The Family Circle

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 50, 28 December 1922, Page 45

The Family Circle

I n-ainm De,

Dar Criost a Aon-Mhac,

PE ARSE’S VOW.

Dar Muire a Chaom-Mhathair, Dar Padraic Apstal Gaedheal, Dar dilseacht Chuilxn Chille, Dar clu ar gcinidh,

Dar cm ar Sinnsear,

Dar dunmharbhadh Aodha Ruaidh, Dar bas truaighmheileach Aodha Ui Neall, Dar oidheadh Eoghain Ruaidh, Dar mian an tSairsealaigh le ucht a bhais, Dar osna eagcomlainn an Ghearaltaigh, Dar creachtaibh croilinnteacha Tone,

Dar fuil uasail Emmet, Dar corpaibh an Ghorta,

Dar deoraibh deoraidhe nGaedheal, Do-bheirimid na mionna do-bheireadh ar sinnsir, Go bhfuasclochairaid do gheibheann ar gcinid, No go dtuitfimid bonn le bonn. Amen.

[translation.]

V In the name of God, v sßy Christ His Only Son, By His Blessed Mother Mary. By St. Patrick, Apostle of the Gael, By beloved Colm-Cille, By the fame of our race, By the blood of our ancestors, By the murder of Red Hugh, By the mournful death of Hugh O’Neill, By the . murder of Owen Roe, By the dying wish of Sarsfield, By the piteous moans of the Geraldine, By the bloody wounds of Tone, By the gore of Emmet, By the corpses of the Famine, By the tears of the exiles from Erin, * We will (take the vows that our fathers took That we will break the chains of our race

Or die in the attempt. Amen.

A TALK WITH MRS. DE VALERA.

(By Doris Stevens.) What the Men Said:

The most popular girl in Dublin. The best dancer.

No end of good looks.

Had 'fifty sartors , but young dc Valera persisted until she married him. What the Women Said : v *

She is most charming and attractive. A beautiful woman.

So gifted in our ancient Irish tableaux — has dramatic as well as literary talent.

It was of Mrs. do Valera, wife of the Sinn Fein leader, that I heard those things said before I met and talked with her at a garden party at the country house of Professor Eoin Mac Neill, the Speaker of Dail Eireann, in the first days of the truce. They were, it will be agreed, well calculated to stimulate my already keen curiosity. ■ Happy groups were on the lawn, for many of the people had been “on the run” for two years am} were meeting socially for the first time. Talk was gay, not only about politics, as was inevitable, but about poetry, the drama, philosophy, biology—what not? . Into one of the groups came Mr. de Valera and his wife, the latter looking very small by the side of her tall, ,shm husband as they walked across the lawn. Mr. de Valera introduced me to his wife with a twinkle in his eye, which I .understood to mean, “Get her if you can.” I accepted, the challenge. And soon Mrs. de Valera and I had found a corner in which to talk. y .

PUPIL-SUITOR.

Her sea-blue eyes, strike one first. She has an almost

child-like smile, with only occasionally a suggestion of haunting sadness when she speaks of some particular Irish tragedy. Otherwise her face is singularly untouched by the strain of the late years. Those who knew her in her early youth say her smile is more quiet now. But that is to be expected. Her countenance radiates happiness, however, not sadness. Her mass of burnished gold hair tops off dramatically the brilliant coloring of her healthy, sea-bred complexion. She is mature, to be sure, but it is the

maturity .which has kept its youth in spite of six children. As with so many Irishwomen, her mode of dress was far more French than British. A dark blue soft satin cape of loose, graceful lines covered her blue frock. A dark

blue velvet hat of girlish cut,'.with rolled-back brim, set off her golden hair. Blue silk stockings and little black

pumps completed her charming costume.

“Do you know William Rooney’s poems and ballads?” were almost her first words to me, spoken in her soft, quiet, musical voice. I did not know them, but could I get them at the Irish Book Shop ? Yes, I could. And would I read

the very first beautiful one, called “Dear Dark Head”?

“The volume has a preface by Arthur Griffith,” she said. And she launched into earnest praise of Mr. Griffith, the Sinn Fein Vice-President. “He it was,” she said, “who inspired me to learn • Gaelic.”

Sini O’Flanagan—for that was her maiden name —in

turn became a teacher of Irish. She has one time or another taught most of the present Irish leaders their know-

ledge of the Irish language. Among her pupils was the young university professor, Eamon do Valera, who became her husband in 1900.

She will not for a moment admit that coming to her class led the young scholar into the movement of which

he became the leader. “He could not have avoided being caught up by the movement,” she said. “It simply happened this way. You must realise what a tremendous in-

fluence the study of the Irish language has had on the political views of young Irishmen'. If the language movement had been a mere superficial pastime it would not have taken roots as it has. But it became a vital part of the Nationalist movement because thoughtful people were soon made to realise our distinct racial culture through this medium.”

