Prometheus Hibernica

Chapter Twelve from Drums Under The Windows,
the third volume of Sean O’Casey’s autobiography,
as re-issued by Carroll and Graf, New York, 1984.

It was a bitter day. Winds, cold and nipping, deeply swept up from the bay, curling crossly round into Beresford Place, trying to snarl their way through to the heat in the dense crowd packing with warm life the square that stretched out in front of the King's elegant Custom House. Here, too, had Parnell stood, defiant, speaking from the building's wide steps, like a flame-pointed spear on the people's altar, endurance and patient might in his beautiful wine-coloured eyes. The rascals, cleric and lay, out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore at Ireland to get at thee, and God remembered for many a long year, silencing their voice till He grew sorry for the work-worn people, and sent another man into their midst whose name was Larkin.

Through the streets he strode, shouting into every dark and evil-smelling hallway, The great day of a change has come; Circe's swine had a better time than you have; come from your vomit; out into the sun. Larkin is calling you all!

And many were afraid, and hid themselves in corners. Some ventured as far as the drear and dusky doorway to peer out, and to say, Mr. Larkin, please excuse us, for we have many things to do and to suffer; we must care for cancerous and tubercular sick, and we must stay to bury our dead. But he caught them by the sleeve, by the coat collar, and shouted, Come forth, and fight with the son of Amos who has come to walk among the men and women of Ireland. Let the sick look after the sick, and let the dead bury the dead. Come ye out to fight those who maketh the ephah small and the shekel great; come out that we may smite the winter house with the summer house; till the houses of ivory shall perish, and the great houses shall have an end.

And Sean had joined the Union.

Following afar off for a while, Sean had come at last to hear Larkin speak, to stand under a red flag rather than the green banner. On this day the Liffey's ruffled waters were roughly lapping the granite walls of the quays; the dark-brown tide was high, and above it, the big white gulls, squealing, went circling round, tensing their wide wings whenever they went against the wind that made them turn to cut it sideways. Brown and yellow leaves, drifting from the little trees along the paths, curled restlessly along the streets, rustling against the legs of the people as if eager to find shelter and safety there from the peevish and vexing wind. A grey, sulky sky overhead was the one banner flown, but all eyes were on the brave new sign in golden letters on a green field, running along the length of the building, telling all that here was the rallying camp of The Irish Transport and General Workers Union, while over the massive doorway the name Liberty Hall gave a welcome and twenty to all who came to fight for a life something higher than the toiling oxen and the bleating sheep. Here were the sons of the Gael, men of the Pale, brought up, lugged up, in the mire of Dublin's poverty, their children slung about at school, while those a little more adventurous than the rest were carted away to the reformatories of Artane and Glencree.

Aha, here now was the unfolding of the final word from the evolving words of the ages, the word of the modern, the word En-Masse, and a mighty cheer gave it welcome. From a window in the building, leaning well forth, he talked to the workers, spoke as only Jim Larkin could speak, not for an assignation with peace, dark obedience, or placid resignation; but trumpet-tongued of resistance to wrong, discontent with leering poverty, and defiance of any power strutting out to stand in the way of their march onward. His was a handsome tense face, the forehead swept by deep black hair, the upper lip of the generous, mobile mouth hardened into fierceness by a thick moustache, the voice deep, dark, and husky, carrying to the extreme corners of the square, and reaching, Sean thought, to the uttermost ends of the earth. Here was the word En-Masse, not handed down from Heaven, but handed up from a man. In this voice was the march of Wat Tyler's men, the yells and grunts of those who took the Bastille, the sigh of the famine-stricken, the last shout from those, all bloodied over, who fell in Ninety-eight on the corn slopes of Royal Meath; here were nursery rhyme and battle song, the silvery pleasing of a lute with the trumpet-call to come out and carry their ragged banners through the gayer streets of the city, so that unskilled labour might become the vanguard, the cavaliers and cannoniers of labour's thought and purpose.

The voice of mingled gold and bronze went on picturing the men to themselves – as they were, as they ought to be; showing them that they hadn't been denied the gift of a holy fire from God; this man in the drab garments of a drink-sodden nature; that man whose key of Heaven was a racing record; yonder fellow fearing to be above a blackleg, refusing to join his comrades out on strike; and, worst of all, the unsightly scab taking the job of a comrade out in a fight for better conditions for all. The voice called for the rejection of the timid one who led them, who hid in an armchair and let their men be ruled by the strength in a policeman's baton.

– Who will stand, who will fight, for the right of men to live and die like men? he called out, the large, strong hand stretched out of the window gesturing over the head of the crowd.

– We will! came back in a serried shout that echoed along the restless river, making the gliding gulls pause, turn away, and wonder, as a cloud of chapped and gnarled and grimy hands were lifted high in the air; strong hands and daring, hands that could drive a pile, handle a plough, sail a ship, stoke a furnace, or build a city.

