[In the following obituary tribute, MacDonagh offers personal reminiscences of Martyn.]

Ireland can ill afford at any time, and particularly just now, when the voice of intellect is so faint among us, the loss of a man of such fine character and noble ideals as Edward Martyn.

It was my privilege for some years to spend hours each day with him, discussing plans, principally for The Irish Theatre, which he founded in 1914 with Thomas MacDonagh and Joseph Plunkett, and in which I acted as Manager and Producer. These hours will remain long with me in happy memory. One would be dull, indeed, who did not catch some spark from that mind, stored with culture and experience, and it would be a nature bereft of sympathy that did not expand in that kindly and genial presence.

Living such a detached life his visitors were very rare; he showed a childlike pleasure in having someone to talk to. “I thought you weren't coming,” he would say. “Sit down and let us talk,” and so the hours passed pleasantly. Pipe after pipe, he would smoke in his long “churchwarden,” and midnight often found me still there, held by the magnetism of his words.

During our season of plays he never would come on the first night, fearing, I think, lest his presence might un-nerve the actors, but he used to send his valet to report how the night went off.

Next morning I generally found him very excited to hear the full account, his first question being “Did they know their words?”

At rehearsals he sat long hours in our cold and draughty hall, interfering little, but glad when any problem of interpretation came up, so that he felt he was being useful.

On such occasions he was a pathetic figure, sitting hunched up, near the radiator, but we all knew the keen enjoyment he experienced as he saw the play taking shape, and his interest was always reflected in greater efforts by the actors.

The tragedies of late years saddened him beyond expression, one after another he saw his friends and associates pass away, and the hopes and ideals of his life pushed back into unfulfilment.

After Easter Week, 1916, he wrote me to Knutsford Prison: “I am glad of the prospect of seeing you soon again. Alas, for your poor brother, and the others! It was an awful shock for me, such great talents and high ideals, only the jobbers and placehunters left. Everything is in ruins in Ireland. I am trying to carry on the Theatre, but what can I do without your brother?

“Father Condon showed me his last letter to his family, it made me awfully sad. Those executions were abominable. I passed a horrible time during the rebellion, thinking of you all, and listening to that never-ending shooting. I think it is even sadder now when one reflects on all our losses. I am much the same since I saw you. I fear mine is a bad case.”

His charm and grace of manner were not of this age, that courtly dignity belonged to the statelier periods, in which he lived spiritually. His dramatic dialogue showed this lack of contact with the world we live in, and once, referring to some criticism of The Heather Field, I had the hardihood to suggest this explanation, with which he agreed without regret.

He had a pleasant and joyous sense of humour, little suspected, I fancy, by those who only knew the Edward Martyn, founder of the Palestrina Choir, or the portly figure, who could sit stiffly through three solid hours of intellectual drama.

The main ambition of his life, exemplified by his many activities, national, literary, artistic, and musical, was to rescue Ireland from the blighting effects of English culture and ideas, too often encouraged and perpetuated by our own inept acquiescence. To this end he devoted his life and money, and to-day there are signs, however shadowy and indistinct, that he did not labour in vain.

Often, during the few brief years of the “Irish Theatre” I looked on Mr. Martyn as a pilot, guiding us surely and skilfully forward. Some, often, were disheartened and dejected by the persistent indifference and misunderstanding of the public, but his unfailing encouragement, and clear vision, soon set our course again, and bended our backs to the work.

Many times he repeated to me: “We mustn't mind what they say, if we stick together we will achieve something.”

In 1918 we were forced to suspend operations, difficulties, arising from the political situation, made the carrying on of the Theatre practically impossible, and added to this, was the increasing feebleness of the “Captain of the Ship.”

About the last time I saw him out of doors was when he came to see, the second night of my play, The Irish Jew, in December, 1921. He took great interest in its success, for he considered me one of his pupils, which, in fact, I was, for I had read and re-read the script to him, benefitting much from his extraordinary grip of dramatic construction, and unerring knack of putting his finger on the weak spots.

On the day of his death I intended writing to him at Tulira, with reference to a contribution for this Magazine, in hopes that his health would allow him to dictate a letter. On my way to the office I saw the newspaper poster announcing the death of a notable Irishman. I got the paper and read the sad news.

It is not now the time to attempt any estimate of Edward Martyn's achievements, but he has left a lasting memory in the minds of his friends, and he has given to his country an example of purest patriotism which may well stand beside the best.