The Irish review

The Irish review

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The Irish review
The Irish Review Pub. Co.
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Ireland -- Civilization -- Periodicals ( lcsh )
Ireland -- Literatures -- Periodicals ( lcsh )
serial ( sobekcm )
Time Period:
1911 - 1914


General Note:
A monthly magazine of Irish literature, art & science.
General Note:
Mostly in English, with some Irish Gaelic.

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University of South Florida Library
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University of South Florida
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All applicable rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
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027002452 ( ALEPH )
01639751 ( OCLC )
I22-00002 ( USFLDC DOI )
i22.2 ( USFLDC Handle )

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Irish Studies

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THE IRISH A MONTHLY MAGAZINE OF IRISH 'LITERATURE_, ART ti SCIENCE SEPTEMBER 1912 On History Repeating Itself by an Ulster Imperialist Ireland and the German Menance by Batha MacCrainn The Suffrage Tangle by Frederick Ryan Irishry by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil The Winged Victory of Samothrace by L. T. N. In the Streets of Catania by Sir Roger Casement His Majesty's Pleasure by Conal O'Riordan Beyond the Fields We Know by Lord Dunsany The Brown Cloak by Professor Bergin Language and Liberty by Laurence Keeran The Irish Year by James Stephens PICTURE by Jack B. Yeats REVIEWS DUBLIN THE IRISH REVIEW PUBLISHING COMPANY u D'OLIER STREET LONDON SIMPKIN MAR.SHALL, HAMILTON, ltENT & CO SOLE AGENTS FOR THE COLONIES GORDON & GOTCH, LTD. LONDON AUSTRALIA, CANADA, Ere. EDINBURGH MENZIES 3r CO., H:ANOVER STREBT SOLE A. M ERICA THE 120 .. v..


THE IRISH REVIEW TH.E htISH REVIEW was foun d ed to give expres sion to the movement in Ireland. It publishes Poems, Play-. and Stories in English and Irish and deals crit i cally with every Irish interest-Literature, Art and Science, Politics, Economics, and Sociology In politics, THE husH REVIEW aims at making an adjustment by promoting free discussion The subscription is 7 /6 per year and 3/9 per half-year, post free. A BROADSIDE. 5th Year. With Ballad s b y Ba ll a d S in ge rs, l iv i ng and dead ; and with drawi n g s by J ack B. Yeats (Hand-colo ur ed). Publi sh e d m ont hl y : fast number publis h ed i n June 1go8 S ubqcr. ipt ipn,.twe l ve s h illing a year post free A "few c;O'irlpl e t e sets from the coII?mencemen t sti ll for sal e. "CUAlA PRESS/ DUNDRUM, C OUNTY DUBLIN, IRILAftD.


THE IRIS H d tMONTHLY tMAGAZINE OF IRISH LITERATURE. eART. & SCIENCE SEPTEMBER, I9I2 ON HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF:OR THE 0RANGEMEN AND THE POPE BY AN ULSTER IMPERIALIST. LORD MORLEY made a great speech the other day, in the course of which he gave it as his opinion that history does not repeat itself. If Lord Morley is right (and who am I that I should disagree with so eminent an historian?), I wish he would give us another phrase to describe some historical repetitions that are surely more than coincidences. Certain groupings of forces, certain situations, seem to recur from time to time often enough to justify the popular saying that "history repeats itself." We are at present confronted, in Ulster, with one of the strangest and quaintest of such repetitions. Once more, as at the Battle of the Boyne, the Orangemen are fighting for the Pope. I have stated no paradox Within recent years, the muchneglected history of Ireland has attracted a little band of serious students, and one of these men, the Rev. R H. Murray, published


THE IRISH REVIEW a book lately on the Williamite campaign in Ireland which, for the present writer at least, has put the Battle of the Bo y ne into its proper historical perspective. En passant, it may be as well to note that Mr. Murray is a Protestant, a Trinity man, and, as far as I know, without any partisan bias in favour of the Pope. Yet the Orange man who reads this book, "Revolutionary Ireland and its Settlement,' Macmillan & Co, 10s ; will rub his eyes again and again to make sure he is not dreaming, when he finds all the familiar names, dates and places fitting accurately into a picture with which he is entirely unfamiliar. The Siege of Derry and the Battle of the Boyne were far greater events than Irishmen usually suppose, and they were fought upon issues of European importance; but the fact which dumbfounders the Orangemen is that King William was fighting on the same side as the Pope! Let me condense Mr Murray's book into a paragraph. France, in the 17th century, was the dominant Power in Europe. Louis XIV. brought the ambitions of France to a climax. He aimed at the over-lordship of all Europe, much as Napoleon did over a century later; and he aimed also at a Gallican Church, a National Church of France, of which he was to be the head, much as Henry VIII. had done in England nearly two centuries earlier. We can get a fairly good idea of contemporary opinions about Louis XIV. by describing him as a mixture of these two masterful men. In his capacitv as a kind of Henry VIII., Louis was opposed by the whole force, temporal and diplomatic, which was at the disposal of the Vatican; in his capacity as a Napoleon, he had to measure swords with the rest of the Powers of Europe, Protestant as wefl as Catholic. In England, Louis had bought the House of Stuart; King James II. was merely a tool in the han.ds of the French monarch. Matters came to a crisis when James fled to F ranee, and King William landed at Torbay. Louis seemed to himself to hold the trump-card when he had King James at his Court, supposing, as no doubt he did, that "the King would come into his own again." But he under-estimated the forces in league against him. The cold, brilliant capacity of the great Protestant soldier on the 338


ON HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF one side, and the vigorous anti-French policy of the Vatican and the Catholic Princes of Europe on the other, proved too much for King Louis. Elaborate plans were laid to entice King William into Ireland, to hold him there by a continual pretence at fresh invasions of the French army in full force, and so to wear him down in a fruitless guerilla war as to give King Louis the chance of setting up his puppet King James once more upon the throne of England. Ireland was baited like a trap for King William. But the trap was sprung by the Williamites, and it injured only those who had set it. The Battle of the Boyne defeated the gigantic ambitions of the French King: subsequent battles only dotted the t's and crossed the i's in the message of defeat. If William had been defeated at the Boyne, the enemy would not have pressed home tlieir advantage, but would have held him in Ireland while Louis worked out his scheme for shaking the Pope off the Church of France, and for conquering the rest of Europe. But when the news of the victory at the Boyne reached the Courts of Europe, there was dismay in Paris, rejoicing in the Catholic strongholds of Madrid and Vienna, and a special "Te Oeum" of thanksgiving in St. Peter's at Rome. King William III. of immortal pious and glorious memory had won a decisive battle for the Pope!* Two hundred and twenty-two years later we find ourselves, in Ireland, in the thick of another campaign in which civil war is-at any rate talked of on the platform. The men who boast of their political descent from the Prince of Orange, and who call themselves by his name, have worked themselves into a frenzy of passion over Home Rule. Are they fighting for the Pope or against him? Let us try and see, as clearly as we can, for ourselves. Different people will assign different reasons for the fact that, at present, Ireland is claimed to be the most Catholic country m Europe. (If the power of the priest be less than is sometimes *If details are wanted, the reader must turn to Mr. Murray's book, especially the close of chapter IV.; or to the references he gives to the Viennese history of the Fall des Hauses Stuart," by 0. Klopp, in 14 volumes (1875-88). 339


THE IRISH REVIEW supposed, it does not lie with the Orangeman to say so, since the "all-powerful priest" is his main, almost his only, reason for object ing to the Home Rule Bill).* If the Pope himself were installed in Dublin Castle, there would be little or nothing in Ireland for him to control that he does not already control quite as efficiently from Rome. We have got Rome Rule in Ireland at this moment almost to the limit of possibility; and if we had not, if there are any more concessions to be made to Rome, the British Parliament at West minster would gracefully concede them, as it has continuously and progressively done ever since 1829. The last of these concessions, (the prospect of which was one of the objections to the former Home Rule Bills) was the new University, founded by the Act of 1908. The largest, and by far the most important, factor in present-day international politics is the British Empire. Unless, and until, it break up of its own complexity or be broken up by force from without, it is, both actually and potentially, the greatest (material) thing in the world. If we merely count heads, the Empire is no doubt predomin ately "heathen"; King George, for example, reigns over more Mohammedans than the Sheikh-ul-Islam himself. But in every other sense the Empire is predominantly Protestant, in so much as, in its centre at Westminster, as in nearly all its daughter-states, the interests of the Church of Rome are looked after by a mere handful of Catholics. The more Catholics at Westminster, the better for the Church of Rome; any noticeable reduction of Catholics there would proportionately reduce the influence of the Vatican upon our Imperial affairs, as well as upon more intimate details such (e.g.) as English Education Bills. Taking these two facts (and if they be not facts, it is not the Orangemen who will deny them--at present), it seems simple to deduce the argument that Home Rule for Ireland must be a vastly unpopular measure at the Vatican. There are plenty of symptoms *I do not mean to imply that there are no other objections to the present Bill. I object vehemently to the electoral provisions and to having two Chancellors of the Exchequer with practically unlimited powers of taxation over the :>ame fiscal resources .Y.


ON HISTORY REPEATING iTSELF to show that the deduction is not far astray. Why are English Catholics Unionist to a man, from the Duke of Norfolk downwards? Why. should it be a matter of notoriety in Ireland, even among Irish Unionists, that the Catholic Bishops don't want Home Rule?" Why, at this of all moments, should priests have been forbidden to take part in politics? And wh y at this of all moments should the violently provocative "Ne Temere" and "Motu Proprio" (to give these writings their popular, if inaccurate, titles) have been issued? If these straws really do show the way the wind blows, it seems to be only a very natural outcome of British politics just now, and especially of the proposed Home Rule Bill; since, if the Bill passes, the Vatican will gain little or nothing in Ireland and will lose about half its supporters in the heart of the Empire. We know now that the Pope held a service of thanksgiving in honour of the victory of the Boyne. We can guess that, as in l 690, so in 1912 or 1913, the Pope will be the happiest man in Europe if the Orange policy once more succeeds. But is there not something more than coincidence in this apparent repetition of history? Louis XIV. stood, in his day, for the tem poral power of the State as against the Church, and for the principle of his (French) nationality as against the historic non national or anti national principles of Rome. Pagan Rome of classical days destroyed all the nationalities that came under her sway : the policy was inherited by Papal Rome Hence the breaking-away of Henry VIII. (who, whatever else he was was no Protestant), hence the huge attempt of Louis XIV. It seems to me that the Vatican is fighting much the same battle over again just now, with this difference, that modern democracy takes the place of King Louis, in standing for the temporal power of the State as against the Church. In almost every Catholic country in Europe democracy has shaken off the political interference of Rome, and the histor y of Ireland, especially during the last rno years, has given man y proofs that the same spirit exists, even under the Union, among m y fellow countrymen of the Roman Church. Further, modern democracy in Ireland stands, like King Louis, for the principle of nationality, and, as Lecky has conclus -3 4 r ...


