BACK PAGES:IN THE weeks after the Truce in 1921 IRA and Sinn Féin leaders who had been on the run began to emerge from the shadows. One of the set pieces was the first meeting of the second Dáil at which an Irish TimesSpecial Correspondent (almost certainly Bertie Smyllie, the future editor) offered pen pictures of the better known ones and came to a perceptive conclusion in what was probably the first Dáil sketch published in the newspaper:
First the opening of the Northern Parliament by His Majesty the King, then the hollow farce of the “Southern Parliament” in the Departments building in Merrion street, and now the Dáil. One approached the Mansion House yesterday morning in a certain spirit of adventure. One was about to meet Sinn Féin in the flesh and to see for oneself the men whose names have become household words throughout the country, and around whose figures popular legend has woven a web of almost mediæval romance . . .
The administration of the oath of allegiance to the Irish Republic was very interesting. It was taken by all the members standing with upraised right hands, and, of course, was repeated after the Clerk of the House in Irish.
As the members came up individually to sign the register one had a good opportunity of taking stock of the better-known men. The calling of Mr Michael Collins’s name was the signal for an outburst of applause, which, however, was silenced quickly by the Volunteer stewards. Mr Collins’s appearance upset all the preconceived ideas of one who had known him only through the newspapers. He is tall, with a slight leaning towards embonpoint, and, with a great mass of jet black hair, gave one the impression of an almost Falstaffian geniality. Unless his looks belie him, Mr Collins has an abundant sense of humour. Mr Barton was debonair and very well groomed, while his cousin, Mr Erskine Childers, looked rather worn and pale. Mr JJ McKeon, whose approach to the table was greeted with uproarious enthusiasm, is the athlete pur sang. He, too, was different from what one had expected him to be. One of the most interesting figures of all was Mr Richard Mulcahy. Quiet, rather delicate looking, and with features cast in an austere mould he seems to be a man who is rather shy, but full of nervous energy.
A pathetic impression was made by Mrs O’Callaghan in her widow’s weeds. Mr Brugha was unobtrusive, and confined his activities to occasional remarks to Count Plunkett. The others were mostly young men, very serious, and evidently impressed by the solemnity and magnitude of the task that awaits them. With a few exceptions they seemed to be well under 40 years of age, and only one of them, Mr Pierce Beasley, who looked rather shaken, showed any outwards signs of the ill-effects of his recent experiences.
When Mr de Valera got up to speak everybody held his breath. What was he going to say? His first few sentences were terse and to the point, and one was impressed by the excellence of his delivery.
“We are not Republican doctrinaires,” he exclaimed, and a flash of hope lit up the atmosphere. But it soon disappeared. Speaking with great emphasis and obvious sincerity, Mr de Valera soared into the realms of pure theory and lofty idealism. One felt that like Yeats’s “poet” he was hiding his head amid a crowd of stars; and reality began to dissolve in the quickening flow of his eloquence. One’s thoughts were carried back to the frosty January morning in the Clock Room of the French Foreign Office when President Wilson was making his famous speech at the opening of the Paris Peace Conference.
One had the same impression of moral fervour and passionate sincerity and the same unwelcome conviction that disillusionment lay in store. As a shrewd observer of human affairs remarked on that occasion when the American President resumed his seat. “C’est magnifique; but it is not hard tacks.”
http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/archive/1921/0817/Pg005.html#Ar00501