(SEPTEMBER 1913)
I have been considering the ways of chafers and dragon-flies. During the
long summer they are my only entertainment in this wilderness. The
dragon-flies make a pageant for me in the noontide splendour: the
chafers are my orchestra in the dusky evening. Marbhén before me was
similarly attended:
“Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world,
A gentle chorus.”
Your beetle has in him many of the contradictions of the artist. In
seemly black, he appeals to you as shy and retiring; suddenly, while you
are sympathetically examining him, he splits up the middle, shocking you
at first with the indecency of the act, but soon displays hidden wings
as though he were an angel in disguise, and then, waving wild arms (like
a Yeats making a speech), whirls into ecstasies, and is gone with
multitudinous and iridescent whirr of wings and wing-cases. This is
nature’s symbolling forth of the _divina insania_ of the poets. It were
perhaps too curious to assign certain beetles to certain poets and
dramatists as their types and figures, associating for instance the
_Necydalis Major_, long and graceful, with Mr. Yeats, the familiar
_Coccinella_, pleasant and comfortable-looking, with Lady Gregory, the
_Creophilus Maxillosus_, a creature which haunts drains and feeds on
garbage (and which I take to be the beetle celebrated in a well-known
passage of Keating), with Mr. George Moore.
* * * * *
Upon the dragon-fly a literature might be written. The dragon-fly is one
of the most beautiful and terrible things in nature. It flashes by you
like a winged emerald or ruby or turquoise. Scrutinise it at close
quarters and you will find yourself comparing its bulky little round
head, with its wonderful eyes and cruel jaws, to the beautiful, cruel
head of a tiger. The dragon-fly among insects is in fact as the tiger
among beasts, as the hawk among birds, as the shark among fish, as the
lawyer among men, as England among the nations. It is the destroyer, the
eater-up, the cannibal. Two dragon-flies will fight until nothing
remains but two heads. So ferocious an eater-up is the dragon-fly that
it is said that, in the absence of other bodies to eat up, it will eat
up its own body until nothing is left but the head, and it would
doubtless eat its own head if it could; a feat which would be as
remarkable as the feat of the saint, recorded by Carlyle and recalled by
Mitchel, who swam across the Channel carrying his decapitated head in
his teeth. The dragon-fly is the type of greedy ascendancy--a sinister
head preying upon its own vitals. The largest and most wonderful
dragon-flies I have seen in Ireland haunt the lovely woods that fringe
the shore of Lough Corrib, near Cong. And at Cong, I remember, there is
a great lord who has pulled down many homes in order that no ascending
smoke may mar the sylvan beauty of his landscape.
* * * * *
Of the doings of men only rumours reach me in this solitude. I have
heard faint echoes of laughter at Galway, and am pleased to think that
the Gael has not entirely lost his sense of humour: a catastrophe which
I had feared, for Dr. Hyde had been talking about his aunt’s will and
Mr. Griffith had been advising Dr. Hyde as to how to conduct a movement
to success. The Irish-speaking crowd surging around the brake in Galway
square recalls one to the realities of the movement, and to the field
that is lying fallow. I want a missionary, a herald, an Irish-speaking
John the Baptist, one who would go through the Irish West and speak
trumpet-toned of nationality to the people in the villages. I would not
have him speak of Gaelic Leagues, or of Fees for Irish, or of Bilingual
Programmes, or of Essential Irish in Universities: I would have him
speak of Tone and Mitchel and the Hawk of the Hill and of men dead or in
exile for love of the Gael; all in Irish. In the meantime I welcome
Eamonn Ceannt and “Bean an Fhir Ruaidh.”
* * * * *
Books sometimes find their way to this remote place, and fortunately
books, even very profane books, are not forbidden by my rule. This month
I have received a good book and a bad book. The good book is indeed one
of the holy books of Ireland: no other than John Mitchel’s _Jail
Journal_, the last gospel of the New Testament of Irish Nationality, as
Wolfe Tone’s Autobiography is the first; John Mitchel’s _Jail Journal_
nobly presented, supplemented by an additional chapter of his _Out of
Jail Journal_, enriched with good notes and portraits, and introduced by
Arthur Griffith in a finely-written preface. Mr. Griffith speaks of the
“haughty manhood” of Mitchel. A Man is so rare a phenomenon in Ireland
that the appearance of one takes his generation by surprise and he dies
broken-hearted or is hanged or transported before his people have made
up their minds whether to crown him or to stone him--or simply to ignore
him. Mitchel brought reality into a national movement busy with
discussions as our own movement is busy with discussions to-day. He
admits that he miscalculated: underestimating both “the vigour and zeal”
of the enemy and “the much-enduring patience and perseverance” of the
Irish. It comes to this: a Man cannot save his people unless the people
themselves have some manhood. A Man, even if he be a Man-God, will live
and die in vain for all who are voluntary slaves. Christ cannot save you
if you want to be damned: much less can any earthly hero.