– Gifts of the Almighty, went on the voice, labour – a gift, not a curse –, poetry, dancing, and principles; and Sean could see that here was a man who would put a flower in a vase on a table as well as a loaf on a plate. Here, Sean thought, is the beginning of the broad and busy day, the leisurely evening, the calmer night; an evening full of poetry, dancing, and the linnet's wings; these on their way to the music of the accordion, those to that of a philharmonic orchestra; and after all, to sleep, perchance to dream; but never to be conscious of a doubt about tomorrow's bread, certain that, while the earth remaineth, summer and winter should not cease, seedtime and harvest never fail:

The bell branch of Ireland may chime again,
To charm away the merchant from his guile,
And turn the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hush to sleep the roaring ranks of battle,
And all grow friendly for a little while.

No; for ever. Battles of war changed for battles of peace. Labour in all its phases the supreme honour of life, broadening the smile on the world's creased face daily.

The workers of Dublin, Wexford, Cork, Galway, Waterford, Limerick, and many towns, rallied to Larkin's side. Out of jail he had come into their arms. Starting in Belfast, Larkin brought orange and green together as they had never been together before. On to Derry, city of Columkille and the brave Apprentice Boys. Down to Cork, then, where the employers marshalled their first phalanx of bitter opposition. There he was charged with a conspiracy of to defraud the workers of their hard-earned money by a witness who had to be sent home because he was drunk; and a Crown and Anchor solicitor who was also the solicitor to the Employers' Federation, harmonising in himself the glory of God and the honour of Ireland; though one of the two magistrates trying the case, Sir Edward FitzGerald, had the temerity to declare that every fair-minded man in Cork had the idea in his head that if there was a conspiracy at all, it was a conspiracy of Dublin Castle and the Cork employers to prevent the working men of the city from uniting for their self-defence in the future. But, all the same, for this reason Jim got a sweet little sentence of twelve months with hard labour by the other magistrate on the bench, justifying the righteousness of the Lion and Unicorn over the magistrate's head. But the grin came off their faces when the King, after some months had passed, had the common sense and gracious-ness to grant a free pardon to a fine man who was dragging images of God from a condition worse than that of the beasts in the field of the poorest Irish farmer.

So Jim came out of jail, and in a room of a tenement in Townshend Street, with a candle in a bottle for a torch and a billycan of tea, with a few buns for a banquet, the Church militant here on earth of the Irish workers, called the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, was founded, a tiny speck of flame now, but soon to become a pillar of fire into which a brand was flung by Yeats, the great poet, Orpen, the painter, A. E., who saw gods in every bush and bramble, Corkery the story-teller, James Stephens, the poet and graceful satirical jester, Dudley Fletcher, the Rector of Coolbanagher, and even Patrick Pearse, wandering softly under the Hermitage elms, thinking, maybe, of Robert Emmet, the darlin' of Erin, and his low response to the executioner's Are you ready, sir?, of Not yet, not yet; even he was to lift a pensive head to the strange new shouting soon to be heard in Dublin streets, loosening the restraining hands of St. Patrick and St Laurence O' Toole, holding his girdle, to say No private right to property is good as against the public right of the people.

The tramway workers, the worst slaves Ireland ever knew, grew restless, and were trying to key themselves up to make a fight f 't. They had no settled job, no settled hours, no settled pay even, for every journey they made was crammed with trivial excuses for a fine that made their wages undergo a weekly shrivel, so that they deprived themselves of what they needed when they gave a penny to Jesus at Mass on Sundays. At midnight, when the last tram had been bedded for the night, to win courage from Larkin's faith they came to Liberty Hall in trains of wagonettes, caravans of toil, playing melodeons, concertinas, mouth-organs, and singing an old Irish ballad, or a music-hall song, as the horses plodded along from the depots of Inchicore, Clontarf, and Ringsend. As the crowded cars pulled up outside Liberty Hall, they were cheered by crowds gathered there, for each arrival was hailed as a reinforcement for an army about to march to battle. The tramwaymen crowded into a hot and stuffy hall, already nearly packed to the doors, the sweat often dripping from the fore-heads of the speakers, all of them wiping it convulsively away as they went on speaking; Jim Larkin alone carelessly brushing the bigger drops aside with a sudden impatient movement of his hand, too full of fiery thought to bar the salty moisture from entering into his gleaming eyes.

The employers gathered their forces together too, to harass the workers and stamp their menace out. William Martin Murphy, their leader, who owned the Dublin tramways, Clery's huge stores, and God knows what else besides, determined to get the employers to refuse to give work to any man who was a member of Larkin's Union. Let them submit, or starve. Jacob's the biscuit-makers, Shackleton's the millers, Eason's the newspaper and magazine distributors, along with coal factors, timber merchants, and steamship owners, came along to Martin Murphy and said, We're with you, old boy. What thou doest, we will do; what thou sayest, we will say; thy profits shall be our profits; and thy god, ours too. And so it was. Catholic, Protestant, Quaker, and pagan employer joined hand and foot, flung their money into one bag, and with bishop and priest, viceroy and council, infantryman and cavalry trooper, and bludgeon-belted policeman, formed a square, circle, triangle, and crescent to down the workers.

