I have endeavoured to show you that heroism is not confined to sex, that it is
differentiated only in its quality. Neither is it the purogative of class or creed, for I
have spoken to you of princesses and peasants, of Northern Presbyterians and Southern
Catholics, of the women of the people, of great high-born ladies.
Man cast in rougher mould cannot understand, however much he may sympathise with, the
flutterings of the heart of a poor weak woman who sees her men treading the paths of danger.
He cannot (I speak in general terms) understand the love which dictates her tears.
For
that reason he is impatient of them, he disregards them as only the expressions of
cowardice or self-interest. But no, 'tis not that. True, in some cases it may be that
those tears are the sign of self-interest. But not in all, not even in a majority.
When
danger's hour is nigh, when the enemy threatens, we see those very women arming their men
for the strife, bidding them go forth to conquer or die; shaming the laggards; all the
while that the poor, gentle heart trembles for the safety of the loved one and unshed tears
may blind the eyes. We see those weak women performing tasks the most daring, with never a
thought of fear. But wailing women have not been a very numerous tribe in our land.
Rather
we have had a train of courageous women who nerved the arms of their men to strike a
needful blow. Our women have not been less brave than our men. They have shown their
bravery on the battle-field, and can point to the deeds of a Mary Doyle, a Betsy Gray, the
women of Luimneach [Limerick].
But yet the rude shock of war is not for women. To man belongs that duty. To woman, gentle
woman, belongs the privilege of binding up the wounds, of living, of mourning. Of living
that the race may be saved from extinction. Of mourning the true men who have fallen, and
in mourning, carrying on the tradition of lofty duty to their children.
No, women's is a nobler task. Man falls, but the woman lives on in heart-breaking
loneliness and gloom, waiting, listening for the voice of him, the lover of her youth, the
father of her children, the son of her bosom, he who may not come again. Which is the
greater heroism? Is the heroism of Matilda Tone less self-sacrificing than that of the man
she sent from her side, telling him that she would watch over her children?
She could have bidden him stay, yet she did not. The one heroism, that of the man, who,
sword in hand, smites down his enemies, and perhaps is stricken down, is performed when the
blood leaps madly through the veins.
The other, in the loneliness of the long, sad days,
the watches of the dreary nights. Let each one find the answer. 'Tis not far to seek'...
The divine spark has descended into the bosom of every woman who does her duty well, who
teaches those over whom she has control to work for the fatherland's welfare, regardless
alike of the rewards of sycophancy, or selfishness. It may be that she will never stand
forth in history's pages, her name sent down to future ages, a heroine. But never mind.
Of all those who die in the odour of sanctity, how many are called saints? Of all those
who perform their duties well by their country, how many will be called heroines? And
still will they work on, for their work is necessary. If the world were ruled by the
dictates of selfishness, sycophancy, worldliness, the age of heroism, of saintliness would
have passed. The good and true may not call them heroines, but they will say they have made
heroism possible.
Then to you ladies of Cumann na mBan I would say: Work, train yourselves for the days to
come. Set before yourselves a high standard of duty, of allegiance to this land which God
has given us. No other land can claim your allegiance, or will receive it. Her interests
are your interests, her wrongs your wrongs. What matters it to us that other empires are
great, powerful, rich in this world's goods. We have no double duty, cannot serve two
masters. To one country only we owe our love.
Your power is great, women of Ireland. See that you exercise it well. You may be poor,
despised, may not own a spadeful of earth. But carry on your tasks heroically, for it
requires heroic qualities to bear up against the sneers and gibes of worldings and
time-servers. Copy the lives of your heroines who stood for the right against the might.
Strive to be heroines in your daily lives, to be mothers, sisters, lovers of heroes, and
when, as we all hope and pray, those days of glorious peace and freedom shall dwell in our
land; when we, having borne the heat and burthen of the day, shall gaze on a free flag, a
free people, you can whisper in your hearts 'We fought the good fight; we kept the faith.'
And men and women looking back to your time will whisper in their hearts: 'These, these
were heroines, every one'.
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