But because I believe even the present British Government, more profligate of its power than any Government of modern times in this country, would scarcely dare to mishandle a man so great in the esteem, not only of Ireland but of the whole world of culture, I feel I may write freely of that towering personality, Mr. G. W. Russell (“Æ”), whom I met several times in Dublin, always to my great spiritual profit.
Picture a face and figure not unlike those of William Morris in the prime of his life, with a tenderness joined to his strength which I imagine was less conspicuous in the English poet. Masses of wavy hair tossed back but occasionally falling over a fine square forehead, a full mouth, glorious eyes full of humour and gentleness, a soft musical voice; the frame of a Viking, the heart of a saint, the imagination of a poet, the vision of a prophet; a man to whom children would run with their troubles, whom women would trust unflinchingly, whom men would serve with utter loyalty; the embodiment of the real Ireland, the Ireland that is not known in England—this is the man whose devoted, lifelong work for the salvation of Ireland is being wantonly and savagely annihilated by British troops.
Mr. Russell spoke without a trace of bitterness, though I know he suffers keenly, when he told me of the destruction of Irish creameries and of the difficulties which co-operative enterprise is meeting with in every part of Ireland. He edits the Irish Homestead, and there he has voiced the complaints of Irish co-operators in language of the greatest beauty; but to hear him tell the story himself was a pleasure fraught with pain to his English auditor.
“It cannot be that the system of reprisals has become an integral part of the British nation’s scheme of justice?” he asked, as we sat talking by the fire in the house of a friend. “It would be too terrible to think that that were true.”
“The British people do not know all that is happening here,” I replied. “Oh, I know they ought to. Enough has been said and written about it. The ignorance of affairs outside the little circle of their own interests of the average man and woman makes me almost despair of democracy at times. But there is this explanation of the inactivity of the British public about Irish matters. In the first place, very many people know nothing. Those who do read that part of their daily paper which is not devoted to the sporting news or the Divorce Court proceedings read a partial tale. The news is generally coloured in favour of Dublin Castle and the Black and Tans. I cannot believe that British co-operators would be content to tolerate the things which are being done to Irish co-operative enterprises if they knew the facts.”
I was given a tiny yellow book containing the facts which I promised to help circulate in England. It is an amazing story. The statements would have appeared incredible to me had I not seen with my own eyes the blackened walls and twisted machinery of the gutted creameries in several parts of Ireland. Forty-two attacks by the Crown forces on these village and country town institutions had been made up to the time of my conversation with “Æ.” In these attacks the factories were burned down, the machinery destroyed, the stores looted, the employés beaten and sometimes wounded and killed.
Questioned in Parliament, the Government has excused itself by declaring that the creameries were centres of propaganda and of Sinn Fein activity. They alleged that in two cases shots were fired at the troops from the buildings. The most searching inquiries by responsible people, including Sir Horace Plunkett, failed to produce any evidence in support of the charges of the Government. But Mr. Russell is not concerned about the result of these inquiries. He wants a Government inquiry into the whole of the circumstances connected with this particularly lamentable form of reprisal, and this inquiry is steadily denied. Why?
Travellers in Ireland to-day see all over the country these new ruins, centres of village industry and culture utterly wrecked, and the peasant farmers and their families driven back to their lonely farms to live in poverty and isolation; driven back to feed not only upon their own scant produce but upon the black passions of hate and individualism from which the co-operative idea had begun so successfully to rescue them.
“Surely the English workmen begin to realize the connexion between our problem and theirs,” said another distinguished co-operator. “If our economic life continues to be so seriously disturbed, or if it be destroyed, we cannot buy from England as we have been doing. Do you know that, with the single exception of India, Ireland is the best customer that England possesses within the British Empire?” The political views of this cultured gentleman are distinctly non-Republican, yet his house is not safe from the official intruder, and he is tormented hourly with the sense of outrage and injustice which the destruction of his life’s labours must necessarily produce.
“To us it would be simply unbelievable but for the other follies we have seen perpetrated by your statesmen, that any Government with the least knowledge of the world-situation could willingly add to its dangers and difficulties. Yet I cannot believe that the members of the British Government are all ignorant and stupid.” This third speaker was a man who had served with distinction in the British Army during the war. But the droop of his figure, the gloom in his eye, the bitter curl of his lips—everything about him spoke of a confidence lost and a faith killed.