"Big Fellow"

DEATH IN DUBLIN--Frank O'Connor--Doubleday, Doran ($2.50).

"Ireland," James Joyce once remarked, citing the great Irishmen who have perished at the hands of their own countrymen, "is the old sow that eats her farrow." But Ireland also has a great tradition of keening her dead, and most gifted young Irish writers (Sean O'Faolain, Liam O'Flaherty, Frank O'Connor et al), in dealing with "The Trouble" of 1916-21, have let it appear that most Irishmen feel as fiercely involved with the heroes of this period as any generation that ever cursed or caressed the names of O'Neill, Robert Emmet, Wolfe Tone, Parnell. Frank O'Connor's Death in Dublin, a biography of the latest great Irish patriot, Michael Collins, contains this challenging statement: "A new generation has grown up which is utterly indifferent to the great story that began in Easter 1916. It is even bored by it. ... They don't drink, they don't swear, they don't squabble. . . . They address one another with the exquisite politeness of Chinese mandarins. . . ." The career of Michael Collins, as Author O'Connor relates it in fighting style, should make such Irish softies take shame to themselves.

A London exile for ten years, handsome, boxer-built Michael Collins was 26 when he returned to Dublin to join up for the Easter Rebellion. Typical of that reckless, crudely organized revolt was the instance when one of its leaders, on the eve of the Rebellion, related hilariously to the Military Council how he had just kidded a friend into thinking "there was going to be a rising tomorrow." Replied one member of the unamused, better-informed High Command: "Almighty God, 'tis tomorrow 'tis going to be." Mick Collins, not a leader of the rising (all of them were executed except Eamon de Valera), only went to prison for nine months. For his distinguished prison record in underground organization, he was put in command of the Sinn Fein Volunteers, was soon known among Irish rebels as "the Big Fellow." When in 1918 Lloyd George sent over Sir John French to take Ireland in hand, Collins escaped the wholesale arrests (the first escape in a series that became legendary), settled down in earnest for a finish fight. His perspective included such hotheaded schemes as stealing the Stone of Scone from the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey, assassinating the entire British Cabinet, kidnapping President Wilson to get his undivided attention to the case for Irish freedom.

As Finance Minister under de Valera in the illegal Sinn Fein cabinet of the rebel Dail Eireann, Collins still contrived to keep the real control of the Irish Republican army. He personally managed the jailbreak that released de Valera. His pet accomplishment was a secret service, its headquarters under the nose of Dublin Castle, which, murder for murder, gave the British something to shoot at. When England sent in an army of Black & Tans, Collins had more work than he could shake a shillelagh at. He gave up smoking and drinking, took up Pelmanism. In comparison with Collins' efficiency during this period, says bristling Author O'Connor, "Lenin . . . seems a child, and not a particularly intelligent one." For relaxation he continued his fantastic horseplay, roughhousing, fiercely innocuous wrangling. At a party Collins was asked by a woman guest: "What does it feel like to be a great man?" "How do I know?" answered Collins, throwing nuts at other guests.

Two years of civil war brought Lloyd George around with a peace offer. Collins headed the Irish delegation to London. More than a match for British soldiers and spies, he was no match at all for little Lloyd George's political jujitsu. Signing the treaty which split Ireland in two, he soon found himself fighting in a civil war which obliged him to shoot at most of his old comrades, now headed by de Valera. His career closed a few months later when on Aug. 22, 1922, after the bitterest fighting of all, Michael Collins met an ambush laid by his old comrades and joined the honor roll of Ireland's farrow.

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