I find by consulting my diary that it was on the 30th of June that I
went to Dublin. I am not often in Dublin, though I do not share the
contempt for that city which is felt by most Ulstermen. Cahoon, for
instance, will not recognize it as the capital of the country in which
he lives, and always speaks of Dublin people as impractical, given
over to barren political discussion and utterly unable to make useful
things such as ships and linen. He also says that Dublin is dirty,
that the rates are exorbitantly high, and that the houses have not got
bath-rooms in them. I put it to him that there are two first-rate
libraries in Dublin.
"If I want a book," he said, "I buy it. We pay for what we use in
Belfast. We are business men."
"But," I explained, "there are some books, old ones, which you cannot
buy. You can only consult them in libraries."
"Why don't you go to London, then?" said Cahoon.
The conversation took place in the club. I lunched there on my way
through Belfast, going on to Dublin by an afternoon train. I was, in
fact, going to Dublin to consult some books in the College Library.
Marion and I had been brought up short in our labours on my history
for want of some quotations from the diary of a seventeenth-century
divine, and even if I had been willing to buy the book I should have
had to wait months while a second-hand bookseller advertised for it.
Trinity College, when I entered the quadrangle next day, seemed
singularly deserted. The long vacation had begun a week before.
Fellows, professors and students had fled from the scene of their
labours. Halfway across the square, however, I met McNeice. He seemed
quite glad to see me and invited me to luncheon in his rooms. I
accepted the invitation and was fed on cold ham, stale bread and
bottled stout.
Thackeray once hinted that fellows of Trinity College gave their
guests beer to drink. Many hard words have been said of him ever since
by members of Dublin University. I have no wish to have hard things
said about me; so I explain myself carefully. McNeice's luncheon was
an eccentricity. It is not on cold ham solely, it is not on stale
bread ever, that guests in the Common Room are fed. If, like Prince
Hal, they remember amid their feasting "that good creature, small
beer," they do not drink it without being offered nobler beverages.
When the University, in recognition of my labours on the Life of St.
Patrick, made me a doctor of both kinds of law, I fared sumptuously in
the dining hall and afterwards sipped port rich with the glory of suns
which shone many many years ago on the banks of the upper Douro.
After luncheon, while I was still heavy with the spume of the stout,
McNeice asked me if I had seen the new paper which was being published
to express, I imagine also to exacerbate, the opinions of the Ulster
Unionists. He produced a copy as he spoke. It was called _The
Loyalist_.
"We wanted something with a bite in it," he said. "We're dead sick of
the pap the daily papers give us in their leading articles."
Pap is, I think, a soft innocuous food, slightly sugary in flavour,
suitable for infants. I should never have dreamed of describing the
articles in _The Belfast Newsletter_ as pap. An infant nourished on
them would either suffer badly from the form of indigestion called
flatulence or would grow up to be an exceedingly ferocious man. I
felt, however, that if McNeice had anything to do with the editing of
_The Loyalist_ its articles would be of such a kind that those of the
_Newsletter_ would seem, by comparison, papescent.
"We're running it as a weekly," said McNeice, "and what we want is to
get it into the home of every Protestant farmer, and every working-man
in Belfast. We are circulating the first six numbers free. After that
we shall charge a penny."
I looked at _The Loyalist_. It was very well printed, on good paper.
It looked something like _The Spectator_, but had none of the pleasant
advertisements of schools and books, and much fewer pages of
correspondence than the English weekly has.
"Surely," I said, "you can't expect it to pay at that price."
"We don't," said McNeice. "We've plenty of money behind us.
Conroy--you know Conroy, don't you?"
"Oh," I said, "then Lady Moyne got a subscription out of him after
all. I knew she intended to."
"Lady Moyne isn't in this at all," said McNeice. "We're out for
business with _The Loyalist_. Lady Moyne's--well, I don't quite see
Lady Moyne running _The Loyalist_."
"She's a tremendously keen Unionist," I said. "She gave an address to
the working-women of Belfast the week before last, one of the most
moving--"
"All frills," said McNeice, "silk frills. Your friend Crossan is
acting as one of our agents, distributing the paper for us. That'll
give you an idea of the lines we're going on."
Crossan, I admit, is the last man I should suspect of being interested
in frills. The mention of his name gave me an idea.
"Was it copies of _The Loyalist_," I asked, "which were in the
packing-cases which you and Power landed that night from the
_Finola_?"
McNeice laughed.
"Come along round with me," he said, "and see the editor. He'll
interest you. He's a first-rate journalist, used to edit a rebel paper
and advocate the use of physical force for throwing off the English
rule. But he's changed his tune now. Just wait for me one moment while
I get together an article which I promised to bring him. It's all
scattered about the floor of the next room in loose sheets."
