Sir William spent the remaining days of his life in trying, by addresses to the people in different parts of the country, to quicken their sense of the necessity for industry, sobriety, and a more serious view of existence. They did not seem to like it, and he was apparently only beating the air. I remember one particularly strong appeal he made in Meath at a huge open-air meeting. I thought to myself that such warnings, given in his vivid and friendly Irish style, touched with humour to leaven the severity, would have impressed his hearers. The applause disappointed me. Well, he did his best to the very last for the country and the people he loved. He had vainly longed all his life for Home Rule within the Empire. Was this, then, all that was wanting?

I recall in this connection an episode which was eloquent of the hearty appreciation of his worth, quite irrespective of politics. At a banquet given in Dublin to welcome Lord and Lady Granard, after their marriage, he was called upon to respond for “the Guests.” For fully one minute the cheers were so persistent when he rose that he had to wait before his opening words could be heard. The company were nearly all Unionists.

After all the misunderstandings connected with Sir William’s association with the Boer War and its antecedents had been righted at last, these words of a distinguished general at Headquarters were spoken: “Butler stands a head and shoulders above us all.”

The year 1910 is one which in our family remains for ever sacred. My dear mother died on March 13th.

On June 7th a very brave soldier, who feared none but God, was called to his reward. Here my Diary stops for nearly a year.[16]

CHAPTER XXIV
MOSTLY A ROMAN DIARY

PALM Sunday, 1911, found me in Rome, on the eve of my son’s ordination as priest. One of those extraordinary occurrences which have happened in my life took place that day. Four of us joined at the appointed place and hour: I and Eileen from Ireland (Dick, already in Rome) and Patrick, just landed, in the nick of time, from India! We three met at the foot of the Aventine and went up to Sant’ Anselmo, where we knew we should see the other one during the Palm Sunday Mass, though not to speak to till after the long service was ended. He intoned the Gospel as deacon, and when his deep voice reached us in the gallery we looked at each other with a smile. None of us had seen him for a more or less long time.

“Holy Saturday. The great day. Dick assumed the chasuble, and is officially known now as Father Urban, though ‘Dick’ he will ever remain with us. The weather was Romanly brilliant, but I was anxious, knowing that these young deacons were to be on their knees in the great Lateran Church, fasting, from 7 a.m. We three waited a long time in the piazza of the Lateran for the pealing of the bells which should announce the beginning of the Easter time, and which was to be the signal for our entry into the great basilica at 9.15. We had places in two balconies, right over the altar. Below us stood about forty deacons, with our particular one in their midst, each holding his folded chasuble across his arms ready for the vesting. The sight of these young fellows, in their white and gold deacons’ vestments, was very touching. Each one was called up by name in turn, and ascended the altar steps, where sat the consecrating bishop, who looked more like a spirit than a mere human creature. When Urbano Butler (pronounced Boutler, of course, by the Italian voice) was called, how we craned forward! To me the whole thing was poignant. What those boys give up! (‘Well,’ answers a voice, ‘they give up the world, and a good thing too!’)

“We went, when the ceremony was completed, into a side chapel to receive the newly-made young priests’ first blessing. These young fellows ran out of the sacristy towards the crowd of expectant parents and friends, their newly-acquired chasubles flying behind them as they ran, with outstretched hands, for the kisses of that kneeling crowd that awaited them. What a sight! Can any one paint it and do it justice? Old and young, gentlefolk and peasants, smiling through tears, kissing the young hands that blessed them. Dick came to his mother first, then to his soldier brother, then to his sister, and I saw him lifting an aged prelate to his feet after blessing him. Strangers knelt to him and to the others, and I saw, in its perfection, what is meant by ‘laughing for joy’ on those young and holy faces. There was one exception. A poor young Irish boy, somehow, had no relative to bless—no one—he seemed left out in his corner, and he was crying. Perhaps his mother was ‘beyond the beyond’ in far Connemara? I heard of this afterwards. Had I seen him, I would certainly have asked his blessing too. So it is—always some shadow, even here.

“As soon as we could get hold of Dick, in his plain habit, we hurried him to a little trattoria across the piazza, where his dear friend and chum, John Collins,[17] treated him to a good cup of chocolate to break his long fast.”