“It was to the standard of the intellect in a gloomy world that he always gaily rallied,” Mr. Lynd observes with truth. He saw the unbridgeable gulf which exists between aspiration and achievement. Heine once said bitterly: “You want to give the woman you love the sun, moon and stars, and all you can give her is a house on a terrace.” He, like Heine, knew this sense of defeat, and it is this which made him regard “optimism as an attractive form of mental disease.” As he says of Hamlet, “he passed through life annotating it with a gloss of melancholy speculation.”

He felt the “weary weight of all this unintelligible world.” “The twentieth century,” he wrote in an article, “which cuts such a fine figure in encyclopædias is most familiarly known to the majority of its children as a new sort of headache.” But he was a fighting pessimist that called for the best. “Impossibilism is a poor word and an unmanly doctrine. We have got to keep moving on and, since that is so, we had better put as good thought as we can into our itinerary. The task of civilisation was never easy. Freedom—the phrase belongs to Fichte or someone of his circle—has always been a battle and a march: it is of the nature of both that they should appear to the participants, during the heat of movement, as planless and chaotic.”

Perhaps the finest definition of his philosophy of life may be found in an essay in The Day’s Burden. “A wise man soon grows disillusioned of disillusionment. The first lilac freshness of life will indeed never return. The graves are sealed, and no hand will open them to give us back dead comrades or dead dreams. As we look out on the burdened march of humanity, as we look in on the leashed but straining passions of our unpurified hearts, we can but bow our heads and accept the discipline of pessimism. Bricriu must have his hour as well as Cuchullin. But the cynical mood is one that can be resisted. Cynicism, however exercisable in literature, is in life the last treachery, the irredeemable defeat.... But we must continue loyal to the instinct which makes us hope much, we must believe in all the Utopias.”

Pessimism is indeed written on his banner, but it is a pessimism which achieves. “Is not the whole Christian conception of life rooted in pessimism,” he argues, “as becomes a philosophy expressive of a world in which the ideal can never quite overcome the crumbling incoherence of matter? May we not say of all good causes what Arnold said only of the proud and defeated Celts: ‘They always went down to battle, but they always fell’!”

There is no need to comment on him as a man of letters. A master of exquisite prose, he had in perfection what he himself calls “the incommunicable gift of phrase” and “the avid intellect which must needs think out of things everything to be found in them.” What he wrote of Anatole France, might fittingly be applied to himself. “A pessimism, stabbed and gashed with the radiance of epigrams as a thunder-cloud is stabbed by lightning is a type of spiritual life far from contemptible. A reasonable sadness, chastened by the music of consummate prose is an attitude and an achievement, that will help many men to bear with more resignation the burden of our century.” His defence of the use of the epigram and its purpose is vigorous and arresting: “The epigrammatist, too, and the whole tribe of image-makers dwell under a disfavour far too austere. We must distinguish. There is in such images an earned and an unearned increment of applause. The sudden, vast, dazzling, and deep-shadowed view of traversed altitudes that breaks on the vision of a climber, who, after long effort, has reached the mountain-top, is not to be grudged him. And the image that closes up in a little room the infinite riches of an argument carefully pursued is not only legitimate but admirable.”

His writings abound in fine images and epigrams which seem to come naturally to his pen. Galway is to him the “Bruges-la-Morte” of western Ireland; again “the opulent loneliness of the Golden Vale,” is a picture in words. He referred to Irish emigrants as “landless men from a manless land”; England, he said, found Ireland a nation and left her a question. Loyalty he described as the bloom on the face of freedom. Mr. Healy, whose wit he admired and whose politics he deplored, he called “a brilliant calamity.” “It is with ideas,” he wrote, “as with umbrellas, if left lying about they are peculiarly liable to change of ownership.” Describing a man of poor parents who had achieved greatness, he said: “He was of humble origin like the violin string.” A very stupid book, published one winter, he referred to “as very suitable for the Christmas fire.” Of the Royal Irish Constabulary he said: “It was formerly an army of occupation. Now, owing to the all but complete disappearance of crime, it is an army of no occupation.” Cleverness he defined as a sort of perfumed malice, the perfume predominating in literature, the malice in life. The inevitableness of Home Rule, he declared, resided in the fact that it is a biped among ideas. “It marches to triumph on two feet, an Irish and Imperial foot.” And surely this is one of his finest epigrams: “Life is a cheap table d’hôte in a rather dirty restaurant, with time changing the plates before you have had enough of anything.” Sufferers from the influenza will appreciate his description of that malady. “Other illnesses are positive, influenza is negative. It makes one an absentee from oneself.” Talking of Mr. George Moore, he described him as “suffering from the sick imagination of the growing boy.” The grazing system he declared must be exterminated root and branch, brute and ranch. In his Home Rule Finance, he says: “Home Rule may be a divorce between two administrations, it will be a marriage between two nations. You are in any case free to choose for your inspiration between alimony and matrimony, the emphasis in either case is on the last syllable.”

