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JACK YEATS AT 84
A Call at the Studio in Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin
20.1X.55
By Mary Delane
Fitzwilliam Square is the Harley Street of Dublin, and the door of the tall old house carries its complement of brass plates but nothing to indicate that here, too, is another tenant. The only clue is a tiny plaque upstairs: "Studio." It was, however, Jack Yeats himself who opened the door and bade one welcome with the friendly grace of his kind.
Where would I like to sit? Then we discovered that each had a slightly deaf ear, and were strangers no more. He chuckled. "A man once spent half an hour selling me some sort of hearing appliance for £42. I might have known it wasn't any good, he worked so hard to sell it!"
Where had I been in Ireland—to the West? Ah! As memory lit his face story after remembered story flowed one upon another. Here was wit without malice; the clear, analytical mind of the true artist; in one man's life the history of a whole epoch, told as only an Irishman can tell it. There were tales of Ireland, of his loved Sligo; of England; of Lady Ottilie Morell and her
There were too many eccentrics at that time in Devon. "We either had to become eccentric ourselves, or leave." So they returned to Sligo. "Devon families were more closed. They would go into the house among themselves. In Ireland people were more simple, and real. They would sit in sheltered banks and talk together."
With Synge, too, Jack Yeats did some work for the "Manchester Guardian" 50 years ago. Synge writing, Yeats drawing. They were not proud of it. "There we were, Synge banging his typewriter in his bedroom, while I tried to draw in mine. Fancy trying to do something without time to think. But I suppose that is how newspapers must work." He shook his head ruefully, and suddenly the large grey eyes were full on mine with a challenging twinkle. "I remember C. P. Scott. He used to ride a bicycle to work. Said it was the only way he could get exercise. He lived in the suburbs where there were trees. The only possible place a sensible man could live in Manchester then."
Yeats's Pictures
All too soon it was time to go. And inevitably one was drawn back to the exhibition of some of the artist's paintings at Victor Waddington's gallery, which includes a large canvas painted only last year: "Horsemen." One tries to count how many. Is it four? The strange power of the eerie, fragile figures, the mastery of blazing colour, is as moving, as haunting, as ever. As in "Man with a Book," also on show, and "Last Dawn But One," in which shadowy figures of soldiers are breaking camp in the first thin stillness of early day.
His pictures are in prized collections throughout the world. But Jack Yeats has no tricks, and he will not allow any reproductions other than the few small prints in exhibition catalogues. "Not for the sake of principle; I had strong 'principles' when I was young. Nor through any wish to be obstinate. I just believe this is the right way for an artist to feel. It doesn't matter who or what I am. It is the painting which must speak for itself." Again—"Paintings are the most lasting kind of events. Plays and books die out; a picture does not need translation, or 'documentary evidence.'"
Of this gifted son Jack Yeats's father said: "If I am remembered it will not be as an artist, but as the father of an artist."
Jack B. Yeats, a bust by Laurence Campbell, R.H.A.
salon; of all sorts and conditions of men and women; of horses and trees. And all the while the sensitive, capable hands with the long, wasted thumb lay quietly in his lap, in contrast to the changing expressions of the sad, mobile face.
Jack B. Yeats is 84. Looking at him, listening to him, it seemed impossible to believe. Only the names of his contemporaries, the experiences he shared with them, credited the fact. During the years he lived with his wife in Devon his great friend Synge stayed with them often. Like a couple of schoolboys they made paper boats and floated them down the tumbling moorland streams. "But Synge sometimes smashed his boat. I never did. I've never wanted to smash things. Some boys smash things, and then, as men, want to do violence. It's all part of the same thing. Like lampoons and duels."

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6 The Irish Catholic, February 7, 1957.
Book Reviews :-: Book Reviews :-: Book Reviews
Spirit of the Legion
The Spirit of the Legion of Mary. By Frank Duff. John S. Burns and Sons, 195 Buccleuch St., Glasgow, Price 5/-.
THE merits of this book's outstanding articles cannot be assessed without reference to the achievements of their outstanding author.
For thirty-five years Frank Duff has guided the destinies of the now mighty army of the Legion of Mary. Further, he has formed the wonderful
spirit of this greatest movement of the lay apostolate in the 20th century—a spirit embodied in the heroic life of our own Edel Quinn, in the martyr deaths of China's Legionaries and in the unbelievable feats of the apostolate performed by Mary's army throughout the world.