THE 1RISH REVIEW ively shown, nationality is the most potent of all forces to prevent the growth of a clerical ascendancy, whether Roman, Anglican or Presbyterian. To summarise: in 1690, King William III. and the Pope defeated a huge scheme of monarchical independence of the Vatican, which was coupled with the principle of (French) nationality as applied to the Church of France. In 1912 the Orangemen are trying their best to defeat a large scheme of democratic independence of the Vatican, which is coupled with the principle of (Irish) nation ality as applied to the Government of Ireland-and if history should so far repeat itself that the Orangemen should succeed, they will find that they have been following the example of their demigod, in winning a battle for the Pope. To do them justice, however, they have not, like the Williamites, accepted a subsidy from His Holiness! Some day or other, presumably not until after an Irish Parlia ment has got well into the saddle, we Irish people, Protestant and Catholic, will wake up to the fact that all through the 19th century, and for some length of time into the 20th century, two outside authorities were interfering with Irish affairs, and that these two "foreign powers" each produced a violent hostility to itself. Irish Nationalists have continually objected the Union because of English interference with Irish affairs, and Irish Unionists have continually objected, and still do object, to Home Rule, because they are afraid of increased Papal interference with Irish affairs. As soon as we get the first cold douche of common sense into Irish politics, we will grasp the fact that Irish Unionism and Irish Nationalism are obverse and reverse of the same coin, and the coin is one that passes current the world over-namely, the objection of mankind to all outsiders who meddle in what is not their business. The politics of the most extreme Orangeman and the politics of the most extreme Sinn Feiner are absofotely identical, save that one is directed against the Vatican and the other against Westminster. I commend Mr. Murray's book to all who want to try and under stand some of the chief forces which shaped the course of Irish history from the "Revolution" of 1688 down to the present moment. 342


AND THE GERMAN MENACE By BATHA MacCRAINN. ANYONE studying the maps of Irish and Scandinavian trade routes in Mrs. Green's Old Irish World can realise the importance of the position of Ireland in the past. It has lost nothing in importance-in fact, its importance is, if anything, much increased-in this age of mighty warships, aeroplanes, and wireless telegraphy. On the rim of Europe and with its face to the great West, it occupies a position that, to any sea power, is unique. Irishmen perhaps do not realise it themselves, but there are others Empire-building peoples-who know the advantages of its position. When the English, in the days of Elizabeth, began their Empire building, they soon realised that, if they themselves were to be secure from rivals, they must secure Ireland. The Spanish were then the Continental sea power England feared. The connection between Ireland and Spain was old and ever friendly. There was danger for England in this connection. Hence Ireland had to be subdued, weakened, broken, lest its alliance with Spain would block the career of the English. Later, the danger was France. Again Ireland played an important part. Were Ireland strong and an ally of France, the English power was threatened and the dreams of Empire broken. The danger be c ame very real to England in the days of Napoleon and when Wolfe Tone-statesman and leader that he was -sought an alliance with France. But, as students of European history may now see, Napoleon's great want was a fleet, a strong fleet. He wished to humble England; he had a means of doing so by crushing English power in Ireland; but he was unable to meet the English on the seas, and, with all his wonderful genius, he failed to organise a French navy and to build up the naval power of France. He may have known that Ireland was the weak spot in England's armour, but without a fleet he was unable to strike. His Continental Blockade went for nought, and Waterloo was a result. 343


THE IRISH REVIEW Now, there is another Continental menace to English powerGermany. This time the danger is greater, more ominous, and more pressing for England than ever before, because Germany has been forging the weapon that, as all students of history know, is the one that can most effectively strike at England. Year by year the Germans have been forging that weapon that would have enabled Napoleon to crush his greatest enemy, and England is taking alarm. It cannot prevent Germany strengthening itself and arming itself. Its way of safety, so English statesmen think, is to increase at a feverish rate its own sea-power, to institute conscription in order to strengthen its land forces, and to make alliances. In this latter programme Ireland is included. English states men know, from an instinct of self-preservation, that an alliance with Ireland by any great Continental power possessing a strong fleet would be the writing on the wall for the British Empire. Hence, English statesmen see their best plan is to secure the good-will of Ireland for themselves. And hence, beneath all the tinsel and trimmings, we see the great, the paramount impulse for the granting of Borne Rule. A friendly Ireland is essential to England if the German menace is to be faced gravely. Not alone for itself and the position it occupies, but because, as English statesmen know, Irish influence joined with German influence in America has been powerful enough to defeat the alliance seekers there. England wants allies if it is to fight Germany. That is a fact acknowledged by English statesmen. It wants Ireland as an ally. It wants America as an ally. It feels, rightly or wrongly, that one cannot be got without the other. Hence, it is willing to grant certain concessions-the minimum necessary to secure those allies. Hence Home Rule. Mr. Churchill, in addit10n, has said that England wants Irish soldiers and sailors, and he makes Cork Harbour a naval base to secure the latter. England wants Ireland as an ally against Germany. She is willing to come to terms for that alliance. She offers the present Home Rule Bill. Mr. Redmond is satisfied with the terms it offers and pledges our alliance for them. But the question arises-could ,P :: : < 344


IRELAND AND THE GERMAN MENANCE we not secure better terms? Would Germany offer us better? The more we value our own worth, the more others are likely to value it. Ireland, if she only knew, holds a winning hand between England and Germany. If she or her leaders for her-play well, they can secure a measure of freedom for the old land that Thomas Davis may have dreamed of. Ireland is not weak, while G e rman y menaces, but strong, and in her strength she should speak not with bated breath and whisper ing humbleness, but with the voice of a Nation, knowing its own mind and free to ally itself with any other nation that may help it to the place it s h o uld occ upy amon g the n a tions of the earth, that ma y h elp it to realise the dream it has dreamed through the centuries 345 ... :: .... : .. 'r


THE SUFFRAGE TANGLE By FREDERICK RYAN. THE Suffrage question in Ireland has got into such a tangle that it may seem a somewhat perilous as it is most probably a thankless task to endeavour to unravel it. Still, the perilous and the thankless have certain attractions. In the first place let us examine the essentials of the problem. One of the futilities of these controversies is that so many persons, including in this case suffragists themselves, lose sight of the essentials in discussing side issues. It was Sydney Smith, I believe, who on the Catholic Emancipation question commented on the number of people who were chiefly offended because the Catholics had done this or not done that, or attempted some other tactic to that favoured by their critics As to essentials, then, the claim of Irish women to be included in the Home Rule Bill seems to me so elementarily just and fair that I cannot see how it is to be intelligently countered. They see a new Constitution being framed for their country, they see that the franchise under this Constitution is being settled in the Imperial Parliament at Westminster, they are aware that the Irish Council Bill of 1907, which was put forward as being some sort of substitute for Home Rule, adopted the local government franchise, which included women, without apparently any risk to Ministerial unity. All this they see and note, and just as there would be a strong protest in Ireland if it were proposed to limit the franchise for the Irish Parliament to a ownership qualification, on the plea that any wider franchise was one for Ireland to decide, so the women protest against limiting the franchise for the Irish Parlia ment solely to men. It is idle to reply, as has been done, that it is derogatory to Irish Nationality to seek to have women enfranchised in the Bill at Westminster. Since some franchise must be established by the Imperial Parliament, there can, surely, be nothing improper, from the point of view of the most punctilious Nationalism, in asking that 346


, THE IRISH REVIEW it be as wide a franchise as possible. The idea that there is some thing peculiarly "National" in setting up a narrow sex-franchise is ridiculous on the face of it. If there are men in Ireland who think women ought not to have the vote, and who, therefore, desire that the opportunity of excluding them from political rights should still be retained, the answer is that such men are seeking tyranny and not freedom, and are in precisely the same category as the English Coercionitsts of old. A has no moral right to refuse liberty to B merely because he does not like the idea of surrendering some of his power. If, on the other hand, there are women in Ireland who think that women should not be enfranchised, the solution is simple: such women need not vote. They will not be forced by any penalty to the poll. Again, A's sense of her deficiencies or her love of ease is no ground for denying to her sister, B, the liberty she claims. The opposition to Woman Suffrage generally, in fact, is one of those things that it is somewhat difficult to understand. The idea that adult citizens who equally with men have to obey the laws, and equally with men are affected by them, who keenly discuss every political issue, and whose services are gladly accepted in all sorts of political propaganda-indeed, who frequently have to be consulted as to the details of various laws before they are framed, and are then employed in administering them-the idea that such citizens should be unenfranchised merely because of their sex is really as fatuous as if it were decreed that all red-haired men should be put off the register, that we should purchase our butter only from people with brown eyes, or that no one could stand as a parliamentary candidate unless he were over 5ft. 8in. in height. The anti-suffrage position would, indeed, be entirely unintelligible if a very slight knowledge of human history and human nature were not sufficient to teach us that there is no superstition so stupid, no imbecility so imbecile, that men and women will not be found to defend it and argue for it. In particular, when it comes to removing an old abuse or extending a new freedom, however clear, irrefutable and overwhelming the argument for the advance, all sorts of forces and vested 347


THE IRISH: REVIEW interests, as well as mere inertia, will resist the change. In the absurd instances I took above we may be perfectly sure that if such restrictions were established by law, and it were proposed to remove them, all sorts of arguments, some of them not absolutely idiotic, would be employed by the brown-eyed people anxious to retain their butter monopoly, and by the tall men anxious to retain their parliamentary privileges. In the suffrage controversy you will not infrequently hear some feeble creature who could not carry a rifle for two minutes propound the idealist doctrine that government rests solely on physical force, the implication being, of course, that only males possess this force. Or you will hear some man who normally gets into a frenzy if any of his prejudices are assailed, and incapable of five minutes' rational argument on any social or political problem, declare that women are too hysterical to be entrusted with political rights. There is, indeed, only one argument against the admission of women to the political franchise which is worthy of any serious respect. It is curiously enough put forward by a number of Positivists like Mr. Frederic Harrison and by many Catholics. It is based upon a hierarchical view of human society in which certain functions are divided between men and women, without any sugges tion of superiority or inferiority, and in which division the political functions fall to men alone to be discharged. All one can say of this view is that it is merely fantastic and has no correspondence to the facts of modern life. It is like many of the arguments put forward in England last year for retaining the House of Lords Veto on all legislation. It was said that the removal of this Veto would so alter the basis of English society as to cause ruin and the end of all things. Whether, in feudal times, it was wise to allow a House of hereditary landowners to dictate legislation is a question one is not called upon to decide. What is certain is that those times had long passed, and the Veto Act merely half-heartedly recognised that they had passed. So it may be argued that at one time it was wise to allow men to mo.nopolise political power; it is a purely academic : 348


THE SUFFRAGE TANGLE issue. What is indisputable is that, in view of the realities of our social life to day, such a monopoly is absurd. You do not alter realities by to recognise them, and you cannot put back the hands of the clock merely by wishing that you had not slept it out. Our neo-medicevalists often paint a picture of a not ignoble society, which in all probability has little correspondence to the actual state of society in the Middle Ages, those glorious times," as Mr. Nevinson says he once heard a curate describe them, "when knights in armour rode about the country rescuing distressed maidens from other people's castles, and bearing them off to their own." At any rate, "those glorious times are gone past recall, and it is futile to speculate on trying to revive them. How, then, is this new demand for freedom met in Ireland? Well, we seem to be acting towards it precisely as English Liberals and Tories in the past have acted towards the demand of the Irish nafion as a whole. I have a valued friend, a good Nationalist, who would not give women votes if the demand were put forward peace fully and who now makes the fact that some women put it forward violently the chief ground of refusal. Just as English Unionists used to argue, and argue still, that Ireland did not want Home Rule if she was quiet, and ought not to have it if she was turbulent ; Nationalist newspapers of repute have published letters and articles against the women's claim far more outrageous and scurrilous than the normal Tory diatribe against the Irish people. Just as Tories used to denounce all Irishmen who sought political freedom as criminals, so we have male Nationalists denouncing all women who seek political freedom as "unsexed viragoes," and one anonymous ruffian has been able to command lengthy space in Nationalist news papers for the advocacy of "horse-whipping" Irishwomen who made such a claim. It is precisely the attitude of the Tory major in his Pall Mall club to Irish Nationalists any time in the last century. 'Egad, shoot the traitors down, sir.' "Horsewhip them, sir, that's the way to treat these viragoes." The first effect produced by a survey of all this revolting stupidity one of something like despair. Must we always, with meticulous 349


THE IRISH REVIEW precision, repeat our fathers' blunders? Are we for ever to pursue this dreary round, learning absolutely nothing from the past, and meeting each fresh demand for freedom with the same ignorance and folly as that with which the last generation met the last demand? Is our history to be a constant succession of these violent struggles, reason lagging always behind and knowledge adding nothing to its store? As a quite natural result of this failure of sympathy and under standing, some women retort, as many Nationalists have retorted in the past, by acts of violence. As a modern sociologist has well said, one of the worst moral effects of political oppression is that it drives the oppressed to wrong methods of redress. No one can defend the attitude taken up by some, though not all, the militant suffragists. The propositi on, for in s t a n ce, t ha t a class w ith a just g rievance is morally entitled to commit indiscriminate arson and even assassina tion, unless it obtain an immediate remedy, is scarcely worth serious repudiation, because not half-a-dozen sane persons could be found, I suppose, in cold blood to stand by it. Because we ardently desire a moral and politi c al reform there is no need for us all to lose our senses. For my part, I condemn th e se recent outrages not the less emphatically because of a very vivid realisation of the injury they are inflicting on the suffrage cause itself These considerations do not, of course, in the least detract from the political character of such acts, or the high estimate one may hold of the moral character of those who perpetrate them Political violence of all kinds, in so far a those who engage in it are actuated by unselfish motives, and are even ready to sacrifice themselves, is separated by a whole moral world from crime. As between Mrs Leigh and her friends on the one hand and Mr. Bonar Law and Sir Edward Carson on the other, who incite ignorant and humble men to thuggery in Belfast, whilst remaining in safety themselves, there is simply no moral comparison. Is it, however, too late to plead that this whole controversary should be carried to a more reasonable plane? I am assuredly not insensible to the provocation which women have received. The Freeman's /ou1nal, I notice, refers to any peaceful attempt to secure 350


