Pearse Short Stories of Padraig Pearse: The Easter Rising Hero of 1916

A Dual Language Book
1. Auflage 1989
ISBN: 978-1-78117-119-6
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Irisch, 120 Seiten

Pádraic Pearse, who played a prominent part in the 1916 rebellion, declared Ireland a Republic from the steps of the General Post Office in Dublin. He was executed, along with the other leaders, for his part in the Rising. But he was a gentle warrior at heart. These five stories show us that Pearse was a man of deep understanding with immense human awareness of the way of life of the average person. He analyses the sorrows and joys of the Irish people of his time, and writes of the tragedies of life and death from which they could never escape.

Patrick Henry Pearse was an Irish teacher, barrister, poet, writer, nationalist and political activist who was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising in 1916. He was declared President of the provisional Government of the Irish Republic in one of the bulletins issued by the Risings leaders, a status that was however disputed by others associated with the rebellion both then and subsequently. Following the collapse of the Rising and his subsequent execution, Pearse came to be seen by many as the embodiment of the rebellion.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Pearse, Patrick

Weitere Mitwirkende

Maguire, Desmond

Leseproben

Old Matthias was sitting beside his door. Anyone passing by would think that he was a statue of stone or marble, or even a dead person, for it would be difficult to believe that any living man could remain so quiet and still.

His head was raised and his ears were strained attentively. There were many musical sounds to be heard by the person who really wanted to hear them.

Old Matthias heard the roar of the waves on the rocks and the murmuring of the stream sweeping over the stones.

He heard the cry of the heron from the shingly strand, the lowing of the cattle from the pastures and the happy laughter of the children coming from the green.

However, he wasn’t listening so attentively to any of these noises even though he thought that they were all very sweet, but to the clear sound of the Mass-bell which was being carried towards him by the wind in the morning stillness.

All the villagers were going to Mass. Old Matthias saw them filing past in ones and two’s or in little groups. The boys were running and jumping while the grills were chattering happily. The women were speaking to each other in low whispers. The men were silent.

That was how they travelled to Mass every Sunday and Old Matthias was always sitting in his chair gazing on them until they went out of sight.

They filed past him this morning as usual. The old man continued to watch them until the noise and bustle had ended, until the last group had gone over the top of the chapel hill, until all the that remained to be seen was a long bare road, and until the village was deserted but for an occasional old person in bed, the children playing on the green and himself sitting beside his window.

Old Matthias usen’t go to church. He hadn’t been at Mass for more than 60 years. The last time he blessed himself in public, he was a strong active youth, now he was a worn-out old man with greyish-white hair, a wrinkled forehead and bent shoulders.

During those sixty years he had never once gone on his knees before God, never once muttered a prayer to his Creator or never once returned thanks to his Redeemer. Old Matthias was a man apart.

Nobody really knew why he never went to Mass. Some people said that he didn’t believe in the existence of God. Others maintained that he committed some terrible sin, in his younger days, and when a priest refused to grant him absolution in the confessional, he swore in anger he’d have nothing to do with either priest or chapel again.

Others yet had it, but this was only whispered around the fire when the grown-ups were chatting among themselves after the children had gone asleep, that he sold his soul to a certain Big Man whom he met on the top of Cnoch an Daimh and that it was this man who wouldn’t allow him to go to Mass.

I’m not sure whether these stories are true or false, but I’m certain that Old Matthias wasn’t seen at Mass in the memory of the oldest person living in the village.

Cuimin O’Niadh, an old man that died a few years ago, in his 90th year claimed that he saw him at Mass when he was a small boy.

However nobody thought for a minute that Old Matthias was a bad person. In fact, he was as honest, as simple, as natural a man that one would expect to meet.

He never swore nor cursed, and had no great desire for drinking, company, wealth or property. He was poor but still he often shared what he had with people poorer than himself.

He had pity for the infirm, mercy for the wretched, and was well respected by other men.

The women, the children and the animals all loved him while he returned their love and liked every pure-hearted thing as well.

Old Matthias liked talking with women better than talking with men, but he liked talking with children even better.

He claimed that the women were wiser than the men but that the children were wiser than either of them.

Because of this, he used to spend the greater part of his spare time in the company of children. He used to sit with them in a corner of his house telling them his stories or listening to theirs.

