The Late General Michael Collins

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 43, 2 November 1922, Page 25

The Late General Michael Collins

Dead Chief's Obsequies

■ A Nation in Mourning Unseen hands pressing upon the heart-chords. ; That was how one felt yesterday during the ceremonies at the Pro-Cathedral (says a writer in the Irish Independent for August 29). ' I had passed from the streets where the color note of the morn was blue of the sky and gold of the molten sun shining through filmy cloud. All side gates and entrances leading to the church were closed and guarded. Near the church our tickets for admission were carefully scrutinised; then we were marshalled in the queue. Arrangements for admission were very thorough, very systematic, and admirably functioned. Before entering the Cathedral I had been witness to the mighty mustering of mourners. Had the sky been grey as a winter sea still would the people have come out to mourn. But Nature herself seemed to join her benison to the universal tribute; she seemed to desire that all that was mortal of Michael Collins should pass for ever from among his people, not beneath the gloom that some would link with death, but amidst the radiant promise of an Irish autumn that would be ,in keeping with the fair places to which the dead warrior and statesman had led his people’s fortunes. As the August sun ripens the harvest to reward the trials of arduous husbandry, so too, may we symbolise yesterday’s heartening sun as gilding our hope of reaping soon the harvest which the Idol of the. People made possible by years of work and endeavor and occasions of achievement.

Inside the Cathedral doors I was directed to the organ gallery. Up here I found a strange gathering of journalists, photographers, choristers, clergymen, artists, and cinema operators. They all were busy—silently. What they had to do was done mutely. Choristers sat and waited. Photographers snapped machines that spemed to work on oiled hinges; artists and journalists scribbled their impressions on what seemed pads of velvet paper. Nothing disturbed the hallowed serenity of the shrine. Looking out from our lofty view-point the eye rested on the virgin white altar draped in sable and gold. Six candles in burnished holders, illumined and decorated the High Altar, whose blanched marble was thrown into relief by the background of heavy crape and whit© trimmings. In front of the High Altar was the coffin on the catafalque. Through the stained and patterned window of the southern gallery the sun streamed into the temple. It fell softly across the rich coloring of the coffin’s shroud. It lighted up the gold and green and washed the white of the drooping tricolor. The eye was held.for a moment by the stiff and motionless sentinels standing rigid around the bier. Thence it strayed to other figures in the vicinity. In the front seat were Mr. Sean Collins, brother of the deceased General, and other male relatives. In the second row knelt Sister Mary Celestine, Miss Hannie Collins, and the Rev. Mother of the Convent of Mercy, Endsleigh. In this group of sorrowing relatives were at least half a dozen ladies. Near at hand was Miss Kitty Kiernan, accompanied by her sister. In the body of the church one picked out personages famous in.the world of arts and letters —Sir John Lavery, stooped and thoughtful; Mrs. T. P. O’Connor, author of historical romances; Mr. Darrell Figgis, grave and paler than usual; Mr. Lennox Robinson, dramatist and theatre manager; Mr. Henry Owens, traveller and writer; Miss Margaret Foxtescue, linguist and poetess. These and many others of many creeds and representative of many lands. Scattered here and there also in the congregation I had various persons pointed out to me: An old, humblelooking, worn woman with stringed bonnet kneeling near a confession box in view of the coffin, was the charwoman who came daily to a house which Michael Collins used to use as a hiding-place in Black-and-Tan days. Standing over in a corner was ;an old man with wrinkled, troubled face, a well-known Dublin' car-driver, who nobly served the man whom he proudly knew as Chief. Not far from the catafalque on the Gospel side sat a girl, looking frail and delicate, with her. mother and father. It was this