THE S UFFRAGE TANGLE Woman Suffrage as an intrigue almost in the very language in which English Tory papers refer to the passage of Home Rule, and it would appear to be no lack of desire which withholds the Freeman from speaking of an attempt "to smuggle Woman Suffrage through the House of Commons." The same paper implies that Mr. Asquith's pledge to allow a free vote of the House on the amendment to the Reform Bill is worthless, since it is loaded with the unexpressed condition that he will resign if the amendment is carried All this one must take note of, as well as the historic fact that men in the past have frequently appealed to violence when thus fobbed off on one pretence or another and denied justice. I am not a T olstoyan, and it would be unfair and ridiculous to ask women to assume, what we all know to be untrue, that reason and justice alone sway human affairs. But when all this is allowed for, it seems perfectly clear that women have an especial interest in strengthening the forces of reason and limiting and weakening the forces of passion and violence. One would, indeed, suppose that they would much prefer to fight on the intellectual and moral field, where they are strong, rather than on the physical field, where they are weak. Civili sation can only advance in proportion as we increase the sum of rational and humane behaviour in the world. The frame of mind produced by constant appeals to force is essentially reactionary. On that line we soon come to distrust reason altogether, to count only on selfish motives as worth relying on, and to believe that men are swayed only by threats and terrorism. All this every good citizen must, surely, deplore. Even if it were true, what I think is obviously and patently false, that violence now advances the suffrage cause there might be something to be said from a larger point of view for foregoing this advantage. I will not say that a victory won by persuasion is worth three won by fear. But it is indisputable that the more of persuasion and the less of fear that goes to the winning of a victory such as this, the nobler, the finer and the more fructifying will it be. 351


IRISHRY By SEOSAM H ll!f ACCATHMHAOIL The Poet. A dark haired man, not young, not old, Cast in a light weight boxer s mould; With supple arm and body curves, And yet a thing compact of nerves : All sense. Proud as a god, and shy, The spirit kindles in his eye; And swift-winged thought is plain to trace In every movement of his face. Robust in that, as in his bone, With here and there an undertone Of woman's nature threading itThe male and female truly knit. Body and spirit, sun and moon, Archangel now and devil soon, The windy moods sway him aboutA bubble in the whirling rout. What he might be, were Fortune kind, And he were of a constant mind, One not a seer would never say Between to-day and Judgment Day. Blake's wonder hangs about his room, And Buonarroti's massive gloom; And Whitman whistles in the street Below him, harshly now and sweet. But guessing is an idle game, And hardly woi:th the little flame A rush would give you, in the hope Of compassing his horoscope. 352


THE WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE Dan Chaucer dreamed, and died in bed With laurels on his reverend head, And Chatterton went to the grave, A frenzied child, and none to save. Enough if thought and will are true To one star flaming in the blue : Iron is silver to the bard, And Poetry its own reward THE WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE By L. T. N. The slow blood quickens to the thought of her Upon the quivering stem, with winnowing wings Above the thrashing oar-blades, and the stir Of beaten waters: while the dull brain rings To tumult, rising from a teeming ship And swelling into one reverberant cry of vigour, and exultant fellowship Intoxicate : the cry of Victory. To-day she stands among us mutilate, And fainter wane her fires, hour by hour, Yet was her pristine energy so great That the mere sight of her has still the power To make the wild and the waste places sweet For us, who know of nothing but defeat. 353


IN THE STREETS OF CATANIA By SIR ROGER CASEMENT I. All that was beautiful and just, All that was pure and sad Went in one little, moving plot of dust The world called bad. 2. Came like a highwayman and went, One who was bold and gay, Left when his lightly loving mood was spent Thy heart to pay. 3. By word of little streets and men, Narrower theirs the shame, Tread thou the lava loving leaving and then Turn whence it came. 4. lEtna, all wonderful, whose heart Glows as thine throbbing glows, Almond and citron bloom quivering at startEnds in pure snows 354


HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE A Romantic Comedy in Three Acts. By CONAL O'R!ORDAN (NoRREYS CONNELL) l l est vrai qu' il y a des hommes qui n' ont point d' assez grandes qualites pour n' etre pas obliges de cacher leurs foiblesses." HENRI QuATRE, King of France (actually aged about five and fifty, but looking bare forty). HENRI DE BALZAC, his favourite and Captain of the Guard. Age about 31. SERGEANT OF THE GuARD, a stout old soldier of fifty. BCALVIN Musketeers of the Guard: young men rather less than 30. OBILOT GASTON, the King's valet, oldish middle-age. THE PRINCE OF CONDE, a fretful two-and-twenty. THE PRINCESS OF CONDE, scarce twenty, but already a rusee woman. BRISSAI. 35 ( TISSOT 30. ( Cavaliers of Condes party. DELONNAY 25. ) TELLIER, Innkeeper and Postmaster at Donnemarie. 50. GILLES, his son, not more than two-and-twenty. DURAND, Shopkeeper and Farmer. 50-55. JOAN DURAND, his wife. 48 or 50. ALIDA, their daughter. I8 or 20. A big girl. THOMAS, Drawer at the inn. Youngish. A PosTBOY. A HORSEMAN. Musketeers, Stable-boys, Villagers, etc. The Scene is laid at the inn, "Au Bonheur du Roy," on the out skirts of Donnemarie, a village in Picardy, close to the frontier of the Spanish Netherlands. Time-Three hundred years ago. ACT !.-The courtyard of the inn on a fine Mmch afternoon. On the left of the audience a doorway to inn. On the right gateway to stables. In the back wall archway to :high road showing fields beyond. 355


THE IRISH REVIEW Enter from inn Madame Durand, a pleasant-looking elderly woman, h e r husband, Michel Durand, a shopkeeper-fa,rmer, and Tellier, the inn -kee per. Durand and Tellier are about fifty. Durand is optimist, Tellier pessimist, both are successful men in a very moderate way. Tellie r (grumbling) Ah! these are hard times, hard times, my neigh bours. I never knew trade so bad. How, I ask you, is a poor inn-keeper to make both ends meet? Durand. Come, when one talks of a wedding day one talks of happiness, Master Tellier. Tellier. I do not hold with you at all, Master Durand. Madame Dur. Why, what does one have a wedaing day for but to make young people happy? Tellier. I am not a young person, Madame Durand. Durand. You were young once, Master Tellier. Tellier (cautiously) Maybe so, Master Durand. Durand. And you married young, Master Tellier? Tellier (grav ely) Too young, Master Durand. Madame Dur. In our rank one cannot marry too young. Durand (rallying him) Nor were you so young but you remember your wedding day as the happiest day of your life. Tellier (sullenly) I remember my wedding day as the most damnable day I ever passed. Durand (sho cked) 'Twas never your good wife to blame-she That lived honestly by you fifteen good years till the plague took her, as it took the curate and the bishop, though the last was a great man and a saint of God (lifting his hat) ha' mercy on him. T ellier Ay, and it took another great man that was no saint of God, though they buried him by the bishop and put the handsomer stone over him. Durand (exchanging a glance with his wife, who coughs) Ah the last lord of the manor. Was it he that spoilt thy wedding day? Tellier (nodding) May the ghost of his tombstone pinch him in hell. Durand (piously) Amen, amen But think, friend, those evil days are gone. There will be no lord's cruelty to spoil the wedding to-morrow when your boy marries our girl. Tellier. Wait till to-morrow h e past, say I. 356


HIS MAJESTY)S PLEASURE Durand. Come, neighbour, no ill talk will fright us. Since good King Henry came upon the throne Tellier. There has been great naughtiness at Court. Madame Dur. {somewhat contemptuously) What know you of courts? Tellier (bitterly) I know more of courts and kings' ways than you think. {He looks hard at her, but she meets him unflinchingly). Madame Dur. I think no more than another, Master Tellier. Durand 'Tis not for you, who hold the King's licence, to dispraise His Majesty. Tellier,. I say naught against the King, but I would not have him licence my daughter, too. Durand. This is not the Court; though the King foul his own nest, he lets honest men go free. Tellier. I have heard he is chasing the Prince of Conde through the land to take his newly-wed princess from him. Durand. Come, come, the King is as old, or older, than you or I. (Appealing lo his wife who has stood aside) Joan, is it not so? Jf adame Dur. {turning back to them) The King? {Goes up stage and looks out through arch over the fi elds) Ay, I remember, thirty years ago, when they fought the Spaniards yonder by the mill, and down in Mountjoy's meadows, he lay at my father's house that night. He was a man then nearly thirty. I was a girl. 'Tis long ago. (coming down to them) I'm an old woman. He is older still. Tellier {hardly) Kings never grow old. They are not working meI'l. Durand. Well, I thank God my daughter, though fair and upright as a lily, is no flower for a king to crop I would as soon be fearful of my old wife here as of my daughter Tellier. They say at times all cats are grey. Durand (slightly vexed) I'll have you know my daughter is neither cat nor grey, but fair and virtuous, and knows her station. Tellier (giving ground) Well, pray Heaven, she knows no other station than my son. Here he comes, and I warrant no king in France has a hand somer face than he. (Points through archway). 357


'"1 HE IRISH REVIEW Durand. And see how my daughter follows him, loving and innocent as lamb follows shepherd. Tellier (gloomily) I never saw lamb follow shepherd yet, but I have seen a butcher follow a lamb. Madame Dur. Out on your ill-nature-you are no father worthy so brave a son. Tellier. I hope your daughter may be saying as much next week. Durand. Let's stand aside and watch them. Tellier. I think they are quarrelling already. Durand (taking them behind inn door) Hist! (Enter through archway Gilles, a strapping young country fellow, followed by Alida, a fine figure of a girl). Alida ( pleaingly) Will you not listen to me? Gilles (angrily) No. Alida (tired) You won't listen to me? Gilles. No. Alida. Then I'll not run after you any more. Gilles (looking round surprised) Why not? Alida. I'll not have you make a fool of me like this. Gilles. 'Tis you who make a fool of me. Alida. Your father did that before I was born. Durand (delighted) My girl has wit! My girl has wit! Tellier. I wonder where she got it. Gilles. If my father made me a fool he made me an honest fool. Aliaa. D'"ye mean I'm not honest? Gilles. I'd be a proved fool to say so before to-morrow. Alida (enraged) You'll have nothing to say about me to-morrow. Gilles (alarmed) What d'ye mean? Alida. There are as good hinds in the fields as you. Gilles. Ay, and as many furrows. Alida. Y'are unmannerly Gilles. I'd ha' been a good mate, anyhow. Alida. I'll marry a lad with more way with him. Gilles. You'd provoke a saint of Heaven. Alida. Had I known you were a saint of Heaven, I'd never have taken you. Gilles. But take me you did, and maybe your saint has a touch of the devil in him. (Seizes h e r suddenly and kisses her with clumsy passion). 358


HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE Alida. raws off! !::iaucy ::,atan the saint unmasked. (Boxes his ears and shakes him o If). Gilles. What are you after now? Alida. No kissing till the times comes. Gilles (grumpily) May the time never come-if you treat me like Alida. that. You spitfire. You--I'll teach you to call names, you tyrant. (Rushes at him, but he eludes her and runs o If into stable yard, she pursuing him fiercely). I'll after them-she'll scratch his eyes out. Not she; she'll kiss her own reflected beauty in them. Tellier. Durand. lkfadame Tellier. Durand. Tellier. Dur. This is a lovers' quarrel. A little more love and I lose my heir. A little more love and your heirs are mine. Come through the yard and I'll send him back to keep house while I'm away. (Exeunt through the stable gate. The stage is empty a moment. The trotting of horses is heard, and two Cava liers and a carrosse enter through arch at the back of the stage. It is drawn by a single pair of horses, and is in a very battered condition. On the near horse is a postboy, and in the carrosse a young lady and a young gentleman). First Cavalier (called Brissac) (dismounting and civillly approach ing the carrosse) This is the post-house, my Prince. Will your Highness descend while Prince (testily) Brissac. Post-boy (who Brissac. Drawer. Brissac. Drawer. Brissac. Drawer. Brissac. Drawer. Brissac. relays are found? Are there no horses ready ? It seems not. has dismounted and summoned the house) Nothing ever is ready in Donnemarie. House! House! (Enter a Drawer from inn, who gapes at the cavalcade). Holloa, fellow Have you any horses? Horses? Me? I have but my keep and what the guests please to give me. Fool Has your master horses? I doubt he has, wherever they are. Where is your master? I doubt he's out with Master Durand. Who is in charge here ? Me and the horse marshal. Call your horse marshal, then-that's what we want. 359


