attie o'brien

Irish Jesuit Province

Attie O'BrienAuthor(s): Charles DawsonSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 40, No. 473 (Nov., 1912), pp. 633-640Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20503302 .

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[ 633 ]

ATTIE O'BRIEN

T HE recent death of the Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J., recalls to my mind the story of one of the many who owed to his encouragement much of the success of their literary

efforts. Attie O'Brien, like Charlotte Brbnte, was reared far from the town and the madding crowd. But instead of the big bleak moor of Yorkshire, she wrote her songs to the measure of the murmuring sea. In the County of Clare she commenced, and on the bosom of Spencer's " Spacious Shannon spreading like a sea," she finished her short, but continuous literary labours.

Her memoirs were compiled by her friend and neighbour, Mrs. Morgan John O'Connell, whose name itself awakens many memories creditable to Ireland. Mrs. O'Connell was

the daughter of one of Ireland s adopted sons who became more Irish than the Irish themselves-who revolutionized the locomotion of this country-who reaped a noble fortune, and

who left a great tribute to the character and fidelity of his adopted countrymen. I allude to Charles Bianconi. The passengers in trains, the travellers in electric cars, the riders of bicycles and motors may forget him, but not those who saw the mail cars of former days or the grand roads which still bisect and trisect the country and are the delight of the riders of modern machines. Suffice it to say Charles Bianconi told at a meeting in England shortly before his death his simple story: How, footsore in his early days from walking with his little wares from town to town, the bright Italian boy thought of getting a little car. How, helping a fellow wayfarer on his

journey, the idea struck him of starting a car from one tovn to another and charging a fare how this car increased to hundreds, how the scheme developed into thousanids, till Bianconi's name was literally wafted through the length and breadth of Ireland, spreading enterprise and civilization in its wake. And he, the enterprising foreigner, this good and trusting employer, wound up his marvellous story by declaring that with establishments scattered all over Ireland and with hundreds of thousands of pounds in the hands of employees, in a time long before auditors were heard of, he suffered little or no loss from the neglect or

dishonesty of his employees. Such was Mlrs. O'Connell's father-her father-in-law was



634 THE IRISH MI ONTHLY

Daniel O'Connell. I shall not use my own words in referring to him, but quote those of the Rev. Mr. Prenter, Presbyterian

Minister, at a meeting in Dublin on the occasion of the Diamond Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. "'Happily we may now look back on that colossal form and typical Irish Celt, O'Connell, without any of the disturbing passions that warped the judgment of his contemporaries. He was then the great tribune of the Irish people-who found in him a tongue for their sufferings and a hand that secured them their political freedom. Peace to his ashes," said Mr. Prenter. Aye, peace to the ashes of O'Connell, and praise to the Rev. Mr. Prenter for the kindly reference. This is a tone I heartily appreciate, and I have no doubt but that the cultivation of literature will tend to spread that kindly toleration of each other which should be the outcome of a refined state of society.

Attie O'Brien was the daughter of a gentleman of good con nexion inr Clare. But owing to the depression of landed property he was able to make but little provision for his family. Attie's health from first to last was of a very delicate character. Asthma, her cruel enemy, pursued her through life and conquered her at last on the very threshold of success. From childhood she had a literary leaning, and " lisped in numbers for the numbers came."

Her biographer says: " A warm climate would have probably quite relieved poor Attie O'Brien from the miserable attacks of lher chest, which were likely to seize her at any moment, yet Italian olive groves were so unattainable." And so the oppressed and delicate girl had to weather out life's storm in the most exposed and dampest part of Ireland. One wet Sunday, when a waste of water lay all round, her thoughts were driven to the small group oi lhuman beings spared in the ark to view the retiring floods and the returning land: "That small group of human beings," she says in her journal, "touches me strangely, as they stand alone of their kind in the wide world. All the rest of creation stilled to silence, and hushed nature scarce daring to breathe after the awful visitation from God. They touch me strangely that preserved group standing or the green mountain side, under the brilliant sunshine, gazing at the many-hued rainbow-the symbol of God's piomise-and drinking in with thankful hearts the beauties of a world seemingly more beauteous than ever, in that it had been so nearly lost to them for ever."

