DISTINGUISHED IRISHMEN--"THE NATION" NEWSPAPER--"THE HIBERNIANS."
I have met, as I have said elsewhere, most of the Irish political
leaders of my time in Liverpool, but I will always remember with what
pleasure I listened to a distinguished Irishman of another type, Samuel
Lover, when he was travelling with an entertainment consisting of
sketches from his own works and selections from his songs. Few men were
more versatile than Lover, for he was a painter, musician, composer,
novelist, poet, and dramatist. When I saw him in one of the public halls
he sang his own songs, told his own stories, and was his own
accompanist.
His was one of a series of performances, very popular in Liverpool for
many years, called the "Saturday Evening Concerts." He was a little man,
with what might be called something of a "Frenchified" style about him,
but having with it all a bright eye and thoroughly Irish face which,
with all his bodily movements, displayed great animation. I can readily
believe his biographers, who say he excelled in all the arts he
cultivated, for his was a most charming entertainment.
Lover undoubtedly had patriotism of a kind, and some of his songs show
it. It certainly was not up to the mark of the "Young Irelanders," one
of whom attacked him on one occasion, when he made the clever retort
that "the fount from which _he_ drew his patriotism was a more genuine
source than a fount of Irish type"--alluding to the plentiful use of the
Gaelic characters in "The Spirit of the Nation," the world-famed
collection of songs by the Young Ireland contributors to the "Nation"
newspaper. There are passages in Lover's novel of "Rory O'More" and his
"He Would be a Gentleman" that show he was a sincere lover of his
country. I agree in the main with what the "Nation" said of him in
1843--"Though he often fell into ludicrous exaggerations and burlesques
in describing Irish life, there is a good national spirit running
through the majority of his works, for which he has not received due
credit."
One of his stories, "Rory O'More," achieved universal popularity also as
a play, a song and an air. In it there is a passage which, when I first
read it, I looked upon as an exaggeration, and as somewhat reflecting
upon the dignity of a great national movement like that of the United
Irishmen. Lover brings his hero, Rory, into somewhat questionable
surroundings in a Munster town--intended for Cork or some other
seaport--to meet a French emissary. One would think that a struggle for
the freedom of Ireland should be carried on amongst the most lofty
surroundings. But I found in after life that the incidents described by
Lover were not so exaggerated as might be supposed, for, as "necessity
has no law," during a later revolutionary struggle we had often to meet
in strange and unromantic places, as I shall describe later, for most
important projects.
Lover's wit was spontaneous, and bubbled over in his ordinary
conversation with friends. An English lady friend, deeply interested in
Ireland, once said to him--"I believe I was intended for an Irishwoman."
Lover gallantly replied--"Cross over to Ireland and they will swear you
were intended for an Irishman."
A famous Irishman, whom I saw in Liverpool when I was a boy, was the
Apostle of Temperance, Father Mathew.
At this time he visited many centres of Irishmen in Great Britain, and
administered the pledge of total abstinence from intoxicating drink to
many thousands of his fellow-countrymen. In London alone over 70,000
took the pledge. As in Ireland, this brought about a great social
revolution. The temperance movement certainly helped O'Connell's Repeal
agitation, which was in its full flood about this time.
My remembrance of Father Mathew was that of a man of portly figure,
rather under than above the middle height, with a handsome, pleasant
face. He had a fine powerful voice, which could be heard at the furthest
extremity of his gatherings, which often numbered several thousands. As
he gave out the words of the pledge to abstain, with the Divine
assistance, from all intoxicating liquors, he laid great emphasis on the
word "liquors," pronouncing the last syllable of the word with almost
exaggerated distinctness. After this he would go round the ring of those
kneeling to take the pledge, and put round the neck of each the ribbon
with the medal attached.
I ought to remember his visit to Liverpool, for I took the pledge from
him three times during his stay in the town.
My mother took the whole family, and, wherever he was--at St. Patrick's,
or in a great field on one side of Crown Street, or at St.
Anthony's--there she was with her family. She was a woman with the
strong Irish faith in the supernatural, and in the power of God and His
Church, that can "move mountains." A younger brother of mine had a
running in his foot which the doctors could not cure. She determined to
take Bernard to Father Mathew and get him to lay his hands on her boy.
