The Washington times., 1920-09-10
"rLL DIE IN JAIL y
M'SWINEY STATED
Lord Mayor OF Cork Made Pre-
diction to Brother Four
Years Ago.
tcOntInusd from First Psss)


boyhood days seen the finger OF fate
write for him a martyrs end
Few people on this side know
said Peter McSwiney, as he nnally
warmed 20 his subject after hours OF
icy resistance 70 all questions, that
Terry IL a poet and a playwright OF
no mean distinction"
Then from the bottom OF one OF
those indestructible old fashioned
Irish trunks. he began to extract age
yellowed papers, clippings, pictures
and books.
The interviewer's eye fell on hand-
somely bound little volume;
The revolutionist.
A play In five acts.
BY Terence J. McSwiney.
WROTE PLAY ON REVOLT.
II was written by cork's Lord
Mayor-he did not hold that ofrice
then-in the turbulent days OF the
Ulster near-rebellion. not long before
the war. and published in March, 1914.
GIancing through II one finds al
most uncanny parallels with the
authors present plight and his now
almost certain end. II Is the story OF
an Irish rebel who dies, not In prison
but in hiding. His sweetheart. lew
intimate friends, and priest are at
his bedside. As he writhes in his
struggle with death. suffering from
pneumonia contracted In a Wild night
from his pursures, Hugh O'NeNl' The
hero, says: y
"Yes-tell them nothing matters III
the last moment-thatst the import
the last moment-thats the import
ant time-the grip then
What's the use OF being alive II
we give in?"
Father oConneIl. the priest in the
play, prays silently while the doctor
examines the dying man, whose last
breath is a wish for Irish libeTty.
THE British government" saii
Peter McSwIney. as the reporter
fingered the pages OF the book rs
holding up Terry as an assassin, =
low, contemplate individual Look
what IT says on the nrst page" The
interviewer read:
ITO my mothers memory, Tor the
heritage OF her great faith, the beauty
Of her living example. and the ecstacy
OF her dead face"
Are those the words, Is that the
spirit, OF an assassin fairly shouted
Peter Mcswiney. his face rejecting
agony and wrath.
"'Tis not for me to praise my
brother" he added in a voice whose
emotional tremor WAS accentuated by
a quaint touch OF native brogue that
ten years in America have failed to
erase. But to me Terry comes
nearest to having lived a Christ-like
life OF any human being l have
known"
Then his mind seemed to wander
back to years when he and his brother
were boys.
Terry always was good boy, in
the truest sense OF the word, hH
said. i cannot remember one single
act of selfshness or even boyish
| trick on his part. He always thought
OF others, worked for others, lived
for others. He constantly tried to
make life easier for our mother: our
father died when we were small, and
there were seven of us children. As
a very small boy / remember Terry's
eyes literally hanging on our father
lips when father read to us in Gaelic.
Terry inherited fathers great love
for the native tongue. He worked
untiringly until he mastered II. Now
he is famous as a Gaelic orator.
II remember, too. how Terry's eyes
would blaze with patriotic fire when
mother would tell us OF the 1S4S fam
inc that killed 100000 of our people.
Yes, our earliest Impressions Of Brit
ish rule we gained as we sat around
the fireside and listened to mother
tell of Irish history.
I'm school Terry was always among
the first in winning honors. He was
inherently studious, hungry for
knowledge, and devoted every spare
minute to learning. He devoured
Shakespeare, and when an opera COM
psny would come to town he would
work all day to earn enough to hear
the music at night"