A foreman came slowly to Sean, a paper stretched out in his right hand, and said, Sign this, you. It was headed by a skull and cross bones, with a tiny cross in a corner, above the motto of Per ardua add fastra. The document went on to say:

Under the holy and undivided patronage of St. Ellessdee, I, M or N, do solemnly swear, without any reservation whatsoever (cross your heart, and say I hope to die), that from this day forthwith I shall cease to be a member of Larkin's Union, and will forswear his company, give him no aid, in thought, word, or deed, cross to the other side of the street when I see him coming, inasmuch as he has persuaded me to try to bite the hand that doesn't feed me; and I further promise and undertake and expressively swear that I will faithfully serve my employers, assisted by whatsoever Union they may form, or allow me to join; and so I shall incur the beloved and much sought-after brazen benediction of the holy Saint Ellessdee, and the goodwill of bishop, priest, and deacon, till the act of God, in old age or through an accident, shoves me from the job I'm no longer fit to fill: all this I swear for the third time grinning. Aman. Inscribed with solemn derision on the twelfth day of the eighth month in the year of our Lord, William Martin Murphy.– T. Gomarawl.

– What's all this mean? asked Sean.

– It means, said the foreman, winking an eye, that Mr. Martin Murphy knows what's good for you betther than yourself; so be a good boy an' sign.

– Tell your ignorant lout of a Murphy and his jackal, Bimberton, that I'd see him in Hell first!

– Don't be a fool, Jack, said the foreman smoothly, to do in a second what you may regret for a year. Sign, man, an' then go when the pressure gets too sthrong – there's no law again' you signin' the thing, an' breakin' it when you have to.

– Look, Bill, said Sean, a great poet once wrote,

A knight there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the time that he first bigan
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,
Truth and honour, fredom and curteisye;

and were I to sign this thing, all these things would turn aside and walk no more with me.

– I dunno, said the foreman, and scorn touched his tongue, that e'er a one of those things ever did, or could, walk with any of us. It's only poethry talkin' big. The ten commandments are enough for a working man to go on with – too much, if y'ask me! An' more – you may be a worthy man, but you're hardly a knight.

– Well, I'd be less than a man if I signed, Bill.

– Have it your own way, Jack, but you're no betther than others who will; and raising his voice, he said, If you can't sign, get off th' premises – we want no Larkinism here! And, seeing that Sean hesitated, he added, An' if you try to cut up rough, there's police within call to come an' shuffle you out!

– I'm off, said Sean; but tell your boss, Gomarawl, and let him tell Martin Murphy that I said that they'd auction off the coat of Christ; they'd coin the stars into copper coins; make a till out of the wood of the holy cross; they'd line their hats with the silken sounds of Shakespeare's sonnets; they'd haggle with Helen of Troy about the price of a night in bed with her; and force the sons of the morning, were they hungry, to be satisfied with a penny dinner from St. Anthony's Fund: there's nothing they wouldn't do to damn themselves with God, with angels, and with men.

On a bright and sunny day, while all Dublin was harnessing itself into its best for the Horse Show, the trams suddenly stopped. Drivers and conductors left them standing wherever they happened to be at a given time in the day when the strike commenced, to be brought to their sheds by frightened inspectors and the few scabs and blacklegs who saw in Martin Murphy another God incurnate. And the employers kept on locking out all who refused to abandon their Union, mill men, men and women from the factories, from the docks, from the railways, and from the wholesale and retail warehouses of the cities and towns. They came out bravely, marching steadily towards hunger, harm, and hostility, just to give an answer for the hope that was burning in them.

The dust and mire in which the people lived and died were being sprinkled everywhere through the gallant, aristocratic streets; it drifted on to the crimson or blue gold-braided tunics of the officer; on to the sleek morning coat and glossy top-hat of the merchant and professional man; on to the sober black gown and grey-curled wig of the barrister and judge; on to the rich rochet of immaculate surplice and cocky biretta; on to the burnished silk and lacquer-like satin frocks and delicate petticoats of dame and damsel.

Those who lived where lilacs bloomed in the doorway, where the dangling beauty of laburnum draped itself over the walls, where many a lovely, youthful rose crinkled into age, and died at last in peace, where three parts of the year was a floral honeymoon – here the dust and the mire came too, and quiet minds knew ease no longer. Magic casements were opened cautiously, and handsome or dominating eyes gazed out on a newer fairyland, a Keltic twilight growing into smoky tumult, enveloping rough and ugly figures twisting about in a rigadoon of power and resolution.

