Railways, and the Castle. We have all 
the City. We have everything.” 

(Some men and two women drew behind 
me to listen). 

“This morning,” said he, “the police 
rushed us. One ran at me to take my revolver. 
I fired but I missed him, and I hit a Pe 

“ Vou have far too much talk,” said a voice 
to the young man. 

I turned a few steps away, and glancing 
back saw that he was staring after me, but I 
know that he did not see me—he was looking 
at turmoil, and blood, and at figures that ran 



towards him and ran away—a world in 
motion and he in the centre of it astonished. 

The men with him did not utter a sound. 
They were both older. One, indeed, a short, 
sturdy man, had a heavy white moustache. 
He was quite collected, and took no notice of 
the skies, or the spaces. He saw a man in 
rubbers placing his hand on a motor bicycle 
in the barricade, and called to him instantly : 
“ Let that alone.” 

The motorist did not at once remove his 
hand, whereupon the white-moustached man 
gripped his gun in both hands and ran vio- 
lently towards him. He ran directly to him, 
body to body, and, as he was short and the 
motorist was very tall, stared fixedly up in 
his face. He roared up at his face in a 
mighty voice. 

“Are you deaf? Are you deaf? Move 
back! ” 

The motorist moved away, pursued by an 
eye as steady and savage as the point of the 
bayonet that was level with it. 

Another motor car came round the Ely 
Place corner of the Green and wobbled at the 
sight of the barricade. The three men who 



had returned to the gates roared “ Halt,” but 
the driver made a tentative effort to turn his 
wheel. A great shout of many voices came 
then, and the three men ran to him. 

“Drive to the barricade,” came the order. 

The driver turned his wheel a point further 
towards escape, and instantly one of the men 
clapped a gun to the wheel and blew the tyre 
open. Some words were exchanged, and then 
a shout : 

“ Drive it on the rim, drive it.” 

The tone was very menacing, and the 
motorist turned his car slowly to the barri- 
cade and placed it in. 

For an hour I tramped the City, seeing 
everywhere these knots of watchful strangers 
speaking together in low tones, and it sank 
into my mind that what I had heard was 
true, and that the City was in insurrection. 
It had been promised for so long, and had 
been threatened for so long. Now it was 
here. I had seen it in the Green, others had 
seen it in other parts—the same men clad in 
dark green and equipped with rifle, bayonet, 
and bandolier, the same silent activity. The 
police had disappeared from the streets. At 



that hour I did not see one policeman, nor 
did I see one for many days, and men said 
that several of them had been shot earlier in 
the morning; that an officer had been shot on 
Portobello Bridge, that many soldiers had 
been killed, and that a good many civilians 
were dead also. 

Around me as I walked the rumour of war 
and death was in the air. Continually and 
from every direction rifles were crackling and 
rolling; sometimes there was only one shot, 
again it would be a roll of firing crested with 
single, short explosions, and sinking again 
to whip-like snaps and whip-like echoes; then 
for a moment silence, and then again the guns 
leaped in the air. 

The rumour of positions, bridges, public 
places, railway stations, Government offices, 
having been seized was persistent, and was 
not denied by any voice. 

I met some few people I knew. P. H., 
T. M., who said: ‘“ Well!” and thrust their 
eyes into me as though they were rummag- 
ing me for information. 

But there were not very many people in the 
streets. The greater part of the population 



were away on Bank Holiday, and did not 
know anything of this business. Many of 
them would not know anything until they 
found they had to walk home from Kings- 
town, Dalkey, Howth, or wherever they 

I returned to my office, decided that I 
would close it for the day. The men were 
very relieved when I came in, and were more 
relieved when I ordered the gong to be 
sounded. There were some few people in the 
place, and they were soon put out. The outer 
gates were locked, and the great door, but I 
kept the men on duty until the evening. We 
were the last public institution open; all the 
others had been closed for hours. 

I went upstairs and sat down, but had 
barely reached the chair before I stood up 
again, and began to pace my room, to and fro, 
to and fro; amazed, expectant, inquiet; turn- 
ing my ear to the shots, and my mind to 
speculations that began in the middle, and 
were chased from there by others before they 
had taken one thought forward. But then I 
took myself resolutely and sat me down, and I 
pencilled out exercises above the stave, and 


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under the stave; and discovered suddenly 
that I was again marching the floor, to and 
fro, to and fro, with thoughts bursting about 
my head as though they were fired on me from 
concealed batteries. 

At five o’clock I left. I met Miss P., all 
of whose rumours coincided with those I had 
gathered. She was in exceeding good 
humour and interested. Leaving her I met 
Cy—, and we turned together up to the Green. 
As we proceeded, the sound of firing grew 
more distinct, but when we reached the Green 
it died away again. We stood a little below 
the Shelbourne Hotel, looking at the barri- 
cade and into the Park. We could see 
nothing. Not a Volunteer was in sight. The 
Green seemed a desert. There were only the 
trees to be seen, and through them small green 
vistas of sward. 

Just then a man stepped: on the footpath 
and walked directly to the barricade. He 
stopped and gripped the shafts ‘of a lorry 
lodged near the centre. At that instant the 
Park exploded into life and sound; from no- 
where armed men appeared at the railings, 
and they all shouted at the man. 



“Put down that lorry. Let out and go 
away. Let out at once.” 

These were the cries. The man did not let 
out. He halted with the shafts in his hand, 
and looked towards the vociferous pailings. 
Then, and very slowly, he began to draw the 
lorry out of the barricade. The shouts came 
to him again, very loud, very threatening, but 
he did not attend to them. 

“ He is the man that owns the lorry,” said 
a voice beside me. 

Dead silence fell on the people around 
while the man slowly drew his cart down by 
the footpath. Then three shots rang out in 
succession. At the distance he could not be 
missed, and it was obvious they were trying 
to frighten him. He dropped the shafts, and 
instead of going away he walked over to the 

‘He has a nerve,’ said another voice be- 
hind me. | 

The man walked directly towards the Vol- 
unteers, who, to the number of about ten, 
were lining the railings. He walked slowly, 
bent a little forward, with one hand raised 
and one finger up as though he were going to 



make a speech. Ten guns were pointing at 
him, and a voice repeated many times : 

“Go and put back that lorry or you area 
dead man. Go before I count four. One, 
two, three, four-—— 

A rifle spat at him, and in two undulating 
movements the man sank on himself and 
sagged to the ground. 

I ran to him with some others, while a 
woman screamed unmeaningly, all on one 
strident note. The man was picked up and 
carried to a hospital beside the Arts Club. 
. There was a hole in the top of his head, and 
one does not know how ugly blood can look 
until it has been seen clotted in hair. As the 
poor man was being carried in, a woman 
plumped to her knees in the road and began 
not to scream but to screetch. 

At that moment the Volunteers were hated. 
The men by whom I was and who were lifting 
the body, roared into the railings :— 

“ We'll be coming back for you, damn you.” 

From the railings there came no reply, and 
in an instant the place was again desert and 
silent, and the little green vistas were slum- 
bering among the trees. 



No one seemed able to estimate the num- 
ber of men inside the Green, and through 
the day no considerable body of men had been 
seen, only those who held the gates, and the 
small parties of threes and fours who arrested 
motors and carts for their barricades. Among 
these were some who were only infants—one 
boy seemed about twelve years of age. He 
was strutting the centre of the road with a 
large revolver in his small fist. A motor car 
came by him containing three men, and in the 
shortest of time he had the car lodged in his 
barricade, and dismissed its stupified occu” 
pants with a wave of his armed hand. 

The knots were increasing about the 
streets, for now the Bank Holiday people 
began to wander back from places that were 
not distant, and to them it had all to be ex- 
plained anew. Free movement was possible 
everywhere in the City, but the constant 
crackle of rifles restricted somewhat that 
freedom. Up to one o’clock at night belated 
travellers were straggling into the City, and 

curious people were wandering from group to 
group still trying to gather information. 

I remained awake until four o’clock in the 


morning. Every five minutes a rifle cracked 
somewhere, but about a quarter to twelve 
sharp volleying came from the direction of 
Portobello Bridge, and died away after some 
time. The windows of my flat listen out 
towards the Green, and obliquely towards 
Sackville Street. In another quarter of an 
hour there were volleys from Stephen’s Green 
direction, and this continued with intensity 
for about twenty-five minutes. Then it fell 
into a sputter of fire and ceased. 

I went to bed about four o’clock convinced 
that the Green had been rushed by the mili- 
tary and captured, and that the rising was at 
an end, 

That was the first day of the insurrection. 



A suLtRy, lowering day, and dusk skies fat 
with rain. 

I left for my office, believing that the insur- 
rection was at anend. Ata corner I asked a 
man was it all finished. He said it was not, 
and that, if anything, it was worse. 

On this day the rumours began, and I think 
it will be many a year before the rumours 
cease. The Irish Times published an edition 
which contained nothing but an official Pro- 
clamation that evily-disposed persons had 
disturbed the peace, and that the situation 
was well in hand. The news stated in three 
lines that there was a Sinn Fein rising in 
Dublin, and that the rest of the country was 

No English or country papers came. There 
was no delivery or collection of letters. All 
the shops in the City were shut. There was 
no traffic of any kind in the streets. There 



was no way of gathering any kind of infor- 
- mation, and rumour gave all the news. 

It seemed that the Military and the Govern- 
ment had been taken unawares. It was Bank 
Holiday, and many military officers had gone 
to the races, or were away on leave, and 
prominent members of the Irish Government 
had gone to England on Sunday. 

It appeared that everything claimed on the 
previous day was true, and that the City of 
Dublin was entirely in the hands of the Vol- 
unteers. They had taken and sacked Jacob’s 
Biscuit Factory, and had converted it into a 
fort which they held. They had the Post 
Office, and were bullding baricades around it 
ten feet high of sandbags, cases, wire en- 
tanglements. They had pushed out all the 
windows and sandbagged half their 
height, while cart-loads of food, vegetables 
and ammunition were going in continually. 
They had dug trenches and were laying siege 
to one of the city barracks. 

It was current that intercourse between 
Germany and Ireland had been frequent 
chiefly by means of submarines, which came 
up near the coast and landed machine guns, 



rifles and ammunition. It was believed also 
that the whole country had risen, and that 
many strong places and cities were in the 
hands of the Volunteers. Cork Barracks was 
said to be taken while the officers were away 
at the Curragh races, that the men without 
officers were disorganised, and the place 
easily captured. 

It was said that Germans, thousands 
strong, had landed, and that many Irish 
Americans with German officers had arrived 
also with full military equipment. 

On the previous day the Volunteers had 
proclaimed the Irish Republic. This cere- 
mony was conducted from the Mansion House 
steps, and the manifesto was said to have 
been read by Pearse, of St. Enda’s. The Re- 
publican and Volunteer flag was hoisted on 
the Mansion House. The latter consisted of 
vertical colours of green, white and orange. 
Kerry wireless station was reported captured, 
and news of the Republic flashed abroad. 
These rumours were flying in the street. 

It was also reported that two transports 
had come in the night and had landed from 
England about 8,000 soldiers. An attack re- 


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—— SS : aa — ee Se —————— SS ——a a = aoe 


ported on the Post Office by a troop of lancers 
who were received with fire and repulsed. It 
is foolish to send cavalry into street war. 

In connection with this lancer charge at 
the Post Office it is said that the people, and 
especially the women, sided with the soldiers, 
and that the Volunteers were assailed by 
these women with bricks, bottles, sticks, to 
cries of : 

“Would you be hurting the poor men?” 

There were other angry ladies who threat- 
ened Volunteers, addressing to them this 
petrifying query: 

“ Would you be hurting the poor horses? ” 

Indeed, the best people in the world live in 

The lancers retreated to the bottom of 
Sackville Street, where they remained for 
some time in the centre of a crowd who were 
carressing their horses. It may have seemed 
to them a rather curious kind of insurrection 
—that is, if they were strangers to Ireland. 

In the Post Office neighbourhood the Vol- 
unteers had some difficulty in dealing with 
the people who surged about them while they 
were preparing the barricade, and hindered 



them to some little extent. One of the Volun- 
teers was particularly noticeable. He held a 
lady’s umbrella in his hand, and whenever 
some person became particularly annoying he 
would leap the barricade and chase his man 
half a street, hitting him over the head with 
the umbrella. It was said that the wonder of 
the world was not that Ireland was at war, 
but that after many hours the umbrella was 
still unbroken. A Volunteer night attack on 
the Quays was spoken of, whereat the mili- 
tary were said to have been taken by surprise 
and six carts of their ammunition captured. 
This was probably untrue. Also, that the 
Volunteers had blown up the Arsenal in the 
Phoenix Park. : 
There had been looting in the night abou 
Sackville Street, and it was current that the 
Volunteers had shot twenty of the looters. 
The shops attacked were mainly haber- 
dashers, shoe shops, and sweet shops. Very 
many sweet shops were raided, and until the 
end of the rising sweet shops were the 
favourite mark of the looters. There is some- 
thing comical in this looting of sweet shops— 
something almost innocent and child-like. 


Possibly most of the looters are children who 
are having the sole gorge of their lives. They 
have tasted sweetstuffs they had never toothed 
before, and will never taste again in this Iife, 
and until they die the insurrection of 1916 
will have a sweet savour for them. 

I went to the Green. At the corner of 
Merrion Row a horse was lying on the foot- 
path surrounded by blood. He bore two bullet 
wounds, but the blood came from his throat 
which had been cut. 

Inside the Green railings four bodies could 
be seen lying on the ground. They were dead 

The rain was falling now persistently, and 
persistently from the Green and from the 
Shelbourne Hotel snipers were exchanging 
bullets. Some distance beyond the Shel- 
bourne I saw another Volunteer stretched out 
on a seat just within the railings. He was not 
dead, for, now and again, his hand moved 
feebly in a gesture for aid; the hand was com- 
pletely red with blood. His face could not be 
seen. He was just a limp mass, upon which 
the rain beat pitilessly, and he was sodden 
and shapeless, and most miserable to see. His 



companions could not draw him in for the 
spot was covered by the snipers from th 
Shelbourne. Bystanders stated that several 
attempts had already been made to rescue 
him, but that he would have to remain there 
until the fall of night. 

From Trinity College windows and roof 
there was also sniping, but the Shelbourne 
Hotel riflemen must have seriously troubled 
the Volunteers in the Green. 

As I went back I stayed a while in front of 
the hotel to count the shots that had struck 
the windows. There were fourteen shots 
through the ground windows. The holes 
were clean through, each surrounded by a 
star—the bullets went through but did not 
crack the glass. There were three places in 
which the windows had holes half a foot to 
a foot wide and high. Here many rifles must 
have fired at the one moment. It must have 
been as awkward inside the Shelbourne Hotel 
as it was inside the Green. 

