1880-1916
Two simple words, charged now for some of us with sad and infinite
memories. It is not the death of the Professor, nor of the soldier, nor
of the politician--nor even of the poet or the essayist--that causes the
heart-ache that we feel. It is the loss of that rare, charming,
wondrous personality summed up in those two simple words, TOM KETTLE.
A genial cynic, a pleasant pessimist, an earnest trifler, he was made up
of contradictions. A fellow of infinite jest--and infinite sadness.
His prototypes were Hamlet or the Melancholy Jacques. Among the
delightful essays he has left us in that charming little book, _The
Day's Burden_, is one entitled "A new way of misunderstanding _Hamlet_."
He was himself a veritable Hamlet in this twentieth century Ireland.
One may ask, did he quite understand himself? Master of paradox,
enunciator of enigma, he was a paradox and an enigma in, and to,
himself. Shall we seek now to pluck out the heart of his mystery? The
lines are hackneyed beyond hope, but in this instance they apply in
truth.
The personality of Kettle had in it something subtle; something
essential yet elusive; something not to be defined. He was a great
talker in the Johnsonian sense. As a story-teller, it was not so much
the point of his tale that counted as his telling of it. The
divagations from the text in which he loved to indulge were the delight
of his auditors. With truth it may be said that his rich humour, his
brilliant, mordant wit, caused his listeners to hang upon his words.
And his outlook was so wide, his soul so big, his mind so broad, and a
deep love of humanity so permeated him that his talk, or one might more
fittingly say, his discourse, was educating and uplifting. But he was a
man of moods, descending from heights of Homeric humour to the depths of
a divine despair. Those privileged to hear him thus expounding will
cherish the memory while they live. We, too, as it were, have "seen
Shelley plain." He charmed, he fascinated. This, in truth, describes
him for his spell wrought even on those who actually disliked him.
In the numerous notices printed of him since he died much has been
written of the promise of his career. More appropriate it would be to
write of his performance. He crowded into thirty-six years of life far
more than most men achieve in twice that span. Now the orator is
silent, the brilliant wit has ceased to sparkle, the skilful pen will
ply no more. Tom Kettle knows at last the answer to the riddle that
baffled him, the Riddle of the Universe.