Standing to arms, the soldiers were confined to barracks; town and country police began to go about in companies; and the horsemen came trotting down this street and up that one. And the clergy, if they weren't denouncing strike organisers, kept fast together in a secret silence. And at the wall of an end house in every tottering street stood groups of mingled black and blue police as if the rotting building had suddenly thrown out a frieze of dark and sinister growth. There they stood, never moving, though every eye turned slow in its socket to follow the figure of every passing man, And every passing man tried to pretend he hadn't seen them; or, if he had, that they were no concern of his, for he was on the Lord's side, out to serve the King, and loyal to William Martin Murphy. Sean, whenever he passed them, shuddered, for in his mind's eye he could see the swiftly rising arm, the snarling face, and feel the broad bone of his skull caving in on his brain, with the darkness of death beside him.

Sean wondered why the clergy didn't stand with the men for their right of choosing their own leader and their own Union. He remembered the Polish poet Mickiewicz's enthusiasm for the haughty, desperate rising of the French Communards, after he had hurried to Rome to form a legion to strike at Austria for the freedom of Italy; how mad he was at the difficulties so civilly thrust in the way of all he wanted to do by crafty, timid, crimson-clothed cardinals. Were he, Sean, able to pick the lock of the massive gate in the grounds of the Primate's palace, or climb in the dead of night over its high, cold, ashlar-moulded walls; creep through shrubbery and gaudy flower-bed, creep through window thoughtlessly left open; pass by secretary and usher, unbeknownst, right into the presence of the right reverend gentleman, reading his breviary, he would catch him by the arm, as the Polish poet caught the arm of the Pope, and say to the Primate what the poet said to the Pope, Good God, man, know that the spirit of God is under the jackets of the Dublin workers!

With six constables sitting on it, six mounted men leading, six following behind, a lorry driven by a scab came slowly down the quays. Suddenly a crowd of dockers were between the leading horse-men and the lorry; another between the lorry and the horsemen following; while a third attacked the foot police, and pulled the scab from the cart, the mounted men trying to shelter their faces and control their frightened horses in the midst of a shower of stone and jagged ends of broken bottles. Before they could recover, the scab was splashing in the river, and then, like lightning, many hands scurried the horse from the cart, dragged the lorry to the river wall, where, with a shout of All together – up! the lorry was raised and sent hurtling down into the river on top of the screaming scab.

The dust and savage creak of this bloody scuffle had no benison of feeling for Sean, so he turned away to go from the place as quick as he dared to move; for, if he met a police patrol, speed would tell them he had been doing something, and a baton might crunch in his skull. So he walked on as carelessly as he could, and oh, Christ! a staggering tatter-clad figure, clasping a jaw with both hands, caught up with him. From a side glance, Sean saw that the figure's jaw had been slashed down by a sabre-cut, and it kept calling out, A handkerchief, a handkerchief, someone! Jasus! is there ne'er a one rich enough among the millions O' Dublin's city to spare a poor bleedin' bugger a handkerchief!

Sean's one handkerchief was safe at home, thank God, and the bit of rag he was using, and always used, except on very special occasions, was too precious to be given away; for there was no way of getting another, for with them rags were as scarce as purple cloth or linen fine; so he kept walking on with the wounded man following. A jarvey driving slowly down the street stopped, jumped down, had a look, and said hastily, and with horror, Here, man alive, climb up, an' I'll dhrive yeh to Jervis Street Hospital before half of your dial is missin'; an' you, he added to Sean, jump up, an' hold him on.

Sean hadn't the courage to persist in going on his way; so he climbed on to the side-car, putting an arm round the stricken man to keep him steady, who kept muttering tensely, If I only hadda had a handkerchief, I'd ha' stayed on in the fight. Only let me get a few stitches in it, an' I'm back for the bastard who done it!

Turning into another street, they came on a police patrol, led by a sergeant, who stopped them, asked where they'd been and where they were going.

– Oh, I'm only doin' th' good Samaritan, said the jarvey jollily; jus' picked him up to bring him to Jervis Street, havin' nothin' betther to do, sergeant.

– Yous gang o' goughers! snarled the sergeant, I know yous of old. Here you, seizing the wounded man by the arm and pulling him headlong from the car, walkin's good enough for you, instead of plankin' your bum on a car in your Larkinistic idea of proper an' proverbial comfort an' calm. In this war, me bucko, th' wounded'll have to be their own sthretcher-bearers, an' carry themselves to hospital! And he gave him a woeful kick in the backside, shaking him so that he drew his hand from his face, letting the cloven cheek fall like a bloody flap over his chin, giving a howl as his hand caught it again and fingered it back to its proper place; his other hand rubbing his under backbone, as he shambled away moaning.

– And don't be so quick an' ready with your grand charity the next time, you! he said, turning on the jarvey.

– I didn't know, sergeant, murmured the jarvey. Me an' this good man here helped him, thinkin' he'd met with a purely innocent accident.