It is the spirit of Frank Duff himself, springing from a soul on fire with a love, proven by mighty deeds, for Mary Immaculate and her Divine Son. It brims over
into this book's living, vital chapters which Father Aidan McGrath, China's heroic pioneer Legion Envoy, considers one of the most important contributions to the Catholic literature of the century, demonstrating as they do the vast possibilities of the organised lay apostolate.
Let no one think, however, that these precious writings are for Legionaries alone. They speak instantly to all hearts. Rich in inspired wisdom and common-sense, they will solve many individual doubts and problems, covering as they do such subjects as Marriage, Catholic School, Nerves, Children.
The real-life illustrations and the fresh straight-forward style compel attention. The boundless zeal and confidence of the writer shake apathy and inspire action—the first practical expression of which will be to see that no friend or acquaintance is deprived of this book which must lead thousands more to magnify the Lord—with Mary.
M. J. S.
Two who personify the spirit of the Legion of Mary—the founder, Mr. Frank Duff, and Miss Edel Quinn, Legion Envoy, whose portrait has been unveiled by Mr. Duff.

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MAY 24, 1951
THE ADVOCATE 9
Advocate Magazine
BOOKS & BOOKMEN
In the Pink
By Frank Murphy
Father Senan's "Capuchin Annual" Does it Again
ANYONE acquainted with The Capuchin Annual, that sturdy yearly achievement of contemporary Irish Franciscan journalism, which next year attains its majority, will have learned to look upon its famous editor, Father Senan, as a man of indefatigable activity. My own attempt to meet him confirms this impression. While in Dublin I learned that he was in Kerry. I went down to Kerry, to learn that he was in Dublin. Back in Dublin, I found that he was in Kerry again. He sent he word to say that he was sorry he missed me; certainly, I was sorry to miss him. For a meeting with Father Senan was, I thought, something of a pilgrimage for a journalist from over the seas.
RARE JOY
Father Senan has done it again. Year by year his Capuchin Annual has excited the admiration of journalists and artists and readers whose capacity for praise has been dulled by surfict of papers, periodicals, magazines, and multitudinous other publications. The skill of writers, exercised in all manner of novelty, the cunning craft of the illustrator, the designer and the printer, have been so employed that there is little left for us to wonder at; so that it is a rare joy to find a work whose advent is awaited with something of that expectation that gladdened our hearts as children when we looked with marvelling eyes on the magic covers of our favourite Christmas annual. That exquisite sensation of our childhood is hardly to be recaptured in adult years, but Father Senan manages to intrigue us again and to rejoice our hearts with the good things he has in store.
He is a Franciscan, of course, and, as I have remarked before, Franciscan generosity packs this literary hamper so that it is heavy and bulging and literally bursting its sides.
In these miserable days when the shortage of paper compels even venerable and distinguished journals to tighten their belts and reduce their waists to a poor and scraggy shadow of former, prosperous appearances, it must be a formidable task for even the editor of The Capuchin Annual to keep his growing and well-nourished charge in the pink of its accustomed condition. But he does it. And now that the 1950-51 Annual has come to hand, we marvel the more.
HOLY YEAR
The Capuchin Annual always has variety, but it has, also, some predominant feature. This feature is frequently in the form of a symposium, which, as we have remarked before, means, in its origin, a drinking together, or a feast; notably, a banquet with philosophic conversation. The Capuchin's Symposium has always been that. But even when there is no symposium as such—as in this number—the contents themselves take on that character or virtue, so that, in any case, the feature is there.
This time it has to do with the Holy Year. Last year the Holy Year was recognized by a feature devoted to the Pope, but this year there are accounts or memorials of the Holy Year in the form of articles recalling pilgrimages, specially the Irish pilgrimage, with a fine display of pictures. This "cover of the Holy Year begins at the begin-
"The Capuchin Annual," now in its twentieth year of publication, is to hand again in its 1950-51 volume. Edited by Father Senan, O.F.M.Cap., and published at Church-street, Dublin, it has close on 600 pages, weighs over three pounds, and is one of the most remarkable publications of our time. Copies are now available from the Advocate Office. Price 30/-; plus 1/9 postage.
ning, with Nuala Ni Riain's "Irish Girl at the Holy Door." It is a description of the ceremonies at St. Peter's on December 24, 1949, and of Christmas and New Year in Rome. A set of photographs then records that 50,000 pilgrims went to Rome from Ireland during the year. Chevalier Thomas MacGreevy, in his article "Jubilate," tells then of an audience with the Holy Father on Good Friday of Holy Year, of the Papal Mass in St. Peter's on Easter Sunday, and of Mass in the Catacomb of Saint Calixtus. There is mention, too, of the shrine of St. Bernadette, at Nevers, of Rue du Bac, Paris, and Paray-le-Monial, associated with the women saints of France, Saint Catherine Laboure and Saint Margaret Mary. Then there are "Memories of Our Pilgrimage," by Senator Margaret Pearse, sister of Patrick Pearse, who led and died in the Easter Rising.