THE IRISH REVIEW Drawer (shaking his head) You ll get no horses to-day. Brissac. And why not, sirrah? Drawer. 'Cos the young master's to qe married to morrow. Brissac. What has that to do with it? Drawer. We'll want the horses to bring home the bride Prince (he is a p eevis h f e llo w of t woand-t wen t y l e aps out of th e carro s s e i n a rage ) There is a bride here to be brought home by all the horses in France! Drawer (falling on his kne es fright ened) 0 good my lord, is it the own dollymop? Prince (in a rage) Scandal! Scandal! Crop me the rascal's ears Drawer. Mercy! mercy! (Flee s into hous e pursued by the hor se m e n, w ho have dismou n ted and l eft th eir cattle in c harge of the post-boy. H e l e a d s th e m into the yard). Prince (pacing up and down the stage in a fury) Scandal! scandal most monstrous. most horrible. Princess (descending from carros se ) My Prince, my beloved, what can scandal harm us? Soon we shall be a c ross the frontier, soon at Brussels, under protec Princ 6 Princess. Prince. Princess Prince. Princess. Prince. Princess. Prince. tion of the Archdukes, and then--More scandal. Brussels thrives on scandal. You will force Brussels to remember that I am the Prince of Cond e' s wife. I cannot force Bruss e ls to forget that you were the Queen of France's Maid of Honour. which is no honour at the Court of Henry the Amorous. No one dared speak light of me there. There you had the King's protection. Now I have yours. I am not a sovereign prince-and if I were, there is no prince temporal or spiritual dare face King Henry. What help can the Archdukes give us? Heaven only knows There will be bloody wars to pay for this escapade. Princi!ss (bitterly) Rather than that, had we not better wait for the King-he cannot be a league behind us on the Prince. road. No, no horses. perdition no. If we had


Princess. Prince. Princess. Prince. HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE He can get horses, too. Sooner or later you must yield me to him. No, no. A chance remains. A chance remains ? Soft, in your ear. There is a plot afoot to kill the King. Princess (excited and troubl ed ) You dare kill him? Prince. I? No. I am his cousin. But as Henry Princess. Prince. Gilles. Prince. Gilles. Prince Gilles. Prince. Princess. Gilles. gallops, death gallops with him. Tell me more. You know enough. All turns on this. If he do overtake us here, death overtakes him ere he goes further. (Rapping at inn door) Horses! horses! horses! (Enter Gilles from the yard hastily). My lord, my lady, my father is abroad. Does no one serve you ? Who are you? The King's postmaster's son, so please you. Then find me horses-four, and fleet ones. It shall be done at once, m y lord. (Bowing to her) My lady. (Exit to yard). That's a great galliard. He seems the sovereign prince of Donnemarie. (Re-enter Gilles). The horses come from pasture, but they're fleet ones. Can I not serve my lord to some refreshment? My lady? Prince. Horses! horses! horses! Princess (reprovingly) Prince, I want food. Gilles. Madame, I have food worthy a Princess, baked for Princess. Prince. a wedding feast. My mouth waters. Hand me in, my Prince. (The Prince does not stir; she gives her hand to Gilles, but the Prince wake s up and thrusts him aside). We lose precious time. (Aside to Princess) You know I have no money. (To Gilles) See that the horses are put to at once. Gilles (bowing them both into house) It shall be done, my Prince. (When they a1'e gone into the house, he kisses his own hand and gazes after th em ) 0 exquisite Princess 0 fortunate wedding feast. 0 happy, happy Gilles. (Turning to 361


Tissot. Brissac. Tissot. Brissac. THE IRISH REVIEW carrosse j Her carriage where she sat. (Kissing them) Thrice blessed cushions. 0 what a thing it is to be in love (Listening) She calls, she calls! Coming, my lady, coming! (Exit with a rush to hous e Ente r from the house Tissot and Brissac w ith winecups in their hands and smoking long pipes). How far behind think you the King is now? Two hours, or three-or would be but for the found ering of our leaders at La F erte. We lost near a glass there, and have not travelled half the pace since. Still I make him a full hour behind. Spanish Miguel would be after us if the chase pressed much closer, and Delannoy if it came within the league. (Horse heard off). Tissot (going up to arch and pointing off) Is that not one of Brissa c Delannoy. Brissac. Delannoy. Brissac. Delannoy. Brissac. D e lannoy. Brissac. Delonnoy. Brissac. on the crest of the hill ? Is't Miguel? (Droppin g his pipe) 'Tis Delannoy We are lost if the horses come not. Summon the Prince. (Exit Tissot to house. Enter Delannoy th r ough arch on a distressed horse) Where is Miguel? Miguel is a prisoner. The King himself took him and would have taken me, but I snapped my pistol at him. Was he wounded? No, but his horse was, and I doubt the King has a rope for m e if w e m ee t again. We all swing togeth e r. To cross the King's love affairs is high treason. But our Master the Prince-As his Majesty's mistress's husband he is privileged and goes free so long as he does not take his wife with him. But if the King overtake the couple here, as he is like to do-what then ? For the Prince and Princess-toujours la polit e sse. But for us the rope. Then I'll put another league betwixt me and the King. No, no, my friend. You forget your pistol. That 1s the thing to put between you and the King. 362 /


HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE r ;' -.. _-w .... "' At all costs we stay him here until their HighDelannoy. Brissac. Delannoy. Brissac. Delannoy Brissac Prince. Gilles. nesses are safe in Flanders. How many of us are in this? Half-a-dozen good fellows, with blunt faces and sharp swords. D'ye mean to kill the King? I mean to earn my pay. (meditatively) I have never yet killed a king. 'Tis royal sport. Harry's. a stag will toss many a hound ere he go down. I would I were on his side, but pay is pay, and (jerking his thumb contemptuously towards in'ltj}; even his pay is better than starvation and what's a man to do when there's no war? (Enter Prince hastily from inn, followed by Gilles waiting on Princess). Morbleu where are the horses? They come, my Prince. (The horses are brought from yard and harnessed to carrosse by stable boys. A small crowd gathers on stage. Tellier rush e s through arch and across stage into hous e followed by Alida, who does not see Gilles busy with the horses). Prince (to Princess) I have no money have you money? What the devil are we to do? Princess (to Prince) Leave that to me. (To Gilles) They are beautiful, your horses. Gilles. There are no better in the province, Madame. I chose them to bring home my bride. Princess. I know not how to reward your generosity. Gilles (abjectly) If I might but kiss your Highness's foot. Princess. It is not thus we kiss at Court. (Ogles him and turns away). Gilles (following h er) Dare I then kiss your hand? Princess (shaking he,r head) It is not thus we kiss at Court. Gilles (troubled) How then? Princess (having drawn him aside) Why, thus we kiss at Court. (Kisses him on th e lips. Amazed, but delighted, he returns the kiss, and they stand a moment so, when Alida e nters from inn and perceives them). Alida (thunderstruck) Gilles


THE IRISH REVIEW Princess (glancing at her not at all discomposed) Ah, the chambermaid. Do you want money, girl? Alida. I don't want your money. Princess {mildly surprised to.. Gilles) What does she want? Gilles {half consciously) Nothing. {He kisses her once again). Prince. The carriage waits. (Turning he perceives the Princess kiss Gilles as do alt the others) Charlotte, this is too much What does this mean? Princess (turning to him smilingly) A secret you shall hear at Brus sels. (Leaping into carrosse). Prince {bewildered, as Gilles approaches feels in his pockets) My purse where is my purse. What is there to pay? Gilles. All is paid, my Prince. All paid. {Bows him into carrosse and shuts door) Adieu, most exquisite Princess. Princess. Adieu for ever! (The carrosse rolls off, crowd running aft e r it, and Gilles watching /rom archway). Brissac. And now, my friends, to horse. (The three cavaliers mount. Enter Tellier with bill). Tellier {to Brissac) 'Tis you, my lord, who pays? (The cavaliers laugh). Brissac. No, no. The Princess has paid foi' all. We follow her to Brussels. Tellier {respectfully) Do you return, my lord? Brissac. If we ever return, you shall know of it. (Exeunt cavaliers, laug king). Tellier {to Gilles) Is this true? Did the Princess give you the money? Gilles (still e ntranced) Money ha! Alida. I'll tell you what she gave him-she gave him ( clenching her hands) a kiss. Tellier {not understanding) How much? Aliaa A score and he gave her Tellie r (mystified) The change? Alida. In full measure. Tellier. See here, Gilles, where is the money the lady gave you? Gilles. 0 exquisite Princess! (Exit through archway up the road). Tellier (angrily to Alida) You have turned my son's head with your love-making. 364


HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE Alida (almost in tears) No poor country girl could do that. 'Tis that scabby Princess. But I'll be even with them both. I ll not be despised by any bottle washer in Christenty. My father shall know of this. I'll have the law of you, and if the King himself comes after me he shall have me for better or worse. (Exit, crying, through arch and down road). Tellier (enraged) A murrain on all petticoats say I, that rob honest inn-keepers of their reckonings and all men of their senses. If women wore breeches the world would be the better for it, and Heaven no worse. (Exit to inn. The waning light suggests sunset, and evening draws in. Re-enter Alida Duf:and. with her father comforting her). There, there, child, dry your eyes, dry your eyes, and tell your old father what ails you at all. Aliaa (through her sobs) Nothing, nothing, nothing. Only the Durand. Alida. Durand. Alida. Durand. Alida Durand. Alida. Durand. Princess has ravished my true love. What Princess, honey? The slutty Princess from Paris, and I'm not your honey any more, father. I'm soured, soured. What Princess from Paris? Be calm, loved daughter; calm yourself and tell your father all. She that was the King's. I don't know what and has married a Prince too good for her, and now she wants my Gilles, my own true honey love was to wed me to-morrow. 0, dear Mary Virgin, what shall I do? There, there, dear child. If the Princess has done any mischief thoughtlessly, as Court ladies will, she's gone away for ever Ay, but my sweetheart's heart's gone with her rolled away down the road to Flanders, leaving my own heart, my own true heart, broken here on the road behind him. You're young, my great sweet daughter, and if hurt's done, time will mend it. Time will never mend a broken heart-at least, so the songs says. Well, well, let us ask Master Tellier what he thinks of this. Court custom wrought him some damage once upon a time, but I doubt his heart's well 365


THE IRISH REVIEW mended. (Exit with his daughter to inn. Horse heard outside. Then enter hastily on foot the King and Balzac with his sw ord drawn. N.B. -The King has the appearance of a comely man in the prime of life). Balzac (trying to cover the King) Beware, sire, how you go. Here may be assassins. King (hotly) What care I for assassins? This is the post-house, yet I see no coach. Balzac. No there is none. They have found horses and gone on towards Brussels. King. We must find horses and pursue. Balzac. Sire, we can do nothing till my men catch us up. King. By then they will be safe in Flanders. Balzac. Better that than your Majesty in his grave. King (pacing up and down as did Conde before) 0 love, thou impish torturer of kings! Shall I die underneath the swords of Conde's knaves Or burst my heart counting the minutes lost. Young man, pray Heaven you may not come to love. Any love of mine will ever be at your Majesty's disposal. King (heartily) Loyal fellow! Balzac. I beseech your Majesty to be reasonable. King. Dost dare to reason with a king in love? Balzac. Ay, and dare tell him why he must not love King. Say' st thou I must not? Who dare hinder Balzac. King. Balzac. King. Balzac. King. me? I would persuade your Majesty to thinkWe cannot hope to stay the Princess now. She must be safe at Landrecies at least. At Landrecies in Flanders. Myself has been at Landrecies ere this, And had my will there. Time was, your Majesty, when we had war. I'll loose another war rather than lose My pleasure. Sire, you cannof make A war with fifty troopers The Archdukes I'd face the Archdukes with my single sword And level Brussels flat as Amsterdam. 366