– What a pair o' gaums yous are! roared the sergeant sarcastically. Be off with you before I bring you, horse, car, an' all, to the station! An' what are you gawkin' at? he wheeled round on Sean, who was afraid to go or stay. You're another of them that want to change th' world, eh? Well, go an' change it somewhere else, yeh miserable remaindher of some mother's bad dhream! An' here's a hand to help you there; and before Sean knew enough, a heavy hand swung swiftly to his ear, sending him spinning down the street, his vision a blaze of shooting lights, his knees shaking under him as he staggered away, never waiting to give a groan till he was out of sight and sound of the savage group, glad in his heart that it had been a hand, and not a baton, that had clipt him on the head.

The meeting of the locked-out workers, arranged for the following Sunday, had been proclaimed by Dublin Castle. The night the proclamation had come to Liberty Hall, a vast crowd gathered to hear what was to be done. The meeting would be held; Jim Larkin would be there in O'Connell Street. The darkness was falling, a dim quietness was spreading over the troubled city. Even the gulls muted their complaining cries; and the great throng was silent; silent, listening to the dark voice speaking from the window. To Sean, the long arm seemed to move about in the sky, directing the courses of the stars over Dublin; then the moving hand held up the proclamation, the other sturdy hand held a lighted match to it; it suddenly flared up like a minor meteor; in a dead silence it flamed, to fall at last in flakes of dark and film ashes down upon the heads of the workers below, fluttering here and there, uncertainly, by the wind from the mighty cheer of agreed defiance that rose to the sky, and glided away to rattle the windows and shake the brazen nails and knobs on the thick doors of Dublin Castle. Resolute and firm, thought Sean; but they have no arms, they have no arms.

Oh! O'Connell Street was a sight of people on that Sunday morning! From under the clock swinging pedantically outside of the Irish Times offices, across the bridge over the river, to well away behind the Pillar, topped by Nelson, the wide street was black with them; all waiting for Jim to appear somewhere when the first tick of the clock tolled the hour of twelve.

In this very street, not so very long ago, the gentle Shelley had stood, handing out to the staring, passing people his Declaration of Rights. From one of the windows of the restaurant, almost facing Sean, he tossed his leaflets of hope and stormy encouragement to the gibing Dublin citizens. Shelley who sang,

What is freedom? Ye can tell that which slavery is too well,
For its very name has grown to an echo of your own.
Rise like lions after slumber....
Shake your chains to earth like dew....
Ye are many – they are few.

Maybe he is looking down upon this very crowd now, seeing, and applauding, the change that has come to the mind of the Irish workers. Oh! If they only had arms!

– Lo, Jim is there! a voice would say, and the crowd, like a cornfield under a rough wind, would sway towards the bridge; lo, he is here! another voice would say, and the crowd swayed back towards the Pillar.

– There's a funeral to come along, said a voice at Sean's elbow, an' when th' hearse gets to the middle o' th' crowd, Jim'll pop up outa th' coffin an' say his say.

– No, no, another voice replied; as a matther of fact, he's stealin' up th' river in a boat.

– Couldn't be that way, answered still a third, for the quays are crawlin' with polis.

Sean shivered, for he was not a hero, and he felt it was unwise to have come here. He felt in his pocket: yes, the strip of rag and his one handkerchief were safe there. It was well to have something to use for a bandage, for a body never could tell where or how a sudden wound would rise. Although the police were instructed to hit the shoulders of the people, they always struck at the top or the base of the skull. He turned to look back so as to assure himself that he hadn't got too far into the crowd. No; with a quick wheel of his body, and a few swift sweeps of his arms, he'd be out of it, and a few paces only from the side streets opposite the Pillar: so far so good. Maybe the police were out just to fulfil regulations. They had to be wherever there was a crowd; it was customary, and of little significance. If they hadn't wanted the people here, they could have prevented them from gathering by cordoning the street off; and the people around looked quite at ease, and would be very peaceable. They were intent on seeing where Jim would appear, and heads were constantly twisting in every direction. A little way down, on a narrow ledge of a doorway, holding a column to keep steady, Sean saw the figure of a man whose head and face were heavily bound in bandages; and from what he saw of the cap, the coat, and the bit of the face visible, he'd swear it was the man whose cheek hung over his chin but a few days ago. A wicked thing for a man in his condition to come to a place like this, he thought.

– There he is! suddenly shouted a dozen voices near Sean. Goin' to speak from the window of the very hotel owned be Martin Murphy himself! and there right enough, framed in an upper window, was a tall man in clerical garb, and when he swept the beard from his chin, the crowd saw their own beloved leader, Jim Larkin.

A tremendous cheer shook its way through the wide street, and Sean raised his right arm, and opened his mouth to join it, but his mouth was snapped shut by a terrific surge back from the crowd in front, while another section of it, on the outskirts, surged forward to get a better view, though now the cheer had been silenced by a steady scream in the near distance, by the frantic scuffling of many feet, and loud curses from frightened men. Twelve rows or so ahead of him, Sean saw a distended face, with bulging eyes, while a gaping mouth kept shouting, The police – they're chargin', get back, get back, there! Let me out, let me out; make a way there for a man has a bad heart! They're batonin' everyone to death – make a way out for a poor, sick man, can't yous!