A lady who lived in Baggot Street said she 
had been up all night, and, with her neigh- 
bours, had supplied tea and bread to the 
soldiers who were lining the street. The 



officer to whom she spoke had made two or 
three attacks to draw fire and estimate the 
Volunteers’ positions, numbers, &c., and he 
told her that he considered there were 3,000 
well-armed Volunteers in the Green, and as he 
had only 1,000 soldiers, he could not afford to 
deliver a real attack, and was merely contain- 
ing them. 

Amiens Street station reported recaptured 
by the military; other stations are said to be 
still in the Volunteers’ possession. 

The story goes that about twelve o’clock on 
Monday an English officer had marched into 
the Post Office and demanded two penny 
stamps from the amazed Volunteers who were 
inside. He thought their uniforms were 
postal uniforms. They brought him in, and 
he is probably still trying to get a perspective 
on the occurrence. They had as prisoners in 
the Post Office a certain number of soldiers, 
and rumour had it that these men accommo- 
dated themselves quickly to duress, and were 
busily engaged peeling potatoes for the meal 
which they would partake of later on with 
the Volunteers. 

Earlier in the day I met a wild indi- 



vidual who spat rumour as though his mouth 
were a machine gun or a linotype machine. 
He believed everything he heard; and every- 
thing he heard became as by magic favourable 
to his hopes, which were violently anti-Eng- 
lish. One unfavourable rumour was instantly 
crushed by him with three stories which were 
favourable and triumphantly so. He said the 
Germans had landed in three places. One of 
these landings alone consisted of fifteen thou- 
sand men. The other landings probably beat 
that figure. The whole City of Cork was in 
the hands of the Volunteers, and, to that ex- 
tent, might be said to be peaceful. German 
warships had defeated the English, and their 
transports were speeding from every side. 
The whole country was up, and the garrison 
was out-numbered by one hundred to one. 
These Dublin barracks which had not been 
taken were now besieged and on the point of 

I think this man created and winged every 
rumour that flew in Dublin, and he was the 
sole individual whom I heard definitely tak- 
ing aside. He left me, and, looking back, I 
saw him pouring his news into the ear of a 



gaping stranger whom he had arrested for 
the purpose. I almost went back to hear 
would he tell the same tale or would he elabo- 
rate it into a new thing, for I am interested 
in the art of story-telling. 

At eleven o’clock the rain ceased, and to it 
succeeded a beautiful night, gusty with. wind, 
and packed with sailing clouds and stars. 
We were expecting visitors this night, but the 
sound of guns may have warned most people 
away. Three only came, and with them we 
listened from my window to the guns at the 
Green challenging and replying to each other, 
and to where, further away, the Trinity 
snipers were crackling, and beyond again to 
the sounds of war from Sackville Street. The 
firing was fairly heavy, and often the short 
rattle of machine guns could be heard. 

One of the stories told was that the Volun- 
teers had taken the South Dublin Union 
Workhouse, occupied it, and trenched the 
grounds. They were heavily attacked by the 
military, who, at a loss of 150 men, took the 
place. The tale went that towards the close 
the officer in command offered them terms of 
surrender, but the Volunteers replied that 



they were not there to surrender. They were 
there to be killed. The garrison consisted of 
fifty men, and the story said that fifty men 
were killed. 



It was three o'clock before I got to sleep last 
night, and during the hours machine guns 
and rifle firing had been continuous. 

This morning the sun is shining brilliantly, 
and the movement in the streets possesses 
more of animation than it has done. The 
movement ends always in a knot of people, 
and folk go from group to group vainly seek- 
ing information, and quite content if the 
rumour they presently gather differs even a 
little from the one they have just communi- 

The first statement I heard was that the 
Green had been taken by the military; the 
second that it had been re-taken; the third 
that it had not been taken at all. The facts 
at last emerged that the Green had not been 
occupied by the soldiers, but that the Volun- 
teers had retreated from it into a house which 
commanded it. This was found to be the 



College of Surgeons, and from the windows 
and roof of this College they were sniping. A 
machine gun was mounted on the roof; other 
machine guns, however, opposed them from 
the roofs of the Shelbourne Hotel, the United 
Service Club, and the Alexandra Club. Thus 
a triangular duel opened between these posi- 
tions across the trees of the Park. 

Through the railings of the Green some 
rifles and bandoliers could be seen lying on 
the ground, as also the deserted trenches and 
snipers’ holes. Small boys bolted in to see 
these sights and bolted out again with bullets 
quickening their feet. Small boys do not 
believe that people will really kill them, but 
small boys were killed. 

The dead horse was still lying stiff and 
lamentable on the footpath. 

This morning a gunboat came up the Liffey 
and helped to bombard Liberty Hall. The 
Hall is breeched and useless. Rumour says 
that it was empty at the time, and that 
Connolly with his men had marched long 
before to the Post Office and the Green. The 
same source of information relates that three 
thousand Volunteers came from Belfast on 



an excursion train and that they marched 
into the Post Office. 

On this day only one of my men came in. 
He said that he had gone on the roof and had 
been shot at, consequently that the Volunteers 
held some of the covering houses. I went to 
the roof and remained there for half an hour. 
There were no shots, but the firing from the 
direction of Sackville Street was continuous 
and at times exceedingly heavy. 

To-day the Irish Times was published. It 
contained a new military proclamation, and a 
statement that the country was peaceful, and 
told that in Sackville Street some houses were 
burned to the ground. 

On the outside railings a bill proclaiming 
Martial Law was posted. 

Into the newspaper statement that peace 
reigned in the country one was inclined to 
read more of disquietude than of truth, and 
one said is the country so extraordinarily 
peaceful that it can be dismissed in three 
lines. There is too much peace or too much 
reticence, but it will be some time before we 
hear from outside of Dublin. 

Meanwhile the sun was shining. It was a 



delightful day, and the streets outside and 
around the areas of fire were animated and 
even gay. In the streets of Dublin there were 
no morose faces to be seen. Almost everyone 
was smiling and attentive, and a democratic 
feeling was abroad, to which our City is very 
much a stranger; for while in private we are 
a sociable and talkative people we have no 
street manners or public ease whatever. 
Every person spoke to every other person, 
and men and women mixed and talked with- - 
out constraint. 

Was the City for or against the Volun- 
teers? Was it for the Volunteers, and yet 
against the rising? It is considered now 
(writing a day or two afterwards) that 
Dublin was entirely against the Volunteers, 
but on the day of which I write no such cer- 
tainty could be put forward. There was a 
singular reticence on the subject. Men met 
and talked volubly, but they said nothing 
that indicated a personal desire or belief. 
They asked for and exchanged the latest 
news, or, rather, rumour, and while expres- 
sions were frequent of astonishment at the 
suddenness and completeness of the occur- 



rence, no expression of opinion for or against 
was anywhere formulated. 

Sometimes a man said, “They will be 
beaten of course,” and, as he prophesied, the 
neighbour might surmise if he did so with a 
sad heart or a merry one, but they knew 
nothing and asked nothing of his views, and 
themselves advanced no flag. 

This was among the men. 

The women were less guarded, or, perhaps, 
knew they had less to fear. Most of the 
female opinion I heard was not alone un- 
favourable but actively and viciously hostile 
to the rising. This was noticeable among the 
best dressed class of our population; the 
worst dressed, indeed the female dregs of 
Dublin life, expressed a like antagonism, and 
almost in similar language. The view ex- 
pressed was— 

‘‘T hope every man of them will be shot.” 


“ They ought to be all shot.” 

Shooting, indeed, was proceeding every- 
where. During daylight, at least, the sound 
is not sinister nor depressing, and the thought 
that perhaps a life had exploded with that 
crack is not depressing either. 



In the last two years of world-war our 
ideas on death have undergone a change. It 
is not now the furtive thing that crawled into 
your bed and which you fought with pill- 
boxes and medicine bottles. It has become 
again a rider of the wind whom you may go 
coursing with through the fields and open 
places. All the morbidity is gone, and the 
sickness, and what remains to Death is now 
health and excitement. So Dublin laughed 
at the noise of its own bombardment, and 
made no moan about its dead—in the 
sunlight. Afterwards—in the rooms, when 
the night fell, and instead of silence that 
mechanical barking of the maxims and the 
whistle and screams of the rifles, the solemn 
roar of the heavier guns, and the red glare 
covering the sky. It is possible that in the 
night Dublin did not laugh, and that she was 
gay in the sunlight for no other reason than 
that the night was past. 

On this day fighting was incessant at 
Mount Street Bridge. A party of Volunteers 
had seized three houses covering the bridge 
and converted these into forts. It is reported 
that military casualties at this point were 



very heavy. The Volunteers are said also to 
hold the South Dublin Union. The soldiers 
have seized Guinness’s Brewery, while their 
opponents have seized another brewery in the 
neighbourhood, and betwen these two there is 
a continual fusilade. 

Fighting is brisk about Ringsend and 
along the Canal. Dame Street was said to be 
held in many places by the Volunteers. I 
went down Dame Street, but saw no. Vol- 
unteers, and did not observe any sniping from 
the houses. Further, as Dame Street is en- 
tirely commanded by the roofs and windows 
of Trinity College, it is unlikely that they 
should be here. 

It was curious to observe this, at other 
times, so animated street, broad and deserted, 
with at the corners of side streets small 
knots of people watching. Seen from behind, 
Grattan’s Statue in College Green seemed 
almost alive, and he had the air of addressing 
warnings and reproaches to Trinity College. 

The Proclamation issued to-day warns all 
people to remain within doors until five 
o’clock in the morning, and after seven o’clock 
at night. 



It is still early. There is no news of any 
kind, and the rumours begin to catch quickly 
on each other and to cancel one another out. 
Dublin is entirely cut off from England, and 
from the outside world. It is, just as entirely 
cut off from the rest of Ireland; no news of 
any kind filters in to us. We are land-locked 
and sea-locked, but, as yet, it does not much 

Meantime the belief grows that the Volun- 
teers may be able to hold out much longer 
than had been imagined. The idea at first 
among the people had been that the insurrec- 
tion would be ended the morning after it had 
began. But to-day, the insurrection having 
lasted three days, people are ready to conceive 
that it may last for ever. There is almost a 
feeling of gratitude towards the Volunteers 
because they are holding out for a little while, 
for had they been beaten the first or second 
day the City would have been humiliated to 
the soul. 

People say: “Of course, they will be 
beaten.” The statement is almost a query, 
and they continue, “but they are putting up 
a decent fight.” For being beaten does not 


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? 3 = ie ei ee = Tt tg Trey =3 


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Sas = 



greatly matter in Ireland, but not fighting 
does matter. “They went forth always to 
the battle; and they always fell,” Indeed, the 
history of the Irish race is in that phrase. 

The firing from the roofs of Trinity College 
became violent. I crossed Dame Street some 
distance up, struck down the Quays, and went 
along these until I reached the Ballast Office. 
Further than this it was not possible to go, for 
a step beyond the Ballast Office would have 
brought one into the unending stream of lead 
that was pouring from Trinity and other 
places. I was looking on O’Connell Bridge 
and Sackville Street, and the house facing me 
was Kelly’s—a red-brick fishing tackle shop, 
one half of which was on the Quay and the 
other half in Sackville Street. This house 
was being bombarded. 

I counted the report of six different 
machine guns which played on it. Rifles in- 
numerable and from every sort of place were 
potting its windows, and at intervals of about 
half a minute the shells from a heavy gun 
lobbed in through its windows or thumped 
mightily against its walls. 

For three hours that bombardment con- 



tinued, and the walls stood in a cloud of red 
dust and smoke. Rifle and machine gun 
bullets pattered over every inch of it, and, 
unfailingly the heavy gun pounded its shells 
through the windows. 

One’s heart melted at the idea that human 
beings were crouching inside that volcano of 
death, and I said to myself, “ Not even a fly 
can be alive in that house.” 

No head showed at any window, no rifle 
cracked from window or roof in reply. The 
house was dumb, lifeless, and I thought every 
one of those men are dead. 

It was then, and quite suddenly, that the 
possibilities of street fighting flashed on me, 
and I knew there was no person in the house, 
and said to myself, “They have smashed 
through the walls with a hatchet and are 
sitting in the next house, or they have long 
ago climbed out by the skylight and are on a 
roof half a block away.” Then the thought 
came to me—they have and hold the entire of 
Sackville Street down to the Post Office. 
Later on this proved to be the case, and I 
knew at this moment that Sackville Street 
was doomed. 



I continued to watch the bombardment, 
but no longer with the anguish which had 
before torn me. Near by there were four men, 
and a few yards away, clustered in a laneway, 
there were a dozen others. An agitated girl 
was striding from the farther group to the 
one in which I was, and she addressed the 
men in the most obscene language which I 
have ever heard. She addressed them man by 
man, and she continued to speak and cry and 
scream at them with all that obstinate, angry 
patience of which only a woman is 

She cursed us all. She called down diseases 
on every human being in the world excepting 
only the men who were being bombarded. She 
demanded of the folk in the laneway that 
they should march at least into the roadway 
and prove that they were proud men and 
were not afraid of bullets. She had been her- 
self into the danger zone. Had stood herself 
in the track of the guns, and had there cursed 
her fill for half an hour, and she desired that 
the men should do at least what she had 

This girl was quite young—about nineteen 



years of age—and was dressed in the cus- 
tomary shawl and apron of her class. Her 
face was rather pretty, or it had that pretty 
slenderness and softness of outline which 
belong to youth. But every sentence she 
spoke contained half a dozen indecent words. 
Alas, it was only that her vocabulary was not 
equal to her emotions, and she did not know 
how to be emphatic without being obscene— 
it is the cause of most of the meaningless 
swearing one hears every day. She spoke to 
me for a minute, and her eyes were as soft as 
those of a kitten and her language was as 
gentle as her eyes. She wanted a match to 
light a cigarette, but I had none, and said 
that I also wanted one. In a few minutes she 
brought me a match, and then she recom- 
menced her tireless weaving of six vile words 
into hundreds of stupid sentences. 

About five o’clock the guns eased off of 

To inexperienced eyes they did not seem to 
have done very much damage, but afterwards 
one found that although the walls were stand- 
ing and apparently solid there was no inside 
to the house. From roof to basement the build 


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Ser SS Ae HORNE a SIG RB ea SK NCR ee TI i la te 

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ing was bare as a dog kennel. There were no 
floors inside, there was nothing there but 
blank space; and on the ground within was the 
tumble and rubbish that had been roof and 
floors and furniture. Everything inside was 
smashed and pulverised into scrap and dust, 
and the only objects that had consistency and 
their ancient shape were the bricks that fell 
when the shells struck them. 

Rifle shots had begun to strike the house 
on the further side of the street, a jewellers’ 
shop called Hopkins & Hopkins. The impact 
of these balls on the bricks was louder than 
the sound of the shot which immediately 
succeeded, and each bullet that struck 
brought down a shower of fine red dust from 
the walls. Perhaps thirty or forty shots in 
all were fired at Hopkins’, and then, except 
for an odd crack, firing ceased. 