As we shall see further on, amongst all books the Scriptures, Old and New, were her most constant study and most prolific source of inspiration. Early in her career Milton was her favourite



A TTIE O'BRIEN 635

author. In his affliction-no obstacle to the cultivation of his genius-she found encouragement in her own delicacy. "I fee! happy to-day," she writes, " though I felt sad yesterday. Even if we do our best, illness subdues our spirits, and I will apply

Milton's words, ' It is better to be blind than not to be able to bear blindness,' and say it is better to suffer than not be able to bear suffering."

About this time her ability and devotion to literature became so obvious to her friends that they urged her to write a story. She herself was full of the delight of authorship, and yet conscious how slow the recognition and recompense of genius often is. " It must be lovely," she says, "' for those who can weave such beautiful phantasies, creating an imaginary land, where they can at least dwell happily for the time being. Poor Cervantes had to imbibe what happiness Don Quixote could impart when surrounded by misery and plunged in neglect. I wonder if his spirit is now conscious of the fame of which he then only dreamt." She pined for some happiness even in this life, and resented the gloominess of those who could throw a shadow on life instead of a gleam. " Some people," she writes, " are like worn-out old clothes hung up in a closet immeasurably dusty and mildewed, rusting out their lives." In one of her earliest poems she in culcates dealing with a cheerful spirit with the present hour rather than brooding over the past or speculating as to the future. The true man, she wrote, will

Tread the path by thousands trod Kind and true and energetic.

Past and future leave to God.

She varied her simple life by visiting the poor in the neigh bouring workhouse. Once there, in a little chapel, white-washed and low-roofed, she felt " the atmosphere of peace, the profound serenity, the deep spirit of repose, as if the air held the breathing of angels hushed but wakeful before the invisible presence of God. " I can appreciate her feelings, for though I have been in the church where the brazen steeds glow before St. Mark's in the Piazza of Venice, and in the marble fane in Milan and under the gorgeous dome of St. Peter's, I remember being more struck by the naked majesty of a village church on a Holy Thursday in a deserted part of Ireland than by these gorgeous temples.

The lakes and scenery of Clare first drew, so to speak, her literary blood. " Lost in the Moonlight " is a lovejy sketch.

Here are a few extracts:

" In one of the wildest parts of Western Ireland lies a country



636 THE IRISH MONTHLY

district whose chief characteristics are its great rocks, and its peculiarly rich Irish brogue, and clasped in its bosom is a crystal gem-like lake, about which traditionary lore discloses strange stories savouring of the romantic, the weird, and the super

natural-all echoes of the past, still lingering and reverberating in the hollow, haunted years."

" There was a little island in the centre. All the birds of the air built their nests there; the curlew's lonely call filled the listener's heart with momentary melancholy, and the owls hoot by the moonlight wake the echoes among the cliffs."

The sunshine stirred her poetic soul, as well as the moonlight; she writes thus of the hot summer day

Earth palpitates, half sleeping In the ardent sun's embrace,

A drowsy look is creeping O'er her face.

No tiny leaflets quiiver, Scarcely breathes the swooning rose, The lazy lukewarm river

Hardly flows. Now and then a birdie waking

Thrills out a liquid note, The second dies unshaken

In its throat.

Evidently this embryo authoress and poet felt in this Ultima thule of civilization what young ladies who are in intellectual advance of others feel in the centres of fashion, that their less talented companions make themselves more attractive to the other sex, for she came to the conclusion that " the generality of men are also not intellectual, and they do not like too decided a contrast to themselves. Therefore mediocrity does best."

About this time she wrote one of her first little stories, One Summer by the Sea. It is founded on the ravages of the tidal

wave which swept away portions of a village. The tale is inter esting, but when reading it and others I regret she did not always cling, like the authors of the Window in Thrums and Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush, to the simple annals of the poor.