Balzac. King. Balzac. King. Balzac. King. Balzac. King. Balzac. King. HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE 'Tis not the Archdukes only-there is Spain. I'll drive all Spain to refuge in the Indies. If you touch Spain, you touch the Kaiser, too. I'll whip him howling through all Germany Over the Alps to Rome. And there's the Pope. And then your Majesty can do no more. No more! I'll take Pope Clement's triple crown And break it on his pate if he outstare me. He'll excommunicate you. Tut! he dare not go so far. Would'st thou lift up Olympus? If Jupiter would rob me of my love I'd batter down Olympus with my guns And strew the earth with particles of gods. Balzac (incisively) Your Majesty is mightiest of kings, But there is that even you cannot do Make a cracked vessel whole. King (appalled} Conde dare not she is his wife in name. Balzac. Sire, Conde's wife is any man's, in fact. She is a wanton. King (drawing his s w ord) Villain, you die for this. Balzac (op e ning his arms) Strike, 0 King! King (dropping his sword) 'Tis I am stricken (She athes his sword) Alas, alas, there is no faith in woman Balzac. King. Balzac. King. Would I had given h e r. to you and not to Conde. You would not have deserted me in my old age and taken her with you. Your Majesty is not so old he will not love agam. Dost take me for a weather cock? When a king comes to love at fifty-five his love is constant, and with a passion youth cannot guess. If he lose this quarry, Harry shall hunt no more, or ever know the joy of Spring. Your Majest y is melancholy he wants food. The only food for my appetite speeds towards Flanders. Come, horses, horses, we must follow it. Balzac (giving it up in d e spair) I'll look here in the inn-yard. (Exit. Alida comes out of the inn, when the King per ceives and stops her). King (holding up her chin) What do I behold? 367


Alida. King. Alida. King. Alida. King. THE IRISH REVIEW Gently, sir. Who are you? I am the wretchedest man in France and you? The wretchedest maid. There's sympathy between us. I am crossed in love. And I. More sympathy. (Sitting down on bench) Come, tell me your troubles. Aliaa. I was to be married to-morrow. King (nodding his head sympathetically) Ah, was it come to that? Alida. And now my lover's run away with a Court lady. King (mystified) Do you mean with a courtesan? Alida. She was a Princess, and they say the King's love. King (half understandi ng ) A Princess and the King's love. Alida. Monstrous Your lover has run away with the Princess of Conde? That's her name. She stole his heart, and he ran after her, and I'll never see him again. And oh! if I could only be revenged-I'd give my maiden honour for revenge. King (leaping up) You shall be revenged. I promise that. Alida (gaping) How? You promise what? King. You shall be Princess and the King's love. Alida (shrinking from hini) Who are you to talk like that? King (lifting his hat with his most fascinating grace) Do you not know me? Alida (clapping her hands with delight) 0 what prettv hair! King (delight ed ) D'ye like my hair? Whose it it can you guess? Alida (overwhelmed) Can it be the King? Your Majesty. King. Not majesty to you-plain Harry. Alida. But my father King. He shall have a peerage or a pension. Alida. My mother? King. The Wardrobe, or the Bedchamber. Alida. And my lover? King. I am your lover. A Lida (bewildered) I mean my other lover. King. He shall have a whipping or what you will. What is your name? Alida. My name is Alida. King. Your name is what? Gilles ( calling) Alida! Alida! 368


Alida. King (pleased HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE Mercy on us! (Swoons in King's arms). ,yet perplexed) There, there, sweet maiden. Be brave as you are lovely, and take your honours like a woman of the world. As ,YOU are beau tiful, be strong. (While he is holding and caressing her, Gilles comes in at the back through the dusk). Gilles (calling softly) Alida. Alida! (Suddenly perceiving her in the stranger's arms) Villain, that woman is King. Gilles. my affianced wife. Unhand her. Pish Unhand her, I say, or I wili have your life. (Snatch ing out a dagger and offering to stab him). King (passing the girl behind him, where she stands dazed, and waving Gilles airily aside) I am the King. Gilles (astounded) The King! (Enter Balzac). Balzac. Sire! Night falls, 'tis six o'clock; but I have found horses, and the escort is at hand. Will yonr Majesty deign to mount? King (unabashed) No-we lie here to-night. Balzac (gleefully but astonished, knocks at inn-door with his whip) House! house! His Majesty the King lies here to-night. Gilles (trying to catch her hand in despair) Alida. Alida (repulsing him) Keep your place. (Enter from all sides Tellier, Drawers, Stableboys, etc., crying J The King the King lies here to-night (A distant church bell rinf!S three times). King (lifting his hand) Hush! (The Angelus bill is heard again to ring three chimes, and King, Gilles, Bali'l-:, Alida and all kneel together as the curtain falls) ... : ... ...


BEYOND THE FIELDS WE KNOW By LORD DUNSANY Part I. Idle Days on the Yann S 0 I came down through the wood to the bank of Yann and found, as had been prophesied, the ship, Bird of the River," about to loose her cable. The captain sate cross-legged upon the white deck with his scimitar lying beside him in its jewelled scabbard, and the sailors toiled to spread the nimble sails to bring the ship into the central stream of Yann, and all the while sang ancient soothing songs. And the wind of the evening descending cool from the snow fields of some mountainous abode of distant gods came suddenly, like good tidings to an anxious city, into the wing-like sails. And so we came into the central stream, whereat the sailors lowered the greater sails. But I had gone to bow before the captain and to enquire con cerning the miracles, and appearances among men, of the most holy gods of whatever land he had come from. And the captain answered that he came from fair Belzoond and worshipped gods that were the least and humblest, who seldom sent the famine or the thunder, and were easily appeased with little battles. And I told how I came from Ireland which is of Europe, whereat the captain and all the sailors laughed, for they said : There are no such places in all the fand of dreams." When they had ceased to mock me, I explained that my fancy mostly dwelt in the desert of Cuppar-Nombo, about a beautiful blue city called Golthoth the Damned, which was sentin elled all round by wolves and their shadows, and had been utterly desolate for years and years because of a curse which the gods once spoke in anger and could never since recall. And sometimes my dreams took me as far as Pungar Vees, the red walled city where the fountains are, which trades with the Isles and Thul. When I said this they complimented me upon the abode cif my fancy, saying that, though they had never seen these cities, such places might well be imagined. For the rest of that evening I baq;ained with the over the sum .I should pay him for my fare if God and the. tide of Yann should brmg us safely as far as the cliffs by the sea, which are named Bar-Wul-Yann, the Gate of Yann. And now the sun had set, and all the colours of the world and 370 ...


BEYOND THE FIELDS WE KNOW heaven had held a festival with him and slipped one by one away before the imminent approach of night. The parrots had all flown home to the jungle on either bank; the monkeys in rows in safety on high branches of the trees were silent and asleep; the fireflies in the deeps of the forest were going up and down, and the great stars came gleaming out to look on the face of Yann. Then the sailors lighted lanterns and hung them round the ship, and the light flashed out on a sudden and dazzled Yann, and the ducks that fed along his marshy banks all suddenly arose, and made wide circles in the upper air, and saw the distant reaches of the Yann, and the white mist that softly cloaked the jungle, before they returned again into their marshes. And then the sailors knelt on the decks and prayed, not all together, but five or six at a time. Side by side there kneeled down together five or six, for there only prayed at the same time men of different faiths, so that no god should hear two men praying to him at once. As soon as any one had finished his prayer, another of the same faith would take his place. Thus knelt the row of five or six with bended heads under the fluttering sail, while the central stream of the River Yann took them on towards the sea; and their prayers rose up from among the ladders and went towards the stars. And behind them, in the after end of the ship, the helmsman prayed aloud the helmsman's prayer, which is prayed by all who follow his trade upon the River Yann, of whatever faith they be. And the captain prayed to his little lesser gods, to the gods that bless Belzoond. And I too felt that I would pray. Yet I liked not to pray to a jealous God there where the frail affectionate gods whom the heathen love were being humbly invoked; so I bethought me, instead, of Sheol Nugganoth, whom the men of the jungle have long since deserted, and who is now unworshipped and alone, and to him I prayed. And upon us praying the night came suddenly down, as it comes upon all men who pray at evening and upon all men who do not, yet our prayers comforted our own souls when we thought of the Great Night to come. And so Yann bore us magnificently onwards, for he was elate with molten snow that the Poltiades had brought him from the Hills of Hap, and the Marn and Migris were swollen full with floods : and he bore us in his might past K yph and Pir, and we saw the lights Goolunza. Soon we all slept except the helmsman, who kept the ship in the mid-stream of Yann. When the sun rose the helmsman ceased to sing, for by song he cheered himself in the lonely night. When the song ceased we 371


THE IRISH REVIEW suddenly all awoke; and another took the helm, and the helmsman slept. We knew that soon we should come to Mandaroon. We made a meal, and Mandaroon appeared. Then the captain commanded and the sailors loosed again the greater sails, and the ship turned and left the stream of Yann and came into a harbour beneath the ruddy walls of Mandaroon. Then while the sailors went and gath ered fruits I came alone to the gate of Mandaroon. A few huts were outside it, in which lived the guard. A sentinel with a long white beard was standing in the gate, armed with a rusty pike. He wore large spectacles, which were covered with dust; through the gate I saw the city. A deathly stillness was over all of it. The ways seemed untrodden, and moss was thick on doorsteps, in the market-place huddled figures lay asleep. A scent of incense came wafted through the gateway-of incense and burnt poppies-and there was a hum of the echoes of distant bells. I said to the senti11el, in the tongue of the region of Yann : \Vhy are they all asleep in this still city?" He answered: "None may ask questions in this gate for fear they wake the people of the city. For when the people of this city wake, the gods will die. And when the gods die, men may dream no more." And I began to ask him what gods that city worshipped, but he lifted his pike because none might ask questions there. So I left him and went back to the Bird of the River." Certainly Mandaroon was beautiful, with her white pinnacles peering over her ruddy walls, and the green of her copper roofs. When I came back again to the Bird of the River," I found the sailors were returned to the ship. Soon we weighed anchor and sailed out again, and so came once more to the middle of the river. And now the sun was moving towards his heights, and there had reached us on the River Yann the song of those countless myriads of choirs that attend him in his progress round the world. For the little c reatures that have many legs had spread their gauze wings on the air, as a man rests his elbows on a balcony, and gave jubilant, ceremonial praises to the Sun. Or else they moved together on the air in wavering dan ces intricate and swift, or turned aside to avoid the onrush of some drop of water that a breeze had shaken from a jungle orchid, chilling the air and driving it before it as it fell whirr ing in its rush to the earth; but all the while they sang triumphantly : For the day is for us," they said, "whether our great and sacred father the Sun shall bring up more life like us from the marshes, or whether all the world shall end to-night." And there sang all those whose notes are known to human ears, as well as those whose far more numerous notes have been never heard by man. 372


BEYONb TH'.E FI'.EtbS WE KNOW To these a rainy day had been as an era of war that ::hould desolate continents during all the lifetime of a man. And there came out also from the dark and steaming jungle to behold and rejoice in the sun the huge and lazy butterflies. And they danced, but danced idly, on the ways of the air, as some haughty queen of distant conquered lands might in her poverty and exile dance in some encampment of the gipsies for the mere bread to live by, but beyond that would never abate her pride to dance for a frag ment more. And the butterflies sang of strange and painted things, of purple orchids and of lost pink cities, and the monstrous colours of the jungle's decay. And they too were among those whose voices are not discernible by human ears. And as they floated above the river, going from forest to forest, their splendour was matched by the inimical beauty of the birds, who darted out to pursue them. Or sometimes they settled on the white and wax-like blooms of the plant that creeps and clambers about the trees of the forest, and their purple wings flashed out on the great blossoms as, when the caravans go from N url to Tha..:e, the gleaming silks flash out upon the snow where the crafty merch;mts spread them one by one to astonish the mountaineers of the Hills of Noor. But upon men and beasts the sun sent a drowsiness. The river monsters along the river's marge lay dormant in the slime. The sailors pitched a pavilion, with golden tassels, for the captain upon the deck, and then went, all but the helmsman, under a sail that they had hung as an awning between two masts. There they told tales to one another, each of his own city or of the miracles of his god, until all were fallen asleep. The captain offered me the shade of his pavilion with the gold tassels, and there we talked for awhile, he telling me that he was taking merchandise to Perd6ndaris, and that he would take back to fair Belzoond things appertaining to the affairs of the sea. Then as I watched through the pavilion's opening the brilliant birds and butterflies that crossed and re-crossed over the river, I fell asleep, and dreamed that I was a monarch entering his capital underneath arches of flags, and all the musicians of the World were there, playing melodiously their instruments; but no une cheered. In the afternoon, as the day grew cooler again, I awoke and found the captain buckling on his scimitar, which he had taken off him while he rested. And now we were approaching the wide court of Astahahn, which opens upon the river. Strange boats of antique design were 373