During all this time there had been no re- 
ply from the Volunteers, and I thought they 
must be husbanding their ammunition, and so 
must be short of it, and that it would be only 
a matter of a few days before the end. All 
this, I said to myself, will be finished in a 
few days, and they will be finished; life here 



will recommence exactly where it left off, and 
except for some newly-filled graves, all will 
be as it had been until they become a tradi- 
tion and enter the imagination of their 

I spoke to several of the people about me, 
and found the same willingness to exchange 
news that I had found elsewhere in the City, 
and the same reticences as regarded their 
private opinions. Two of them, indeed, and 
they were the only two I met with during the 
insurrection, expressed, although in measured. 
terms, admiration for the Volunteers, and 
while they did not side with them they did 
not say anything against them. One was a 
labouring man, the other a gentleman. The 
remark of the latter was: 

“T am an Irishman, and (pointing to the 
shells that were bursting through the win- 
dows in front of us) I hate to see that being 
done to other Irishmen.” 

He had come from some part of the country 
to spend the Easter Holidays in Dublin, and 
was unable to leave town again. 

The labouring man—he was about fifty-six 
years of age—spoke very quietly and col- 



lectedly about the insurrection. He was a 
type with whom I had come very little in con- 
tact, and I was surprised to find how simple 
and good his speech was, and how calm his 
ideas. He thought labour was in this move- 
ment to a greater extent than was imagined. 
I mentioned that Liberty Hall had been 
blown up, and that the garrison had either 
surrendered or been killed. He replied that 
a gunboat had that morning come up the 
river and had blown Liberty Hall into smash, 
but, he added, there were no men in it. All 
the Labour Volunteers had marched with 
Connolly into the Post Office. 

He said the Labour Volunteers might pos- 
sibly number about one thousand men, but 
that it would be quite safe to say eight hun- 
dred, and he held that the Labour Volun- 
teers, or the Citizens’ Army, as they called 
themselves, had always been careful not to 
reveal their numbers. They had always an- 
nounced that they possessed about two hun- 
dred and fifty men, and had never paraded 
any more than that number at any one time. 
Workingmen, he continued, knew that the 
men who marched were always different men. 



The police knew it, too, but they thought that 
the Citizens Army was the most deserted- 
from force in the world. 

The men, however, were not deserters—you 
don’t, he said, desert a man like Connolly, 
and they were merely taking their turn at 
being drilled and disciplined. They were 
raised against the police who, in the big, 
strike of two years ago, had acted towards 
them with unparallelled savagery, and the 
men had determined that the police would 
never again find them thus disorganised. 

This man believed that every member of 
the Citizen Army had marched with their 

“The men, I know,” said he, “ would not 
be afraid of anything, and,’ he continued, 
“they are in the Post Office now.” 

‘What chance have they*” 

“None,” he replied, “and they never said 
they had, and they never thought they would 
have any.” 

“How long do you think they'll be able to 
hold out ? ” | 

He nodded towards the house that had been 
bombarded bv heavy guns. 



“That will root them out of it quick 
enough,” was his reply. 

“I’m going home,” said he then, “the 
people will be wondering if I’m dead or alive,” 
and he walked away from that sad street, as 
I did myself a few minutes afterwards. 



AGAIN, the rumours greeted one. This 
place had fallen and had not fallen. Such a 
position had been captured by the soldiers; 
recaptured by the Volunteers, and had not 
been attacked at all. But certainly fighting 
was proceeding. Up Mount Street, the rifle 
volleys were continuous, and the coming and 
going of ambulance cars from that direction 
were continuous also. Some spoke of pitched 
battles on the bridge, and said that as yet the 
advantage lay with the Volunteers. 

At 11.30 there came the sound of heavy 
guns firing in the direction of Sackville Street. 
I went on the roof, and remained there for 
some time. From this height the sounds could 
be heard plainly. There was sustained firing 
along the whole central line of the City, from 
the Green down to Trinity College, and from 
thence to Sackville Street, and the report of 
the various types of arm could be easily dis- 
tinguished. There were rifles, machine guns 



and very heavy cannon. There was another 
sound which I could not put a name to, some- 
thing that coughed out over all the other 
sounds, a short, sharp bark, or rather a short 
noise something like the popping of a tremen- 
dous cork. 

I met D. H. His chief emotion is one of 
astonishment at the organizing powers dis- 
played by the Volunteers. We have exchanged 
rumours, and found that our equipment in 
this direction is almost identical. He says 
Sheehy Skeffington has been killed. That he 
was arrested in a house wherein arms were 
found, and was shot out of hand. 

I hope this is another rumour, for, so far 
as my knowledge of him goes, he was not with 
the Volunteers, and it is said that he was 
antagonistic to the forcible methods for which 
the Volunteers stood. But the tale of his 
death is so persistent that one is inclined to 
believe it. 

He was the most absurdly courageous man 
I have ever met with or heard of. He has 
been in every trouble that has touched Ireland 
these ten years back, and he has always been 
in on the generous side, therefore, and 



naturally, on the side that was unpopular 
and weak. It would seem indeed that a cause 
had only to be weak to gain his sympathy, 
and his sympathy never stayed at home. 
There are so many good people who “‘ sympa- 
thise ’’ with this or that cause, and, having 
given that measure of their emotion, they give 
no more of it or of anything else. But he 
rushed instantly to the street. A large stone, 
the lift of a footpath, the base of a statue, any 
place and every place was for him a pulpit; 
and, in the teeth of whatever oppression or 
disaster or power, he said his say. 

There are multitudes of men in Dublin of 
all classes and creeds who can boast that they 
kicked Sheehy Skeffington, or that they 
struck him on the head with walking sticks 
and umbrellas, or that they smashed their 
fists into his face, and jumped on him when 
he fell. It is by no means an exaggeration to 
say that these things were done to him, and 
it is true that he bore ill-will to no man, and 

that he accepted blows, and indignities and | 

ridicule with the pathetic candour of a child 

who is disguised as a man, and whose disguise 

cannot come off. His tongue, his pen, his 

- es aie ea ona eo = ~ ear Se aa 
Se ———— sr nr NS - nas 
Sa RS ae ei Beast ae EBB SSIS TS Ah T= SON Res es PI, ti SENSES ee 
"3 aa 3 . prepa a a —_ . was" gee 

= emer SSS 


body, all that he had and hoped for were at 
the immediate service of whoever was be- 
wildered or oppressed. He has been shot. 
Other men have been shot, but they faced 
the guns knowing that they faced justice, 
however stern and oppressive; and that what 
they had engaged to confront was before 
them. He had no such thought to soothe 
from his mind anger or unforgiveness. He 
who was a pacifist was compelled to revolt 
to his last breath, and on the instruments of 
his end he must have looked as on murderers. 
I am sure that to the end he railed against 
oppression, and that he fell marvelling that 
the world can truly be as it is. With his 
death there passed away a brave man and a 
clean soul. 

Later on this day I met Mrs. Sheehy 
Skeffington in the street. She confirmed the 
rumour that her husband had been arrested 
on the previous day, but further than that 
she had no news. So far as I know the sole 
crime of which her husband had been guilty 
was that he called for a meeting of the citizens 
to enrol special constables and prevent loot- 



Among the rumours it was stated with 
every accent of certitude that Madame Mar- 
kievicz had been captured in George’s Street, 
and taken to the Castle. It was also current 
that Sir Roger Casement had been captured 
at sea and had already been shot in the Tower 
of London. The names of several Volunteer 
Leaders are mentioned as being dead. But 
the surmise that steals timidly from one 
mouth flies boldly as a certitude from every 
mouth that repeats it, and truth itself would 
now be listened to with only a gossip’s ear, 
but no person would believe a word of it. 

This night also was calm and beautiful, but 
this night was the most sinister and woeful of 
those that have passed. The sound of artil- 
lery, of rifles, machine guns, grenades, did 
not cease even for a moment. From my 
window I saw a red flare that crept to the 
sky, and stole over it and remained there 
glaring; the smoke reached from the ground 
to the clouds, and I could see great red sparks 
go soaring to enormous heights; while always, 
in the calm air, hour after hour there was the 
buzzing and rattling and thudding of guns, 
and, but for the guns, silence. 



It is in a dead silence this Insurrection is 
being fought, and one imagines what must be 
the feeling of these men, young for the most 
part, and unused to violence, who are sub- 
mitting silently to the crash and flame and 
explosion by which they are surrounded. 




THIS morning there are no newspapers, no 
bread, no milk, no news. Thesun is shining, 
and the streets are lively but discreet. All 
people continue to talk to one another with- 
out distinction of class, but nobody knows 
what any person thinks. 

It is a little singular the number of people 

who are smiling. I fancy they were listening 
to the guns last night, and they are smiling 
this morning because the darkness is past, 
and because the sun is shining, and because 
they can move their limbs in space, and may 
talk without having to sink their voices to a 
whisper. Guns do not sound so bad in the 
day as they do at night, and no person can 
feel lonely while the sun shines. 

The men are smiling, but the women laugh, 
and their laughter does not displease, for 
whatever women do in whatever circum- 
stances appears to have a rightness of its own. 


It seems right that they should scream when 
danger to themselves is imminent, and it 
seems right that they should laugh when the 
danger only threatens others. 

It is rumoured this morning that Sackville 

treet has been burned out and levelled to 
the ground. It is said that the end is in 
sight; and, it is said, that matters are, if any- 
thing rather worse than better. That the 
Volunteers have sallied from some of their 
strongholds and entrenched themselves, and 
that in one place alone (the South Lotts) they 
have seven machine guns. That when the 
houses which they held became untenable they 
rushed out and seized other houses, and that, 
pursuing these tactics, there seemed no reason 
to believe that the Insurrection would ever 
come to an end. That the streets are filled 
with Volunteers in plain clothes, but having 
revolvers in their pockets. That the streets 
are filled with soldiers equally revolvered and 
plain clothed, and that the least. one says on 
any subject the less one would have to answer 

The feeling that I tapped was definitely 
Anti-Volunteer, but the number of people who 



would speak was few, and one regarded the 
noncommital folk who were so smiling and 
polite, and so prepared to talk, with much 
curiosity, seeking to read in their eyes, in 
their bearing, even in the cut of their clothes 
vhat might be the secret movements and cogi- 
tations of their minds. 

I received the impression that numbers of 
them did not care a rap what way it went; 
and that others had ceased to be mental 
creatures and were merely machines for regis- 
tering the sensations of the time. 

None of these people were prepared for 
Insurrection. The thing had been sprung on 
them so suddenly that they were unable to 
take sides, and their feeling of detachment 
was still so complete that they would have 
betted on the business as if it had been a horse 
race or a dog fight. 

Many English troops have been landed each 
night, and it is believed that there are more 
than sixty thousand soldiers in Dublin alone, 
and that they are supplied with every 
offensive contrivance which military art has 

Merrion Square is strongly held by the 



soldiers. They are posted along both sides 
of the road at intervals of about twenty paces, 
and their guns are continually barking up at 
the roofs which surround them in the great 
square. It is said that these roofs are held 
by the Volunteers from Mount Street Bridge 
te the Square, and that they hold in like 
manner wide stretches of the City. 

They appear to have mapped out the roofs 
with all the thoroughness that had hitherto 
been expended on the roads, and upon these 
roofs they are so mobile and crafty and so 
much at home that the work of the soldiers 
will be exceedingly difficult as well as dan- 

Still, and notwithstanding, men can only 
take to the roofs for a short time. Up there, 
there can be no means of transport, and their 
ammunition, as well as their food, will very 
soon be used up. It is the beginning of the 
end, and the fact that they have to take to the 
roofs, eventhough that bein their programme, 
means that they are finished. 

From the roof there comes the sound of 
machine guns. Looking towards Sackville 
Street one picks out easily Nelson’s Pillar, 



which towers slenderly over all the buildings 

of the neighbourhood. It is wreathed in 
smoke. Another towering building was the 

D.B.C. Café. Its Chinese-like pagoda was 
a landmark easily to be found, but to-day I 
could not find it. It was not there, and I knew 
that, even if all Sackville Street was not 
burned down, as rumour insisted, this great 
Café had certainly been curtailed by its roof 
and might, perhaps, have been completely 

On the gravel paths I found pieces of 
charred and burnt paper. These scraps 
must have been blown remarkably high to have 
crossed all the roofs that lie between Sackville 
Street and Merrion Square. 

At eleven o’clock there is continuous firing, 
and snipers firing from the direction of Mount 
Street, and in every direction of the City 
these sounds are being duplicated. 

In Camden Street the sniping and casual- 
ties are said to have been very heavy. One 
man saw two Volunteers taken from a house 
by the soldiers. They were placed kneeling 
in the centre of the road, and within one 
minute of their capture they were dead. 



Simultaneously there fell several of the firing 

An officer in this part had his brains blown 
into the roadway. A young girl ran into the 
road picked up his cap and scraped the brains 
into it. She covered this poor debris with a 
little straw, and carried the hat piously to 
the nearest hospital in order that the brains 
might be buried with their owner. 

The continuation of her story was less 
gloomy although it affected the teller equally. 

‘* There is not,’’ said she, “‘ a cat or a dog 
left alive in Camden Street. They are lying 
stiff out in the road and up on the roofs. 
There’s lots of women will be sorry for this 
war,’ said she, ‘‘ and their pets killed on 

In many parts of the City hunger began to be 
troublesome. A’ girl told me that her family, 
and another that had taken refuge with them, 
had eaten nothing for three days. On this 
day her father managed to get two loaves of 
bread somewhere, and he brought these home. 

‘““ When,”’ said the girl, ‘‘ my father came 
in with the bread the whole fourteen of us 
ran at him, and in a minute we were all 



ashamed for the loaves were gone to the last 
crumb, and we were all as hungry as we had 
been before he came in. The poor man,’ 
said she, ‘‘ did not even get a bit for himself.”’ 
She held that the poor people were against 
the Volunteers. 

The Volunteers still hold Jacob’s Biscuit 
Factory. It is rumoured that a priest visited 
them and counselled surrender, and they re- 
plied that they did not go there to surrender 
but tobe killed. They asked him to give them 
absolution, and the story continues that he 
refused to do so—but this is not (in its latter 
part) a story that can easily be credited. 
The Adelaide Hospital is close to this factory, 
and it is possible that the proximity of the 
hospital, delays or hinders military opera- 
tions against the factory. 

Rifle volleys are continuous about Merrion 
Square, and prolonged machine gun firing can 
be heard also. 

During the night the firing was heavy from 
almost every direction; and in the direction 
of Sackville Street a red glare told again of 

It is hard to get to bed these nights. It is 



hard even to sit down, for the moment one 
does sit down one stands immediately up 
again resuming that ridiculous ship’s march 
from the window to the wall and back. Iam 
foot weary as I have never been before in my 
life, but I cannot say that I am excited. No 
person in Dublin is excited, but there exists 
a state of tension and expectancy which is 
mentally more exasperating than any excite- 
ment couldbe. The absence of news is largely 
responsible for this. We do not know what 
has happened, what is happening, or what is 
going to happen, and the reversion to bar- 
barism (for barbarism is largely a lack of 
news) disturbs us. 