Sean made a desperate try to turn, but the jam became so close that he was penned tight to his struggling neighbour. He felt himself rising, but fought savagely to keep his feet on the ground; and try as he might, he couldn't get his lifted arm down to fend off the pressure on his chest that was choking him. He could neither get his right arm down nor his left arm up to loosen the collar of his shirt, to get more air, a little more air; he could only sway back and forward as the crowd moved. The breathing of the suffocating crowd sounded like the thick, steamy breathing of a herd of frightened cattle in a cattle-boat tossed about in a storm; and over all, as he tried to struggle, he heard the voices of the police shouting, Give it to the bastards! Drive the rats home to their holes! Let them have it, the Larkin bousys!

– Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph be with us now! burst from the voice beside Sean as two sickening sounds told of two skulls crunched not very far away; and Sean closed his eyes, waiting for a blow. The ache in the pit of his belly was agonising, and the heat of the pressure against him was sending the sweat running in rivulets down his chest and spine.

– We should never ha' listened to Larkin, wailed the voice beside him. Our clergy were always warnin' us, an' we should ha' gone be them! Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph be with us in this hour o' need! If I ever get outa this, I'll light half a dozen candles to St. Nocnoc of Duenna-durban.

Sean felt he couldn't stick it much longer. Carried along by the ebbing and flowing mass of people, he saw dimly that they had gone beyond Nelson's Pillar; while, topping the crowd, he could see police helmets darting hither and thither, batoning and blustering, batoning, batoning everyone. A minute later his toe struck something soft, and a moment after his feet were trampling a body that never made a move. Now he couldn't get his feet to the ground again, and in a spasmodic effort to do it, he only managed to rise higher so that his head and shoulders looked over the struggling mass of men. He could see no women, though he had heard a woman's screaming several times. Yes, there was one, a well-dressed lass too, lying alone beside the chemist's shop at the corner of Henry Street. The part of the crowd in which he was jammed now took a half-wheel, and he saw they were battling furiously among themselves to be the first to force a way into the narrow lane that led to the Pro-Cathedral. In the pause that came while he waited to be carried to the narrow neck of safety, Sean looked ahead and saw Jim Larkin pulled, pushed, and shoved along by four constables, a crowd of others keeping guard around their comrades, their batons in hand, ready for any head that came within circling range of it. And following some distance away, there, by God! was his friend of the cleft cheek; a sleeve torn from his coat, the bandages hanging wildly round his neck, forced along by three policemen, making things worse by shouting, Up the Dublin workers! Up Jim Larkin! and making Sean shudder at the thought of what they'd make him look like when they got him to the cell and no-one was there to see.

Now with an angry surge and a pressure that cracked his ribs, Sean was borne into the narrow way that led unto life; the pressure, pressing in, eased, and his feet touched the ground. A pale paladin of the people, he stood there, his escort fleeing on ahead to crowd into the church and fill themselves with its peace and promise of security. An inward pressure pressing out assailed him now; his breathing could barely keep in time with the frantic flutter of his heart; his head ached, and the church railings seemed to move this way and that before him. He felt as if he must fall to feel safe. Each time he took a step towards the side-walk, his foot made a half-circle, and the road seemed to rise and slap the sole of it. Getting there at last, he leaned against the railing, slid down to sit on the pavement and wait for his heart to slow down and his breath to order itself into a quieter commotion. God! it had been a day and a half!

There were the two of them on the top of the building, statuters of St. Laurence O'Toole and St. Patrick, with their backs to the people, O'Toole, now a commissioner of police, bludgeoning his flock into an improper reverence for law and order. And St. Patrick was far too busy to care, with his episcopal nose stuck between the vellum leaves of one of his rarer Keltic books. What one, now, allanna? Book of Kills; the Book of O'Money; the Book of the Ripe and Edifying Thoughts in the Head of Kinsale; the Book of the Old Done Cow; the Book of the Curious Chronicles of Finnegan's Wake (That's over his head); or the Book of the Revised Version of Cathleen's Thorny Way? More than likely it's Merriman's Mediae Noctis Consilium he's poring over now.