It will be easy to understand how, in a remote village of Clare, this delicate but gifted girl became, as Mrs. O'Connell says, " a power amongst her young companions, advising and influencing them with a sweet, gentle wisdom few could resist. Everything she did, she did well." Her great desire was to get her contribu tions into the English monthlies-Tinsley, she recounts, accepted a sketch, " The Haunted Bridge," but she never saw its pub



ATTIE O'BRIEN 637

lication, as it did not appear till after her death. But happily before her early death Irish if not English magazines opened their pages to her muse. She found her way into the IRISH

MONTHLY in the following manner. The gifted editor, Father Russell, S.J., relative of those two distinguished Irishmen, the President of Maynooth, and the late Chief Justice of England, Lord Russell of Killowen, tells us, how he received one day a manuscript in a scrawling, irregular hand (the hand of delicacy) it was verse, blank verse-there was a good deal of it. It was not very easy to read. The magazine happened to be rather too well supplied with verses sent then, and the much-persecuted editor packed it back to poor Attie O'Brien. But Attie was accustomed to such rebuffs. She got her poem put again before the editor by a distinguished contributor to the MONTHLY, who

wrote under the name of a " Certain Professor." His papers have since become famous. They touched almost every literary and social topic, and have since been separately published. He

was a hardworking priest-a curate in Monasterevan. * Thus introduced Father Russell read the manuscript carefully,

which he did not do before, " and discovered," says Mrs. O'Connell, " much merit both in form and fancy." The poem was " Probatica, or Bethsaida's Pool." I cannot quote this, but perhaps I may quote from a poem worthy of any pen.

It is not racy of the " new woman, " but its references, its sympathies, and its loud call for justice are ever ancient and ever new. An extract from these Scripture poems written in the comparatively barren plains of Clare, it shines with all the radiance of the gorgeous East:

The noontide rests upon Jerusalem; The air is golden, and the azure sky Bends o'er the lonely land. The trees beyond

Make whispered music with soft, clashing arms, And blend their low tones with the voice of streams, The sigh of winds, the call of mating birds, The distant laughter in the reapers' fields, And gentle footfalls as the camels pass.

But now the dreamful silentness is o'er. A group of Scribes and Pharisees appear, And in their midst a wretched woman moves, A blot upon the beauty of the day. Her head is bent in uttermost despair, Her hands are clasped upon her beating breast, And burning tears are falling down hpr cheeks

Where conscious sin has sent the rushing blood.

Rev. Joseph FarreU.



'638 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Sin's dark simoon has broken o'er her heart And left it waste and barren. Not for her The scented blossoms that the guileless pluck The lilies waiting for the true and pure.

Thev hurry onward through the sunlit streets With pitiless coarse jest and mocking words. She is not fit to walk the fruitful earth; She must be stoned, the law must be fulfilled. But first they'll lead her to the Nazarean. They'll snare him into breaking Jewish codes, And be revenged for all His subtleties.

The trembling woman kneels before her Judge And clasps her hands upon her guilty face.

:Never before seemed purity so pure Never before seemed sin so horrible. She did not plead-she knelt there clothed in shame, XVaiting the words-: " Thou must be stoned." The crowd draw near to hear what Jesus says,

And silence steals upon the multitude. Athwart the sunlit Temple floor Through the open doorways sighs the fragrant wind. The little children patter with soft steps In quiet corners. Knowing not as yet

Life's tragedy intense and passionate. But Jesus, lo ! He speaks. The Temple grows more hushed: " Let him," He says, " who knows that he is pure Cast the first stone at her." The men look up Startled a little; then they hang their heads. .Slowly one by one,

Without a word, they slink abashed away. "Go, sin no more," He savs. And forth she goes To mend the ruined beauty of her life. But where is he the sharer in her guilt ? The man wlhom God appointed as the head, The shield of woman in her weakness. Yes, stone the woman-let the man go free. Draw back your skirts lest they perchance may touch Her garment as she passes; but to him Put forth a willing hand to clasp with his. Shut up from her the sacred ways of toil That shie no more may win an honest ineal; But ope to him all honourable paths Where he may win distinction. Give to him Fair, pressed down measure of life's sweetest joys. Trust to him who led A sister woman to a fearful fate. Yes, stone the woman-let the man go free. It is the doctrine of a hurried world Too out of breath for holding balances WThere nice distinctions and injustices

Are calmly weighed. But, ah ! how will it be On that strange day of final fire and flame,

When men ,shall wither with a mystic fear ? Shall sex make then a difference in sin; Shall He, the Searcher of the hidden heart, In His eternal and divine decree

Condemn the woman, and let the man go free ?