girl I was told who, just back’ from hospital after an operation, was taken very ' seriously ill after midnight about last Christmas twelve months, and it was Michael Collins, a complete stranger, staying next door at the time, who went out into the night at the risk of his life to fetch a priest and doctor. A group of three well-known sportsmen, one an exinternational Rugby player a blind musician from Cork; two Stock Exchange members, Protestants and Unionists; a Scottish soldier in mufti whom Collins had befriended when the young soldier was wounded and in bad case in a scrap near Westland Row—these also were mentioned to me as being amongst the congregation. At eleven o’clock* the church was not crowded. But the , congregation was fittingly , representative. Suddenly a hush fell on the people. A whispered, “S—s—sh” stabbed the silence. The organ, after a preliminary dirge, boomed into Chopin’s “Marche Funebre.” We heard the sursh-sursh of moving feet, and sensed the entry of the slow and stately procession. It brought us the first splash of moving color to relieve the pervading gloom. It was simple and solemn. The purple of the bishops and monsignori, the pure white surplices of the priests, the dark brown of the Friars, the cream of capes and hoods and habits of various Orders all had their part in a pageant and color scheme that was not ordered, and gripped the human heart -by the spontaneity of its effect. Eight Prelates of the Church and long lines of lesser attendants passing by the corse passing between the dense ranks of the high and the least of a country’s people. That was at the core of this spectacle that was not meant to be spectacular. How.fitting, too, that the Archbishop of Dublin should preside at these ceremonies, and that the Bishop of Killaloe—he who christened Michael Collins, “The Idol of the People,” should be celebrant of the Mass. . ’ We needed some outlet for emotion. Music helped. The choir, in augmented forces, burst into Gregorian chant. It uttered for us that which Would otherwise remain unuttered and unutterable. It told what Requiem music in such surroundings only can tell—the majesty of death", the message of the faithful, and the Glory of our Father.Some chord in unison with what we heard was touched within us and the heart replied. Of all the music heard yesterday nothing was more inspiring than the “Libera Me” of Emil Nikel’s Requiem for unaccompanied voices.. There was something deeply devotional in the “Quando Coeli” when the voices swelled out in crescendo and rolled to the roof and echoed in the eaves. Previous to that we had the “Sanctus” in soft and repressed volume. Then followed the “Hosannah,” when the Cathedral reverberated with waves of tonal grandeur, and became flooded with the mellow radiance of lighted candles. The next voice heard was that of the deacon from the altar addressing the congregation in Gaelic, and asking prayers for the repose of the soul of General Michael Collins. Then followed the last Absolution, our prayers in unison, and a lightening of our grief in the consoling thought inspired by these ceremonies that the heart of man is as the bosom of the earth that blooms again and again. Honor and sympathy could do no more. Pity had but one more tribute to give. It was to the veiled figure in black— sweet-faced and -faced Sister Mary Celestine— to whom the Commander-in-Chief of Ireland’s Army was “Baby Michael.” She was brave and gentle. She -walked after the coffin beside her weeping sister. Hannie, with the Rev. Mother on the other side. The people bowed their heads, as she passed, and she, too, bowed in response to a sympathy which, without any means of expression, yet by some telepathy of the soul, must have been conveyed to her. * The melody of Beethoven’s, mighty dirge (played at the request of military friends by ex-Commandant Lynch, the maestro of Frongocfi) sobbed itself away in ; broken accents as we slowly left the church. And as. I stood at the door I counted at „ least half-a-hundred women in - this congregation; I did not . see half-a-dozen who were not red-eyed or weeping .or pale with suppressed feelings.