THE IRIStt REVIEW chained there to the steps. As we neared it we saw the open marble court, on three sides of which stood the city fronting on colonnades. And in the court and along the colonnades the people of that city walked with solemnity and care according to the rites of ancient ceremony. All in that city was of ancient device, the carving on the houses, which when age had broken it remained unrepaired, was of the remotest times, and everywhere were represented in stone beasts that have long since passed away from Earth-the dragon, the griffin and the hippogriffin, and the different species of gargoyle. Nothing was to be found, whether material or custom, that was new in Astahahn. Now they took no notice at all of us as we went by, but continued their processions and ceremonies in this ancient city, and the sailors, knowing their custom, took no notice of them. But I called, as we came near, to one who stood beside the water's edge, asking what men did in Astahahn, and what their merchandise was, and with whom they traded. He said: "Here we have fettered and manacled Time who would otherwise slay the gods." I asked him what gods they worshipped in that city, and he said: "All those gods whom Time has not yet slain." Then he turned from me, and would say no more, but busied himself in behaving in accordance with cincient custom. And so according to the will of Yann we drifted onwards and left Astahahn. The river widened below Astahahn, and we found in greater quantities such birds as prey on fishes. And they were very wonderful in their plumage, and they came not out of the jungle, Eut flew, with their long necks stretched out before them and their legs lying on the wind behind, straight up the river over the mid-stream. And now the evening began to gather in. A thick white mist had appeared over the river, and was softly rising higher. It clutched at the trees with long impalpable arms, it rose higher and higher, chilling the air, and white shapes moved away into the jungle as though the ghosts of shipwrecked mariners were searching stealthily in the darkness for the spirits of evil that long ago had wrecked them on the Yann. As the sun sank behind the field of orchids that grew on the matted summit of the jungle, the river monsters came wallowing out of the slime in which they had reclined during the heat of the day, and the great beasts of the jungle came down to drink. The butter flies a while since were gone to rest. In little narrow tributaries that we passed, night seemed already to have fallen, though the sun whicli had disappeared from us had not yet set. And now the birds of the jungle came flying home far over us with the sunlight glistening pink upon their breasts, and lowered 374


BEYOND THE FIELDS WE KNOW their pinions as soon as they saw the Yann, and dropped into the trees, and folded their wings. And the widgeon began to go up the river in great companies, all whistling, and then would suddenly wheel and all go down again. And there shot by us the small and arrow-like teal. And we heard the manifold cries of flocks of geese, which the sailors told me had recently come in from crossing over the Lispasian ranges; every year they come by the same way, cluse by the peak of Mluna, leaving it to the left, and the mountain eagles know the way they come and-men say-the very hour, and every year they expect them by the same crag as soon as the snows have fallen upon the Northern Plains. But soon it grew so dark that we saw these birds no more, and only heard the whirring of their wings, and of countless others besides, until they all settled down along the banks of the river, and it was the hour when the birds of the night went forth. Then the sailors lit the lant'erns for the night, and huge moths appeared, flapping about the ship, and at moments their gorgeous colours would be revealed by the lanterns, then they would pass into the night again, where all was black. And again the sailors prayed, and thereafter we supped and slept, and the helmsman took our lives into his care. When I awoke I found that we had indeed come to Perd6ndaris, that famous city. For there it stood upon the left of us, a city fair and notable, and all the more pleasant for our eyes to see after the jungle that was so long with us. And we were anchored by the market place, and the captain's merchandise was all displayed, and a merchant of Perd6ndaris stood looking at it. And the captain had his scimitar in his hand, and was beating with it in anger upon the deck, and the splinters were flying up from the white planks; for the merchant had offered him a price for his merchandise that the captain declared to be an insult to himself and his country's gods, whom he now said to be great and terrible gods, whose curses were to be dreaded. But the merchant waved his hands, which were of great fatness, showing the pink palms, and swore that of himself he thought not at all, but only of the poor folk in the huts beyond the city, to whom he wished to sell the merchandise for as low a price as possible, leaving no remuneration for himself. For the merchan dise was mostly the thick toomarund carpets that in the winter keep the wind from the floor, and tollub which the people smoke in pipes. Therefore the mer chant said if he offered a piffek more the poor folk must go without their toomarunds when the winter came and without their tollub in the evenings, or else he and his aged father must starve together. Thereat the captain lifted his scimitar to his own throat, saying 375


THE IRISH REVIEW that he was now a ruined man, and that nothing remained to him but death. And while he was carefully lifting his beard with his left hand, the merchant eyed the merchandise again, and said that rather than see so worthy a captain die, a man for whom he had conceivid an especial love when first he saw the manner in which he handled his ship, he and his aged father should starve together, and therefore he offered fifteen piff eks more. When he said this the captain prostrated himself and prayed to his gods that they might yet sweeten this merchant's bitter heart to his little lesser gods, to the gods that bless Belzoond. At last the merchant offered yet five piffeks more. Then the captain wept, for he said that he was deserted of his gods; and the merchant also wept, for he said that he was thinking of his aged father and of how he soon would starve, and he hid his weeping face with both his hands, and eyed the tollub again between his fingers. And so the bargain was concluded, and the merchant took the toomarund and tollub, paying for them out of a great clinking purse. And they were packed into bales again, and three of the merchant's slaves carried them upon their heads into the city. And all the while the sailors had sat silent, cross-legged, in a crescent upon the deck, eagerly watching the bargain; and now a murmur of satisfaction arose among them, and they began to compare it among themselves with other bargains that they had known. And I found out from them that there are seven merchants in Perd6n daris, and that they had all come to the captain one by one before the bargaining began, and each had warned him privately against the others. And to all the merchants the captain had offered the wine of his own country, that they make in fair Belzoond, but could in no wise persuade them to it. But now that the bargain was over, and the sailors were seated at the first meal of the day, the captain appeared among them with a cask of that wine, and we broached it with care, and all made merry together. And the captain was glad in his heart because he knew that he had much honour in the eyes of his men because of the bargain that he had made. So the sailors drank the wine of their native land, and soon their thoughts were back in fair Belzoond and the little neighbouring cities of Durl and Duz. But for me the captain poured into a little glass some heavy yellow wine from a small jar, which he kept apart among his sacred things. Thick and sweet it was, even like honey, yet there was in its heart a mighty, ardent fire whic h had authority over the souls of men. It was made, the captain told me, with great sublety by the secret craft of a family of six, who livea in a hut on the mountains of Hian Miri. Once in these mountains, he said, he followed the spoor of 376


BEYOND THE FIELDS WE KNOW a bear, and he came suddenly on a man of that family who had hunted the same bear, and he was at the end of a narrow way, with precipices all about him, and his spear was sticking in the bear, and the wound not fatal, and he had no other weapon. And the bear was walking towards the man, very slowly, because his wound irked him-yet he was now very close. And what the captain did he would not say, but every year, as soon as the snows are hard and travelling is easy on the Hian Min, that man comes down fo the market in the plains and always leaves for the captain, in the gate of fair Belzoond, a vessel of that priceless, secret wine. And as I sipped the wine, and the captain talked, I remembered me of stalwart noble things that I had long since resolutely planned, and my soul seemed to grow mightier within me and to dominate the whole tide of the Yann. It may be that I then slept. Or, if I did not, I do not now minutely recollect every detail of that morning's occupations. Towards evening I awoke, and wishing to see Perd6ndaris before we left in the morning, and being unable to wake the captain, I went ashore alone. Certainly Perd6ndaris was a powerful city; it was enco mpassed by a wall of great strength and altitude, having in it h o llow ways for troops to walk in, and battlements along it all the way, and fifteen strong towers on it in every mile, and copper plaques low down where m e n could r ea d them, telling in all the langua ges of those parts of the Earthone language on each plaque the tale of how an army once attacked Perd6ndaris, and what befel that army. (To b e continued ). 377


THE BROWN CLOAK An Early A1odern Irish Poem, edit e d and translated by Professor B e rgin 1 An tu m'aithne, a fhalluing donn? ataoi feadh th'aithne agam, mithidh damh, ge tuar tuirrse, do char uaim [a fhalluing-se]. 2 N6 gur lomais fam lamhaihh id chiomhsaihh, a chompanaigh, iomdha coinne 'nar chuir me na cruihh i gcoinne [a cheile]. 3 Tugas cuairt do chois Bearhham6ide id dhiaidh mo dhoimheanmai gcionn gach faithche is-tfr* thoir do hhinn d 4 Do-chuadhas leat la oile imeasg oireacht Osruighe : a dhonn-hhrait ar dhath an tsr6il, ach doh orrdhraic hhar n-on6ir 5 Ret fhoirf eacht, a hall uing donn, da d tugadh amhghar orom do th6ghhail fan dtfr amach, him ar 6gmhnaihh dot fholach. 6 Mithidh damh dealughadh ruihh, heag nar lorn do leath fochtair : tearc flaitheas nach fuighe cordo chaitheas uile th'uachtar. 7 An lorn uile, a fhalluing donn, do sgaoil 6 cheile ar gcumann : a nocht mo thruaighe thusa ruainne ort nior fhaghhusa. 8 Fa tu an meirge ha m6 cion agam i n-iochtar Laighean : tus comh6il duit 6 gach druing, cuid dot on6ir, a fhalluing. MS. sa tlr," which is unmetrical. 378


THE BROWN CLOAK Translation 1 Are you my acquaintance, brown cloak? I had you as long as you have been known; it is time for me, tho' it is an omen of sorrow, to put you away, 0 cloak of mine. 2 Until you grew bare under my hands about the edges, old comrade, many is the meeting in which we clasped hands. 3 I paid a visit with you beside the Barrow-the greater after you is my depression-and in the eastern land upon every green, I would be 4 Another day I went with you among the assemblies of Ossory, brown cloak of silken hue; ah your renown was famous. 5 So old you are, brown cloak, if hardship should compel me to take you out into the land, I am wont to hide you from young women. 6 It is time for me to part from you : your lower half is all but bare; (few kingdoms escape unshaken !)-I have worn out your upper part altogether. 7 It is complete bareness, 0 brown cloak, that has sundered our friendship, to-night I pity you, I have not left a hair upon you. 8 You were the standard I loved best in North Leinster, you were first served at every banquet, that was part of your honour, my cloak. NoTE.-The above poem is found in the Book of the O'Conor Don, a collection of bardic poetry copied at Ostende in the first half of the 17th century. The author's name is not given. The poem is apparently incomplete, and the ends of some lines are lost where the MS. is torn. I have added some conjectural restorations in square brackets. 379


LANGUAGE AND LIBERTY By LAURENCE KEERAN. THE language of a nation is that nation's soul. This assertion may seem trite and commonplace, but it is true. And for the majority of thinking Irishmen i t is in the recognition of its trueness-, and in the correct and full conception of its signifi cance, that the most complete vindication of the Gaelic League's right to existence, and of that society's claim of paramount national importance for its work will be found. But, alas-and it is Ireland's misfortune-that recognition has been almost unanimously withheld Too long, our politicians, and particularly those of them who are prone to regard themselves as omniscient leaders of our people, have passed it by as a question of little importance. They consequently have failed to appreciate, or indeed to perceive at all, the indispensable condition-importunate for its fulfilment-that if the salvation of the nation is to be achieved the language must be saved. And yet, looking back over our country's history, and studying most particularly those pages of it in which are inscribed the events of the periods between 400-600, 700 1000, and I 600I 700-those days of glorious achievement in science, in art, in commerce and in war, when the spirit of our nationality was most conscious-one finds there that the triumphant epochs of our race have been co-eval and co-existent with the kingly periods of its national tongue. Finding it to have been so, one wonders and fails to understand why a matter of such supreme import as this-a lesson so magnifi cently blazoned on the monuments of our past-has not been so fully borne in on those who labour in the service of the nation, as to permeate the whole soul of Irish public life with faith in the salvation of the Irish nation through its native language, and primarily, at least, to concentrate the whole national endeavour upon the resusci tation of that language But I suppose it has been with this as with other things ; those walking with the stars have no eyes for the beauty of earth at their feet; and this great truth, like all great truths, has been veiled from the sight of men b y the very brilliance of its verity and simplicity. Else how could those, who were supposed to be imbued with and inspired by the holiest and most sublime patriotism, pass by and negle c t as of old did the Hebrews, the babe in the bulrushes-this fundamental, vital organism of nationality which, having been fostered by the care of some who might well be thought to be alien in blood and in inspiration, is now grown to a vigorous 38o