Each night we have got to bed at last mur- 
muring, ‘‘I wonder will it be all over to- 
morrow,’ and this night the like question 
accompanied us. 



Tuis morning also théfe has been no bread, 
no milk, no meat, no newspapers, but the sun 
is shining. It is astonishing that, thus early 
in the Spring, the weather should be so beau- 

It is stated freely that the Post Office has 
been taken, and just as freely it is averred 
that it has not been taken. The approaches 
to Merrion Square are held by the military, 
and I was not permitted to go to my office. 
As I came to this point shots were fired at a 
motor car which had not stopped on being 
challenged. Bystanders said it was Sir 
Horace Plunkett’s car, and that he had been 
shot. Later we found that Sir Horace was 
not hurt, but that his nephew who drove the 
car had been severely wounded. 

At this hour the rumour of the fall of 
Verdun was persistent. Later on it was 
denied, as was denied the companion rumour 



of the relief of Kut. Saw R. who had spent 
three days and the whole of his money in get- 
ting home from County Clare. He had heard 
that Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington’s house was 
raided, and that two dead bodies had been 
taken out of it. Saw Miss P. who seemed 
sad. I do not know what her politics are, 
but I think that the word “‘ kindness ’’ might 
be used to cover all her activities. She has 
a heart of gold, and the courage of many 
lions. I then met Mr. Commissioner Bailey 
who said the Volunteers had sent a deputa- 
tion, and that terms of surrender were being 
discussed. I hope this is true, and I hope 
mercy willbe shown tothe men. Nobody be- 
lieves there will be any mercy shown, and it 
is freely reported that they are shot in the 
street, or are taken to the nearest barracks 
and shot there. The belief grows that no 
person who is now in the Insurrection will be 
alive when the Insurrection is ended. 

That is as it will be. But these days the 
thought of death does not strike on the mind 
with any severity, and, should the European 
war continue much longer, the fear of death 
will entirely depart from man, as it has de- 


parted many times in history. With that 
great deterrent gone our rulers will be gravely 
at a loss in dealing with strikers and other 
such discontented people. Possibly they will 
have to resurrect the long-buried idea of tor- 

The people in the streets are laughing and 
chatting. Indeed, there is gaiety in the air 
as well as sunshine, and no person seems to 
care that men are being shot every other 
minute, or bayoneted, or blown into scraps 
or burned into cinders. These things are 
happening, nevertheless, but much of their 
importance has vanished. 

I met a man at the Green who was drawing 
a plan on the back of an envelope. The 
problem was how his questioner was to get 
from where he was standing to a street lying 
at the other side of the river, and the plan as 
drawn insisted that to cover this quarter of 
an hour’s distance he must set out on a 
pilgrimage of more than twenty miles. An- 
other young boy was standing near embracing 
a large ham. He had been trying for three 
days to convey his ham to a house near the 
Gresham Hotel where his sister lived. He 



had almost given up hope, and he hearkened 
intelligently to the idea that he should him- 
self eat the ham and so get rid of it. 

The rifle fire was persistent all day, but, 
saving in certain localities, it was not heavy. 
Occasionally the machine guns rapped in. 
There was no sound of heavy artillery. 

The rumour grows that the Post Office has 
been evacuated, and that the Volunteers are 
at large and spreading everywhere across the 
roofs. The rumour grows also that terms of 
surrender are being discussed, and that 
Sackville Street has been levelled to th 

At half-past seven in the evening calm is 
almost complete. The sound of a rifle shot 
being only heard at long intervals. 

I got to bed this night earlier than usual. 
At two o'clock I left the window from which 
a red flare is yet visible in the direction of 
Sackville Street. The morning will tell if 
the Insurrection is finished or not, but at this 
hour all is not over. Shots are ringing all 
around and down my street, and the vicious 
crackling of these rifles grow at times into 
regular volleys. 

| 66 


THE Insurrection has not ceased. 

There is much rifle fire, but no sound from 
the machine guns or the eighteen pounders 
and trench mortars. 

From the window of my kitchen the flag of 
the Republic can be seen flying afar. This 
is the flag that flies over Jacob’s Biscuit 
Factory, and I will know that the Insurrec- 
tion has ended as soon as I see this flag pulled 

When I went out there were few people in 
the streets. I met D. H., and, together, we 
passed up the Green. The Republican flag 
was still flying over the College of Surgeons. 
We tried to get down Grafton Street (where 
broken windows and two gaping interiors 
told of the recent visit of looters), but a little 
down this street we were waved back by armed 
sentries. We then cut away by the Gaiety 
Theatre into Mercer’s Street, where immense 

67 | 


lines of poor people were drawn up waiting 
for the opening of the local bakery. We got 
into George’s Street, thinking to turn down 
Dame Street and get from thence near enough 
to Sackville Street to see if the rumours about 
“its destruction were true, but here also we 
were halted by the military, and had to re- 
trace our steps. 

There was no news of any kind to be 
cathered from the people we talked to, nor 
had they even any rumours. 

This was the first day I had been able to get 
even a short distance outside of my own 
quarter, and it seemed that the people of my 
quarter were more able in the manufacture of 
news or more imaginative than were the 
people who live in other parts of the city. 
We had no sooner struck into home parts than 
we found news. We were told that two of the 
Volunteer leaders had been shot. These were 
Pearse and Connolly. The latter was re- 
ported as lying in the Castle Hospital with 
a fractured thigh. Pearse was cited as dead 
with two hundred of his men, following their 
sally from the Post Office. The machine 
guns had caught them as they left, and none 



of them remained alive. The news seemed 
afterwards to be true except that instead of 
Pearse it was The O’Rahilly who had been 
killed. Pearse died later and with less ex- 

A man who had seen an English newspaper 
said that the Kut force had surrendered to 
the Turk, but that Verdun had not fallen 
to the Germans. The rumour was current 
also that a great naval battle had been fought 
whereat the German fleet had been totally 
destroyed with loss to the English of eighteen 
warships. It was said that among the 
captured Volunteers there had been a large 
body of Germans, but nobody believed it; 
and this rumour was inevitably followed 
by the tale that there were one hundred 
German submarines lying in the Stephen’s 
Green pond. 

At half-past two I met Mr. Commissioner 
Bailey, who told me that it was all over, and 
that the Volunteers were surrendering every- 
where in the city. A motor car with two 
military officers, and two Volunteer leaders 
had driven to the College of Surgeons and 
been admitted. After a short interval 



Madame Marckievicz marched out of the 
College at the head of about 100 men, and 
they had given up their arms; the motor car 
with the Volunteer leaders was driving to 
other strongholds, and it was expected that 
before nightfall the capitulations would be 

I started home, and on the way I met a 
man whom I had encountered some days pre- 
viously, and from whom rumours had sprung 
as though he wove them from his entrails, 
as a spider weaves his web. He was no less 
provided on this occasion, and it was curious 
to listen to his tale of English defeats on 
every front. He announced the invasion of 
England in six different quarters, the total 
destruction of the English fleet, and the land- 
ing of immense German armies on the West 
coast of Ireland. He made these things up 
in his head. Then he repeated them to him- 
self in a loud voice, and became somehow 
persuaded that they had been told to him by 
a well-informed stranger, and then he be- 
lieved them and told them to everybody he 
met. Amongst other things Spain had 
declared war on our behalf, the Chilian Navy 



was hastening to our relief. For a pin he 
would have sent France flying westward all 
forgetful of her own war. A singular man 
truly, and as I do think the only thoroughly 
happy person in our city. 

It is half-past three o’clock, and from my 
window the Republican flag can still be seen 
flying over Jacob’s factory. There is occa- 
sional shooting, but the city as a whole is 
quiet. At a quarter to five o’clock a heavy 
gun boomed once. Ten minutes later there 
was heavy machine gun firing and much rifle 
shooting. In another ten minutes the flag 
at Jacob’s was hauled down. 

During the remainder of the night sniping 
and military replies were incessant, particu- 
larly in my street. 

The raids have begun in private houses. 
Count Plunkett’s house was entered by the 
military who remained there for a very long 
time. Passing home about two minutes after 
Proclamation hour I was pursued for the 
whole of Fitzwilliam Square by bullets. They 
buzzed into the roadway beside me, and the 
sound as they whistled near was curious. The 
sound is something like that made by a very 



swift saw, and one gets the impression that 
as well as being very swift they are very 

Snipers are undoubtedly on the roofs 
opposite my house, and they are not asleep 
on these roofs. Possibly it is difficult to 
communicate with these isolated bands the 
news of their companions’ surrender, but it 
is likely they will learn, by the diminution of 
fire in other quarters that their work is over. 

In the morning on looking from my window 
I saw four policemen marching into the 
street. They were the first I had seen for a 
week. Soon now the military tale will finish, 
the police story will commence, the political 
story will recommence, and, perhaps, the 
weeks that follow this one will sow the seed 
of more hatred than so many centuries will 
be able to uproot again, for although Irish 
people do not greatly fear the military they 
fear the police, and they have very good 
reason to do so. 



Tue Insurrection is over, and it is worth 
asking what has happened, how it has hap- 
pened, and why it happened? 

The first question is easily answered. The 
finest part of our city has been blown to 
smithereens, and burned into ashes. Soldiers 
amongst us who have served abroad say that 
the ruin of this quarter is more complete than 
any thing they have seen at Ypres, than any- 
thing they have seen anywhere in France or 
Flanders. A great number of our men and 
women and children, Volunteers and civilians 
confounded alike, are dead, and some fifty 
thousand men who have been moved with 
military equipment to our land are now being 
removed therefrom. The English nation has 
been disorganised no more than as they wer2 
affected by the transport of these men and 
material. That is what happened, and it is 
all that happened. 

How it happened is another matter, and 



one which, perhaps, will not be made clear 
for years. All we know in Dublin is that our 
city burst into a kind of spontaneous war; 
that we lived through it during one singular 
week, and that it faded away and disappeared 
almost as swiftly as it had come. The men 
who knew about it are, with two exceptions, 
dead, and these two exceptions are in gaol, 
and likely to remain there long enough. 
(Since writing one of these men has been shot.) 

Why it happened is a question that may be 
answered more particularly. It happened 
because the leader of the Irish Party mis- 
represented his people in the English House 
of Parliament. On the day of the declaration 
of war between England and Germany he took 
the Irish case, weighty with eight centuries 
of history and tradition, and he threw it out 
of the window. He pledged Ireland to a par- 
ticular course of action, and he had no 
authority to give this pledge and he had no 
cuarantee that it would be met. The ram- 
shackle intelligence of his party and his own 
emotional nature betrayed him and us and 
England. He swore Ireland to loyalty as if 
he had Ireland in his pocket, and could answer 



for her. Ireland has never been disloyal to 
England, not even at this epoch, because she 
has never been loyal to England, and the pro- 
fession of her National faith has been un- 
wavering, has been known to every English 
person alive, and has been clamant to all the 
world beside. 

Is it that he wanted to be cheered? He 
could very easily have stated Ireland’s case 
truthfully, and have proclaimed a benevolent 
neutrality (if he cared to use the grandilo- 
quent words) on the part of this country. He 
would have gotten his cheers, he would in a 
few months have gotten Home Rule in re- 
turn for Irish soldiers. He would have 
received politically whatever England could 
have safely given him. But, alas, these 
carefulnesses did not chime with his emotional 
moment. They were not magnificent enough 
for one who felt that he was talking not to 
Ireland or to England, but to the whole © 
gaping and eager earth, and so he pledged 
his country’s credit so deeply that he did not 
leave her even one National rag to cover her- 
self with. 

After a lie truth bursts out, and it is no 


longer the radiant and serene goddess w2 
knew or hoped for—it is a disease, it is a 
moral syphilis and will ravage until the body 
in which it can dwell has been purged. Mr. 
Redmond told the lie and he is answerable to 
England for the violence she had to be guilty 
of, and to Ireland for the desolation to which 
we have had to submit. Without his lie 
there had been no Insurrection; without it 
there had been at this moment, and for a year 
past, an end to the “ Irish question.” Ireland 
must in ages gone have been guilty of abomin- 
able crimes or she could not at this juncture 
have been afflicted with a John Redmond. 

He is the immediate cause of this our latest 
Insurrection—the word is big, much too big 
for the deed, and we should call it row, or 
riot, or squabble, in order to draw the fact 
down to its dimensions, but the ultimate 
blame for the trouble between the two coun- 
tries does not fall against Ireland. 

The fault lies with England, and in these 
days while an effort is being made (inter- 
rupted, it is true, by cannon) to found a better 
understanding between the two nations it is 
well that England should recognize what she 



has done to Ireland, and should try at least 
to atone for it. The situation can be explained 
almost ina phrase. We are a little country 
and you, a huge country, have persistently 
beaten us. We are a poor country and you, 
the richest country in the world, have per- 
sistently robbed us. That is the historical 
fact, and whatever national or political neces- 
sities are opposed in reply, it is true that you 
have never given Ireland any reason to love 
you, and you cannot claim her affection with- 
out hypocrisy or stupidity. 

You think our people can only be tenacious 
in hate—it is a lie. Our historical memory 
is truly tenacious, but during the long and 
miserable tale of our relations you have never 
given us one generosity to remember you by, 
and you must not claim our affection or our 
devotion until you are worthy of them. We 
are a good people; almost we are the only 
Christian people left in the world, nor has 
any nation shown such forbearance towards 
their persecutor as we have always shown to 
you. No nation has forgiven its enemies as 
we have forgiven you, time after time down 
the miserable generations, the continuity of 
our forgiveness only equalled by the contin- 



uity of your ill-treatment. Between our two 
countries you have kept and protected a screen 
of traders and politicians who are just as 
truly your enemies as they are ours. In the 
end they will do most harm to you for we are 
by this vaccinated against misery but you are 
not, and the “ loyalists ’’ who sell their own 
country for a shilling will sell another country 
for a penny when the opportunity comes and 
safety with it. 

Meanwhile do not always hasten your pre- 
sents to us out of a gun. You have done ii 
so often that your guns begin to bore us, and 
you have now an opportunity which may never 
occur again to make us your friends. There 
is no bitterness in Ireland against you on 
account of this war, and the lack of ill-feeling 
amongst us is entirely due to the more than 
admirable behaviour of the soldiers whom 
you sent over here. A peace that will last for 
ever can be made with Ireland if you wish to 
make it, but you must take her hand at once, 
for in a few months’ time she will not open it 
to you; the old, bad relations will re-com- 
mence, the rancor will be born and grow, and 
another memory will be stored away in 
Ireland’s capacious and retentive brain. 



