The Insurrection in Dublin | Page 3

made about him in that letter and in this book was
erroneous; for, afterwards, when it would have been politic to run for
cover, he ran for the open, and he spoke there like the valiant thinker
and great Irishman that he is.
* * * * *
Since the foregoing was written events have moved in this country. The
situation is no longer the same. The executions have taken place. One
cannot justly exclaim against the measures adopted by the military
tribunal, and yet, in the interests of both countries one may deplore
them. I have said there was no bitterness in Ireland, and it was true at
the time of writing. It is no longer true; but it is still possible by
generous Statesmanship to allay this, and to seal a true union between
Ireland and England.

THE
INSURRECTION IN DUBLIN
CHAPTER I
MONDAY
This has taken everyone by surprise. It is possible, that, with the
exception of their Staff, it has taken the Volunteers themselves by
surprise; but, to-day, our peaceful city is no longer peaceful; guns are
sounding, or rolling and crackling from different directions, and,
although rarely, the rattle of machine guns can be heard also.
Two days ago war seemed very far away--so far, that I have covenanted
with myself to learn the alphabet of music. Tom Bodkin had promised
to present me with a musical instrument called a dulcimer--I persist in
thinking that this is a species of guitar, although I am assured that it is a

number of small metal plates which are struck with sticks, and I
confess that this description of its function prejudices me more than a
little against it. There is no reason why I should think dubiously of such
an instrument, but I do not relish the idea of procuring music with a
stick. With this dulcimer I shall be able to tap out our Irish melodies
when I am abroad, and transport myself to Ireland for a few minutes, or
a few bars.
In preparation for this present I had through Saturday and Sunday been
learning the notes of the Scale. The notes and spaces on the lines did
not trouble me much, but those above and below the line seemed
ingenious and complicated to a degree that frightened me.
On Saturday I got the Irish Times, and found in it a long article by
Bernard Shaw (reprinted from the New York Times). One reads things
written by Shaw. Why one does read them I do not know exactly,
except that it is a habit we got into years ago, and we read an article by
Shaw just as we put on our boots in the morning--that is, without
thinking about it, and without any idea of reward.
His article angered me exceedingly. It was called "Irish Nonsense
talked in Ireland." It was written (as is almost all of his journalistic
work) with that bonhomie which he has cultivated--it is his
mannerism--and which is essentially hypocritical and untrue. Bonhomie!
It is that man-of-the-world attitude, that shop attitude, that
between-you-and-me-for-are-we-not-equal-and-cultured attitude, which
is the tone of a card-sharper or a trick-of-the-loop man. That was the
tone of Shaw's article. I wrote an open letter to him which I sent to the
New Age, because I doubted that the Dublin papers would print it if I
sent it to them, and I knew that the Irish people who read the other
papers had never heard of Shaw, except as a trade-mark under which
very good Limerick bacon is sold, and that they would not be interested
in the opinions of a person named Shaw on any subject not relevant to
bacon. I struck out of my letter a good many harsh things which I said
of him, and hoped he would reply to it in order that I could furnish
these acidities to him in a second letter.
That was Saturday.

On Sunday I had to go to my office, as the Director was absent in
London, and there I applied myself to the notes and spaces below the
stave, but relinquished the exercise, convinced that these mysteries
were unattainable by man, while the knowledge that above the stave
there were others and not less complex, stayed mournfully with me.
I returned home, and as novels (perhaps it is only for the duration of the
war) do not now interest me I read for some time in Madame
Blavatsky's "Secret Doctrine," which book interests me profoundly.
George Russell was out of town or I would have gone round to his
house in the evening to tell him what I thought about Shaw, and to
listen to his own much finer ideas on that as on every other subject. I
went to bed.
On the morning following I awoke into