God rest you merry, gentlemen, but isn't this a nice book to have burgeoned out of Ireland's bosom! murmured St. Patrick to himself. This fellow couldn't have been a true Gael. And I thinking the Gaedhilge was the sure shield of Eire's purity! Well, this book is an eye-opener anyway. Isn't it well that it's in a language that few can read. They'd lap it up if it was in plain English. There isn't half enough police in the country. This is a nice thing to be peeping over the fair hills of holy Ireland. If the English caught me reading it, I'd be ruined! The Irish have always been a worry to me and poor Laurence. He doesn't really know how to deal with Dubliners. You think you have them all nice and handy on their knees, shouting mea culpa the way you'd think they were cheering, when, suddenly, one of them'll lep up, roaring, To hell with it all! and, immediately, there's a pack after him, doing the same thing. What a precious, peaceful time the English saints – the few there are – have in comparison! Their sleep hardly ever broken by a row among their boyos below. But I can scarcely sit down to a quiet meal when some excited messenger must come like a whirlwind, sweeping away the little rest one gets nowadays with the wind of his wings, to whisper, You're wanted at once at the bordher, sir; they're at it again! Then to have these simpering, gone-and-forgotten English saints, not a hair astray on one of them, come up to you to admonish and advise: You're not 'arf strict enough with them, Pauddy. You allow them too many indulgences altogether. You really ought to keep them dahn with a stwrong hand. By the Ardaw Chalice, the Cwoss of Cong, and the Tahrahrah Brooch, if I were you, Pauddy, I'd be moh severe. I near lost me temper when that chit of a Saint Allsup of Shelmexham tapped me on the shoulder to say, Pauddy, the next best thing to do is to change your nationullity and settle dahn into a fine old English gentleman. Only for catching my guardian angel's eye, I'd have put his mitre asthray on his head for him!

It makes it worse that there's some truth in it all. But how, in th' name o' God, could I ever get them to confine their thoughts to dominoes and darts? Sure I know damn well if they did they wouldn't dwell so much on religion or politics. I'll be worn out if this goes on much longer. Then there's that Patricius, insistin' he was the real Patrick, a dangerous fella, goin' round, too, makin' out it was him brought four-thirds of the people into the Church, and all I done was to wangle Armagh into bein' the chief see of th' land; and that poor deluded man, Professor Rahilly, puttin' it down in black an' white, an' sayin' there may have been three Patricks altogether, so that some of the Irish are sayin' there's primae-facie reasons for believin' that St. Patrick left Ireland before he came there at all; and that though some Patrick did something somewhere, the real Patrick never existed outside of a stained-glass window, St. Patrick's Day parades, the Calendar of the Culdees, picture postcards, and the tune of St. Patrick's Day in th' Mornin'! And all this scorn of tradition in spite of what is set down in the Trippertight-tappertuttut Life of St. Patrick, sworn to as truth in the news by Roddy the Rover with his signature tune added of It could happen here for the glory of God and the honour of Eireann.

Now this Jim Larkin is tumbling my poor flock into turmoil again, snapping away from them their grand lifelong chance of working an exceeding weight of glory from their hunger, wretchedness, and want. It's all getting me down! I was lookin' at myself in a fixed star only yestherday, and I was frightened be the look of sthrain an' weariness starin' out at me. What is Bishop Eblananus of Stopaside doin'?

He seized hold of a passing blink of sun and sent it skimming down to the Bishop's Palace, to tell him to meet him immediately, if not sooner, on the top of Nelson's Pillar to see what they could do to stop the poor from running after things adamnistic and evenescent, instead of cleaving to the things not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Then he tore a wide strip from the rainbow's end, making a lovely swung seat of it by tying the ends round the necks of two cherubs, Asseguy and Bellboomerang; and sitting himself nicely down in the swing, off the three of them went, dancing through the shining sun, waltzing, gavottering, and schottisching down to the platform of the Pillar, some hundred feet above the tumult in the streets below.

The saint made a perfect landing on the stony square of ground, and as he was passing by for the landing, he had noticed a supercilious look on the battered face of Nelson, and heard a muttered pshaw coming from between his stony lips; but he was too dignified to notice this abortive insult aimed at him by the snobbish and heretical admiral.

And there, lying flat on his broad back, was the bishop, Eblananus, feebly fanning himself with his mitre, gasping for breath; the ascent of the hundreds of winding stairs inside the cylindrical Pillar had completely blown him, for he was fairly well stricken in years.

– Pull yourself together, man, said St. Patrick, angry at seeing the bishop in a condition resembling hors de combat; this isn't the time for thinking of yourself.

– Take your time, man, till I get me breath; take your time, murmured the good man breathlessly. Curious spot to choose for an episcopal pow-wow.

St. Patrick leaned over the balustrade to look at the disorder below, at the little mites of men struggling with the blue-coated mites of policemen striking at the bare hands of the workers raised to shield their heads. He turned towards Eblananus, who had propped himself up against the pedestal on which Nelson stood. Nice position we'd be in, if these Dublin rowdies of yours had been armed, wouldn't we? Will you thry to tell a man what is it they want?

– Everything a man can think of, breathed the bishop: a pleasanter place be day; a warmer shelter be night; more bread for their children; and more time off for themselves.

– Be God! they're not askin' for much! ejaculated Patrick. An' what is this Larkin fella askin' for them?

– All them things too; an' an education that'll allow them, if they so will, to dip into Plato, feel the swing of the Pleiades, to climb the long reaches to the peak of song, to wonder at the rift of the dawn, and to hail with silent happiness the reddening of the rose.