THERE is much talk of the extraordinary 
organising powers displayed in the insurrec- 
tion, but in truth there was nothing extraor- 
dinary in it. The real essence and singu- 
larity of the rising exists in its simplicity, 
and, saving for the courage which carried it 
out, the word extraordinary is misplaced in 
this context. 

The tactics of the Volunteers as they began 
to emerge were reduced to the very skeleton 
of “strategy.” It was only that they seized 
certain central and stragetical districts, gar- 
risoned those and held them until they were 
put out of them. Once in their forts there 
was no further egress by the doors, and for 
purpose of entry and sortie they used the sky- 
lights and the roofs. On the roofs they had 
plenty of cover, and this cover conferred on 
them a mobility which was their chief asset, 
and which alone enabled them to protract the 
rebellion beyond the first day. 



oot eee 

an ee a 



perma SB tn a or 0 peg EE operat mena 
rae st oan " ce ~ ‘. ae ee a PSS a = oe ee a are 
Pee SE 

Se ee Sega 

ree i 


This was the entire of their home plan, and 
there is no doubt that they had studied 
Dublin roofs and means of inter-communi- 
cation by roofs with the closest care. Fur- 
ther than that I do not think they had or- 
ganised anything. But this was only the 
primary plan, and, unless they were entirely 
mad, there must have been a sequel to it 
which did not materialise, and which would 
have materialised but that the English Fleet 
blocked the way. 

There is no doubt that they expected the 
country to rise with them, and they must have 
known what their own numbers were, and 
what chance they had of making a protracted 
resistance. The word “resistance” is the 
keyword of the rising, and the plan of hold- 
ing out must have been rounded off with a 
date. At that date something else was to 
have happened which would relieve them. 

There is not much else that could happen 
except the landing of German troops in Ire- 
land or in England. It would have been, I 
think, immaterial to them where these were 
landed, but the reasoning seems to point to 
the fact that they expected and had arranged 



for such a landing, although on this point 
there is as yet no evidence. 

The logic of this is so simple, so plausible, 
that it might be accepted without further ex. 
amination, and yet further examination is 
necessary, for in a country like Ireland logic 
and plausibility are more often wrong than 
right. It may just as easily be that except 
for furnishing some arms and ammunition 
Germany was not in the rising at all, and this 
I prefer to believe. It had been current long 
before the rising that the Volunteers knew 
they could not seriously embarass England, 
and that their sole aim was to make such a row 
in Ireland that the Irish question would take 
the status of an international one, and on the 
discussion of terms of peace in the European 
war the claims of Ireland would have to be 
considered by the whole Council of oh ca 
and the world. 

That is, in my opinion, the metaphysic 
behind the rising. It is quite likely that they 
hoped for German aid, possibly some thou- 
sands of men, who would enable them to pro- 
long the row, but I do not believe they ex- 
pected German armies, nor do I think they 


- specepeeeetanareeeteiicavinen apo Lenape 
a ee 2 




ee EET ARE eee ~ bs Si RB i pre ye ye PIT A gt cn SE my Semmens) ~ 
— SEY NE a ee ” Seer: were ne — Sater Aaenternatat a acaerr cen wae a - 



would have welcomed these with any cor- 

In this insurrection there are two things 
which are singular in the history of Irish 
risings. One is that there were no informers, 
or there were no informers among the chiefs. 
I did hear people say in the streets that two 
days before the rising they knew it was to 
come; they invariably added that they had 
not believed the news, and had laughed at it. 
A priest said the same thing in my hearing, 
and it may be that the rumour was widely 
spread, and that everybody, including the 
authorities, looked upon it as a joke. 

The other singularity of the rising is the 
amazing silence in which it was fought. 
Nothing spoke but the guns; and the Volun- 
teers on the one side and the soldiers on the 
other potted each other and died in whispers; 
it might have been said that both sides feared 
the Germans would hear them and take ad- 
vantage of their preoccupation. 

There is a third reason given for the re- 
bellion, and it also is divorced from foreign 
plots. It is said, and the belief in Dublin was 
widespread, that the Government intended to 



raid the Volunteers and seize their arms. 
One remembers to-day the paper which 
Alderman Kelly read to the Dublin Corpo- 
ration, and which purported to be State In- 
structions that the Military and Police should 
raid the Volunteers, and seize their arms and 
leaders. The Volunteers had sworn they 
would not permit their arms to be taken from 
them. A list of the places to be raided was 
given, and the news created something of a 
sensation in Ireland when it was published 
that evening. The Press, by instruction ap- 
parently, repudiated this document, but the 
Volunteers, with most of the public, believed 
it to be true, and it is more than likely that 
the rebellion took place in order to forestall 
the Government. — : 

This is also an explanation of the rebel- 
lion, and is just as good a one as any other. 
It is the explanation which I believe to be the 
true one. 

All the talk of German invasion and the 
landing of German troops in Ireland is so 
much nonsense in view of the fact that Eng- 
land is master of the seas, and that from a 
week before the war down to this date she 



has been the undisputed monarch of those 
ridges. During this war there will be no 
landing of troops in either England or Ire- 
land unless Germany in the meantime can 
solve the problem of submarine transport. It 
is a problem which will be solved some day, 
for every problem can be solved, but it will 
hardly be during the progress of this war. 
The men at the head of the Volunteers were 
not geniuses, neither were they fools, and 
the difficulty of acquiring military aid from 
Germany must have seemed as insurmount- 
able to them as it does to the Germans them- 
selves. They rose because they felt that they 
had to do so, or be driven like sheep into the 
nearest police barracks, and be laughed at 
by the whole of Ireland as cowards and 

It would be interesting to know why, on the 
eve of the insurrection, Professor MacNeill 
resigned the presidency of the Volunteers. 
The story of treachery which was heard in 
the streets is not the true one, for men of his 
type are not traitors, and this statement may 
be dismissed without further comment or 
notice. One is left to imagine what can have 



happened during the conference which is said 
to have preceded the rising, and which ended 
with the resignation of Professor MacNeill. 
This is my view, or my imagining, of what 
occurred. The conference was called because 
the various leaders felt that a hostile move- 
ment was projected by the Government, and 
that the times were exceedingly black for 
them. Neither Mr. Birrell nor Sir Mathew 
Nathan had any desire that there should be 
a conflict in Ireland during the war. This 
cannot be doubted. From such a conflict there 
might follow all kinds of political reper- 
cussions; but although the Government 
favoured the policy of laissez faire, there was 
a powerful military and political party in 
Ireland whose whole effort was towards the 
disarming and punishment of the Volun- 
teers—particularly I should say the punish- 
ment of the Volunteers. I believe, or rather 
I imagine, that Professor MacNeill was ap- 
proached at the instance of Mr. Birrell or Sir 
Ma.hew Nathan and assured that the Govern- 
ment did not meditate any move against his 
men, and that so long as his Volunteers re- 
mained quiet they would not be molested by 


the authorities. I would say that Professor 
MacNeill gave and accepted the necessary 
assurances, and that when he informed his 
conference of what had occurred, and found 
that they did not believe faith would be kept 
with them, he resigned in the dispairing hope 
that his action might turn them from a pur- 
pose which he considered lunatic, or, at least, 
by restraining a number of his followers from 
rising, he might limit the tale of men who 
would be uselessly killed. 

He was not alone in his vote against a 
rising. The O’Rahilly and some others are 
reputed to have voted with him, but when 
insurrection was decided on, the O’Rahilly 
marched with his men, and surely a gallant 
man could not have done otherwise. 

When the story of what occurred is autho- 
ritatively written (it may be written) I think 
that this will be found to be the truth of 
the matter, and that German intrigue and 
German money counted for so little in the in- 
surrection as to be negligible. 

q i 



MEANWHILE the insurrection, like all its his- 
torical forerunners, has been quelled in blood. 
It sounds rhetorical to say so, but it was not 
quelled in peasoup or tisane. While it lasted 
the fighting was very determined, and it is 
easily, I think, the most considerable of Irish 

The country was not with it, for be it re- 
membered that a whole army of Irishmen, 
possibly three hundred thousand of our race, 
are fighting with England instead of against 
her. In Dublin alone there is scarcely a poor 
home in which a father, a brother, or a son is 
not serving in one of the many fronts which 
England is defending. Had the country 
risen, and fought as stubbornly as the Volun- 
teers did, no troops could have beaten them— 
well that is a wild statement, the heavy guns 
could always beat them—but from whatever 
angle Irish people consider this affair it must 



appear to them tragic and lamentable beyond 
expression, but not mean and not unheroic. 

It was hard enough that our men in the 
English armies should be slain for causes 
which no amount of explanation will ever 
render less foreign to us, or even intelligible; 
but that our men who were left should 
be killed in Ireland fighting against the 
same England that their brothers are fight- 
ing for ties the question into such knots of 
contradiction as we may give up trying to 
unravel. We can only think—this has hap- 
pened—and let it unhappen itself as best it 

We say that the time always finds the man, 
and by it we mean: that when a responsi- 
bility is toward there will be found some 
shoulder to bend for the yoke which all others 
shrink from. It is not always nor often the 
great ones of the earth who undertake these 
burdens—it is usually the good folk, that 
gentle hierarchy who swear allegiance to 
mournfulness and the under dog, as others 
dedicate themselves to mutton chops and the 
easy nymph. It is not my intention to 
idealise any of the men who were concerned 



in this rebellion. Their country will, some 
few years hence, do that as adequately as she 
has done it for those who went before them. 

Those of the leaders whom I knew were not 
great men, nor brilliant—that is they were 
more scholars than thinkers, and more 
thinkers than men of action; and I believe 
that in no capacity could they have attained 
to what is called eminence, nor do I consider 
they coveted any such public distinction as is 
noted in that word. 

But in my definition they were good men— 
men, that is, who willed no evil, and whose 
movements of body or brain were unselfish 
and healthy. No person living is the worse 
off for having known Thomas MacDonagh, 
and I, at least, have never heard MacDonagh 
speak unkindly or even harshly of anything 
that lived. It has been said of him that 
his lyrics were epical; in a measure it is true, 
and it is true in the same measure that his 
death was epical. He was the first of the 
leaders who was tried and shot. It was not 
easy for him to die leaving behind two young 
children and a young wife, and the thought 
that his last moment must have been tor- 



mented by their memory is very painful. We 
are all fatalists when we strike against 
power, and I hope he put care from him as 
the soldiers marched him out. 

The O’Rahilly also I knew, but not inti- 
mately, and I can only speak of a good 
humour, a courtesy, and an energy that never 
failed. He was a man of unceasing ideas 
and unceasing speech, and laughter accom- 
panied every sound made by his lips. 

Plunkett and Pearse I knew also, but not 
intimately. Young Plunkett, as he was 
always called, would never strike one as a 
militant person. He, like Pearse and 
MacDonagh, wrote verse, and it was no better 
nor worse than their’s were. He had an 
appetite for quaint and difficult knowledge. 
He studied Egyptian and Sanscrit, and dis- 
tant curious matter of that sort, and was in- 
terested in inventions and the theatre. He 
was tried and sentenced and shot. 

As to Pearse, I do not know how to place 
him, nor what to say of him. If there was an 
idealist among the men concerned in this in- 
surrection it was he, and if there was any 
person in the world less fitted to head an in- 



surrection it was he also. I never could 
“touch” or sense in him the qualities which 
other men spoke of, and which made him mili- 
tary commandant of the rising. None of 
these men were magnetic in the sense that 
Mr. Larkin is magnetic, and I would have 
said that Pearse was less magnetic than any 
of the others. Yet it was to him and around 
him they clung. 

Men must find some centre either of power 
or action or intellect about which they may 
group themselves, and I think that Pearse 
became the leader because his temperament 
was more profoundly emotional than any of 
the others. He was emotional not in a flighty, 
but in a serious way, and one felt more that 
he suffered than that he enjoyed. 

He had a power; men who came into inti- 
mate contact with him began to act differ- 
ently to their own desires and interests. His 
schoolmasters did not always receive their 
salaries with regularity. The reason that he 
did not pay them was the simple one that he 
had no money. Given by another man this 
explanation would be uneconomic, but from 
him it was so logical that even a child could 



comprehend it. These masters did not always 
leave him. They remained, marvelling per- 
haps, and accepting, even with stupefaction, 
the theory that children must be taught, but 
that no such urgency is due towards the pay- 
ment of wages. One of his boys said there 
was no fun in telling lies to Mr. Pearse, for, 
however outrageous the lie, he always believed 
it. He built and renovated and improved his 
school because the results were good for his 
scholars, and somehow he found builders to 
undertake these forlorn hopes. 

It was not, I think, that he “ put his trust 
in God,” but that when something had to be 
done he did it, and entirely disregarded logic 
or economics or force. He said—such a thing 
has to be done and so far as one man can do 
it I will do it, and he bowed straightaway to 
the task. 

It is mournfu: to think of men like these 
having to take charge of bloody and desolate 
work, and one can imagine them say, “Oh! 
cursed spite,’ as they accepted responsibility. 



No person in Ireland seems to have exact in- 
formation about the Volunteers, their aims, 
or their numbers. We know the names of the 
leaders now. They were recited to us with 
the tale of their execution; and with the de- 
claration of a Republic we learned something 
of their aim, but the estimate of their number 
runs through the figures ten, thirty, and 
fifty thousand. The first figure is undoubt- 
edly too slender, the last excessive, and some- 
thing between fifteen and twenty thousand 
for all Ireland would be a reasonable guess. 
Of these, the Citizen Army or Labour side 
of the Volunteers, would not number more 
than one thousand men, and it is with diffi- 
culty such a figure could be arrived at. Yet 
it is freely argued, and the theory will grow, 
that the causes of this latest insurrection 
should be sought among the labour problems 
of Dublin rather than in any national or 


patriotic sentiment, and this theory is 
buttressed by all the agile facts which such 
a theory would be furnished with. 

It is an interesting view, but in my opinion 
it is an erroneous one. 

That Dublin labour was in the Volunteer 
movement to the strength of, perhaps, two 
hundred men, may be true—it is possible there 
were more, but it is unlikely that a greater 
number, or, as many, of the Citizen Army 
marched when the order came. The over- 
whelming bulk of Volunteers were actuated 
by the patriotic ideal which is the heritage 
and the burden of almost every Irishman 
born out of the Unionist circle, and their 
connection with labour was much more 
manual than mental. 

This view of the importance of labour to 
the Volunteers is held by two distinct and 
opposed classes. 

Just as there are some who find the ex- 
planation of life in a sexual formula, so there 
is a class to whom the economic idea is very 
dear, and beneath every human activity they 
will discover the shock of wages and profit. 
It is truly there, but it pulls no more than its 



weight, and in Irish life the part played by 
labour has not yet been a weighty one, 
although on every view it is an important 
one. The labour idea in Ireland has not 
arrived. It is in process of “ becoming,” and 
when labour problems are mentioned in this 
country a party does not come to the mind, 
but two men only—they are Mr. Larkin and 
James Connolly, and they are each in their 
way exceptional and curious men. 