At St. Patrick's, with her children kneeling around her, she asked the
good Father to touch her son. He, no doubt thinking it would be
presumptuous on his part to claim any supernatural gift, passed on
without complying with her request. Father Mathew's next gathering was
in the Crown Street fields. I was a boy of about nine years, attending
Copperas Hill schools. Mr. Connolly, who was in charge, was a very good
master, but there was nothing very Irish in his teaching. Some idea of
this may be formed when I mention that--though there were not a dozen
boys in the school who were not Irish or of Irish extraction--the first
map of Ireland I ever saw was on the back of one of O'Connell's Repeal
cards.
It was not until the Christian Brothers came, a few years afterwards,
that this was changed. I shall always be grateful to that noble body of
men, not only for the religious but for the national training they gave.
We had Brothers Thornton and Swan--the latter since the Superior of the
Order in Ireland.
Under them we not only had a good map of Ireland, but they taught us, in
our geography lessons, the correct Irish pronunciation of the names of
places, such as (spelling phonetically) "Carrawn Thooal," "Croogh
Phaudhrig," and similar words.
But our old master, Mr. Connolly, was a good man too, according to his
lights. Hearing of Father Mathew's visit, he asked how many of the boys
would go to Crown Street to "take the pledge"--their parents being
willing? Out of some 250 boys there were about a dozen who did not hold
up their hands.
It is unnecessary for me to say that my mother was there again with her
afflicted boy and the rest of her children, and again she pleaded in
vain. She was a courageous woman, with great force of character--and a
_third_ time she went to Father Mathew's gathering. This was in St.
Anthony's chapel yard, and amongst the thousands there to hear him and
to take the pledge she awaited her turn. Again she besought him to touch
her boy's foot. He knew her again, and, deeply moved by her importunity
and great faith he, at length, to her great joy, put his hand on my
brother's foot and gave him his blessing. My mother's faith in the
power of God, through His minister, was rewarded, for the foot was
healed.
I had an aunt--my mother's sister--married to a good patriotic Irishman,
Hugh, or, as he was more generally called, Hughey, Roney, who kept a
public house in Crosbie Street. The street is now gone, but it stood on
part of what is now the goods station of the London & North Western
Railway. Nearly all in Crosbie Street were from the West of Ireland,
and, amongst them, there was scarcely anything but Irish spoken. I have
often thought since of the splendid opportunity let slip by O'Connell
and the Repealers in neglecting to revive, as they could so easily have
then done, so strong a factor in nationality as the native tongue of our
people. My Aunt Nancy could speak the Northern Irish fluently, and, in
the course of her business, acquired the Connaught Irish and accent.
After a time Hughey Roney retired, and the house was carried on by his
daughter and her husband, John McArdle, a good, decent patriotic
Irishman, much respected by his Connaught neighbours, though he was from
the "Black North." It used to be a great treat to hear John McArdle, on
a Sunday night, reading the "Nation," which then cost sixpence, and was,
therefore, not so easily accessible, to an admiring audience, of whom I
was sometimes one, and his son, John Francis McArdle, another. This
younger McArdle, originally intended for the Church, became in after
life a brilliant journalist, and was for a time on the staff of the
"Nation," the teaching of which he had so early imbibed. The elder
McArdle was a big, imposing looking man, with a voice to match, who gave
the speeches of O'Connell and the other orators of Conciliation Hall
with such effect that the applause was always given exactly in the right
places, and with as much heartiness as if greeting the original
speakers.
After Father Mathew's visit, their trade fell away to such an extent
that John McArdle, determined to hold his ground--while still keeping
the public house open, though the business was all but gone--broke
another door into the street, and made his parlour into a grocery and
provision store. This enterprise on his part was only necessary for a
short time, as the abnormal enthusiasm in the cause of temperance which,
for the time being, had swept all before it, had subsided to such an
extent that McArdle, after a time, turned the room to its original
purpose, and was able to resume his readings from the "Nation" to
admiring audiences, as heretofore.
Yet, though so many fell away from their temporary exaltation, there
were still large numbers who remained firm, and the lasting good from
Father Mathew's work was undeniable.