LANGUAGE AND LIBERTY adolescence and seems destined, another M o ses, as it were, to lead a people to a promised land. But some will tell me this cannot be. And I? I repeat again that the language is the soul of the nation and immortal. And then from those who deny, blinded perhaps by the wisdom with which an inscrutable Providence endows practical men to the be-clouding of their vision, may arise a clamour, like to that which saved the Capitol, as they vociferate loudly, "Oh, this is mere rhetorical verbiage; a smart catch-phrase of fine sound and little significance, in essence and in fact untrue. Do we not know already, many tongues long since laid to rest in the sepultures of oblivion? Does not our own tongue-that is, what you will have us call our own tongue even now place its foot over the threshold of the dead? And how, if the language of a nation be its soul, can it be subject to mortality, as our language is, while the nation itself is, as we are, vigorous and alert." And I, full of the faith that is in me, will most staunchly and strenuously deny that such is or can be the case, and for greater emphasis will assert again and again that the language is indeed the soul of the nation. For though men and events are changing and evanescent, though they pass away, are remembered a little while, and then forgotten, it is not so with their language It is indeed the spirit of the race It is re ceptive to, and receives, and retains, and perpetuates, even to the time when the race and the world's remembrance of it shall have passed away, the intellectual influences of the age. The founding 0f a dynasty, the overthrow of a tyranny, the emancipation of a nation, these are events which influence the actions, consequently ..... the thoughts and therefore the speech of men. The thoughts are of a moment; the actions perhaps of an epoch; but the speech alone is for ever. The race may be conquered, may be subdued, the spirit of its nationality may be broken, its cairns and their dead may be one with the mother earth, but the language of the vanquished survives in the victor's. It is co-existent with the universe. And, when even that shall have passed away, the language shall be eternal even as the souls of men. Not only is the language of a nation a soul and immortal; it is also the most diligent keeper of the national archives, the most vigilant custodian of the national traditions, the most zealous and most veracious scribe of the nation's history, the author of an his torical transcript, not coloured and distorted by the little prejudices of little 1Uinds1 but lasting and true; and one that the rude and naked


THE IRISH REVIEW force of a sternly manifested actuality has impressed upon the genius of the race. It is as a result of that, that in studying the philological history of a race in conjunction with that race's political history, we find the changes manifested by the language of a nation to be a reflex of the changes which the political and social life of the nation has undergone. All discoveries of the nation in science and in art, all developments of its commercial life, have each brought a separate and particular modifying influence to bear on its language. Changes in national political institutions, in the forms of government, in the status of the race have all imposed corresponding changes on the body of the national language. These concords of change are remarkable enough, and in them political and social change seems to have been the originating and controlling factor. But there is one case of this harmony which, because that in it the relative potency of the factors, language and event, seems to have been reversed, is even more remarkable. Conspicuous examples of it will be found in the histories of races that have been subjected to the stresses of invasion and conquest. It will be found in the histories of such nations that the after events to a conquest have developed in one of two ways, and accord ingly as to whether the speech of the conquering or conquered race overwhelmed the one, the other. If, from the clash of tongues, the language of the conqueror emerged victorious, the vanquished race became a harmonious and established component of the invader's empire. If, on the other hand, the language of the conquered were triumphant, the invaders speedily became assimilated by the native race, which thereafter continued to exist as a nation. We have abundant instances of this law. The Romans conquered the Greeks, and the Greeks, the educated and leisured classes first, the more ignorant and plebeian orders afterwards, adopting the Latin language, quickly became a loyal dominion of the Roman Empire. The Arabs conquered Morocco, Persia and Turkey-in-Asia; they imposed their speech on the conquered races, and those peoples became almost the most fanatical of the fanatical Mahomedans. The early English invaders of this country adopted the Gaelic language and native customs of the country, and were soon "more Irish than the Irish themselves." The Norman-French, though after a long struggle, succumbed to Anglo-Saxon and the Normans, who until that time had maintained a separate existence as the rulers and over-lords of the kingdom of England, speedily became homogenious with the of the people. So it has been in the past; so, too, it shall be in the future: that, inevitably and invariably, the language 3S2


LANGUAGE AND LIBERTY inant in the speech of a people will assuredly indicate the intensity or torpidity of the national personality, the heights of national development and political freedom that the indispensable pre-re quisite to national development-it has attained or the depths of degradation to which it has sunk. And herein for those, who seek to bring back the Holy Grail of Nationality to Ireland, lies the importance of the Language Problem. If we are to succeed in this labour of love of ours, we must, first of all, re-establish, on a firm and permanent footing, the Gaelic tongue as the national language of Ireland. Without that animating soul, political changes, be they ever so far-reaching, the political freedom which they confer, and the political institutions which they establish, be they ever so widespread and so flamboyant, will be indeed, and each for each, the architects of, the inscriptions upon, and the whited sepulchres themselves of a dead nation. This, then, should be the primary task of those who work for Ireland's sake. It is here that we, who toil to build a nation, should cut the first sod-nor should our task be different beyond achieve ment deep down and covered, it may be, with the rubbish and offal of an alien civilisation-quiescent perhaps, but living still; not dead-the roots of the Gaelic tongue are firmly planted. Let our endeavour be to uncover these roots again to the pure air and golden light of a benefi cent Heaven: that the old tongue may again spring up a glorious and mighty tree, beneath whose spreading branches Irishmen, united in the bonds of common speech, and in the brotherhood of the nation it symbolises, will take their stand, and gird themselves anew for the further labours to which the voi c e of the nation may call them.


THE IRISH YEAR* By /AMES STEPHENS THERE is in this book a peculiarly personal note. I am always quite certain when I am being made intimate with Michael or Thady Gilsenan, Bartley Mulstay, and a host of others, for with these we are instantly placed on speak ing terms, I am equally certain when the author himself takes his turn in the ceilidh, for this is not so much a book as a ceilidh. Neither the author nor any of the people he writes of ever merge their individuality, and yet, strangely, the distance between Mr. Colum, when speaking in his own person, and that of Michael Heffernan is scarcely perceptible. The temptation to exploit country people in a literary way has not been resisted by others whuse books attempted to do what Mr. Colum has now finely done. Seldom does the literar y artist emerge from these pages, and yet, as many :i beautifully balanced and vivid passage can testify, he is never absent fr o m them, but even this beauty and colour are lined unob trusi ve l y a nd quietly. I am quite satisfied that the country folk whom we meet here, with their wives and daughters and cronies, speak with the honest homeliness which is their proper speech. The chance remark heard on a road, the chatter of three or four people in a house, what the priest said to the schoolmaster, or what an old stroller said to whoever chanced along these are the things which gave me most pleasure, and in these unsophisticated exchanges we often get lightness, grace and beauty. Somehow the impression remains with me as of a quiet, wise people who can afford to overlook many immediate, shifting neces sities, regarding these with a slightly cynical perturbation. The extreme quietude of Mr. Colum's writing ma y be the cause of this. Mr. Colum has a remarkable eye: he sees with the steady sharpness of a camera, and his pictures have an unwavering, wiry outline which is quite peculiar to himself. This, it seemed to me, sometimes reacted on his writing, so that the effect at first was unpleasantly mechanical, but afterwards I came to look for and like it. Sentences like the following are common : "It was young in the morning. People were working in the fields. I spoke to one of the men." *"My Irish Year (with 15 illustrations) by Padraic Colum. Mills and Boon, Ltd. ; 10s. 6d. net. :,


THE IRISH YEAR "Although lights were in the windows, it was still the early dusk of an autumn day. Francis had brought up the horse. The cattle were coming up the long bohereen that led from the road. Michael Cunliffe walked behind his cattle." Of Mr. Colum's power of portraiture I give a few random examples: A beggar went round the skirts of the crowd, a boy with a twisted b'ody, a yellow face and a begging lip that turned spiteful when one repulsed him." The house was poor indeed, and inside it was as disordered as the nest of a jackdaw." Here is a beautiful and tragic piece of writing : "It was a poor country, and we saw it in the falling rain; and that made the country more desolate. We didn't see any comfort able houses on the second day's journey; we saw wet hills with lone sheep climbing them, and we saw bogs with stretches of canavan and all their white heads drooped in the rain. On a wet, dark night we came to a house. It was a poor little place, but we could go no further. They gave us a bed by the hearth, but their fire was only the wet sods and the bits of sticks." I like the staccato utterance in that description. Here is the visitor who was in Bartley Ryan's house: "He was drunk, but very shrewdly drunk. He expressed him self in winks, nods, gestures, and made no audible remark until a cup of tea had dissipated the deadness of the drink within him. I remember him well, a tough, old fellow, with what they call 'the cordial eye.' He kept a shrewd possession of his hat, his stick, and his tongue." Bartley Ryan plays the fiddle, and this old man "with the implicating eye-lid pays his rent for him-he is a patron of the arts. He had a liking for poetry also, and volunteered information about a local poet named MacBrady; said he: "The house I'm living in now was a publichouse in my grand father's time. When my father was a little fellow, the poet came into the house. He called for two quarts of whisky (whisky was cheap then). He filled the first quart into a noggin and mixed oaten meal with it. Made porridge of it and ate it with a spoon. Then he drank the other quart. He made the poem after that." "There you are now," said Bartley. "He made the poem after that." I expect Bartley was thinking that his own music would not have survived that Olympian diet. I think myself that only a great man and a great poet could feed so mightily. 385


THE IRISH REVIEW The story of how Maelshaughlin sold his horse is very fine; but this book is full of beautiful stories : I met the dealer on the road. He was an Englishman, and, above all nations on the face of the earth, the English are the easiest to deal with in regard of horses. I tendered him the price-it was an honest price, but none of our own people would have taken the offer in any reasonable way. An Irishman would have cursed into his hat, so that he might shake the curses out over my head. Then he gave me my price, paid me in hard, weighty, golden sovereigns, and went away, taking the little horse with him. A girl came along the road, and, on my soul, I never saw a girl walking so finely. 'She'll be a head over every girl in the fair,' said I, 'and may God keep the brightness on her head!' 'God save you, Maelshaughlin,' said the girl. 'God save you, my jewel,' said I. I stood up to look after her, for a fine woman walking finely is above all the sights than man ever saw. Then a few lads passed whistling and swinging their sticks. God give you a good day,' said the lads. 'God give you luck, boys,' said I. And there was I, swinging my stick after the lads, and heading for the fair." Here is a picture Maelshaughlin saw in the fair : A man came along leading a black horse, and the size of the horse and the eyes of the horse would terrify you. There was a drift of sheep going by, and the fleece of each was worth gold. There were tinkers with their carts of shining tins, as ugly and quarrelsome fellows as ever beat each other to death in a ditch, and there were the powerful men, with the tight mouths, and the eyes that could judge a beast, and the dark handsome women from the mountains." Maelshaughlin had a great time in the fair. I wish I had been with him. This is a very different picture: In the middle of the street there are three men standing apart. They are sullen-looking fellows. I ask a shopkeeper who they are. Two grabbers and an emergency-man. They are in the town about a case that is on to-day.' 'And are they not afraid of the town?' They needn't be afraid, no one will touch them.' They are boy cotted?' They won't get bit nor sup in the town.' 'And if one of them comes in and asks to buy this straw hat, what will you do?' I'll tell him I wouldn't give it to him for a sovereign.' The grabbers and the emergency-man make a move. No one lifts eyes to them; no countenance is given to them. Gripping their ash-plants the three go down the street." -",


THE IRISH YEAR The book is full of quotable things. I give one more. So together they mounted the road, two old men with staffs in their hands. Whiteness was on the hair and beards of both. The musician, for all his power and erectness, was not much younger than the man with the bag. The years had ennobled his face, giving it a more clear outline, a colour nearer to marble. In his face there were ardours and intellect, and the beauty of the creature that had never submitted to yoke. His eye-balls, far-sunken in his head were astonishingly contracted. Those blinded eyes, the lines of his features that suggest remote ways, gave the face a strangeness that had in it something repellant. The man beside him was of the average humanity, one without excess of will or excess of intellect. one prone to follies, prone to pieties. The pauper's bag hung across his back, and all the things that affront humanity had overtaken him -age, neglect, and decay. His face was without determination of outline, his clothes were slovenly and dirty, and yet he had a dignity that made a real pathos. This man, surely, had drunken at the same breast as yourself. And now, as he went on with the other, tears streamed down his face." I think this is the finest book that has ever been written about Irish humanity. It is inclusive. Many types are here, the playboy, the clodhopper, decent, quiet men and women and those others, stubborn and reckless, to whom God and man are a jape-they are all here, but the unity which underlies all diversity is here also, and it is that which makes the book truly representative of Ireland.


