Irish History Lessons

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 42, 26 October 1922, Page 21

Irish History Lessons

.•":;,..--';: in. THE SPIRITUAL REVIVAL.

' "We have hunted this Jesus Christ!" said a French publicist before the Great War. But all France itself could not hunt His pity. When the great sorrow of 1914 came upon her, France, beaten to her knees, learned to look to Him as her. only shelter against the wind of war.

' And what of. Ireland? Ireland, in hunger and in rags, in agony and in mourning, has clung ever to His hems and will not let Him go.

* It is a sad fact that we have to be smitten to give thanks, and in periods of great prosperity we care less for God. There is a danger in happiness, and a safety in suffering. You are too young perhaps, dear children, to know that yet. /

Ireland has been two things in the world's history the island of saints, and the island of sorrows. She is linked to God by a fetter of steel and a riband of gold. If a history of the Christian nations were to be written, of them all she would have the proudest storyColmcille with his gulls and his seals, Brendan with his bees and his sails, and Columbanus, the faithful, who might have been Pope of the World if he had renounced the tonsure and ■the Irish rites of John of the Bosom! Those were the days when the Princes of the Rhine and the Elbe would cross the wild waters to Ireland, just to lean over a monk who would be gilding a missal. *

And what shall I write of the later days? When in England shrines were being robbed to yield jewels for the king's hairy fingers, when golden copes were given for bed-spreads to Master Cromwell, Ireland, poor and andaunted, held savage by her neighbor, was unshaken by the storm of sacrilege. Judge for yourselves which was the barbarian!

And then on to the penal days and the famine! Under the penal laws the priest and his flock were hunted by hounds and by men. Often the priest fell at his altar of rock in the cave that was his tabernacle. Then the famine! Cabin after cabin filled with the dying little, children crawling to - the roadside to eat the dusty grass, strong men sobbing the night long, women giving the last crusts to their children, and the relief-ships turned away! Is there anything more bitter than famine? But listen, no other famine in the world was like unto this famine. For, this people, this dying, stricken people could' have had food for./ the asking, yet like wounded animals they chose to crawl to, their dens and die. Why, were they mad? Not mad, but very, wise,, for there was a price on the food, and they held the price too high. But you will ask what had they that was precious, what had they to trade? They had their souls, their immortal souls, and that was the price that was asked of them. “If you change your faith,” said their tempters, “we will give you bread!” , And, scornful and silent, they crept back to their cribs to die. Then, as I have told you before, Ireland grew more prosperous. Slowly, slowly, well-being came to her, but , it came. And slowly, slowly, it began to do its work like dry-rot in the wood of her faith, but God, who remembered her loyalty, sent her succor. I .. ■ Men like Pearse began to say, “We are becoming a commercial nation. Let us go back to Colmcille and Cuchulain, , to .the days of the saints and the heroes!” He set the pilgrim’s scrip above the seal of the moneylender. I think none can doubt that his rebellion was set for Easter, because Easter is the time of r the rising from the dead, arid for him this Easter meant the rolling of the stone [from Ireland’s tomb. , And from a spiritual viewpoint no years are prouder than the years that followed. None ever doubted" that God. and Mary were to the Irish living, breathing people.’ Any Irish peasant who. was vouchsafed a vision would be awed and honored but not surprised. He would feel that the outer eye was seeing what the inner had known so long. • • ; ‘ , ... •, Pearse died serene against Kilmainham wall because he felt that his losagan, his Jesukin, was pattering to meet him down a lane of heaven. - ■ - r ' Nor was he alone secure in this faith. .Father Augustine.;, crossed the yard to Plunkett on that cold bitter morning of his death. His hands were tied behind his back, -his face was lifted for a last look at the. sky. 1 It

reminded Father Augustine of that sweet saying of St. ’ Francis, “Welcome, Sister Death!” To another priest he said coolly and calmly, “I die for the glory of God and the honor of Ireland!” And so died they all! ' No doubt most of you have read the sweet and terrible story of their last hours. What I would like, too, is the story of the passing of those dear souls, those peasant lads from the far hills and fields, who sat waiting for the white dawn in the prisons of strange cities—grand simple hearts, unknown of books, but ■ known of God. “Only think,” said one such to a nun who visited him, “two weeks ago ..I was in Clare. Soon I shall be in heaven!” And another, “Look you here! To-morrow I shall see God!” There are two whom I cannot pass over even at the risk of making this too long. - The Poles ' tell proudly of a boy of seventeen, who sooner than betray his comrades, set fire to his pallet, and burned himself to death. Ireland has his match in Kevin Barry. This boy, this shining boy, when shown his gallows, and offered pardon if he turned traitor, said with exquisite courtesy: “Gentlemen, your arrangements are excellent— lead me back to my cell! And in that cell he prayed till dawn when his poor tortured body was led out to die. Salutation, Kevin Barry, from this our age and every age within the womb of time! The other is a soul so great that lips must ever tremble on his name. Read your books and see if in the history of the world you can find any sacrifice, save one, to equal that of Terence McSwiney! Only Christ alone, whom he followed so lovingly, has surpassed it. For over seventy days did he lie in Brixton prison, and for a protest ate no food. Seventy days of hunger! What made that possible? He himself has told the world. “I am sustained by my daily Communion!” Every morning One with shining hands brought him his only food, every morning he broke bread with Christ! Ah weeping Cork that followed him along the Quays, you knew your son a saint! And we afar, we knew it too. Every Pole, every Breton, every Spaniard said, “A miracle of God. These are only a few names— could give examples more recent. Dear Cathal Brugha, torn and weary, lying upon the stones to do the Holy Hour; Collins, dying with a prayer of pity—surely these are enough to prove the burning faith that will yet prevail and bring Ireland to triumph. When one thinks of the crowds that knelt on the wet flags outside the prisons, and prayed in the rain for the souls that were passing within, when one thinks of that sea of prayer breaking on God’s feet, one feels that Kathaleen ni Houlihan, who bears so lovingly His cross, has been set for a sign in . a faithless world.