– Oh! Is that all? questioned the saint bitterly. He isn't askin' a lot either. There's nothin' like hitchin' your flagon to a bar! Well, they must be taught that the penny Catechism is good enough for them. I wondher what do both of them combined want?

– I can tell you that, said Eblananus, with a tremor in his voice. They want the Old Woman of Beare who once wore a shinin' shift, an' now wears none, to wear a shinin' shift again.

– They didn't use that actual low an' dangerous word, did they?

– They did then, an' all, holy Patrick, apostle of the pure-minded Gael.

– The fact is, Eblananus, said Patrick stormily, you're not dain' your duty be these people. You give them far too many indulgences. You'll have to learn to keep them down with a stwrong hand. If this goes on much longer, I'll change me nationullity, an' leave your little Irish colleen in her ould plaid shawl, the playboy of your Western world, the counthry dressmaker, A. E.'s great breath, the eloquent Dempsey, Professor Tim, Mother Machree, and the rest of them, to their own devices. "11 make me home in John Bull's Other island; I will, as God is me judge, if this goes on! What's preventin' them from patternin' themselves on th' English? Answer me that. No, no answer. Y'never get an answer here when y'ask a decent question. He ran to the railing around the Pillar's platform, leant over as far as he could, cautiously, and again stared down on the street below. Oh! look at them, look at them! Th' sthreet black with them, an' not a one of them with a thought in his head, or a wish in his heart, for me! Well, they're feelin' th' swing of th' Pleiades now! Sorrow mend them! He turned suddenly on Eblananus. Why th' hell, man, don't you come over here an' give them good advice?

– Oh! I've thried, an' thried, an' thried, said the bishop, petulantly, till I'm tired.

– Well, thry again! shouted the saint. Don't they know the law – that, in its blessed equality, it forbids the rich as well as the poor to resist authority coming from God, to steal bread, to sleep in the open, or to beg in the streets? Have you been teaching them anything at all, man? They must be taught to be trim, correct, and orderly like the English – d'ye hear us talkin', man?

– 'Course I hear you – I'd want to be deaf if I didn't.

– Well, roared the saint, losing his temper for the first time in his life, why don't you come here an' shout it down at them?

– Shout it yourself, if you're so eager, an' see what you'll make of it! vehemently replied the patient bishop, now aroused for the second time in his life.

– Oh! said Patrick in despair, clasping his hands, and turning up his eyes to Heaven. Oh! Hibernica salubrio, este pesta quaesta essentia terrifica tornadocum!

– Yah! leered the figure of Nelson, leaning precariously over his pedestal, and shoving his cocked hat farther over his blind eye with his remaining hand, to get a better view; now yous know a little of what we have to contend against to keep yous in the bonds of law'n order!

– Yah, yourself! shouted Patrick, now beside himself at being jeered at be an intherloper, drummin' the platform with the butt-end of his staff; if all had their rights, me bucko, it's not you'd be stuck up there in a state of honour, but me, or that other dacent man standin' there, Eddy Eblananus, born an' reared only a stone's-throw from Lam Doyle's an' th' Three-Rock Mountain. An' who but the foolish Irish lifted you to where y'are?

– Ay, said Eblananus, now on his feet, and standing well out to fix his eyes on Nelson, with a fighting swing of his frock, an' let him be aware he'd be wantin' th' epaulettes on his shouldhers an' th' gold lace on his cocked hat, if it wasn't for the Finucanes, the Finnegans, the Fogarties, and the Flaherties at Trafalgar's Bay, and among the slimy rushes at the open mouth of th' Nile!

– Moreover, me gentleman, went on Patrick, it's not to th' English we'll look for lessons in spiritual or corporal deportment, I can tell you that!

– Let him get down here on th' platform, shouted Eblananus, an', ould an' disabled as I am with a touchy heart, I'll show him a few military manoeuvres that'll stagger him!

– Control yourselves, gentlemen, murmured the stony voice of Nelson; try to control yourselves.

– Control yourself! shouted Patrick up at him. If you could, you wouldn't send your murdherous polis out to maim an' desthroy poor men lookin' for no more than a decent livin'. Gah! If me crozier could only reach up to you, I'd knock your other eye out!

Two guardian angels, afraid of a scandal, scooted down from Heaven, seized St. Patrick, hoisted him on to his rainbow seat, and hurried him back to where he'd come from; the other, Eblananus's, took the bishop's arm and led him away down the stairs for fear of further mischief.

Along a wide lane of littered bodies, amid the tinkling of busy ambulances picking them up, one by one, pushed, shoved, and kicked by constables, the man with the cleft jaw trudged to jail, the wide stitches in his wounded face showing raw against his livid skin, the torn bandages flapping round his neck; shouting, he trudged on, Up Jim Larkin! Nor baton, bayonet, nor bishop can ever down us now – the Irish workers are loose at last!