Few think of him as a poet, and yet his poetry has as unique and distinguished a cachet as his prose. In political poetry and battle song he equalled the best. His “Epitaph on the House of Lords” ranks beside Chesterton’s memorable poem on the same subject. His battle song entitled “The Last Crusade” embodies in perfect lyric form his vision of the war—

A sonnet written to his little daughter on the battlefield has been declared by a literary critic as sufficient to found the reputation of a poet.

“TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, THE GIFT OF GOD.

“Ballade Autumnal” is in Villon’s perfect manner, and his replies to Kipling and Watson will be remembered in Ireland for all time. In a volume entitled Poems and Parodies, his verses have been collected and published.

Style in writing was a thing he regarded as of paramount importance. Though a prolific writer for newspapers, he was no believer in the theory of dashing off an article. On the contrary, he maintained that one of the drawbacks incidental to anything hastily written is that it is bound to be too serious. To write well, you must labour infinitely, otherwise one’s work is sure to bear traces of what he called the “heavy paw.” In the Nationist, when the slipshod work of some popular writer was being reviewed he observed, “At least we are stylists.”

In the same degree as he loved the expert, he abhorred the quack, the charlatan, the pseudo-writer of prose or poetry. I remember one night a popular novelist and writer of magazine stories, who had achieved fame and money without achieving literature, was telling with great unction of his success. He told how his recent book had been translated not only into French, Italian, Spanish, but even into a Dutch dialect. My husband, flicking the ash from a cigarette, said in a very urbane voice: “That is very interesting. I dare say then it will soon be translated into English.”

In speaking, too, while his notes were scanty, in fact mere headings, he always thought out beforehand both the matter and form. As he put it, he favoured “carefully prepared impromptus.”

Friends will remember him at his best as a conversationalist. As a raconteur he was inimitable, and, as a critic says, “It was not so much the point of his tale that counted. The divagations from the text in which he loved to indulge were the delight of his auditors.” “What Doctor Johnson said of Burke,” observes another critic, “was essentially true of Kettle, ‘that you could not have stood under an archway in his company to escape a passing shower without realising that he was a great man.’”

He had the literary man’s constitutional distaste for writing or answering letters. A friend once said chaffingly to him that he might write “The Life and Letters of T. M. Kettle.” “Well,” retorted Tom, “you may write my life, but there won’t be any letters, for I never write any.” He was also unpunctual in keeping appointments, and finding the telephone very useful, he said it should be called not “telephone,” but “tell-a-fib,” as that was its chief function.

He was intensely Catholic and always flaunted the banner of his religion. “Religion,” he writes in this volume, “is one of the ideal forces that make men good citizens and gallant soldiers.” And again, “If soldiers will not fight on an empty stomach, still less will they fight on an empty soul.” Perhaps because he loved his faith, so he could afford to take it humorously at times. I remember once his throwing off in an epigram the difference between the Catholic and Protestant religions. “The Catholics take their beliefs table d’hôte,” he said, “and the Protestants theirs à la carte.” What chiefly appealed to him in Catholicity was its mystery and its gospel of mercy. If he often quoted Heine’s well-known semi-cynical “Dieu me pardonnera, c’est son métier,” it was because he felt an amazed gratitude that a God should choose such an original profession. He greatly liked the society of Irish priests. He used to say they were gentlemen first, and priests after. They, too, loved him, and took his gentle chaff as it was meant. I remember how a priest friend of his enjoyed a sermon for golfers which Tom composed for him. Needless to say it was never preached. In it golfers were enjoined to “get out of the bunker of mortal sin with the niblick of Confession.” During the Dublin strike an anti-cleric was railing against the priests, who had intervened to prevent the deportation of the children. Tom completely won him over with the original argument “that the priests were acting as members of a spiritual trade union.” Writing of the great Catholic poet, Francis Thompson, he puts in a lyric plea for his religion: “The superiority of the Catholic poet is that he reinforces the natural will by waters falling an infinite height from the infinite ocean of spirit. He has two worlds against one. If we place our Fortunate Islands solely within the walls of space and time, they will dissolve into a mocking dream; for there will always be pain that no wisdom can assuage. They must lie on the edge of the horizon with the glimmer of a strange sea about their shores and their mountain peaks hidden among the clouds.” He had a wonderful spiritual humility. What he found admirable in Russian literature was “an immense and desolating sob of humility and self-reproach.” He abjured the self-righteous who, he used to say, went round as if they were “live monuments erected by God in honour of the Ten Commandments.” He was, indeed, over generous in the praise of qualities in others which he had superlatively himself. Anyone with a gift, a “plus” man at golf, a Feis Gold Medallist, an expert gardener—just the distinguishing cachet of excellence won his admiration. Witness how he lauds the valour of his Dublin Fusiliers, and yet his courage was no newly acquired virtue. I remember several years ago he went to a political meeting at Newcastle West. A faction party took possession of the platform. The intending speakers were for abandoning the meeting, but Tom declined to give in without at least a fight, and led the attack on the platform. After a nasty struggle they captured their objective. Mr. Gwynn, who was one of the speakers, was so impressed with my husband’s daring that he wrote me his admiration, saying that he led the attack “with nothing but an umbrella and a University degree.” His moral courage, too, never failed. When occasion demanded it, he could always be counted on to say “the dire full-throated thing.”