Mrs. de Valera has never given up altogether an active participation in the Gaelic movement. “Of course

you cannot do much else in life when you have six little children to look after. And I have given myself to this task of late years. I still manage to find time to teach

Irish to the nuns in a convent nearby to my home. Then, too, I love the country. We are at the sea [Greystones, their home, is a loyalist centre 17 miles from Dublin] ; I never come up to Dublin except when I have to.”

“Do the children speak Irish?” I asked.

“The four eldest speak Irish fluently. The two youngest will as soon as they are old enough to learn. But I believe that while you are rearing children, and i looking after the homo you nded not neglect to bring the world into your home.”

That Mrs. de Valera has not neglected that side of life is evident from her preoccupation with every problem occupying people’s minds to-day.

“I sometimes wonder,” she said, “if women had had the power in the world that men have had, or even equal power with men, if they would have done better. . . I

know the theory that women when cruel are more refined in their cruelty, but at best now. women are only followers, not leaders. Do you think most women are pacifists?” she queried.

I answered that I did not believe women would organise for murder as men had always done, if women had power and leadership in national and international affairs, but that they followed men into war as they always followed men into, all their pursuits. “Left to themselves,” I said, “I do not think they would organise to kill the young.” ; . , ;

“I wonder!” she said. “I am inclined to think that

women are a little more civilised than men. All mothers really hate war —that much I am sure of. I feel just as sorry for English mothers who have lost their boys as I do for Irish mothers.”

She did not find it easy to talk about what she had

suffered during the heart-breaking warfare in her country. She spoke of the many raids on their home when she was alone with her little children — when her. husband was being sought. Those had been days and nights of torture, waiting, always waiting, for news that her husband had not been run down, for he spent night on night, month on month, fleeing his pursuers. “And I never knew from hour %o hour what news would come of him.”

Her visit to the United States last year came as a respite. I was only free of distress when I knew my husband was in prison. When they were hunting him it was terrible. He had so little peace. And our home life was so destroyed. 7

But she would not dwell on that topic. “No one who has all her loved ones still alive has a right to complain. *1 am silent before those brave women who bear the grief of death. I have always said I could bear anything , but that—not death! And yet I know, or rather I feel sometimes, that the dead are further along than we are,” she added mystically. “Perhaps they are happier. And we would be false to our honored dead if we accepted now less than the thing for which they died. On the other hand, we must do everything in our power to stop the cruel warfare against our people. God will help us!” Her faith in God is absolute.

Mrs. Michael O’Callaghan, the young widow of the late Mayor of Limerick, who was assassinated in his home, joined us at this point in the conversation, and discussion turned to tragedy, as it does sooner or later in an Irish gathering. Mrs. Callaghan said she preferred the way her husband came to his end —shot in her presencerather than the agony of Mrs. Mac Sweeney’s trial at watching her husband die on hunger-strike. Mrs. de Valera thought it would be easier to endure the latter ordeal.

As I had just crossed the Atlantic Mrs. de Valera asked me about the Prohibition movement in the United States — is well known that nearly all the Sinn Feiners are teetotallers. What had the women had to do with it, she wanted to know. She did not reveal what she herself thought about the virtue or vice of Prohibition. But she wanted to know on which side the women threw their influence.

She asked me about the new movement of women in the United States toward abolishing sex discriminations. “I am interested,” she said, “in making the home a better place for women. I realise that as far as we can see ahead, the majority of women will function in the home, and there will lie the centre around . which to raise the standards.”

We spoke of her visit to the United States. “I only stayed six weeks,” she said. “You see, my husband was so frightfully busy that even then I scarcely saw anything of him. So I came back to my children, who needed me more than he did.” And I thought I detected an inevitable sadness, not complaint, of the very feminine woman who has perforce to give up her husband almost entirely to a movement.

1910.

Dew-pearled cobwebs glitter on green boughs, Beneath our feet the grass is wet with dew, It seems as if this clear dawn must arouse Our broken world to something strange and new.

Deep in the high-built fortress of the pines, Lost to her stars dark night imprisoned lies, Near my hushed soul in peace a white rose shines, Like a, new dream down flung from ancient skies.

Alas, the bugles on the distant plain— The guns break forth with their insistent din, The dews of noon-day leave a crimson stain On grass, that all men’s feet must wander in.

Oh,, singing splendor of the morning furled, About the souls of trees, the hearts of flowers. Have you no dream of beauty for the world— This bitter blood-stained world we men call ours?

—Eva Gore-Booth.