So the winter days passed. The prison was wrapt continually in an
unpleasant amalgam of winter fog and Huntley & Palmer’s smoke. We never
saw the sun, though occasionally, when the fog cleared, we could make a
guess at it where it strode the sky.
Little wonder if we occasionally got upon one another’s nerves. None
of our nerves were of the best, and we all felt the deathly system of
prison life like an oppression on us, blotting out all intellectual
life and making a blank of mind and soul. Yet no outsider saw cleavage
among us. That was a principle we never let down.
Of an evening we met together and discussed different aspects of
national affairs, partly with the intention of defining our future
action, and partly with a view to defining our points of view in
their relation to one another. The two things were really one; for
satisfactorily to outline the second was already largely to complete
the first; and we were determined not to lose the chance with which
we had been so admirably furnished. Moreover, when birthdays arrived
we had modest supper-parties, in which song and good will supplied the
lack of viands.
Yet towards the end, with illness and depression settling on most of
us, we kept largely to our own cells, despite their icy temperature. We
were suffered books—carefully selected. It became part of our business
carefully to test the selection by arranging for a variety of books
to be sent in to us by friends. Especially was this so when a happy
accident gave us the name of our censor; and it was deeply interesting
to see his path among the classics of Irish literature.
In this we were assisted by our friends outside. Indeed, not the least
value of our months of imprisonment was the revelation of friendship,
and its spontaneity and strength and unity in those of our race. We had
but to express a need and it was at once met by leagues and committees
that had been gathered together, both at home and in England, to
befriend and serve us. If our state was like that of an island it was
at least an island washed by a great sea of friendship.
The gifts cast up by the tides of that sea became embarrassing as
Christmas approached. We had altogether to dispense with prison fare;
and our thrills of excitement were not the less because we were so
remote from the outer world. But the full bounty of that sea was never
to be experienced by us.
Shut away though we were, we watched political affairs closely—watched
not merely the surface that appeared, but watched for indications of
the hidden streams that ran—and when John Dillon brought forward his
motion for the discussion of the Irish Prisoners of War we guessed
that he had learned some hint that we were to be released. This came
soon after the failure to get us to sign pledges of good behaviour.
When, however, the threatened motion was never taken, it was clear
that we were not to be released. We were not greatly affected; but we
watched that pending motion with interest. It became a theme of daily
jest with us. When, after the change of government, the motion at last
was discussed, the sign was clear to us; and we were not surprised
when, the following day, we learned that Irish interned prisoners were
to be released. In a noncommittal way some of us began to pack—like
men who were content, the next moment, to unpack, and take whatever
came without perturbation. On Friday, the 22nd of December, we heard
that the Frongoch men were going, and during that day we learned
that a courier was expected during the afternoon with papers for our
release. No courier, however, arrived; and Sunday saw us content
again to continue as we were without complaint. It appeared, as I
afterwards learnt, that the Home Office had actually arranged for our
release together with the men at Frongoch, but that the Irish Office
had intervened. It was not till the Sunday afternoon that the Home
Office won its way. For on that day, Christmas Eve, at half-past two,
the Governor came into the prison to tell us that we were to be ready
to go out in two hours’ time. It seemed indeed that our maximum of
inconvenience had been sought; for it was impossible then for many of
us to reach home for Christmas, and such men had need to lodge where
they could with the more fortunate.
So at half-past four we passed out through the streets of Reading,
singing our songs as we went. Each man went to take up his duty as
he had always conceived it, but with the added hardness inevitably
begotten of a jail. And each man remembered his fellows who still were
in jail, the men who, for the same duty and for the same high cause,
were serving sentences at Lewes, beside whom our sufferings were a
light thing lightly endured.
New Plays and Poems.
=PLAYS OF GODS & MEN.= Containing “The Laughter of the Gods,” “The
Queen’s Enemies,” “The Tents of the Arabs” and “A Night at an Inn.” By
Lord Dunsany. Crown 8vo, 3/6 net.