I read _The Loyalist_ while I waited. The editor was unquestionably a
first-rate journalist. His English was of a naked, muscular kind,
which reminded me of Swift and occasionally of John Mitchel. But I
could not agree with McNeice that he had changed his tune. He still
seemed to be editing a rebel paper and still advocated the use of
physical force for resisting the will of the King, Lords and Commons
of our constitution. It is the merest commonplace to say that Ireland
is a country of unblushing self-contradictions; but I do not think
that the truth of this ever came home to me quite so forcibly as when
I read _The Loyalist_ that it would be better, if necessary, to
imitate the Boers and shoot down regiments of British soldiers than to
be false to the Empire of which "it is our proudest boast that we are
citizens." The editor--such was the conclusion I arrived at--must be a
humorist of a high order.
His name was Diarmid O'Donovan and he always wrote it in Irish
characters, which used to puzzle me at first when I got into
correspondence with him. We found him in a small room at the top of a
house in a side street of a singularly depressing kind.
McNeice explained to me that _The Loyalist_ did not court notoriety,
and preferred to have an office which was, as far as possible, out of
sight. He said that O'Donovan was particularly anxious to be
unobtrusive. He had, before he became connected with _The Loyalist_,
been editor of two papers which had been suppressed by the Government
for advocating what the Litany calls "sedition and privy conspiracy."
He held, very naturally, that a paper would get on better in the world
if it had no office at all. If that was impossible, the office should
be an attic in an inaccessible slum.
O'Donovan, when we entered, was seated at a table writing vigorously.
I do not know how he managed to write at all. His table was covered
with stacks of newspapers, very dusty. He had cleared a small, a very
small space in the middle of them, and his ink-bottle occupied a kind
of cave hollowed out at the base of one of the stacks. It must have
been extremely difficult to put a pen into it. The chairs--there were
only two of them besides the editorial stool--were also covered with
papers. But even if they had been free I should not have cared to sit
down on them. They were exceedingly dirty and did not look safe.
McNeice introduced me and then produced his own article. O'Donovan,
very politely, offered me his stool.
"McNeice tells me," he said, "that you are writing a history of Irish
Rebellions. I suppose you have said that Nationalism ceased to exist
about the year 1900?"
"I hadn't thought of saying that," I said. "In fact--in view of the
Home Rule Bill, you know--I should have said that Irish Nationalism
was just beginning to come to its own."
O'Donovan snorted.
"There's no such thing as Irish Nationalism left," he said. "The
country is hypnotized. We've accepted a Bill which deprives us of the
most elementary rights of freemen. We've licked the boots of English
Liberals. We've said 'thank you' for any gnawed bones they like to
fling to us. We've--"
It struck me that O'Donovan was becoming rhetorical. I interrupted
him.
"Idealism in politics," I said, "is one of the most futile things
there is. What the Nationalist Party--"
"Don't call them that," said O'Donovan. "I tell you they're not
Nationalists."
"I'll call them anything you like," I said, "but until you invent some
other name for them I can't well talk about them without calling them
Nationalists."
"They--" said O'Donovan.
"Very well," I said. "_They._ So long as you know who I mean, the
pronoun will satisfy me. They had to consider not what men like you
wanted, but what the Liberal Party could be induced to give. I don't
say they made the best bargain possible, but--"
"Anyhow," said McNeice, "we're not going to be governed by those
fellows. That's the essential point."
I think it is. The Unionist is not really passionately attached to the
Union. He has no insuperable antipathy to Home Rule. Indeed, I think
most Unionists would welcome any change in our existing system of
government if it were not that they have the most profound and deeply
rooted objection to the men whom McNeice describes as "those fellows,"
and O'Donovan indicates briefly as "they."
"And so," I said, turning to O'Donovan, "in mere despair of
nationality you have gone over to the side of the Unionists."
"I've gone over," said O'Donovan, "to the side of the only people in
Ireland who mean to fight."
Supposing that Ulster really did mean to fight O'Donovan's position
was quite reasonable. But Babberly says it will never come to
fighting. He is quite confident of his ability to bluff the
conscientious Liberal into dropping the Home Rule Bill for fear of
civil war. O'Donovan, and possibly McNeice, will be left out in the
cold if Babberly is right. The matter is rather a tangled one. With
Babberly is Lady Moyne, working at her ingenious policy of dragging a
red herring across the path along which democracy goes towards
socialism. On the other hand there is McNeice with fiery intelligence,
and O'Donovan, a coldly consistent rebel against English rule in any
shape and form. They have their little paper with money enough behind
it, with people like Crossan circulating it for them. It is quite
possible that they may count for something. Then there is Malcolmson,
a man of almost incredible stupidity, but with a knowledge, hammered
into him no doubt with extra difficulty, of how to handle guns.
