JIM LARKIN.

Grey River Argus, 20 January 1922, Page 7

JIM LARKIN.

THROUGH ENGLISH EYES I want to write of Jim Larkin, the humanity of him, the simple greatness of him, till it gets hold of you and you feel the man as I do. We know him over on this side from the time he burst upon us with his cyclonic fury, his whirlwind of pity, humour, tenderness, and scorn. Before then we saw or heard of him as a dim shape, a moving figure in the underworld of labour, a dreaded, lurid “strike organiser” in the depths of Dublin. This underworld of Dublin was a piteous thing—a thing of rags and pain, of unspeakable sordidness and dumb anguish. The Irish labourers were a submerged class, the waves of life had closed over their heads, and they were plunged down in darkness and despair. Such Irish trade unions as existed were exclusive, and had nothing to do with the labourers. These labourers were the product of the famine years and of the despair of a nation. They were starved out. of their cabins and flung into the slums of Dublin under the heel of the sweaters. There was hardly a glimmer of light left—not so much as the will-o ’- the wisp which dances over the Irish bogs; but there was just a spark—a. spark of the old indomitable courage of the Irish working class; some remnants of that fire, courage and humour which no oppression can put. out. Larkin fanned it. He worked hard,

and got it smouldering and spreading. He got it alight—got it blazing from Belfast to Dublin, withering up religious bigotry in its clear flame. On the quaysides, among men doing heavy, exhausting brutalising toil, he beat off their despair and Jit up the fires of hope and manhood. A time of life and struggle followed; the workers raised themselves from the abyss. Not only ordinary strikes, but sympathetic strikes ensued. The dock workers helped sweated girls to win their victory by holding up goods of the firms in question. On the banks of the river red cross marks would be made on the goods which were not to be touched. It was Red Cross work—aid to the felllow-sufferers in the fight. Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the Irish Transport Union, began to loom large in the life of Dublin. The methods adopted with employers were short, bright and vigorous. One employer was informed by postcard that when he wanted the dispute ended he should come round to Liberty Hall and accept terms. He came round all right, and was told to get outside and wait, Liberty Hall was for workers. Larkin went out to him when he was ready. A change came over the dock workers in Dublin. They were better fed and better clad. Their wives and children had boots, clothes, dresses, etc., where they had rags before and the ■ children had gone barefoot. Above all they held themselves erect, and felt a I new dignity and a finer manhood. They became men instead of beasts of burden.

Then Larkin and the Transport Union bought up Croydon Park. The idea was to make the social life of the people centre round the union. They had concerts, plays and sports. On Saturdays and feast days the families—men, women and children— would all go together to Croydon Park and enjoy themselves. It brought mirth and interest into the hitherto drab lives of the toilers. The movement upwards commenced.

The federated employers—that modern force for evil—led by William Martin Murphy, said that this had to stop. How dare the working people be happier! How can we stop it? Picture the gross, well-fed employers in conference over their twelve-course dinners and wine. An orgy of dress suits, diamond tie pins, and cigars and cuffs. They plotted to lock the workers out to starve the men, women and children of Dublin. Imagine these gentlemen—these idealistic gentlemen with their soulful Sunday looks. Picture the obscure capitalist class meeting in the year of grace 1913 to arrange how they could starve children. Imagine their looks, their oiled hair, and their soft, gentle tones. And then, comrades, remember the class struggle always, till we finish it.

They produced hunger and misery in abundance. It was so brave of them, so clever, so noble. They locked out the workers, who would starve sooner than leave their union. But they could not break the spirit of the people. They were too grovelling to cope with anything so fine. The people were hungry, but they stuck it. They suffered, but they did not give in.

Early during the strike a meeting announced for O’Connell Street, Dublin, was “proclaimed” by the “impartial” authorities, but Jim Larkin announced that if alive, he would speak there at "the time announced. The authorities mobilised their forces. A great gathering of police, Royal Irish Constabulary, etc., scoured from all over the country, were on the watch to see that no meeting was held. In the background were military forces, all mobilised for one man. And all were beaten by him. For as the clock struck the hour at ■which the meeting was announced to begin, Larkin flung off a disguise and began to speak to the people from a window of the Imperial Hotel. The police expressed their discomfiture at their defeat by clubbing all the men; women and children within reach. Larkin then commenced his “Fiery ■ Cross” campaign in England, and everywhere the rank and file received him with open arms. He struck a note of genuine revolt, of sincerity and

hope, which the workers were pining for. But the English labour officials played rather a sorry part. The rank and file were so moved that the officials called a conference, ostensibly to help Dublin, but really to down Larkin. One by one they rose and denounced Larkin for daring to do something when they did nothing. They then graciously allowed him 20 minutes to reply! And what a reply! Jim excelled himself. Even the ordinary Press had to admit

that he was wonderful. His opponents snarled and spluttered, but they had to take it. He subjected them to a raking fire. He dealt with them individually as far mJ time permitted. Occasionally he squashed one, in parenthe- , sis, while gliding on to the next. Never could a man have made a better fight against such odds. The working class found expression that day. i “Mr Chairman and Human Beings,” he began. “You said we were human beings!” shouted one later, wriggling under his terrible castigation. “Yes,” replied Jim, with an Irish smile playing about his eyes and mouth; “yes, but you don’t give much evidence of it!” The Albert Hall meeting in London was a great occasion. A gang of medical students had arranged to smrish it, and some got inside and caused trouble. Someone else was speaking when the row started. Nobody knew exactly how it was, but Larkin sprang forward and dominated the meeting. He was there; that was all —where he was meant to be; where he was made to be. A little incident, out of the high lights, -will perhaps help to reveal the man’s character to those -who don’t know him. A group of rank and file Socialists in North London wanted a big meeting, and applied to a great Labour leader to come. But his fees were • too stiff. We asked Larkin what he wanted. His answer was that he wanted just nothing at all for himself. He wanted the proceeds of the meeting to go to Dublin, that -was all. He only thought of his people. So we wired in and made things buzz. Larkin spoke excellently that night, according to all reports. I was outside running the overflow meeting, so I couldn’t hear him. Larkin had already addressed one great meeting at the other side of London that evening, but we got him out at eleven to talk to the overflow, who wouldn’t go away until lie came and spoke to them. Larkin has a splendid physique. A sporting man, writing for the Press, lamented the loss to the ring caused through Larkin remaining outside it. “He has,” the writer said, “the most magnificent pair of shoulders that I have ever seen.” We may sympathise with the ringsters in their loss, but we do need Jim for the Greater Fight. Had it not been for his splendid vitality he could not have lived through the Dublin campaign. He began with black hair, and by the time it was finished he was grey. He spent himself without stint for the cause. A martyr? No, not a bit of it. He -would have felt himself a martyr if he had held back.

Well, I have tried to describe the sort of man he was on this side. It is inadequate, because lie is too big to be described. There is an inexpressible power there. And I know he will be the same in America. There are only a few like him in a generation. Nature makes them sparingly, lest humanity should get too proud. Later on men will wish that they had lived at the same time as Jim Larkin. Jim Larkin—the live wire, the dreamer, the worker, the fighter, the agitator —the man who has never let his class down! And Jim is in prison.. Are you going to let him down now;? —R. M. FOX,