; . The dead man himself, as a Dail member reminded me, was like a woman in his emotions. He had a smile for every joy, a tear for every sorrow, a consolation for every cross, an excuse for every fault, a prayer for every misfortune, arid encouragement for every hope. Out in the street where a moment ago were the multitudinous sounds of stirrings and sighings of the waiting multitudes silence now reigned. . Such was the stillness that on the roadway the' steps of the soldiers:sounded clearly as if they had been marching in an empty barrack-yard. The horses tossed their heads, and you heard the snort"of impatience as well as the jingle , of the bits. .And when the gun went by to the distant wail of pipes, the wheels crunching on the ground grated like a dissonance upon the ear. And here, uncovered, I bade farewell to Michael Collins. A colleague will see him to , the grave. My last memory is that of a long, unending avenue, banked by massed humanity. On each side stretching away in far perspective, were people —the sorrowing people of Ireland. And as the coffin passed I knew the people were praying some kneeling, some weeping. And knowing all we know who shall doubt that with his tired hands folded above his faithful heart this prince among men, sprung from the people, has passed out of the dark night of death into the light and freshness of an Eternal Morning. \ The Last Sad Journey to Glasnevin. With tender care and loving hands they laid him to rest in a bed of ivy and ferns. In a soldier’s uniform, too, with the Irish Tricolor caressing his coffin and a pure white lily resting on his head. : In the mellow calm of an autumn’s day the hero of a hundred tales, the darling of the Irish people, was covered with the soft damp earth of the land he loved. A week ago he was full of. life and vigor, ‘ bright with the smile of youth, and full of youth’s brave hope. ; And now the myriad flowers that deck his grave have their dying sweetness wafted by the breezes of Fingal across to their, fading comrades on the graves of Cathal Brugha and Harry Boland and Arthur Griffith. And the last honors that Ireland paid to her soldier Chief befitted the deeds of . the warrior and the love of his clan. From Ireland’s Eye to Galway Bay and from Lough Swilly to Bantry Bay they came to give their last respects to the man they trusted and loved. It is not fitting that the wheels of industry should revolve when a nation mourns. Yesterday the workshops of our capital were idle, and master and servant, united by a bond of common sorrow, bowed their heads in silent prayer for the mighty dead. And the tens of thousands who stood by our streets or marched behind his coffin were, we knew, but the deputies for the hundreds of thousands who in every town and village of the land took part in spirit in that last cavalcade. ) Never before, I believe, have the miles of Dublin’s broad thoroughfares been thronged by such a mighty concourse. Three, four, and five deep they waited, sad and silent, hours before the cortege was due to pass. Windows and housetops from St, Stephen’s Green to Finglas Road were taxed as never before. King William’s horse and Parnell’s outstretched arm were alike pressed into service as vantage points from which to view the procession. Hoardings and iron railings, where a cat could scarce feel at ease, held their battalions of barefooted urchins curious because yet too young to know their loss. At every corner were queues of cabs, taxis, and outside cars, for which their drivers earned unexpected sums from those fortunate enough to get standing, room over the heads of the ranks who stood beneath. With difficulty I made my way through the crowd towards ,the starting point. Many that I saw and spoke to were bitterly hostile to the policy "of the dead Chief; but none did I meet to express aught but genuine sorrow at his tragic death. But their words were few. The heart of that great crowd of mourners was overflowing with grief. “Poor Mick!” “ Tis terrible!” “God rest" his soul.” Such were the words one heard on every side., At a quarter, to one that last march began. It was' two hours later before the head of the procession reached the gates of the cemetery, and at that time the last of the carriages were still some / miles distant. 7 ' 7

