At the Mansion House the Gaelic League denounced the Post Office for refusing to accept parcels addressed in Irish. At the Castle there was a St. Patrick’s Ball where the excellent music of the band, the gaily moving dancers, the beautiful costumes of the ladies, the bright and varied military uniforms of the officers and officials, the stately Court dress of the gentlemen, all blended in a pleasing kaleidoscope of colour and harmony. Earlier his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant had attended the trooping of the colour in the Castle yard, where he inspected the parade of the Second Battalion West Riding Regiment. It was thrash the beetles and God Save the King; Hail Glorious St. Patrick for Britannia Ruled the Waves.
Hennessy inspected a parade too. It was the procession of the Irish National Foresters in their plumed hats and tight breeches, marching on their way from Parnell Square to Donnybrook Church, headed by members of the Ladies’ Section in their long cloaks. In order to do so fittingly he bought a buttonhole of shamrock with a penny and told the vendor to keep the change. He found the day robust and sharp, but not invigorating. He had continuous trouble with a drop on the end of his nose due to the wind and an attack of chronic catarrh. He wiped it away several times but it kept on turning up again. Like a bad ha’penny, he decided.
It did not affect his humour. He had had regular work for some weeks that paid modestly and was full time. It would continue for another fortnight at least. After that it would be time enough to worry again. For the present he had a little money, the National Festival to celebrate, a band to listen to and a parade to gawk at.
It was a good parade. The Foresters stepping it out in their ostrich-plumed hats, their frilled shirts, their top boots, their green coats and plentiful gold braid brought back the age of Erin The Brave. In line upon line the proud brotherhood passed him, imperishable, glorious, while with erect soldierly bearing and eyes flashing under the rim of his bowler hat he reviewed them rank by rank—Robert Emmet Hennessy; Aloysius Wolfe Tone. The band made his heart beat hard and sent his blood racing. It played (but in march time, he noted) ‘O Rich And Rare were the Gems She Wore’, which told of a maiden who adorned in costly jewels and without escort of any kind walked the length and breadth of Ireland unafraid of robbery or assault.
Hennessy repeated to himself:
‘Kind sir I have not the least alarm
No son of Erin would offer me harm
For, though they love women and golden store
Sir Knight—they love honour and virtue more.’
So too did Son of Erin Robert Emmet Hennessy, the Honour and Virtue loving Aloysius Wolfe Tone.
The parade passed, the music of the band faded away on the somewhat sharp but healthy and invigorating March air. He had been to holy mass already. It was time to wet the shamrock. A hot whiskey, he thought.
‘Sharp weather,’ he said as he asked for it.
‘It’s healthy,’ the publican said.
‘Better than the rain,’ a customer put in.
‘Invigorating,’ the publican agreed.
Hennessy removed the drop from his nose and wondered if the publican would be as enthusiastic if he had to be out in it. But the golden colour in his glass and the steam rising from it mollified him.
‘Here’s the first today,’ he said, raising the glass in salute.
‘Sláinte,’ the publican returned.
The other customer approved.
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he told Hennessy, ‘an Irishman using his native language—matteradam whether he knows much or little of it.’
‘I know damn all about it,’ the publican confessed honestly, ‘except that sláinte bit and Conus Tawtoo. And—oh yes—slawn lath.’
‘There you are,’ said the customer encouragingly, ‘you know a fair bit just the same.’
‘If I had to confess my sins in it,’ said the publican, ‘I’d stay unshriven.’
He was a man who refused to be flattered.
‘Are you an exponent yourself, sir?’ Hennessy enquired, adopting a tone of gentility in deference to the other’s air of education and good manners.
‘In a modest way,’ the other confessed, ‘I’ve attended classes.’
‘At mass this morning the sermon was in Irish,’ Hennessy told them. ‘It was a grand thing to hear.’
‘And did you understand it?’ the publican asked.
‘Well—no,’ Hennessy admitted.
‘I fail to see the sense in that,’ the publican decided. He was counting empty bottles into a crate.
‘In honour of the National Apostle,’ Hennessy explained.
‘And did St. Patrick speak Irish?’
‘Fluently,’ the customer said.
‘I didn’t know that, mind you,’ the publican admitted.
‘Irish and Latin,’ Hennessy confirmed.
‘Latin, naturally,’ the customer agreed, ‘it was the language of the Universal Church.’
‘If he didn’t know Irish,’ said Hennessy, pressing his point, ‘how could he have explained our holy religion to the Irish princes and chiefs. There wasn’t one of them knew a word of English.’
‘French,’ the customer corrected.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘French,’ the customer repeated, ‘St. Patrick’s native language was French.’
‘Well—French then,’ Hennessy amended. ‘I doubt any of the Irish princes spoke French.’
‘To be fair now,’ said the customer, ‘some of them might have. There was a lot of trade with the Continent, if you remember.’
‘That’s true,’ Hennessy said, with an educated nod.
The publican hoisted the full crate on to the counter and exclaimed blasphemously as he jammed his thumb in the process. Then he apologised and said:
‘That’s one kind of language the Saint wouldn’t know, I’ll warrant.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ the customer said, ‘he could be crusty enough.’
‘Giving out oul lip to God at times, I believe,’ Hennessy said.
‘That’s true. When he was fasting up there on Croagh Patrick and wrestling with the devil. He hammered hard at God to get the privilege from him of being allowed to be the judge of the race of the Gael on the Last Day.’
‘He got that promise—I understand,’ Hennessy said.
‘I take a lot of that stuff with a grain of salt,’ the publican told them. He was cooling his bruised thumb under the counter tap.
‘Ah well,’ Hennessy said, ‘whoever it is does the judging, I hope he won’t be too hard on any of us.’
‘Right enough,’ the publican said, relenting, ‘the only difference between any of us is that if one of us is bad, the other is a damn sight worse.’
‘Amen to that,’ said the customer.
They had another in honour of the day that was in it, the publican, despite initial reservations about the earliness of the hour at length consenting in deference to the demands of true patriotism, to join them. They toasted the cause of Ireland which was Holy and their kin both at home and in exile. They then shook hands and said slan leat several times and went their various ways.
Hennessy was a little light in the head. He was also very happy. He liked things going on about him and welcomed the holiday bustle in the streets. The public buildings were gay with flags, men and women wore their sprays of shamrock pinned to their coats or pushed jauntily into their hat bands. The little girls had green ribbons in their hair, the small boys wore harps and St. Patrick badges on their jerseys. He was glad he had got mass on his way from his night work and that he had the foresight to bring something in with him so that he could have his breakfast on the job. It left him free to enjoy the celebrations without the inconvenience of feeling hungry. Later he would arrive home with little gifts to distribute. For the moment the church bells and the traffic and the sounds of parading bands were blending together in a wave of welcome excitement. It was Ireland’s Great Day.