There is another class who implicate 
labour, and they do so because it enables them 
to urge that as well as being grasping and 
nihilistic, Irish labour is disloyal and treach- 

The truth is that labour in Ireland has not 
yet succeeded in organising anything—not 
even discontent. It is not self-conscious to 
any extent, and, outside of Dublin, it scarcely 
appears to exist. The national imagination 
is not free to deal with any other subject than 
that of freedom, and part of the policy of our 
“masters” is to see that we be kept busy with 
politics instead of social ideas. From their 
standpoint the policy is admirable, and up to 
the present it has thoroughly succeeded. 



One does not hear from the lips of the Irish 
workingman, even in Dublin, any of the affir- 
mations and rejections which have long since 
become the commonplaces of his comrades in 
other lands. But on the subject of Irish 
freedom his views are instantly forthcoming, 
and his desires are explicit, and, to a degree, 
informed. This latter subject they under- 
stand and have fabricated an entire language 
to express it, but the other they do not under- 
stand nor cherish, and they are not prepared 
to die for it. 

It is possibly true that before any move- 
ment can attain to really national propor- 
tions there must be, as well as the intellectual 
ideal which gives it utterance and a frame, 

a.sense of economic misfortune to give it 
weight, and when these fuse the combination 

may well be irresistible. The organised 
labour discontent in Ireland, in Dublin, was 
not considerable enough to impose its alms or © 
its colours on the Volunteers, and it is the 
labour ideal which merges and disappears in 
the national one. The reputation of all the 
leaders of the insurrection, not excepting 
Connolly, is that they were intensely patriotic 


Irishmen, and also, but this time with the ex- 
ception of Connolly, that they were not par- 
ticularly interested in the problems of 

The great strike of two years ago remained 
undoubtedly as a bitter and lasting memory 
with Dublin labour—perhaps, even, it was 
not so much a memory as a hatred. Still, it 
was not hatred of England which was 
evoked at that time, nor can the stress of 
their conflict be traced to an English source. 
It was hatred of local traders, and, particu- 
larly, hatred of the local police, and the local 
powers and tribunals, which were arrayed 
against them. 

One can without trouble discover reasons 
why they should go on strike again, but 
by no reasoning can I understand why they 
should go into rebellion against England, un- 
less it was that they were patriots first and 
trade unionists a very long way after- 

I do not believe that this combination of 
the ideal and the practical was consummated 
in the Dublin insurrection, but I do believe 
that the first step towards the formation of 



such a party has now been taken, and that if, 
years hence, there should be further trouble 
in Ireland such trouble will not be so easily 
dealt with as this one has been. 

It may be that further trouble will not arise, 
for the co-operative movement, which is 
growing slowly but steadily in Ireland, may 
arrange our economic question, and, inciden- 
tally, our national question also—that is if 
the English people do not decide that the 
latter ought to be settled at once. 

James Connolly had his heart in both the 
national and the economic camp, but he was 
a great-hearted man, and could afford to ex- 
tend his affections where others could only 
dissipate them. 

There can be no doubt that his powers of 
orderly thinking were of great service to the 
Volunteers, for while Mr. Larkin was the 
magnetic centre of the Irish labour move- 
ment, Connolly was its brains. He has been 
sentenced to death for his part in the insur- 
rection, and for two days now he has been 

He had been severely wounded in the fight- 
ing, and was tended, one does not doubt with 



great care, until he regained enough strength 
to stand up and be shot down again. 

Others are dead also. I was not acquainted 
with them, and with Connolly I was not more 
than acquainted. I had met him twice many 
months ago, but other people were present 
each time, and he scarcely uttered a word on 
either of these occasions. I was told that he 
was by nature silent. He was a man who can 
be ill-spared in Ireland, but labour, through- 
out the world, may mourn for him also. 

A doctor who attended on him during his 
last hours says that Connolly received the 
sentence of his death quietly. He was to be 
shot on the morning following the sentence. 
This gentleman said to him: 

“ Connolly, when you stand up to be shot, 
will you say a prayer for me? ” 

Connolly replied : 

“T will.” 

His visitor continued : 

“Will you say a prayer for the men who 
are shooting you? ” 

“T will,” said Connolly, “and I will say a: 
prayer for every good man in the world who 
is doing his duty.” 



He was a steadfast man in all that he 
undertook. We may be sure he steadfastly 
kept that promise. He would pray for others, 
who had not time to pray for himself, as he 
had worked for others during the years when 
he might have worked for himself. 



THERE is truly an Irish question. There are 
two Irish questions, and the most important 
of them is not that which appears in our 
newspapers and in our political propaganda. 

The first is international, and can be stated 
shortly. It is the desire of Ireland to assume 
control of her national life. With this desire 
the English people have professed to be in 
accord, and it is at any rate so thoroughly 
understood that nothing further need be 
made of it in these pages. 

The other Irish question is different, and 
less simply described. The difficulty about it 
is that it cannot be approached until the ques- 
tion of Ireland’s freedom has by some means 
been settled, for this ideal of freedom has 
captured the imagination of the race. It 
rides Ireland like a nightmare, thwarting or 
preventing all civilising or cultural work in 
this country, and it is not too much to say 



that Ireland cannot even begin to live until 
that obsession and fever has come to an end, 
and her imagination has been set free to do 
the work which imagination alone can do— 
Imagination is intelligent kindness—we have 
sore need of it. 

The second question might plausibly be 
called a religious one. It has been so called, 
and, for it is less troublesome to accept an 
idea than to question it, the statement has 
been accepted as truth—but it is untrue, and 
it is deeply and villianously untrue. No lie 
in Irish life has been so persistent and so mis- 
chievous as this one, and no political le has 
ever been so ingeniously, and malevolently 

There is no religious intolerance in Ireland 
except that which is political. J am not a 
member of the Catholic Church, and am not 
inclined to be the advocate of a religious 
system which my mentality dislikes, but I 
have never found real intolerance among my 
fellow-countrymen of that religion. I have 
found it among Protestants. I will limit that 
statement, too. I have found it among some 
Protestants. But outside of the North of Ire- 



land there is no religious question, and in the 
North it is fundamentally more political than 

All thinking is a fining down of one’s ideas, 
and thus far we have come to the statement 
of Ireland’s second question, It is not 
Catholic or Nationalist, nor have I said that 
it is entirely Protestant and Unionist, but it 
is on the extreme wing of this latter party 
that responsibility must be laid. It is diffi- 
cult, even for an Irishman living in Ireland, 
to come on the real political fact which under- 
lies Irish Protestant politics, and which fact 
has consistently opposed and bailied every 
attempt made by either England or Ireland 
to come to terms. There is such a fact, and 
clustered around it is a body of men whose 
hatred of their country is persistent and 
dead!y and unexplained. 

One may make broad generalisations on the 
apparent situation and endeavour to solve it 
by those. We may say that loyalty to Eng- 
land is the true centre of their action. I will 
believe it, but only to a point. Loyalty to 
England does not inevitably include this 
active hatred, this blindness, this withering 



of all sympathy for the people among whom 
one is born, and among whom one has lived 
in peace, for they have lived in peace amongst 
us. We may say that it is due to the idea of 
privilege and the desire for power. Again, 
I will accept it up to a point—but these are 
cultural obsessions, and they cease to act 
when the breaking-point is reached. 

I know of only two mental states which are 
utterly without bowels or conscience. These 
are cowardice and greed. Is it to a synthesis 
of these states that this more than mortal 
enmity may be traced? What do they fear, 
and what is it they covet? What can they 
redoubt in a country which is practically 
crimeless, or covet in a land that is almost as 
bare as a mutton bone? They have mesmer- 
ised themselves, these men, and have ima- 
gined into our quiet air brigands and thugs 
and titans, with all the other notabilities of 
a tale for children. 

I do not think that this either will tell the 
tale, but I do think there is a story to be told 
—I imagine an esoteric wing to the Unionist 
Party. I imagine that Party includes a secret 
organisation—they may be Orangemen, they 



may be Masons, and, if there be such, I would 
dearly like to know what the metaphysic of 
their position is, and how they square it with 
any idea of humanity or social life. Mean- 
time, all this is surmise, and I, as a novelist, 
have a notoriously flighty imagination, and 
am content to leave it at that. 

But this secondary Irish question is not so 
terrible as it appears. It is terrible now, it 
would not be terrible if Ireland had national 

The great protection against a lie ieones 
to believe it; and Ireland, in this instance, 
has that protection. The claims made by the 
Unionist Wing do not rely solely on the reli- 
gious base. They use all the arguments. It is, 
according to them, unsafe to live in Ireland. 
(Let us leave this insurrection of a week out 
of the question.) Life is not safe in Ireland. 
Property shivers in terror of daily or nightly 
appropriation. Other, undefined, but even 
more woeful glooms and creeps, wriggle 
stealthily abroad. 

These things are not regarded in Ireland, 
and, in truth, they are not meat for Irish con- 
sumption. Irish judges are presented with 



white gloves with a regularity which may 
even be annoying to them, and were it not for 
political trouble they would be unable to look 
their salaries in the face. The -Irish Bar 
almost weep in chorus at the words “Land 
Act,” and stare, not dumbly, on destitution. 
These tales are meant for England and are. 
sent there. They will cease to be exported 
when there is no market for them, and these 
men will perhaps end by becoming patriotic 
and social when they learn that they do not 
really command the Big Battalions. But 
Ireland has no protection against them while 
England can be thrilled by their nonsense, 
and while she is willing to pound Ireland to 
a jelly on their appeal. Her only assistance 
against them is freedom. 

There are certain simplicities upon which 
all life is based. A man finds that he is 
hungry and the knowledge enables him to go 
to work for the rest of his life. A man makes 
the discovery (it has been a discovery to 
many) that he is an Irishman, and the know- 
ledge simplifies all his subsequent political 
action. There is this comfort about being an 
Irishman, you can be entirely Irish, and 



claim thus to be as complete as a pebble or a 
star. But no Irish person can hope to be more 
than a muletto Englishman, and if that be 
an ambition and an end it is not an heroic 

But there is an Ulster difficulty, and no 
amount of burking it will solve it. It is too 
generally conceived among Nationalists that 
the attitude of Ulster towards Ireland is 
rooted in ignorance and bigotry. Allow that 
both of these bad parts are included in the 
Northern outlook, they do not explain the 
Ulster standpoint; and nothing can explain 
the attitude of official Ireland vis-a-vis with 

What has the Irish Party ever done to 
allay Northern prejudice, or bring the dis- 
contented section into line with the rest of 
Ireland? The answer is pathetically com- 
plete. They have done nothing. Or, if they 
have done anything, it was only that which 
would set every Northerner grinding his 
teeth in anger. At a time when Orangeism 
was dying they raised and marshalled the 
Hibernians, and we have the Ulsterman’s 
answer to the Hibernians in the situation by 



which we are confronted to-day. If the 
Party had even a little statesmanship among 
them they would for the past ten years have 
marched up and down the North explaining 
and mollifying and courting the Black 
Northerner. But, like good Irishmen, they 
could not tear themselves away from Eng- 
land, and they paraded that country where 
parade was not so urgent, and they made 
orations there until the mere accent of an 
Irishman must make Englishmen wail for 
very boredom. 

Some of that parade might have gladdened 
the eyes of the Belfast citizens; a few of 
those orations might have assisted the men of 
Derry to comprehend that, for the good of 
our common land, Home Rule and the unity 
of a nation was necessary if only to rid the 
country of these blatherers. 

Let the Party explain why, among their 
political duties, they neglected the duty of 
placating Ulster in their proper persons. 
Why, in short, they boycotted Ulster and 
permitted political and religious and racial 
antagonism to grow inside of Ireland un- 
checked by any word from them upon that 



ground. Were they afraid “nuts” would be 
thrown at them? Whatever they dreaded, 
they gave Ulster the widest of wide berths, 
and wherever else they were visible and 
audible, they were silent and unseen in that 
part of Ireland. 

The Ulster grievance is ostensibly re- 
ligious; but safeguards on this count are so 
easily created and applied that this issue 
might almost be left out of account. The real 
difficulty is economic, and it is a tangled one. 
But unless profit and loss are immediately 
discernible the soul of man is not easily 
stirred by an accountant’s tale, and therefore 
the religious banner has been waved for our 
kinsfolk of Ulster, and under the sacred 
emblem they are fighting for what some 
people call mammon, but which may be in 
truth just plain bread and butter. 

Before we can talk of Ireland a nation we 
must make her one. A nation, politically 
speaking, is an aggregation of people whose 
interests are identical; and the interests of 
Ulster with the rest of Ireland rather than 
being identical are antagonistic. It is Eng- 
land orders and pays for the Belfast ships, 



and it is to Britain or under the goodwill of 
the British power that Ulster conducts her 
huge woollen trade. Economically the rest of 
Treland scarcely exists for Ulster, and who- 
ever insists on regarding the Northern ques- 
tion from an ideal plane is wasting his own 
time and the time of everyone who listens to 
him. The safeguards which Ulster will de- 
mand, should events absolutely force her to it, 
may sound political or religious, they will be 
found essentially economic, and the root of 
them all will be a watertight friendship with 
England, and anything that smells, however 
distantly, of hatred for England will be a 
true menace to Ulster. We must swallow 
England if Ulster is to swallow us, and until 
that fact becomes apparent to Ireland the 
Ulster problem cannot be even confronted, let 
alone solved. 

The words Sinn Fein mean “ Ourselves,” 
and it is of ourselves I write in this chapter. 
More urgent than any political emancipation 
is the drawing together of men of good will 
in the endeavour to assist their necessitous 
land. Our eyes must be withdrawn from 
the ends of the earth and fixed on that which 



is around us and which we can touch. No 
politician will talk to us of Ireland if by any 
trick he can avoid the subject. His tale is 
still of Westminster and Chimborazo and the 
Mountains of the Moon. Irishmen must 
begin to think for themselves and of them- 
selves, instead of expending energy on causes 
too distant to be assisted or hindered by them. 
I believe that our human material is as good 
as will be found in the world. No better, per- 
haps, but not worse. And I believe that all but 
local politics are unfruitful and soul-destroy- 
ing. We have an island that is called little. 
It is more than twenty times too spacious for 
our needs, and we will not have explored the 
last of it in our children’s lifetime. We have 
more problems to resolve in our towns and 
cities than many generations of minds will 
get tired of striving with. Here is the world, 
and all that perplexes or delights the world is 
here also. Nothing is lost. Not even brave 
men. They have been used. From this day 
the great adventure opens for Ireland. The 
Volunteers are dead, and the call is now for 


ee = meespherartrat 

Pa eT ae ES 




(Please Note Change of Dublin Address). 



Some Thoughts on an Irish Polity. By &. 
(Uniform with ‘““Imaginations and 
Reveries,’’ see page 13). Cr. 8vo. 4/6 net. 