So popular was John McArdle's house, that it was used as one of the
lodges of the Ancient Order of Hibernians--then very strong in
Liverpool, and stout champions of country and creed. In regard to this
organisation, I find in the "Irish World" of New York a high tribute
paid to them by the Very Rev. Thomas J. Shahan, of the Catholic
University of America. In his paper on "Hibernianism" he said there was
a tradition in the Ancient Order that they first started in Ireland in
the Penal days as a bodyguard to their poor parish priest when he said
Mass in the open air. Anyone who has spent most of his life in England,
as I have done, can well understand that this is not simply an effort of
this good priest's imagination, for, over and over again I have seen the
Hibernians among the first to come forward in defence of their priests
and churches when these were threatened. In the course of his paper Dr.
Shahan quoted a letter from the Brethren in Ireland, Scotland and
England to the Brethren in New York. It sent instructions and authority
to the few brothers in New York to establish branches of their Society
in America.
These were the qualifications laid down: Members must be Catholic and
Irish, or of Irish descent. They must be of good moral character, and
were not to join in any secret societies contrary to the laws of the
Catholic Church. They were to exercise hospitality towards their
emigrant brothers and to protect their emigrant sisters from all harm
and temptation, so that they should still be known for their chastity
all over the world. The members of the Order in America were to be at
liberty to make laws for the welfare of the Society, but these must be
in accord with the teaching of the Church, and their working must be
submitted to a Catholic priest. The letter says--"We send you these
instructions, as we promised to do, with a young man that works on the
ship and who called on you before." Directing that a copy of the
document should be sent to another friend, then working in
Pennsylvania, the letter concluded--"Hoping the bearer and this copy
will land safe and that you will treat him right, we remain your
brothers in the true bond of friendship this 4th day of May, in the year
of our Lord, 1837"--
"PATRICK M'GUIRE, County Fermanagh.
"JOHN REILLY, County Cavan.
"PATRICK M'KENNA, County Monaghan.
"JOHN DURKIN, County Mayo.
"PATRICK REILLY, County Derry.
"PATRICK DOYLE, County Sligo.
"JOHN FARRELL, County Meath.
"THOMAS O'RORKE, County Leitrim.
"JAMES M'MANUS, County Leitrim.
"JOHN M'MAHON, County Longford.
"PATRICK DUNN, County Tyrone
"PATRICK HAMILL, County Westmeath.
"DANIEL GALLAGHER, Glasgow.
"JOHN MURPHY, Liverpool."
It will be noticed that of the twelve Irish counties represented above,
six are in the province of Ulster, three in Connaught, and three in
Leinster, so that the Hibernians appear to have had their stronghold in
the Northern province and the adjoining counties in Connaught and
Leinster. This is exactly as one might expect, seeing the necessity for
a defensive organisation against the Orangemen of Ulster. The Order took
deep root in Glasgow and Liverpool on account of the convenience of
access by sea from Ireland to these cities.
I was too young to have known John Murphy, who signed the letter for the
Liverpool Hibernians, but, from what I knew of these afterwards, it is
likely that he was a dock labourer. As I will show, these men, over and
over again, to my own knowledge, gave splendid proofs of their courage
and love of creed and country. Their love of learning, too, has been
equal to that of their fathers in the days when our country was "The
Island of Saints and Scholars." Some of these poor men may not have had
much learning themselves, but they made great and noble sacrifices that
their children should have it. I noted with interest in the Irish papers
recently that the name of the Secretary of the Hibernian Order at the
Bridge of Mayo, County Down, was "Brother Denvir."
Our country sent over to Liverpool, besides sterling Nationalists, as
bitter a colony of Irishmen--I suppose we can scarcely deny the name to
men born in Ireland--as were, perhaps, to be found anywhere in the
world. These were the Orangemen. If there was one place more obnoxious
to them than another it was the club room of the Hibernians in Crosbie
Street. But though in their frequent conflicts with the "Papishes" they
wrecked houses and even killed several Irishmen--for they frequently
used deadly weapons against unarmed Catholics--they were never able to
make a successful attack on McArdle's. One of my earliest experiences
was being on the spot on the occasion of a contemplated assault on the
Hibernian club room on the day of an Orange anniversary. This was in
1843.
Parallel to Crosbie Street, where the club room was situated, was
Blundell Street, where my uncle, Hughey Roney, lived in a house
immediately behind McArdle's--the back door of the one house facing the
back door of the other. This side of the street, with the whole of
Crosbie Street, has long since been absorbed by the railway company
before mentioned.
