TOM KETTLE

1880-1916

Two simple words, charged now for some ofus with sad and infinite memories. It is not thedeath of the Professor, nor of the soldier, nor ofthe politician--nor even of the poet or theessayist--that causes the heart-ache that we feel. Itis the loss of that rare, charming, wondrouspersonality summed up in those two simple words,TOM KETTLE.

A genial cynic, a pleasant pessimist, an earnesttrifler, he was made up of contradictions. Afellow of infinite jest--and infinite sadness. Hisprototypes were Hamlet or the MelancholyJacques. Among the delightful essays he hasleft us in that charming little book, The Day'sBurden, is one entitled "A new way ofmisunderstanding Hamlet." He was himself a veritableHamlet in this twentieth century Ireland. Onemay ask, did he quite understand himself? Masterof paradox, enunciator of enigma, he was a paradoxand an enigma in, and to, himself. Shall we seeknow to pluck out the heart of his mystery? Thelines are hackneyed beyond hope, but in thisinstance they apply in truth.

The personality of Kettle had in it somethingsubtle; something essential yet elusive;something not to be defined. He was a great talkerin the Johnsonian sense. As a story-teller, itwas not so much the point of his tale that countedas his telling of it. The divagations from the textin which he loved to indulge were the delight ofhis auditors. With truth it may be said that hisrich humour, his brilliant, mordant wit, causedhis listeners to hang upon his words. And hisoutlook was so wide, his soul so big, his mind sobroad, and a deep love of humanity so permeatedhim that his talk, or one might more fittinglysay, his discourse, was educating and up

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