1913] Frederick Ryan's Death 411 



had gone in for a Stock Exchange gamble a year ago and denied it 

 flatly last summer in the House of Commons and now it turns out to 

 be true." 



" yd April. — The terms of peace are at last come to between Turks 

 and Bulgarians with the Enos Midia line of frontier, this saves the 

 situation for the Sultan as it keeps the enemy out of the Sea of Mar- 

 mora, an essential condition. 



" Poor Ryan was taken ill last night, and we had to send for a Hors- 

 ham doctor, who pronounced it a case of appendicitis and talks of an 

 operation." 



I omit my diary of the next days which were wholly occupied for 

 us in the tragedy of poor Ryan's illness, operation, and death, which 

 took place the morning of 7th April, at 8 o'clock. I was with him to 

 the last and he was buried in the Crawley Monastery churchyard on the 

 9th. On that day I write: 



" gth April. — All is over. The funeral left our door at half-past 

 one. . . . One thing is certain, it is useless continuing our paper in 

 any form without Ryan, so I have written to Syud Mahmud begging 

 him to stop all subscriptions for the paper, we cannot attempt it. 



" The following is a sonnet acrostic I have written to one of the 

 purest of Irish patriotic souls : 



'TO FREDERICK RYAN 



' Fabric of clay, poor, impotent child's face, 

 Ransomed from thought, its load of life laid down ! 

 Earth of all earth, disrobed and passionless, 

 Dead mask of a man's brow, which once could frown, 

 Eyes which could smile, lips which could hold their own 

 Relentless against wrong in eloquent stress 

 Indignant at our English ill crop sown, 

 Curse of the World, its tares of bitterness ! 

 — Kind Irish soul, free labourer in a field 

 Rich with rebellion's mint from age to age, 

 Young ever in revolt, and child-like still ! 

 Are these thy wages then of sword and shield, 

 Naked to lie and never take thy fill 

 Of human pleasure, to the end thus sage? ' 



" 20th April (Sunday). — Rothstein is here for the week end and 

 a Frenchman, Maurice Bourgeois, who holds a travelling fellowship 

 at the Sorbonne, and is getting up as a subject the Irish literary move- 

 ment, an intelligent young man of the serious University kind, very 

 academical, somewhat priggish, but a good fellow. He and Rothstein 