PILGRIMAGE
This is a full account of the Irish pilgrimage, from its departure at North Wall, Dublin, to Rome and back again. The journey lay through Liverpool, London and Dover, to Dunkerque, Amiens, Paris, Nevers, Paray-le-Monial, Valence, Digne, Nice, Genoa, Rapallo, Pisa, Florence, Siena, Grossetto, Rome. After Rome, there was Naples, Assisi, Loreto, Bologna, Padua, Venice, Brunate, Milan, Stresa, Montreaux, and back to Paris. Prodigious! To Margaret Pearse's "Memories" is added impressions seen by other eyes, in T. J. Molloy's "Dublin to Rome: Holy Year, 1950." This covers the same ground, but one narrative is supplementary to the other. Each is illustrated with photographs.
But there is a special photographic record itself in the pictorial feature, "Road to Rome," 125 full-page and half-page photographs by T. J. Molloy. This gallery illustrates the way of the pilgrims on their long journey by well-photographed characteristics of the cities through which the pilgrims passed.
Another "Road to Rome" is described by Clare Sheridan, cousin of Winston Churchill, convert to the Faith, sculptor, author, who among other distinctants married a direct descendant of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was the guest of the Soviet Government in 1920, and had her studio in the Kremlin, where she did portraits of Lenin and Trotsky. She became a Catholic at Assisi in 1946. She went to the Eternal City, not with the official organized pilgrimage, but alone, driving a 10 h.p. car. She set out to accomplish her pilgrimage on a meagre allowance, knowing that it was insufficient for the purpose. But that did not deter her. It was always her philosophy, she says to trust to luck, or rather to Divine Providence. "One must have the courage to start," without everknowing how one will get back. She had done it often in her life, and Providence had never let her down. People talked about security. There was no such thing. The only security she knew was prayer. Therefore, greatly trusting, she took the
of such a pilgrim cannot but be unusually interesting. She had to do without a meal some days, making do on stale sandwiches left over from the day before; she prayed the Lord to select for her some type of hitch-liker who would go all the way to Rome with her—and she found one; a young man in a kilt, a 19-year-old pilgrim from Glasgow. He had an Irish name, a Scottish ac-
FATHER SENAN, O.F.M.Cap.
cent, and was as beautiful as a legendary Sir Galahad. This is an account of a pilgrimage well worth reading. In Rome the journalists discovered her identity. Was she on pilgrimage to pray for her celebrated cousin's conversion? Her repudiation upset them. She replied that though she might pray for a good many souls, it would take her all her time to save her own. But the Holy Father heard about her, and at an audience gave her a special blessing for her cousin and his family.
KERRY
A final impression of Holy Year is that by a Roman resident, who reviews with the eyes of Rome itself the coming and going of the pilgrims. This is a useful article for many of the events of Holy Year. For example, there is, among other things, a list of the "Beati" and Saints canonized on this occasion, and a detailed description of a canonization Mass. "With the Last Pilgrims" is the late Aodh de Blacam's account of the closing of the Hol

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TRIBUTES PAID TO
DR. LENNOX ROBINSON
TRIBUTES to the life and work of Dr. Lennox Robinson, who died in a Dublin nursing-home on Tuesday night, were paid yesterday by several people who are prominent in the theatre and the arts.
Mr. Peadar O'Donnell spoke highly of his work in the Irish Academy of Letters, He said: "He will be very much missed in the Irish Academy of Letters, for he was its main executive officer since its foundation and so took such devout care of its affairs that it is difficult to imagine how the academy will replace him.
"I have known and admired him for many years. One looked on him as the great link with that great, robust period in Irish letters. His death is like the final break with that past," he added.
Lord Longford said: "Lennox Robinson was one of the men who made the Irish theatre a force in the theatrical world and his death is a very great loss. In many ways he was a very great man and his achievement is likely to be permanent. Perhaps it is not fully realised in Ireland how famous he was in other countries. Personally, as well as artistically, I am very sorry to hear of his death."