I cannot imagine why my mother chose this particular day to take me to
see our relatives, except it was the inveterate longing which her early
surroundings and training had given her to assist at the "batin' of an
Orangeman," or why I should have been the chosen one of the family to
come, unless it was that she thought I was the one most after her own
heart in her warlike propensities. However this may have been, there we
were in the first-floor front room of my Uncle Hughey's. Every room,
from cellar to garret, was crowded with stalwart dock labourers--at that
time these were almost to a man Irish--prepared to support another
contingent of Hibernians who garrisoned McArdle's in a similar manner.
Hearing outside the cry--"he Orangemen!" I looked out of the window and
up the street, and there, sure enough, was a strong body of them
marching down, armed with guns, swords, and ship carpenters' hatchets.
At once the word was passed to the contingent in Crosbie Street to be
prepared to meet the threatened attack.
Nearer and nearer the Orangemen came. They had got within some thirty
yards of Roneys when, between them and the object of their attack, out
of Simpson street, which at this point crosses Blundell Street at right
angles, there intervened the head of a column of police, under the
Liverpool Chief Constable, an Irishman, Michael James Whitty. There was
a desperate engagement, but, notwithstanding their murderous weapons,
the Orangemen were utterly routed, flying before the disciplined charge
of the police, who freely used their batons on their retreating
opponents.
A few words about Michael James Whitty, who led the charge with right
good will, may not be inappropriate here. Many years afterwards, when we
were both engaged in the profession of journalism, I had the pleasure of
making his acquaintance through my reviewing in the "Catholic Times" a
very able book of his, a "Life of Robert Emmet." He asked Mr. Thomas
Gregson, his private secretary, a friend of mine: Who had written this
review? Upon hearing who it was, he asked Mr. Gregson to bring us
together. When we met, he told me how pleased he was with my review, and
that there was somebody on the "Catholic Times" who could appreciate his
book.
He became Chief Constable of Liverpool in 1828. About this time Messrs.
Rockliffs published a weekly newspaper called the "Liverpool Journal,"
which came into the hands of Mr. Whitty after he had resigned the office
of head constable. An offshoot of the "Journal" was the "Daily Post,"
which, in Mr. Whitty's hands was (and indeed has been ever since under
the direction of Sir Edward Russell, who still holds the reins) a
powerful organ of Liberalism. One of Whitty's sub-editors on the "Daily
Post" was Stephen Joseph Meany, a somewhat prominent figure in the Young
Ireland and Fenian movements.
As showing the power of the Press, there is no doubt that Whitty and
Meany, in the "Journal" and "Post," and through their influence
otherwise, did much to secure recognition of a great Irish actor. This
was Barry Sullivan, who was, I think, the finest tragedian I have ever
seen. He is still remembered with appreciation by many in England, and,
I am sure, in Ireland too.
He was a patriotic Irishman, and once offered himself to our committee
as a Nationalist candidate for the Parliamentary representation of
Liverpool. This was in the days when it was a three-membered
constituency. It was only the belief that the sacrifice which he thus
offered to make for his country would have injured his career as an
actor that prevented us from accepting his offer.
In my boyhood a great feature in Liverpool was the annual procession of
one or other of the local societies.
The great Irish and Catholic procession, of which the Hibernians formed
the largest contingent, was, of course, on St. Patrick's Day. A
considerable portion of the processionists were dock labourers; a fine
body of men, who were at this time, as I have already said, mostly
Irish.
The Orange processions in Liverpool were often the occasion of
bloodshed, for in them they carried guns, hatchets, and other deadly
weapons, as if they were always prepared for deeds of violence. The
ship carpenters were the most numerous body in the Orange processions.
Indeed, they formed such a large proportion that, by many, the 12th of
July was called "Carpenter's Day." Shipbuilding used to flourish in
Liverpool, and, as none of the firms engaged in it would take a Catholic
apprentice, it was quite an Orange preserve. This became somewhat
changed when the Chalenors, an English Catholic family, who were already
extensive timber merchants, commenced ship-building, and, of course,
took Catholic apprentices.