And the children all marvelled at the wonderful stories that he had to tell them. He could thrill them with the ‘Adventures of The Grey Horse’ and he was the one old person in the village that could recite the story of the ‘Hen-Harrier and the Wren’ properly.

How he could frighten them with the story of ‘The Two-Headed Giant’ and how he could make them laugh when he told them what happened to the piper in the Snail’s Castle! And the songs he had!

He could coax a sick child to sleep with his:

‘Shoheen sho, and sleep my pet

For the fairies are out patrolling the glen.’

or he could put a house-full of children in a fit of laughter with his:

‘Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother,

That went to Galway riding a drake.’

And hadn’t he the funny verses, the hard questions and the difficult riddles! As for games, where was the man, woman or child that could keep ‘Lúrabóg Lúrabóg’ or ‘The Dumb Band’ going with him?

When the weather was fine one could see Old Matthias on the hillside, or travelling the bog with his young companions, explaining to them the habits of the ants and the woodlice, or telling them stories of the hedgehog and squirrel.

Other times it was possible to see them boating, the old man holding an oar, some small boy holding a second one, and perhaps a young girl at the helm steering.

Very often, People working near the strand could hear the joyous shouts of the children coming to them from the mouth of the harbour, or it might be the voice of Old Matthias singing:

‘Oro! Mycurragheen O!

And oró my little boat.’

or something like it.

At times, some of the mothers would become afraid and whisper to one another that they weren’t right to let their children spend so much time with Old Matthias – ‘a man that neither went to Confession or Mass.’

Once, when one of the mothers told Father Sean of their fears he said:

‘Don’t interfere with the poor children, they couldn’t be in better company.’

‘But, Father, they tell me that he doesn’t believe in God.’

‘There are many saints in Heaven to-day who didn’t believe in God at some time during their lives. And if Old Matthias doesn’t love God – a thing that neither you nor I know – it’s wonderful the love he has for the most beautiful and purest thing that God created – the spotless soul of the child. Our Saviour Himself and the most glorious saints in Heaven had the same love for them. For all we know, it may be the children that will draw Old Matthias to the knee of God yet.’

So things were left at that.

This particular Sunday morning the old man remained listening until the bell for Mass ceased ringing.

When it stopped, he sighed like a tired, sorrowful person might do and he turned to the group of boys playing on the grass patch, or the ‘green’ as Old Matthias called it, at the crossroads.

He knew every curly-headed, barefooted boy amongst them! He liked nothing better, in his spare time, than to sit there watching them and listening to them.

He was counting them to see how many of his friends were among them and how many of them had gone to Mass with their parents when suddenly he noticed a child that he never laid eyes on before, among them.

He was a little brown-haired boy, wearing a white coat like every other boy, with no shoes on his feet nor hat on his head – as is the custom among the children of the West.

His face was as bright as the sun and it seemed to Old Matthias that there were rays of light projecting from his head. The sun shining on his hair, perhaps!

The old man was amazed at seeing the child, for he hadn’t heard that any strangers had arrived in the village.

He was just about to go over and question one of the children when he heard the noise and bustle of the people coming home from Mass.

He hadn’t felt the time slipping by while his attention was on the tricks of the children. Some of the people going past, saluted him and he replied to them. When he turned around and gazed on the group of boys again, the strange boy wasn’t among them.

The following Sunday, Old Matthias was sitting beside his door as usual. The people had already gone to Mass. The children were playing on the green; and jumping around and playing with them was the strange boy he had noticed the Sunday before.

Matthias gazed at him for a long time as he had taken to the youngster because of the beauty of his person and the brightness of his countenance.

Finally he called one of the children over to him:

‘Who’s that little boy I see playing with you for the past fortnight?’ – he asked – ‘the brown-headed one, or maybe he’s reddish-fair: I’m not sure whether he’s dark or fair because of the way the sun is shining on him. Do you see him now – the one that’s running towards us?’

‘That’s Iosagán,’ the boy replied.

‘Iosagán?’

‘That’s what he calls himself.’

‘Who are his parents?’

‘I don’t know, but he says that his father is a king.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘He never told us that, but he says that his house is not very far from us.’

‘Does he be often with you?’

‘Yes. When we play, like this. But he goes whenever grown people come around. Look! He’s gone already!’

The old man looked, and saw only the boys he knew. The child, the little lad called ‘Iosagán’ was missing. At the same moment, the noise and bustle of the people returning from Mass could be heard.

The following Sunday the same things...