Micheal MacLiammoir said: "I am too saddened by the death of Lennox Robinson to find very much that I can say of him. He was completely himself, a mass of glorious contradictions, but somehow all melted themselves into a most delicate and diverting harmony; he was shy and bold, reserved and confiding, gay and disconsolate, eloquent and hesitant, malicious and compassionate, prim and Rabelaisian. His elegance of mind, like an exquisitely attended garden, ran riot at any given or ungiven moment with the fantastic undergrowth of his humour, and his kindliness was indescribable.
"When Hilton Edwards and I, as it so often happened, had some moment of bewilderment, Lennox would turn up with a play, or an adaptation, or a new book to be dedicated to us: he had, among so many other gifts, the rarest one of encouragement and comradeship. How much we shall miss him is not easy to express."
INTERNATIONAL FAME
Mr. Ernest Blythe, managing director of the Abbey Theatre, said: "Lennox Robinson was a living link with the founders of the Abbey Theatre. He was one of the three or four of our dramatists who achieved real international fame. He served the Abbey for many years as a producer of great imagination and sensitivity and he continued to be an active member of the board up to the very end.
"Except during the periods when he was absent from Ireland for one reason or another, he read every play that was submitted to the Abbey and many a young writer owed much to his quick recognition of essential merit and to his painstaking advice and guidance.
"Lennox Robinson could not have had the wonderful, kindly insight into character shown in his plays without being himself a very humane man. He was sometimes quick to anger, but always quick to forgive, amused even by humbug, of which he was contemptuous, and full of generous sympathy for all who suffered misfortune or distress.
"His politics may not have coincided with any particular party, but—as was the case with Yeats—a warm, patriotic feeling for Ireland and a wish to add to her renown were some of the things which guided his life."
Mr. Hilton Edwards said: "The name of Lennox Robinson was known in London to a generation of playgoers and actors long before I came to Ireland. In those days, one knew of him not only as the author of the Abbey Theatre's most delightful comedies during their now historic visits of the London theatre, but as the writer of the Observer's famous Sunday theatre column; as the successor, I believe, St. John Irvine and the prede-
cessor of James Agate. In London, his was a name to conjure with.
"Later, as a director of the Abbey, it was he who granted to MacLiammoir, and Madame Barnard Gogley, to Gerard O'Loughlin, and myself, the lease of the Peacock Theatre and so was instrumental in the first appearance of the Dublin Gate Theatre productions exactly 30 years ago. We were privileged to give the first productions of three of his plays, including his now-notorious adaptation of Maupassant's "Boule de Suif," called "Roly Poly," which created a succès du scandale at the Dublin Gate Theatre during the last war.
"This occasion was to reveal him as a fighter to be reckoned with, a dauntless defender of the rights of the artist against the Philistines.
"Almost his last action was in support of the Dublin hostel for visiting actors that was his typically generous creation.
"REMOTE AND STRANGE"
"A remote and strange figure to those who knew him little; as bizarre as a Paganini, as nervous as a kitten—yet he could unsheath the claws of a tiger; a wit memorable and seldom baited, but the most faithful of friends; a champion of all the arts, and to me, the last link with the great tradition of the Irish literary theatre.
"Not only as an artist and friend will he be irrevocably missed, but as a major part of an influence that is sadly and rapidly passing and which seems to be, unbelievably, irreplaceable. He will be remembered with honour and with deep affection. As for Mrs. Lennox Robinson—Dolly—talented, devoted and unique; her friends, among whom I beg to be included, feel with her and for her at this moment."
LIKED YEATS
Mr. Gerard Fay, whose history, "The Abbey Theatre," is to be published to-morrow, spoke of Lennox Robinson's gentleness, his interest in young people, and his loyalty to the older members of the Abbey. He recalled last year, at the theatre festival, going to Dun Laoghaire to see a performance of plays by Yeats. He was surprised to find Robinson there. "Why are you surprised?" Robinson said. "These are the only people doing Yeats." Mr. Fay also recalled acting as a boy of 12 years in Yeats's "The Hour Glass." His father, Frank Fay, was playing the philosopher. It was produced by Mr. Robinson who presented the young Fay with a book, "Deeds that Won the Empire," as his reward. Years later Mr. Fay recalled this presentation, and Mr. Robinson stoutly denied having presented a young boy with a book of such "bloodthirsty" tales.
Mr. W. R. Rodgers, the Irish poet, also spoke of Robinson's encouragement of young people and loyalty to the older Abbey members. A well-known English writer told him that on the day after his first writing had been published—an article in the Observer—he received a postcard from Robinson offering his congratulations. He recalled that if any of the members of the old Abbey died, Robinson was always to be seen at the funeral, "in the rain," without a hat.