ATTIE O'BRIEN 639

She had two ambitions: one was to get her footing in an English magazine-this triumph was achieved, as before noted, but she did not live to witness it. The second was to have a serial story accepted by the IRISH MONTHLY.

Her anxiety was not all for literary fame. The bad times affected Attie O'Brien. Her slender resources were from the land. The Seasons were bad; modern science had brought the wheat of Manitoba and the meat of the American prairies to compete with the " scanty bread " forced from the " churlish soil " of West Clare. The res Angusta domi, hard times, pinched all who depended upon agriculture. No one admitted the struggle of the people more than Attie O'Brien. Yet stern necessity came home to her, and to the household she had adopted. Attie did not content herself, however, with sighing for the little rent, or depending on the Distressed Ladies' Fund-though she hoped, as she had a right to hope, for help from both. She looked to her pen to recruit the impoverished income. Bit by bit she achieved this, and we can well imagine the thrill of joy which convulsed the tender frame when the five pound notes, and some times the twenty pound notes and the thirty pound notes, came in exchange for the work produced in pain and suffering,

with the writing materials raised high on her knees and frequently resigned, in the effort to " cleanse the stuffed bosom from the perilous stuff that weighed upon it."

One little episode must come in here. The pages of the English magazines were closed against her-I do not mean unfairly, for

probably they were deterred from bxamination of her manuscript by the same irregular writing which deterred the Editor of the IRISH MONTHLY. The quantity of Irish literature availed of by

English publishers forbids me to believe there was any prejudice. However, Attie had to apply for recognition and reward to one from whom she expected little. She sent her manuscript to T. D. Sullivan, then proprietor of the Nation and other papers. She sent them in fear and trembling for this reason: " I think," she says, " T. D. Sullivan has dropped me since I wrote him and revealed that I was one of the landlord class." But she soon found out the contrary, for she writes: " I have a pleasant thing to tell you. A little story of mine was printed in Young Ireland some time ago, and T. D. Sullivan sent me five pounds last week, and asked me to send another story." It was poet to poet, it was kind heart to kind heart. It was " a touch of nature

which makes all the world akin." And, later on, she adds: " T. D. Sullivan is my only friend." In i882 her serial, " The



640 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Monk's Prophecy," appeared in the IRISH MONTHLY. Up to this time, July, I882, Attie O'Brien had never met her kind friend, Father Russell. " Everyone says to me," she wrote him, " ' Oh ! what a loss you have, not to know Father Russell.' Who knows but you may recognize me in heaven ? "

She was destined, however, to meet him soon, even in this life. In March, I883, she came to Dublin. She should have gone long before to the olive groves and warm sun of Italy, spoken of by Mrs. O'Connell. How many comparatively

worthless lives have been prolonged by such a change. Instead of that she came to the keen north-east wind of

Dublin-a factor in its heavy death-roll not always remem bered. She soon succumbed to its keen blasts. To the com panion of her infancy, the " Marcella " of the diary, even in the last days, " she did not cease to speak in a cheerful way." The state of her heart forced her to sleep in a position painful to her chest.' Her attendant remarking this, and not knowing the cause pointed it out to her; she answered cheerfully, " Of two evils choose the least."

At a quarter past five o'clock on the evening of the 5th April, I883, the spirit of this blameless, courageous, and cultured creature passed away.

CHARLES DAWSON.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

'A PENNY for your thoughts! " you say ? So let it be! But you must pay The obol due as fancied fare on The wondrous craft of wise old Charon. Then all aboard for the other side! My thoughts to-day with the dead abide.

CHARLES L. KIMBALL, S.J.



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