REVIEWS THREE NEW "ABBEY" PLAYS. "Patriots." By Lennox Robinson. "Maurice Harte." By T. C. Murray. "Judgment." By Joseph C a mpbell Maunsell and Co. 1 s. each The Abbey," in the intervals of touring, has recently produced three admirable plays which help to enhance its already high reputation. On Home Rule Night "Patriots" was with appropriate irony first produced, a nd without reflecting on the Home Rule Bill, we should say that the play was undoubtedly the greater happening. There was subtle dramatic irony about its production on such a night. Mr. Robinson knows his Ireland with a knowledge Shavian in its incisive cruelty. Even in its most poignant moments one is not quite certain of the author's attitude towards his creations: in him the moralist never for an instant obtrudes with anything so crude as a panacea. There are greater poets, humorists, masters of dialogue among the Abbey playwrights, there is no greater dramatist. Patriots," like the Enemy of the People," turns on the tragedy of the enthusi ast who, to his implacable devotion to a cause, sacrifices with the egoism of the zealot fortune, love, reputation, and finally the life of his child, and beholds at last the futility of his life's endeavour. His was the am'&ition to die for Ireland, and dying, to feel that Ireland appreciated and benefitted by the sacrifice. Instead, after eighteen years' penal servitude, he lives to return to a scornful and oblivious generation steeped in snug commer cialism, and heedless of his dreams: I've killed a man, I've crippled a chifd, I've got .myself locked up for eighteen years-God knows what good came of it all I know I meant right-and in prison my cell used to be filled with the sad faces of men like me who had given everything for Ireland-they wouldn't have come to me, would they, if I hadn't been of their company? They are here now-I see them all around me-there is Wolfe Tone, and there is oh, quiet, watching faces, I have tried-tried as you tried-and been broken." Exit the Patriot, who goes to be clerk in Major Moriarty's co-operative store a peculiarly Robinesque touch, as is the final curtain where the old caretaker congratulates himself on there still being time to view the moving pictures. Another bitingly ironical touch is the description of the desperate family." "Maurice Harte" is quite worthy of the author of Birthright," though not the equal for sustained tragic force of its predecessor. Mr. Murray's dialogue escapes the reproach (well-merited in the case of other Abbey playwrights) of Abbey dialect; it is consistent and true throughout-true Cork in phrase and spirit. The characters are few, and, with the exception of Mrs. Harte and Maurice, her younger son, the clerical student, they are lightly sketched, but


REVIEWS life-like. Maurice, a rustic Hamlet, is the hero and martyr-a martyr to the united ambitions of his parents, who, like so many Irish parents, desire to have a priest in family ; and to their genial if narrow parish priest, Father Mangan-an admirable study, of that difficult and elusive type, the Irish country priest-who, because he sees a boy of promise at his books, would jealously have him devote his talents to the priesthood. These kindly folk-the anxious, striving mother, pleasant, timid father, are constitutionally incapable of understanding their sensitive, highly-strung son, who tries vainly to break his bonds before it is to late, and who finally goes mad just before his ordination, and returns a living wreck to his home. It is but another and subtler phase-already dealt with in Birthright "-of the dash of temperament of old and young, of realist and idealist, that strife made more poignant by nearness in blood, which invariably ends in the breaking of the finer nature against the coarser, or against life itself. The strange mixture of spiritual emotion and worldly ambition which prompt Mrs. Harte to force her unwilling son into the priesthood is revealed in her words: "And I say to myself, whenever the death'IJ come after, 'twont be hard at all. 'Twould be great joy thinking of him saying the Mass for your soul and all the priests, and they chanting the great Latin, the same 'twas over one of the themselves '' ; and the heart-cry which culminates : How can I lift up my head again? How could I ever face into the town of Macroom ?" Mr. Murray is specially happy in his woman-characters-those dear lovable mothers who are indeed troubled about many things," from the cut of their huSband's coat to the spiritual post-mortem benefit likely to accrue from a son's mm1strations. His men are less sympathetic." The play is iO aliTe that, like all true dramas, its interest must be enhanced in acting. Judgment," as we are told in the preface, is founded on a legend of Peg Straw. The weaver and his wife, Parry Cain and the rest, are but a poetic background for the real heroine, the light woman." One might, indeed, more fitting describe "Judgment" as a morality play-in Joseph Campbell the poet is stronger than the dramatist, and the didactic moralist is perhaps over-prominent. He himself recognises this when he describes the play as a study in suggestion, than statement.'' GAD ELI CA." Gadelica," a Qua rterly Journal of Irish Studies Dublin : Hodges, Figgis H. S.S. A number of important contributions to the study of modern Irish contained in the second issue of the new quarterly Gadelica." The eJitor,


THE IRISH REVIEW Tomas 0 Rathaille, gives us a curious and interesting account of Richard B

REVIEWS the most sober and the most industrious section of the community, and the one most likely to establish order in commercial and industrial ranks, as they have done in England and America. It would seem that the key to the situation is to be found in the greed and rapacity of the lower ranks of officials. '' In one province alone (Bessarabia) the police officials manage annually to extort as 'perquisites' the sum of one million roubles-mostly from Jews." Nor do the Jews get off with paying away huge sums of money. They live in the most abject poverty. The increase of pauperism is appalling. The earning capacity is so small as to keep them hardly above starvation, in the best instances. Ten pounds a year is what a skilled artisan makes, roughly speaking, and out of this microscopic income the police have to be bri'bed. The net result of all these restrictions is the degradation of the Jew, "'both physically and mentally, to the condition of a pariah.'' '' Jewish girls have been b anished on the formal ground, that instead of abandoning themselves to vice, they were making a living by teaching, or attending lectures. Modest and virtuous girls have to label themselves officially as prostitutes in order to have peace and quiet and yet have been driven forth." Ever fighting poverty and degradation with all the means at its command, the Jewish nation in Russia involuntarily constitutes the strongest protest against serfdom and inequality, but ever and again it has to bow beneath the sledgehammer of reaction.'' The eloquent words of Professor Dicey explains the scope of the book and its object much more clearly tnan anything anyone else could possibly say. "The strange discussion of the horrible question whether baptism in Russia saves a Jew from the disabilities to which he is there subject, tells its own tale. In Russia, as elsewhere, tyranny is producing its most terrible of hateful results; despotic power first degrades its victims, and then defends its own existence by the plea that its victims are unworthy of freedom, or of justice. Every state of the civilised world has authority to guard, by way of denunciation, if not otherwise, against the arrest of civilisation." A CLUSTER OF SHAMROCKS By Edmund Burke. London : Lynwood and Co. 6s. Perhaps the less said about this mis-named collection of short stories the better. Only two or three of the nineteen even pretend to deal with Ireland, and these rather unsympathetically, and very much from the patronising "gentry" angle. The rest range from the Rhine to Norway. There is much abuse of the "pathetic fallacy." It requires a Hans Andersen or a Lewis Carroll to ma!Ce shrubs and flowers, spring and moonshine, talk convincingly-it seems hardly worth while galvanising hawthorn and gentia into speech in Mr. Burke's style, especially when they have so surprisingly little that is original or even 391


. THE IRISH REVIEW 3 2102 04013892 3 characterstic to say. As thus: Fresh snow fell, and the impatient eldest gentian had the tips of her petals all spoiled; but she was too proud of being the first out to care much about it, though she often eyea them regretfully as a beautiful maiden sometimes looks in the glass at the little sp8t at the end of her shapely nose. I don't mind it in the least,' she said to the others; yet, while she said it, she looked at herself very carefully in a dewdrop "-and so on. This kind of thing is surely played out. The Irish side of the book is meant, we fear, for English middle-class consumption-the brave Irish soldier who gets his 'bunch of shamrocks' from a fair colleen ( a n Earl's daughter, of course) at a castle ball, and dies from a Boer bullet, wearing them next his heart; the sorrows of a brave and no'ble Irish landoro against whom, influenced by evil political agitators," some ruffi a nly peasants indulge in cattle-driving and moonlighting. Irish readers are rather weary of that sort of thing, 'mt perhaps they still like it in England 392 ..


READ WHAT IS SAID OF THE H OMESTEAD BY JOURNALISTIC CRITICS. From The World's Work. The Famous Irish Agri cultural Organisation Society possesses an official organ which is one of the best written agricultural papers in the world. Ireland is pre eminently a country of news papers, and Irishmen have a vocation for journalism, but the Irish Homestead and its inimitable editor stand in a place by themselves. From Public Opinion. As a rule one doesn't read the agricultural papers to dis cover imagination and vision and good writing. But the reader of the "Irish Home stead," the organ of Irish Agricultural and Industrial Development, knows that somewhere each week in that paper he will find an article which is outstanding hecause of the spirit which it breathes. From Sir Leonard Lyell's address to the Scottish Agricultural Organisation Society. In Ireland the progress of co-operation is stimulated by an excellent paper-the Irish Homestead.' I have taken it in for some time past, and I think if we had an organ of that kind taken up, it would give inspiration and encouragement. I feel it is really a sort of tonic. Whether Scottish agriculturists would like such plain words spoken to them as are sometimes addressed to the Irish Farmers. I do not know, but it would do them good. THE IRISH HOMESTEAD, The Orgafj of the Irish Coaperative Movement. + Price One Penny. Publishing Offics : -MIDDLE ABBEY STREET, DUBLIN.


, t BOOKS FOR SUMMER READING. SPECIAL SALE OF POPULAR SIXSlllLLING NOVELS (NEW COPIES ONLY). Price i1Each. Delivered Free in London an9 Suburbs. Parcels Qf Tep or more Volumes sent CARRIAGE PAID to any address in 'the United Kingdom. A FEW OF THE BARGAINS: AFTER THE ................. By Matilde Serao. ALL MOONSHINE ....................... By Richard Whiteing THE BRIDE'S llIIUlOQ. ........ By Margaret Baillie-Saunders. THE CHRIST OF TOQ.O, By Gabriela Cunninghame Graham. THE DOCTOQ.'S WIFE .............................. By Colette Yver. THE EDUCATION OF EVE .... .. .. .... By Cyril J. Silverston. A FETISH OF TRUTH ..................... By Eileen Fitzgerald THE GOD OF LOVE ............... By Justin Huntly McCarthy. THE HALO ................................. ..... By Baroness von Hutten. THE ILLUSTRIOUS O'BAGAN .. By Justin Huntly McCarthy. IN SUBJECTION ................... By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler A JUQ.Y OF THE VIQ.TUOUS ...................... By Patrick Hood. THE KNIGHT OF THE CROSS ............ By Henryk Sienkiewicz. LOVE IN THE BYWAYS ......... .. ....... .... By Algernon Gissing. NOW !.. ................................................ By Charles Marriott. OUR LADY OF THE MISTS ......... .. ...... ... .. By M. Urqohart. THE PHANTOM OF THE OPEQ.A ............... By Gaston Leroux. THE REAPING .................................. By Mary Imlay Taylor. SATAN SANDEQ.SON .... .. ................ By Hallie Erminie Rives. THE STAIQ.WAY OF HONOUR ......... By Maud Stepney Rawson. SUCH AND SUCH THINGS ........ .... .. ... .......... By Mark Allerton. TESS OF ITHACA .... .................. : .......... By Grace Miller White. THE THQ.EE BllOTHEllS ........................ By Eden Phillpotts. THE TYllANNY OF FAITH ... .......................... By Carl Joubert. UNDER MASKS ........................... .. .. By H. F. Wiber Wood. WELL, AFTEQ. ALL .................... .. .. .. .. By H. Frankfort Moore. WHEN ENGLAND SLEPT .................. By Captain Henry Curties THE WIDDA MAN .................................... By Kingston Clarke. TH. E YE_LLOW VAN .............................. By Richard Whiteing. Write for Complete List, Post Free on application. Cbc Ct mes Book Club, -376 to 584 OXFORD STREET, LONDON, W. lfc.


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