For the memory of Parnell he had a deep reverence. This is his vision of him—

A life, or rather an impressionist study, of “the Chief’s” career was a work he frequently projected but unfortunately never accomplished. The plinth at the back of Parnell’s Statue in O’Connell Street should, he maintained, have been broken to symbolise the wrecking of Parnell’s career. “Parnell,” he wrote, “died with half his music in him.” Once in a discussion on the eighties he remarked: “What is the history of the eighties? It is the history of two Irishmen—Oscar Wilde and Parnell.” For G. K. Chesterton my husband had a great admiration. In The Open Secret of Ireland, he refers to him as wielding “the wisest pen in contemporary English letters. There is in his mere sanity a touch of magic so potent that although incapable of dullness he has achieved authority, and although convinced that faith is more romantic than doubt or even sin, he has got himself published and read.” The only flaw he found in Mr. Chesterton was that he was not a suffragist. My husband was, of course, an ardent supporter of the Women’s Movement, and wrote a brilliant pamphlet entitled Why Bully Women? Mr. Chesterton paid him a noble tribute in the course of an article in the Observer: “The former case, that of the man of letters who becomes by strength of will a man of war, is better exemplified in a man like Professor Kettle, whose fall in battle ought to crush the slanderers of Ireland as the fall of a tower could crush nettles.”

Another book projected but unachieved was on Dublin. His idea was to, follow the method of E. V. Lucas in his Wanderer in London. For Dublin city he had a great love and pride: “Of no mean city am I,” he often quoted proudly of his native city. For its poor he had a tremendous pity. The city beggars always found him an easy victim. I remember one night on coming out of a theatre, an urchin of about five years came clamouring after him. I began the usual stunt on the parental iniquity that allowed youngsters to go out begging at eleven at night; but Tom, unheeding, was already chatting with the boy. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Patsy Murphy, sir.” “Well, Patsy, which would you rather, a shilling or a halfpenny?” “A halfpenny, sir,” was the amazing reply. “Now tell me why?” questioned my husband, interested. “Well,” said the kid, “I might get the halfpenny but I’d never get the shilling.” His naïve philosophy got him both on this occasion.

In a speech on Dublin he said: “We cannot ignore the slums, for the slums are Dublin and Dublin is the slums.” On the same occasion he remarked: “Dublin is in one respect like every other city. It is convinced that it possesses the most beautiful women and the worst corporation.”

In a letter written from the boat on his way to France, with already a prophetic sense of death waiting for him on the battlefield, he wrote: “I have never felt my own essay ‘On Saying Good-bye’ more profoundly aux tréfonds de mon cœur.”

I shall quote the conclusion of the essay—

“There is only one journey, as it seems to me ... in which we attain our ideal of going away and going home at the same time. Death, normally encountered, has all the attractions of suicide without any of its horrors. The old woman” (an old woman previously mentioned who complained that “the only bothersome thing about walking was that the miles began at the wrong end“)—”the old woman when she comes to that road will find the miles beginning at the right end. We shall all bid our first real adieu to those brother-jesters of ours. Time and Space: and though the handkerchiefs flutter, no lack of courage will have power to cheat or defeat us. ‘However amusing the comedy may have been,’ wrote Pascal, ‘there is always blood in the fifth act. They scatter a little dust in your face; and then all is over, for ever.’ Blood there may be, but blood does not necessarily mean tragedy. The wisdom of humility bids us pray that in that fifth act we may have good lines and a timely exit; but, fine or feeble, there is comfort in breaking the parting word into its two significant halves, à Dieu. Since life has been a constant slipping from one good-bye to another, why should we fear that sole good-bye which promises to cancel all its forerunners?”

Could one meet death in a nobler way? He had his last lines at Ginchy, and “his fine word and incomparable gesture.” And now Picardy of the waving poplars—Picardy that my student days had garlanded with many memories, that shone in recollection with many friendships, now by the strange way of destiny holds my husband’s grave. But he sleeps well in his beloved France, wearing the green emblem of his Motherland with his fallen comrades of the “Irish Brigade.” As his distant wind-swept grave in the Valley of the Somme rises to vision, some noble words of René Bazin recur to me making a picture: “The loyal land, the honest land, the land of love, now moist, now parched, where one sleeps the last sleep with the lullaby wind in the shade of the Cross.” The many who loved him and now grieve for him will find in his own proud lines on Parnell a fitting message—