This latest work of A2’s is so full of ideas that it is hard to 
give an adequate description of it in a short paragraph. As its 
sub-title indicates the book is the result of the author’s thinking 
on the subject of an Irish polity : the fundamentals which should 
prevail in an Irish civilisation. It is indeed an attempt to create 
an Irish civilisation proper to Ireland and untrammelled by other 
influences. Mr. Russell indicates the curve in the evolution of 
society in Ireland, and aims at a way of co-ordinating Irish 
agriculture and industry. This book contains more original 
thinking than anything he has yet written. In these days of 
lull in the Irish Constitutional question no mofe profitable work 
than this could be studied in relation to that tangled problem, 
for we have here, not muddled rehashing of old theories, but 
real and fresh thinking. = 


Selected Poems by Dora SIGERSON SHORTER. 
F’cap. 8vo, 2/6 net. A volume of Poems 
relating to Ireland, selected from the 
Collected Edition and other volumes. 


“Her little book made me a juvenile, finding the eternal 
poet in that wise creature. . . . She is one of the few 
who can tell a tale in verse.’’—George Meredith, in Corres- 
pondence, Vol. II. 

“*“The Beggar Maid’ gives me infinite pleasure. : 
This beautiful book.’’—A. C. Swinburne, in Correspondence. 

“In this volume her ballads seem often to touch a deeper 
and more poignant feeling . . . the unconsciousness of the 
child, contrasted with the sorrow of its earthly lot—this is a 
familiar theme, yet Miss Sigerson handles it with unfamiliar 

freshness and power. . . . This volume extends our idea of 
her power.’’—Francis Thompson, in The Academy, January 16, 

“1 think “Madge Linsey’ one of the best poems that has 
come from Miss Sigerson’s pen. She has the rare poetic quality 
of naivete, a quality which almost no modern poet, except 
Coleridge, has secured.’’—Theodore Watts-Dunton. 

‘“‘ Comes with that thrill of surprise which is one of the rarest 
and most delicious pleasures of poetry. . . . There is 
freshness and life about all her work.’’—Lord Latymer (Francis 
Coutts) in The Times. 


By JAMES STEPHENS. (Author of “' The 
Crock of Gold,’ ‘‘ Here are Ladies,’ 
etc). Cr. Svo, 27,0 net. 

On one side Mr. Stephens’ book about the Irish Rebellion is an 
impression of his own feelings and those of the town during the 
extraordinary events of Easter week. Of these events Mr. 
Stephens, the Irish poet and novelist, was an eye witness, 
mingling freely with the crowd, and his book is a human 
- document—more valuable than any record of events—which 
helps one perfectly to understand the emotion of the times. 
Mr. Stephens knows his Dublin, he has insight into Irish 
character and aspirations, he has followed contemporary Irish 
politics but it is always as the imaginative artist that he 
writes, not as the student of ‘‘ the Irish question.’”’ In drawing 
“a moral’? from the Rebellion and discussing the future 
relations of the two countries, Mr. Stephens accomplishes a 
somewhat remarkable feat: he utters not a single platitude of 
‘the newspapers. He believes that friendship between Ireland 
and England is a possibility ; but it will not be based on any 
compromise of the politicians—generosity is required on the one 
hand, sincerity and manhood on the other. Those who believe 
that here is no ‘“‘ new” thing to be said about Ireland should 
read his book. 


Poems, by JAMES STEPHENS. F’cap. 4to, hand- 
made paper. This edition limited to 500 
numbered copies. 2/6 net. 

This book of Mr. Stephens is a small one, but very choice ; 
and very carefully and well produced. It contains three poems 
of an extraordinarily lyrical and passionate mood even for him. 
The three poems form an inseperable whole, and are his poetic 
tribute to Ireland. The first, which was written over a year 
ago, is a kind of farewell to poetry, full of regret that he has 
sung no national theme worthily. The second was written after 
the Rebellion of Easter week, and is a triumphant and sorrowful 
tribute to the men who died then. The third is a short, buoyant 
and fearless expression of hope for the future. 



By WarreE B. WELLS and N. MARLOWE. 
Demy 8vo, 7/6 net. 

The purpose of this volume is to present an account of the 
Rebellion, considered especially in its relation to the European 
War, and of Irish events of the last few years, which shall be 
impartial and accurate, and may serve, it is hoped, as a standard 
record of this episode in Irish and European history. In their 
endeavour to present a record of this character the authors 
possess the advantage of having been eye-witnesses of the main 
incidents of the Rebellion in Dublin. They hold that the 
material evidence, documentary and other, is now sufficiently 
available. Documentary evidence is most defective concerning 
the German association with the Rebellion; but, though this 
association must rest largely upon a basis of presumption, the 
authors argue that the presumption is strongly supported by 
the known designs of the German General Staff, and powerfully 
reinforced by inference from events. The volume includes 
chapters describing fully the stragetic importance of Ireland, 
the personalities and careers of the revolutionary leaders, 
the literary associations of Sinn Fein, and the paradoxical 
character of the Irish political situation both before and after 
the events of Easter. In the authors’ view the so-called Sinn 
Fein rebellion of schoolmasters was a critical episode of the 
European struggle for world-power. 

It contains as appendices the full text of the Report of the 
Royal Commission on the Rebellion, the military despatches, 
and Casement’s speech from the dock. 


By L. G. REpmMonD - Howarp. Cr. 8vo. 
Coloured Wrapper. 1/- net. 

A critical account of the Sinn Fein Rebellion. Mr Redmond- 
Howard was an eye-witness of many of the incidents. He 
is already well known as a capable and sympathetic writer 
on Irish affairs, having published a life of Mr. John Redmond, 
his uncle, together with two other volumes, one on “ The New 
Birth of Ireland,”’ in Jack’s People’s Books, while on the present 
war he has contributed single-handed the whole of the seven 
volumes of ‘‘ The Nations of the War ”’ Series. 

‘A most interesting account of the recent rebellion—one of 
the books on the subject which must be read by those who wish 
to study the various aspects of the rebellion.’’-—Daily News 
and Leader. 


A series of Books dealing with the work of 
notable Irishmen of to-day and the Move- 
ments with which they have been associated. 

2/6 net, each Volume. 

Sir Horace Plunkett and his Place in 
the Irish Nation. By Epwarp E. 

Mr. Lysaght, who is both a co-operator and an advanced 
Nationalist, seeks in this book to interpret Sir Horace Plunkett 
to those of his countrymen who have hitherto mistrusted or 
misunderstood him. We have no hesitation in saying that he 
has succeeded in doing this, and at the same time in providing 
the British and Irish public with a real exposition of thoughtful 
Nationalism. The book is the only unbiassed attempt that has 
yet been made to consider the co-operative movement in its 
relation to the other forces of modern Irish life. In so doing, 
and in discussing the other work, social and political, which 
Sir Horace Plunkett has done in Ireland, Mr. Lysaght has an 
opportunity of giving the reader several chapters of general 
interest on Irish matters in which he throws illumination on 
much that puzzles the student of modern Ireland, and to such 
good purpose that for them the book will have an appeal which 
no mere study of a man or a movement can have in itself alone. 
He has a grip on the real facts of Irish life ; and the chapters on 
‘“‘ Rural Industry ” and “‘ Co-operation and the Modern Function 
of Aristocracy ’’ are a contribution to the thoughtful considera- 
tion of rural Ireland which could only be made by a man who, 
like the author of this book, has given his own mind and time 
to the practical working out of the problems he deals with. 

George Moore. By Susan L. MITCHELL. 

Mr. George Moore is a subject admirably suited to Miss 
Mitchell’s pen, as the readers of the delightfully humorous book 
of poems, ‘‘ Aids to the Immortality of Certain Persons in 
Ireland,” know. 

In this prose study, Miss Mitchell not only makes a very 
clever literary criticism of Mr. Moore’s work, but also hits off 
the whole personality of the famous novelist. Nothing could be 
more difficult, for Mr. Moore, for all his periodical confessions, is 
a most elusive personage. The book contains as well a hitherto 
unpublished account of the curious adventures that befell Mr. 
Moore during his visit to Holy Land, whither he went in search 
of colour for his much discussed story, The Brook Kertth. 


William Butler Yeats. The Poet in Modern 
Ireland. By J. M. Hone. (Reprinteng). 

ConTENTS :—Early Life and Work—Irish and Other Influences 
—Theatre and Later Work. 

‘“‘ He writes about Yeats with as little partisanship as a critic 
who may discuss the life and work of Wordsworth long dead 
and buried, and yet he understands his author, appreciates him, 
never shows himself unable to see the real meaning of the words 
he quotes.” —Ivish Homestead. 

‘His criticisms are flavoured with a humour which 
occasionally borders on the sardonic.’”’—The Spectator. 

We strongly admire Mr. Hone’s broadly borne and lucid 
style. . . . The book is an excellent inauguration of Messrs. 
Maunsel’s series, and it is pleasant to see its author knock about 
the collection of wooden dolls and straw dummies that pass for 
graven images in this Laodicea.””—CRAWFORD NEILL, in New 

‘“‘ Mr. Hone has written a personal book with rare detachment 
and restraint, and if one can detect a note of irony in some of 
his pages, it is so deftly introduced as merely to give an added 
flavour to the comments and criticisms.’’—The Northern Whig. 

f= (George W. Russell). A Study of a Man 
and a Nation. By DARRELL FiccIs. 

CoNTENTS :—The Man in His Days—Discoveries—Prepara- 
tions—A Nation, a State; a State, a Nation—Bye-Paths ; 
and Paths Emerging. 

Mr. Darrell Figgis gives an eloquent appreciation 
of the many-sided activities of Mr. George Russell (‘ 42’), one 
of the most interesting and helpful figures in the Ireland of 

to-day. . . .’—The Spectator. 

“The aims and inspiration of ‘A’ are . . . expounded 
with force and the keenest sympathy. . . .’——Manchester 

: As a psychological analysis it is a powerful piece of 
work, Moreover, the many who desire to obtain a summary of 
2’s social teaching in some form more compendious than the 
portly volumes of the Ivish Homestead will find it brilliantly 
re-stated, together with a shrewd, critical examination of iis 

theories, in this little book. . . .’—WNew Ireland. 

fs It creates a pleasant impression of the existence in 
Ireland of an independent intellectual life. . . —The 

Darrell Figgis’s book manages to reveal its subject 
pretty clearly. . . .'—Liverpool Post. 


Ro ea oe 


IRISHMEN OF TO-DAY (continued). 

Sir Edward Carson and the Ulster Move- 
ment. By St. JoHn G. ERVINE. 

Sir Edward is treated to criticism of the frankest 
kind, and the Ulster Movement is dissected with the intimate 
knowledge of one that knows Ireland. The author’s analysis of 
his countrymen is a curious blend of admiration and 
animadversion, and may recalltto some Dr. Johnson’s remark that 
the Irish are a fair people, they never speak well of one another. 
.’—Glasgow Herald. 

He pictures him as the last comic Irishman left in 
the world, leaping on to a political platform, twirling a black- 
thorn . . .’—Irish Independent. 

“ This is a strong and serious indictment which should make 
people think. Mr. St. John Ervine hits straight from the 
shoulder. You have no doubts as to his attitude. Sir Edward 
Carson is humorously set forth not only as a stumbling block in 
the path of Irish progress, but as a humorous conception of the 


first order. . . .’—T.P.’s Weekly. 

“Mr. Ervine, in spite of a Chestertonian wealth of smart 
similes and generalisations, . . . is analytical and con- 
structive. . . .’—New Ireland. 

“Tt is one of the best examples of the insulting kind of 
literature with which we have met for some time. Mr. Ervine’s 
method of writing the life of Sir Edward Carson is to leave 
it out. . . .”’—Clydebank Press. 


A story of South London, by St. JouN G. 
ERVINE. Cr. 8vo, 6/-. 

“The book is full of character and of kindly laughter. 
very good fun.’’—Times Literary Supplement. 

“One of our wisest and most brilliant young novelists.’””-— 
Daily News and Leader. 

“Mr. St. John G. Ervine is a man who commands attention.” 
—British Weekly. 

“This is first-rate comedy. And it is first-rate not simply 
because it is, from start to end, extremely entertaining, but 
because the material out of which this gay entertainment, light 
and bright as a bubble, is fashioned in so very much more than 
jokes and crochets. It is material which has a distinctive and 
decisive reality.” —The Manchester Guardian. 

“There is a beautiful humour in this story from first to last, 
which alone ought to command a wide public for it.’’-—Pall 
Mall Gazette. 

“It is a tale of mean streets, but the element of meanness is 
not emphasised. Rather is Mr. Ervine concerned to illustrate 

the extraordinary charity of which families on the 
border-line of the submerged classes are capable towards one 
another.”’—The Spectator. 


By St. JouN G. Ervine. Author of ‘ Mixed 
Marriage,” &c. Cr. 8vo, Cloth, 2/— net. 

Mr. H. G. WELLS, in a letter to St. John G. Ervine, says: 

‘‘ Your ‘ Mrs. Martin’s Man’ is most amazingly good. I can’t 
resist the impulse to tell you so. It’s real and alive and feeling 
all through. You had bad luck to publish it in the midst of 
this war confusion, but even that won’t drown so fine a thing 
as yours.” 

“Places him at once in the first flight of modern novelists.” 

‘All through it shines the spirit of Mrs. Martin herself, 
unalterably strong, sweet and sensible.’—Times Literary 

‘Mr. Ervine’s delineation of this extraordinarily noble 
woman is perfect.”—Pall Mall Gazetie. 

“One could not imagine a more pathetic and yet withal 
noble figure than Martha Martin.’’—Globe. 

‘Mr. St. John G. Ervine proves himself quite definitely a 
novelist who counts, whose books are ‘ right.’ ’’—-REBECCA WEST 
in Daily News and Leader. 

‘A book which dares to be outspoken to an alarming extent, 
yet there is in it from beginning to end not one word which is 
not of absolute unquestioned purity.’’—The Spectator. 

‘“Treland is to be congratulated on her new recruit—to the 
ranks of novelists who are also artists. . . . Mrs. Martin 
is a real creation, an absolutely living, singularly original and 
satisfying woman.”’—Morning Post. 

‘‘ Mrs, Martin’s forgiveness is one of the most beautiful things 
in modern fiction.’”’—Everyman: 

“To have drawn a woman at once so colourless and so 
powerful, so beautiful in spirit, and yet so illuminatingly true to 
life is a very considerable achievement.’’—New Statesman. 



A Series of Translations of Stories, 
Novels and Essays, from the best modern 
Russian Writers. 

Two New Vo.tum_es. Translated by J. Mip- 

By Lron SHEsTov. Cr. 8vo, 3/6 net. 