... And again the green-clad cavalrymen led the way to clear the passage for the twenty thousand soldiers and civilians who were privileged to march behind the coffin. But the services of the horsemen were not, needed. For the crowd was eager to pay its tribute, and not once did their curiosity overcome their feelings of respect, and willingly did-they co-operate with the police and soldiers who kept the streets. ■ First came the clergymen, 250 in all, a larger number even than attended a fortnight ago when we buried Arthur Griffith. Most of them were young men, and that, too, was. fitting, for the dead they came to honor was the young leader of a young man’s movement. Behind them marched an Archbishop arid four Bishops. Then came a military band, and the guard of honor, with arms reversed. Behind was the gun-carriage with the body of the dead general—the first soldier in Irish uniform who lias ever been brought to his grave on a gun-carriage. On the tricolor which covered the coffin rested a single white lily, the last offering of his betrothed. Behind the carriage marched two men. One was the brother of the "dead soldier; the other was a soldier-member of Dail Eireann whoso brother is a prominent leader of the Irregulars. Tho~'Gommander-in-Ohief, beside General O’Sullivan and Major-General Dalton—-the man in whose arms Michael Collins —marched at the head of his staff. Old and tried friends of Michael Collins, everyone of them, who knew him in days of stress and trial and faced death on the field and on the scaffold in the‘same cause. For the first time I noticed amongst them a white-headed soldier forming a striking contrast with 'his youthful comrades. Next came tho members of the Cabinet, whose faces told of the sorrow they felt at the loss of their leader and their comrade. A score-* of tho relatives of the dead General walked behind. After them came eight carriages; most of the occupants were women; two were nuns, one of whom was the sister of Michael Collins. The rank and file of Dail Eireann followed. Tho features of many were familiar; others we saw for the first time. After them came a dozen motor-cars, each driven by a uniformed officer and each draped in black. And every car was laden with the most beautiful floral wreaths that sorrowing hands could knit together. It was the saddest ami yet tho most beautiful part of that funeral cortege. The vast cortege was a great tribute to a great man. Ireland’s milestones to freedom are marked not by victories on the field of battle Jbut by the sacrifices of our heroes. And the;' greatness of a man’s place in our history is often told by the greatness of his funeral cortege. For seven years now we have been trudging along that road to Glasnevin. Within a few brief months we have followed the remains of Cathal Brugha, of Harry Boland, of Arthur Griffith, and of soldiers less known than they, but*who faced death no less bravely. And yesterday, I asked myself if Ireland is so rich in men of honesty and bravery that wo can. afford still to continue committing national suicide? But my thoughts must not wander. Again I fix' my gaze on that vast.concour.se. For more than an hour yet they continue to pass by. «. Men and women of every walk in life join in the tribute to their hero. University professors in their gowns and mortar boards; dock laborers and lawyers; schoolmasters and their pupils Fenians from their boyhood and men who a few years ago spoke of Sinn Fein as, a wild irrational dream. Aged women, little used to such journeys, marched bravely beside their daughters. The women were everywhere; not since the day of the Ashe funeral have so many girls marched together to Glasnevin, For Mick was their idol and , their hero. . , • . Fifteen bands played their funeral. marches. The Civic'Guard’s Pipers passed before us for the first time. The military, too,- made a grand, an impressive display. They were in larger numbers yesterday than they were at the funeral of the President, and , I thought they, looked •more; soldierly and , marched' much better than on that occasion. 1 - . The D.M.P. were easily, the most imposing body that marched in -the procession. And tho sorrow of these po-;

; ■ , " —.-.■'l,! " ■. . 1 = . ; ■ ;r— ————— licemen ; was not feigned; for we know that more than one of them could ,at any time have earned' the .thousands that ' Dublin Castle offered for a word that would give a clue to the whereabouts of Michael Collins. And in their ranks I saw that same man who, only a year and a half ago* Stopped a cyclist not far from the Parnell Monument and innocently told him that the..military were holding up and Searching in a street nearby. And that quiet, innocentlooking D.M.P. man knew full well that the cyclist was Michael Collins. The Gaelic Athletic Association had its contingent, too,' and the hurlers and footballers who marched in the ranks were proud that their body was, perhaps, the fust to arouse the enthusiasm of the man whose they now followed. Nor can they be accused of undue pride if their minds went back to the days when his face vas familiar to the habitues ,of the side-line seats in Croke Park when a price was on his head. And, with a feeling of sorrow and regret for what might have been, the\ thought, too, of the day, not yet a year since, when, at the interval in a great hurling match, Harry Boland and Mick Collins delighted our hearts, as like two unloosed schoolboys they' wielded their hurleys and jostled and played before 15,000 people at Croke Park. And now they have both passed beyond the frontiers of Tir-na-n-Og. Michael Collins was buried beside his soldiers who, like him, fell in the present strife. His comrades gave ' him in death the honors that he had won in life, for truly might it be said of Michael Collins that he was a man amongst men, a. soldier amongst soldiers. His successoi paid him the last tribute, and with heavy hearts we turned away, wondering how long more must wo sorrow and when will the day break in Eire? When will come the day when our great ones may live for Ireland instead of dying for Ireland?