IT WAS in distinguished company that I first met a man who was to become a dear and devoted friend. That was Sean J. White, whose sudden death left behind him many grieving friends.
He died on a walk in the Burren of County Clare: a land that he knew well and loved intensely. And many friends he had there, for he was a man who understood the noblest aspects of friendship. He knew all Ireland that way, from the centre all round to the sea. And it is my delight and sad sorrow, now, to remember that there are hew corners of Ireland that we did not see together.
But about the company in which we first met. There was M.J. MacManus, great gentleman and journalist, Francis MacManus, great novelist, and Kevin B. Nowlan, my college contemporary and friend and all in the presence of R.M. Smyllie who needs no introduction. That was a great gathering of friends.
There were few Irish roads and by roads that Sean White and myself did not travel together. I had some slight acquaintance with the Midland places he canoe from. And it was a joy to revisit, in his learned company. the woods and the lake of Emo Park, and to visit his homeplace and his family in Durrow, in the County Laois. And back in Dublin City, our lives were close together.
We worked together on The Irish Press. He was an alert and most intelligent newspaperman; he was also a highly qualified academic. He had come out of St. Kieran's in Kilkenny and after that, St. Patrick's in Kiltegan, and then UCG. And after that, on to Oxford, and then to feature in St Patrick's in Maynooth. He owned and edited, for ten years, Irish Writing, an excellent literary periodical and, at that time, helped and encouraged many young writers.
He worked for Bord Failte in New York for many years. And could there have been a better man to tell the world about Ireland? He came back to his beloved Ireland to work at publicity and public relations for our own transport company. Later, he was Dean of the School of Irish Studies, and, again, a professor at Limerick University.
He was a lively and learned man, a good companion and an invaluable friend for any man who was himself, at the time, trying to write. I will talk to him for as long as I last.
He was wonderful for preserving friendships; as that impressive gathering of good people proved at his funeral. He was the centre and inspirer of a group of friends in Dublin City who assembled once an week for good talk and company. Over the years the numbers decreased, as is the mortal way. The last such gathering attended was to honour the memory of another friend, Anthony O'Riordan, and to pay respect to his widow. At that gathering. Sean and myself recited together a Bellocian verse that we had remembered over the years:
From quiet homes and first be ginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning
But laughter and the love of friends.