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In Jail with Parnell—A Reminiscence.
By J. M. Wall.
WELCOME to Kilmainham, Wall! We've been looking forward to your arrival this good while." Glancing backward o'er the long lapse of time—a mere matter of twenty-one years or so—since this curious greeting was given me by Charles Stewart Parnell, the most successful political leader that Ireland has ever had, I could almost persuade myself that this central episode in my career never happened. It all seems so shadowy and unreal now.
This imprisonment for Ireland, nevertheless, was the pivot of my whole existence in those days, as it must have been for each of the other "suspects" who, braving the bluster of old "Buckshot" Forster, were locked up in the various jails throughout the country, at the whim of any English sympathizer who had a grievance to exploit.
A copy of the warrant of arrest, thrust into my hand by the Inspector of Police, who trembled as he read it—probably through sheer shame; for he was an Irishman like myself—which I have had carefully framed and preserved, makes me feel, whenever I look at it, as though I had not been wholly wanting in my duty to Ireland in those bye-gone days. Besides, to be released thus early in one's career from the stigma of political inaction, was more or less of a compliment. Irishmen everywhere, understanding the situation thoroughly, share in this belief.
"Not on bed of down, nor under shade
Of canopy reposing, is heaven won."
An American writer of distinction says that the soul is but "an endless succession of phases of consciousness." Now, therefore, the phase of consciousness which I am enabled to summon back, as the scene in the exercise yard, that bleak November morning in 1881, unfolds itself once again in plain view, is indeed a precious possession.
Parnell was out for a mouthful of air in the stuffy little spot, girted by grim walls ninety feet in height, through which the sky was plainly visible. The din of Dublin is all but dead as it passes overhead; but the whistling and puffing of the locomotives at the railroad works at Inchicore, a few miles away, may be heard day and night. Yells of the warders, urging convicts to their dally toll in another portion of the prison, stole upon one at times.
John Dillon was nearby, and James O'Kelly—"Jim" Kelly, as the boys used to say—and one or two other members of Parliament. There were also some who, later, became duly accredited to the great talking emporium near Westminster Bridge, where they got a chance to say things which, thus far at all events, they've never said.
Two other newspaper men, besides myself, that I recall were there like-wise — Jasper Tully and William O'Brien; and they continue in evidence still—more now, in fact, than then—both aiming well-directed blows at John Bull, yet both as far apart in temperament and modes of thought as any two Irishmen you can think of.
The Earl of Cowper at this time was Lord Lieutenant, and W. E. Forster ("Buckshot") Chief Secretary. In pleading in Parliament for a coercion law that would enable him to make arrests without indictment or trial. Forster had described us as "village tyrants" and "dissolute ruffians"; making use often even of the well-worn French phrase, des mauvais sujets.
I suppose "dissolute ruffians," sounding the more formidable, must have been meant for Parnell, and perhaps Dillon; while the lesser designation became the sign-manual of manhood for the rest of us.
The most signal proof of devotion to high ideals that an Irishman can give is to be known in his own country as a political law-breaker. In these opening years of the twentieth century, Ireland remains the only civilized country where it is an honor to be in jail. The English even now are unable to see this; and it is my deliberate belief that before this insular conceit, or stupidity—so costly to them and so ruinous to Ireland—can be eradicated, the race will have to be made over again.
People of three counties cheered me when I was put in prison, and pressed