The Orange ring was thus gradually broken up, and, as iron ships
superseded wooden ones, ultimately the shipbuilding trade almost
vanished from Liverpool. The ship carpenters, for the most part, found
their occupation gone, and many of them ended their days in the
workhouse.
A further instance of the decline of rabid Orangeism might be cited. It
was not an altogether uncommon thing for people to be fired at from the
windows of Orange lodges. I see, according to the "Nation" of July 20th,
1850, that "an innkeeper of Liverpool named Wright fired out of his
house and wounded three people." In justification of this he stated that
"a crowd of Ribbonmen assembled round his house." At one time there used
to be a notorious Orange lodge held in a public house called "The Wheat
Sheaf" in Scotland Road. The members of this body thought nothing of
firing upon an unarmed and peaceable crowd from the windows, and I
remember an Irishman being shot dead upon one of these occasions. The
change that has taken place in this district can be best realized from
the facts that, in after years, the landlord of "The Wheatsheaf" bore
the name of Patrick Finegan, that, at the present moment, Scotland Road
is, as it has been for many years, represented in the City Council by a
sterling body of Irish Nationalists, and that the Scotland Division of
the Borough of Liverpool is the _one_ place in Great Britain where an
Irish Home Ruler, _as such_, can be returned to Parliament against all
comers, as Mr. T.P. O'Connor has been, ever since the Division became a
separate constituency.
To return to the St. Patrick's Day processions. I used to look forward
to them with delight in my childhood, and, even now, cannot help
lingering lovingly on their memory. They were splendid displays, which I
can remember much better than many things which occurred, so to speak,
but yesterday.
"Our street," which was close to Russell Street, Rodney Street, and
other thoroughfares through which the procession passed, was by no means
what you would call an Irish street. Indeed, the most influential man in
it was a retired sea captain named Jamieson, who, if not an Orangeman
"all out," was certainly at one time an Orange sympathiser. He and my
mother often had political discussions, which usually ended in fierce
quarrels, and when he would swear he would have us "run out of the
street," she used to threaten to bring up the men from the docks and
leave not a stone upon a stone of his house. Whether it was through his
being impressed by her terrible earnestness as a member of the Church
militant, or whatever else was the reason, Jamieson in the end became a
Catholic, and died a most edifying death.
Before his conversion, however, as well as after--Jamieson to the
contrary notwithstanding--"our street" always took a lively and
neighbourly interest in the St. Patrick's procession, and used to turn
out to a man, to a baby it would, perhaps, be more correct to say, for
was not one of the chief sights of the procession their decent
neighbour, Timothy, or, as he was more generally called, "Thade"
Crowley, the pork butcher, at the corner? There were splendid pictures
and devices on the banners--I can see them all most vividly now--St.
Patrick, Brian Bora, Sarsfield, O'Connell, the Irish Wolf Dog, with the
motto "Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked," and harps and
shamrocks _galore_, but Thade Crowley was in all our eyes the finest
figure in the procession.
Among his greatest admirers were a Jewish family named Hyman, who lived
next door to him. Though the Jews are supposed to hold what was
Crowley's stock-in-trade in abomination, the two old ladies--Mrs.
Crowley, who used to say she was of "Cork's own town and God's own
people," and Mrs. Hyman, who came from Cork, too, though, needless to
say, without a drop of Irish blood in her veins--were great cronies.
As a consequence, the Hymans were among the most eager of the spectators
to get the first glimpse of honest Thade Crowley as he walked in front
of his own particular lodge of the Hibernians. He was a portly,
well-built man, of ruddy complexion, and open, genial countenance. He
wore buckskin breeches, top boots, green tabinet double-breasted
waistcoat, bottle-green coat with brass buttons, and beaver hat. The
Crowleys were very popular in the neighbourhood, as they never had but a
kindly word for everybody.
When I was a small boy, about 9 or 10 years old, I often listened with
delight to Mrs. Crowley, who had a fluent tongue, expatiating on the
glories of her native city--
By the pleasant waters of the River Lee.
and I have heard her exclaiming, I at the time believing it most
implicitly:
"Sin, is it? Sure. I never heard of sin till I came to Liverpool;
there's no sin in Cor-r-k!"
And she rattled the "r" with a strong rising inflexion, greatly
impressing me with the high character of Ireland and of Cork in
particular.
At that time I had never seen Ireland but as an infant at my mother's
breast.