Shestov is a writer of small production. But from the time 
of his second book, ‘“‘ Good in the Teaching of Tolstoi and 
Nietzsche,”’ which was helped to fame by the famous critic 
Mihailovsky, he has been highly esteemed by the intellectual 
elite of Russia. He is essentially a philosopher, yet his own 
stringent sense of form and his sympathies make of his 
philosophy an art. He opens a way into the heart of Russian 
literature which can be followed. His work might even serve 
as an ‘‘ Introduction to the true understanding of the Russian 

The work of Shestov, which has been translated, consists of a 
selection from his various works, chosen to give a foretaste of a 
writer of quite peculiar subtlety of thought and expression. 
It contains :— 

“Creation from the Void,” a brilliant essay upon the inward 
significance of the work of Tchekov. This is one of the finest 
examples of contemporary Russian criticism. 

“The Gift of Prophecy,” a short essay, revealing the same 
gifts, upon an aspect of Dostoevsky’s work—particularly the 
“ Journal of an Author.” 

“Penultimate Words,’’ a series of reflections upon the 
ultimate problems of life, and ‘‘ Philosophy and Knowledge,” 
afford a glimpse into the philosophic tendencies of the most 
acute minds of modern Russia. 


By DostToEvsky. Cr. 8vo, 2/6 net. 

This book is composed of the two most famous and most 
typical portions of the Journal of an Author. 

The story entitled ‘‘ The Dream of a Queer Fellow ”’ contains 
the quintessence of Dostoevsky. It is the mature and terrible 
expression of the conclusion to which the seeking of his life has 
led him. It is, speaking soberly, one of the great masterpieces 
of the nineteenth century. 

The famous address on Pushkin, with which Dostoevsky 
stepped at one stride into the position of the uncrowned King 
of Russia. It is his testament to the Russian nation, his 
confession of his belief in the Russian soul. 




By ALEXANDER KuprRin. Translated by 
J. M. MurryandS.S. KoTeLiansky. 3/6 net. 

The Translator, in his preface, writes, Kuprin is an artist who 
has found life wide and rich and inexhaustible. He has been 
fascinated by the reality itself rather than by the problems with 
which it confronts a differently sensitive mind. Therefore he 
has not held himself aloof, but plunged into the riotous waters 
of the River of Life. He has swum with the stream and battled 
against it as the mood turned in him; and he has emerged with 
stories of the joy he has found in his own eager acceptance. 
Thus Kuprin is alive as none of his contemporaries is alive, and 
his stories are stories told for the delight of the telling and of 
the tale. They may not be profound with the secrets of the 
universe; but they are, within their compass, shaped by the 
perfect art of one to whom the telling of a story of life is an 
exercise of his whole being in complete harmony with the act 
of life itself. 


By ANTON TcHEKov. Translated by J. M. 
Murry and S. S. KoOTELIANSKY. 3/6 net. 

‘The output of English translations of Russian literature 
continues apace, and ‘ The Bet’ and other stories . . . isa 
specimen of the work at its best. The translation is very good. 
It reads like English, yet it maintains the Russian atmosphere. 
It has none of the stiffness nor the triviality of ‘ translator’s 
English,’ and the prose always fits the matter as live prose should 
: Tchekhov is not depressing as our own little realists are 
depressing, because the triviality and the meanness are not 
inherent in the people themselves. They are not, like the 
characters drawn by our own realists, engaged in making a mess 
of life by their own stupidity or conceit. Some of them are 
bewildered, wrongheaded, or childish; all of them inspire 
sympathy, not blame. And it need hardly be pointed out now 
how exquisite an artist is Tchekhov in his elusive ‘static’ 
manner. His sense of proportion is so fine, his understanding of 
each case is so complete, that he can always suggest a great deal 
more than he tells. He draws you, gently but irresistibly, right 
into the heart of the matter, and takes you captive with a 
motion of the finger.’”’—Times Literary Supplement. 

VITCH-DANTCHENKO. ‘Translated from the 
Russian by W. J. STANTON PyYPER. 3/6 net. 

‘‘ Nemirovitch-Dantchenko is a terse, effective raconteur.”’— 
Times Lit. Supplement. 

“* With a Diploma’ take us straight to the heart of rural 
Russia and the hearts of the Little Russians.’”’—Pall Mali 


SANCE,. By Ernest A. Boyp. 

Royal 8vo, 7/6 net. 

This book gives a full and critical account of one of the most 
remarkably literary movements of modern times. It covers the 
whole field from Mangan and Ferguson to James Stephens, and 
every writer of importance within this period is dealt with. 
There is a Bibliography appended. 

Contents :— 

I.—Precursors—James Clarence Mangan, Sir Samuel 

II.—Sources—The Father of the Revival: Standish 
III.—Sources—The Translators: George Sigerson, Douglas 

IV.—The Transition—William Allingham. The Crystaliza- 
tion of the new spirit. The Irish Literary Societies. 

V.—The Revival. Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland. 
J. Todhunter, Katharine Tynan, T. W. Rolleston, 
William Larmanie. 

VI.—William Butler Yeats: The Poems. 

VII.—William Butler Yeats: The Plays. 
VIII.—W. B. Yeats: The Prose Writings. 

IX.—The Revival of Poetry: Lionel Johnson, Nora 
Hopper, Moira O’Neill, Ethna Carbery, and others. 

X.—The Dublin Mystics: 4, John Eglinton. 

XI.—The Poets of the Younger Generation: Seumas 
O’Sullivan, Padraic Colum, James Stephens, Joseph 
Campbell, James H. Cousins, Thomas MacDonagh, 
and others. 

XII.—The Dramatic Movement: First Phase—The Irish 
Literary Theatre: Edward Martyn and George 

XIII.—The Dramatic Movement—Second Phase.—The 
Origins of the Irish National Theatre: W. G. Fay’s 
Irish National Dramatic Company. The Initiation 
of Folk-Drama: J. M. Synge and Padraic Colum. 

XIV.—The Dramatic Movement : Third Phase.—Popularity 
and its results: ‘‘ Abbey” Plays and Playwrights. . 
The Ulster Literary Theatre: Rutherford Mayne. 

XV.—Fiction and Narrative Prose: George Moore, Shan 
F. Bullock, George A. Birmingham, St. John G. 

Ervine, Lord Dunsany, James Stephens, Lady 
Gregory, other Prose Writers, Conclusion. 




By A (GEorRGE W. RusseEL1L). Uniformly 
bound with the Author’s ‘‘ Collected 
Poems.” Cr. 8vo. Cloth, gilt, 5/— net. 

ConTENTS :—The Character of Heroic Literature—The Dramatic 
Treatment of Legend—Nationality or Cosmopolitanism—A 
Poet of Shadows—A Note on Seumas O’Sullivan—The 
Poetry of James Stephens—Art and Literature—Two Irish 
Artists—An Artist of Gaelic Ireland—“ Ulster ’’—An Open 
Letter to Rudyard Kipling—The Spiritual Conflict—Ideals 
of the New Rural Society—On an Irish Hill—Religion and 
Love—The Renewal of Youth—The Hero in Man—The 
Meditation of Anada—The Midnight Blossom—The Child- 
hood of Apollo—The Mask of Apollo—The Cave of Lilith— 
The Story of a Star—The Dream of Angus Oge—Deirdre. 

‘“7# is generally regarded as an Irish prophet. . . . There 
are among men who use fiery speech few in these days so much 
honoured and so little damned. It is not that he is given to 
speaking soothing and gracious things. He can denounce his 
fellows like a Jonah when he has a mind to it. His prose 
especially is, like so much good prophet’s prose, only less apt 
to fly into a passion of denunciation than into a passion of 
ideals. . . . Few voices so eloquent in the field of social 
prophecy have been heard since Mazzini’s and Ruskin’s. sy 
—The Nation. 

‘‘ His judgment is based on the clearest principles, but his 
heart and mind are fixed on the life of the thing, not on the how, 
but on the what of the something attempted or achieved. 
Whether in his own work, or in contemplation of other men’s 
work ‘Ai’ is intent (and his very prose becomes verse in 
consequence) on ‘ immortal beauties,’ such as those which made 
divine the past—‘ empires which have never crumbled, beauty 
which has never perished, love whose fires have never waned.’ ’”’ 
—The Times. 

“‘ The note of optimism and hope struck by ‘ At’ has a welcome 
sound in these days of depression. . . . Reading these 
delightful essays one is comforted by the thought that though 
war may suspend intellectual activity it tends to expedite 
spiritual vigour. . . .’—The Daily Telegraph. 

‘““The appearance of a new book by A! (George W. Russell) 
is something of an event. . . . Russell is perhaps the 
greatest personalty in present-day Irish affairs; he is certainly 
one of the greatest of living Irish or English poets and men of 
letters. . . .’—The Boston Evening Transcript. 


LysaGHT. Quarter Parchment, 3/- net. 

“Mr. Lysaght occupies a peculiar position among poets. He 
is both a man of education and a farmer. And he has the poetic 
sincerity to make use of his peculiar position. The quality of 
his thought has, therefore, at once its distinction.”’—The Times. 

“Mr. Lysaght, unlike many poets, not only praises a country 
life, but lives it and does its hard work. Nor does this practical 
experience get in his way ; his eclogues have a rare and excellent 
flavour about them, a real smell of the earth, that is satisfying 
and good. All dwellers in the town will be grateful to Mr. 
Lysaght for putting them in such close touch with his deep love 
and knowledge of the country.’’—The Observer. 

“ The work has throughout a rural as well as an Irish flavour, 
and cannot fail to please readers who cherish Celtic sympathies.”’ 
—The Scotsman. 

“ Here4s a. true return to nature... 4. ..,A sense of fresh 
air, the sting of actual contact with life and labour, with rock 
and wind.’—Ivish Homestead. 

“How easy it were to roll off a hundred charming pictures of 
the country made by those whose impressions come purely 
from the exterior! Their super-refined minds revolt from 
contact with the grossness of rural life. It is the distinction of 
Mr. Lysaght that his clear song comes appealing out of the 
worst of the grime. . . . Often he accomplishes with 
apparent ease what W. E. Henley used to try so much for.’’— 
Country Life. 

“There could hardly be a finer product of the publisher’s 
art than Mr. Lysaght’s ‘Irish Eclogues,’ print, paper, and 
half-vellum binding lending grace to the graceful art displayed 
there ys es Mr. Edward Lysaght brings us his beautiful 
little book, full of an intimate converse with nature. : 
It has the happy gesture and definite curve of individuality.’’- 

N ew Tveland. 
“These poems ... . are as Irish as it is possible for 
anything written in English to be.’’—The Leader. 


Translated from the French by ALFRED 
DuqueET. Introduction Notes and Ap- 
poodix > by J; <DEL. SatyTH, “MRA: 
Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, 3/6 net. 

“For the Irish reader to-day this book is alive with interest, 
and we are glad that Mr. J. de L. Smyth had the happy thought of 
publishing this eloquent tribute of French gratitude to “Trish 
sympathy.”’—Ivish Independent. 

“These old letters are so entertaining.—Times Literary 

“Constitutes an interesting record of the goodwill which 
existed then and which now exists between Ireland and France.” 
—The Outiook. 




Pocket Edition. Foolscap 8vo, quarter parch- 
ment, gilt top. 2/6 net each. 

Vol. 1.—The Playboy of the Western World. 

Vol. I1.—Deirdre of the Sorrows. 

Vol. II1I.—The Well of the Saints. 

Vol. IV.—The Tinker’s Wedding, Riders to the Sea, and 
In the Shadow of the Glen. 

Vol. V.—Poems and Translations. 

Vols. VI. and VII.—The Aran Islands. 

Vol. VIII.—In Wicklow and West Kerry. 


In one volume. With Portrait. Cloth, 
Gilt, 6/— net. 

THE ARAN ISLANDS. With Drawings 
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MY LITTLE FARM. By“ Pat,” Author 
of ‘‘ Economics for Irishmen” and the 
‘““ Sorrows of Ireland.” 3/6 net. 

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practical that they are pleasant to read.’’—The Spectator. 

“The well-known editor of the Ivish Peasant . . . has 
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plot in Mayo.’’—Times Literary Supplement. 

“A racy little volume, full of flavour as of bogmyrtle and 
peat, redolent of the Irish soil. Nobody save an Irishman could 
have written it, but many who are not Irishmen, may benefit 
from reading it.’’—The Standard. 

“& book from the brilliant Irishman who has nothing of the 
commonplace order in his literary armoury except his pen name 
of ‘ Pat,’ is worth reading and re-reading. . . . His book 
will no doubt be ranked as his best by townsmen and non- 
agriculturists in general. To say that ‘ Pat’s’ new volume is 
amazingly clever and entertaining and that it puts derelict and 
official Ireland very strongly pictorially before outsiders is 
merely to note in another form—' This is by ‘“ Pat.” ’— 
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“No one who cares for the agrarian cause ought to miss 
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Written by STEPHEN GwyNv, and Illustrated 
by Hucu Tuomson. Large Cr. 8vo, gilt 
Irish Design, 5/— net. 

A Companion Volume to “The Fair Hills of Ireland.” 

“It seizes and grips the reader by its wide, clear vision of the 
important things. It gives you not merely the disconnected 
stories of the past of each of Ireland’s cities, linked with the 
building or the spot of earth that recalls them, but correlates 
them with the history of Ireland, so that as you see town after 
town in Mr. Gwynn’s company the whole troubled story of 
Ireland seems to take shape, tortuous policies and currents of 
events become clear, and you learn not only what Ireland has 
been and is, but what part each of her towns has played, what 
character each has evolved, or helped to evolve. All this Mr. 
Gwynn gives us in that grave and serious, yet light and delicate 
phrasing which enables him to achieve, seemingly without effort, 
pictures memorable in beauty and precision. It would be a 
delight to quote freely . . . butitis better to read the book 
from end to end, to enjoy the dainty and humorous sketches of 
Mr. Hugh Thomson, and to be thankful that an Irish author, an 
Irish artist, and an Irish publishing firm have conspired to give 
us so much pleasure.’’—The Observer. 

‘His pen describes with something of the graceful charm of 
Mr. Hugh Thomson’s pencil the present features of Limerick, 
Cork, Derry, Dundalk, and the other half-dozen towns of his 
choice. He does not fail to catch the spirit of place in them. 
He localises their personalities delightfully. Their tang and 
savour, of some we may say their fragrance, reaches us from 
between his pages. His Galway, for example, is the true Galway 
of the Blakes and Martins.”—Morning Post. 

‘““Mr. Gwynn is most happy in transmitting the mood of a 
place. Waterford, with its quays and its tower and its memories 
of river-pirates, carries the memory of invaders and their ships. 
Dundalk, guarding the Gap of the North, is on the frontier of the 
true Ulster, that north-eastern portion of Ireland that has always 
held somewhat aloof from the rest. Galway, filled with the 
thought of sea ventures and Spain, was great in the old days, and 
in the new she shall prosper again, but in all her fortunes she 
remains the most romantic of all Irish cities. . . . Mr. Hugh 
Thomson’s illustrations add much to the charm of the book.’’— 
Manchester Guardian. 

40 Museum Street, London; 

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oe agers Dos