O'Donovan and McNeice were bending over some proof sheets and talking
in low whispers; there was a knock at the office door, and a moment
later Malcolmson entered. He looked bristlier than ever, and was
plainly in a state of joyous excitement. He held a copy of the first
number of _The Loyalist_ in his hand. He caught sight of me at once.
"I'm damned," he said, "if I expected to see you here, Kilmore. You're
the last man in Ireland--"
"I'm only here by accident," I said, "and I'm going away almost at
once. Let me introduce you to Mr. McNeice and Mr. O'Donovan."
Malcolmson shook hands with the two men vigorously. I never shake
hands with Malcolmson if I can possibly help it, because he always
hurts me. I expect he hurt both McNeice and O'Donovan. They did not
cry out, but they looked a good deal surprised.
"I happened to be in Dublin," said Malcolmson, "and I called round
here to congratulate the editor of this paper. I only came across it
the day before yesterday, and--"
"You couldn't have come across it any sooner," I said, "for it's only
just published."
"And to put down my name as a subscriber for twenty copies. If you
want money--"
"They don't," I said, "Conroy is financing them."
"Conroy has some sound ideas," said Malcolmson.
"You approve of the paper, then?" said McNeice.
"I like straight talk," said Malcolmson.
"We aim at that," said O'Donovan.
"I'm dead sick of politics and speech making," said Malcolmson. "What
I want is to have a slap at the damned rebels."
"Mr. O'Donovan's point of view," I said, "is almost the same as yours.
What he wants--"
"I'm glad to hear it," said Malcolmson, "and I need only say that when
the time comes, gentlemen, and it won't be long now if things go on as
they are going--you'll find me ready. What Ireland wants--"
Malcolmson paused. I waited expectantly. It is always interesting to
hear what Ireland wants. Many people have theories on the subject, and
hardly any one agrees with any one else.
"What Ireland wants," said Malcolmson dramatically, "is another Oliver
Cromwell."
He drew himself up and puffed out his chest as he spoke. He must, I
think, have rather fancied himself in the part of a twentieth century
Puritan horse soldier. I looked round at O'Donovan to see how he was
taking the suggestion. Oliver Cromwell I supposed, could not possibly
be one of his favourite heroes. But I had misjudged O'Donovan. His
sympathy with rebels of all nations was evidently stronger than his
dislike of the typical Englishman. After all, Cromwell, however
objectionable his religious views may have been, did kill a king.
O'Donovan smiled quite pleasantly at Malcolmson. I dare say that even
the idea of a new massacre of Drogheda was agreeable enough to him,
provided the inhabitants of the town were the people to whom he denied
the title of Nationalists and Malcolmson wanted to have a slap at
because they were rebels.
Then McNeice got us all back to practical business in a way that would
have delighted Cahoon. McNeice, though he does live in Dublin, has
good Belfast blood in his veins. He likes his heroics to be put on a
business basis. The immediate and most pressing problem, he reminded
us, was to secure as large a circulation as possible for _The
Loyalist_.
"You get the paper into the people's hands," he said to Malcolmson,
"and we'll get the ideas into their heads."
Malcolmson, who is certainly prepared to make sacrifices in a good
cause, offered to hire a man with a motorcycle to distribute the paper
from house to house over a wide district.
"I know the exact man we want," he said. "He knows every house in
County Antrim, and the people like him. He's been distributing Bibles
and selling illuminated texts among the farmers and labourers for
years. He's what's called a colporteur. That," he turned to O'Donovan
with his explanation, "is a kind of Scripture reader, you know."
If any one in the world except Malcolmson had suggested the employment
of a Scripture reader for the distribution of _The Loyalist_, I should
have applauded a remarkable piece of cynicism. But Malcolmson was in
simple earnest.
"Will you be able to get him?" I said. "The society which employs him
may perhaps--"
"Oh, that will be all right," said Malcolmson. "There can't be any
objection. But if there is--I happen to be a member of the committee
of the society. I'm one"--he sunk his voice modestly--"of the largest
subscribers."
I am inclined to forget sometimes that Malcolmson takes a leading part
in Church affairs. At the last meeting of the General Synod of the
Church of Ireland he said that the distribution of the Bible among the
people of Ireland was the surest means of quenching the desire for
Home Rule. Free copies of _The Loyalist_ for the people who already
have Bibles and a force of artillery are, so to speak, his reserves.