The Abbey Theatre will be closed to-morrow night as a mark of respect to the memory of Dr. Lennox Robinson. It is exactly 50 years since his association with the Abbey began, for it was in October, 1908, that his first play, "The Clancy Name," was produced there.
Another bomb test
The United States has announced the detection of the eighth Soviet nuclear weapons test since September 30th.

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K. Aug. 11.
Castleisland Author's
Death In London
MAURICE REIDY was born in Castleisland, Kerry, in 1874. When he was sixteen he went to New York, but after eight years' residence there he returned to Ireland. He was for some time editor of the "Killarney Echo" and so began a literary career which he continued, sometimes as his main work, sometimes as a sideline in an ever busy existence, until almost the end of his life. In 1905 he married Annie Furby of Forest Gate, London, and after a short residence in Dublin; he moved to London where most of the rest of his life was spent. Both in Dublin and in London he was a keen member of the Gaelic League. In Forest Gate began his connection with the Franciscan Order, he became a tertiary soon after his elder son entered the 1st Order in 1924. During the years se spent in London he wrote many poems, stories and articles which were published in English, Irish and American periodicals. He published one novel, "The Vision Beyond," in 1926. Shortly before the Second World War he and his family moved to Blackheath near Guildford, to live in the parish attached to the Friary of the Holy Ghost, Chilworth. There he lived in retirement, but active up to the last weeks of his life. In June of this year he developed heart trouble, but after some severe attacks he appeared to be recovering. Instead, he grew rapidly weaker; on July 18th he was anointed and he died peacefully in his sleep about seven o'clock the next morning.
Requiem Mass was sung for him on Saturday, July 21, by his son, Father Gabriel O.F.M., in the Friary Church, Clubworth, in the presence of the community, his widow, his second son, his daughter-in-law, and his two daughters. As Apostolic Syndic of the Friary, he was given the honour of burial in the Friary cemetery. May he rest in peace.

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Irish Times
9/5/57.
LETTERS TO THE
EDITOR
GAELIC LEAGUE
PIONEERS
SIR,—There are three errors in my notes on the photograph of Gaelic League pioneers of 1900 in to-day's Irish Times. Seán O Hogáin died in 1947, not 1949; the name J. P. Kenny in the last paragraph should be J. P. Kerry, and Mr. Daniel Lynch should be Dr. Denis Lynch.
The photostat on which I wrote the notes had a list of the names in numerical order; but as this list is omitted from the reproduction in the Irish Times, I am afraid that readers who were not contemporaries or near contemporaries of some of these pioneers will be unable to follow most of my identifications. The names in their correct order are:—First on top row: Seán O Hogáin, Charles MacNeill, D. T. Kelleher, Father Hugh O'Reilly, W. P. Ryan, Patrick O'Brien, John Owens, J. J. O'Kelly ("Sceilg"). Second row: P. H. Pearse, Eoin MacNeill, Sean O'Leary, Fionán Mac Coluim, Seaghan O Ca'háin, Dr. Denis Lynch, J.P.; Seán O Ciarghusa ("Marbhan"). William M. O'Looney, Father Lorcan O'Kieran, J. H. Lloyd, Séamus O Cathasaigh. Third row: Patrick Archer, Father — O'Connor, Thomas Brown, J.P.; (?) James O'Kelly, Dr. T. B. Costello, Charles Laverty, Father — O'Donovan, Father James McPhillips, George A. Moonan, J. P. Kerry. Fourth row: Conor O'Kelly, M. S. O'Sullivan, J. J. Doyle ("Beirt Fhear"), Anna Johnston ("Ethna Carbery"), R. J. O'Mulrenin, M.A.; J. McLeod, Father John Loughran, D.D.; Father Michael O'Hickey, D.D.; Douglas Hyde, Barbara Kiely, Eibhlín Ní Dhonabháin, Mary Killeen, C. J. Murphy, M.A. Fifth row: John O'Connor, Stephen J. Barrett, Roderick MacSharry Gordon ("An Gadhar Donn"), Thomas Concannon ("Tomás Bán"), P. J. Lawless, Michael O'Hanrahan, Eamonn O'Neill.
In addition to the three mentioned in my last paragraph, I have been unable to identify two others: James O'Kelly (fourth from left in third row) and D. T. Kelleher (third in first row). Perhaps some contemporary of theirs may be able to identify these five.—Yours, etc.
CATHAL O'SHANNON.
Dublin. May 7th, 1951.