* * * * *
I agree with one who holds that John Mitchel is Ireland’s greatest
literary figure--that is, of those who have written in English. But I
place Tone above him both as a man and as a leader of men. Tone’s was a
broader humanity with as intense a nationality; Tone’s was a sunnier
nature with as stubborn a soul. But Mitchel stands next to Tone: and
these two shall teach you and lead you, O Ireland, if you hearken unto
them, and not otherwise than as they teach and lead shall you come unto
the path of national salvation. For this I will answer on the Judgment
Day.
* * * * *
I was wrong in speaking of my second book as a bad book. It is a good
book, lovingly written, but it is spoiled by a profane preface. I am
speaking of Maurice Moore’s life of his father and of George Moore’s
preface thereto. The soldier has told the facts of his father’s life (I
wish he had not called him “an Irish Gentleman”) simply and well, and
the novelist has tried to suggest that his father was not an “Irish
gentleman” but an Irish blackguard. Many Irish gentlemen have indeed
been blackguards, but I do not think George Henry Moore was one. In a
mean and difficult time he worked manfully for Ireland; and towards the
end of his life he was willing to become a Fenian. Blackguards do not
generally work manfully for their country or become Fenians. But it is
absurd and unnecessary to defend George Henry Moore, even against his
son. A man’s life really speaks for itself, and requires only such
faithful record as George Henry Moore’s has received here from Maurice
Moore. No man’s life needs a _Defensio_ or an _Apologia_, and I am often
sorry to see men really great and simple go to such pains to explain
themselves: as if your explanation could make your deeds more eloquent!
George Henry Moore was no wrathful and haughty Mitchel, no gay and
heroic Tone; but he was a very worthy and gallant figure in his time,
and might have served Ireland well if he had learned to know her sooner.
V
(OCTOBER 1913)
It is not amusing to be hungry; at least (for I desire to be moderate in
my language), it is not very amusing. Though hunger be proverbially good
sauce, one may have too much of it, as of most good things; and, while
meat without sauce is tolerable, sauce without meat is apt to pall.
Yorkshire Relish (I am told) is delicious, but one would not care to
dine upon it. Hunger Sauce must be still less sustaining. Indeed, the
only advantage that Hunger Sauce seems to possess over other brands is
its extreme cheapness. The very poorest can enjoy it, and it is one of
the few luxuries that the rich will not grudge them. But, as far as
nutritious properties are concerned, the cakes recommended by Marie
Antoinette to the starving peasants of France, in lieu of bread, were
preferable. “Why are the people crying?” “Your Majesty, they have no
bread.” “But why not eat cake?” asked the Queen.
* * * * *
Poor Marie Antoinette did not quite grasp the situation in France. In
the end they grasped her and hurried her to the guillotine. If Marie
Antoinette could have got at the peasant’s point of view there might
have been no French Revolution. There are only two ways of righting
wrongs: reform and revolution. Reform is possible when those who inflict
the wrong can be got to see things from the point of view of those who
suffer the wrong. Some men can see from other men’s points of view by
sympathy; most men cannot until you actually put them in the other men’s
shoes. I would like to put some of our well-fed citizens in the shoes of
our hungry citizens, just for an experiment. I would try the hunger cure
upon them. It is known that hunger is a good sauce; it is also known
that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. It is further
known that a pound a week is sufficient to sustain a Dublin family in
honest hunger--at least very rich men tell us so, and very rich men know
all about everything, from art galleries to the domestic economy of the
tenement room. I would ask those who know that a man can live and
thrive, can house, feed, clothe, and educate a large family on a pound a
week to try the experiment themselves. Let them show us how the thing is
done. We will allow them a pound a week for the sustenance of themselves
and their families, and will require them to hand over their surplus
income, over and above a pound a week, to some benevolent object. I am
quite certain that they will enjoy their poverty and their hunger. They
will go about with beaming faces; they will wear spruce and well-brushed
clothes; they will drink their black tea with gusto and masticate their
dry bread scientifically (Lady Aberdeen will tell them the proper number
of bites per slice); they will write books on “How to be Happy though
Hungry”; when their children cry for more food they will smile; when
their landlord calls for the rent they will embrace him; when their
house falls upon them they will thank God; when policemen smash in their
skulls they will kiss the chastening baton. They will do all these
things--perhaps; in the alternative they may come to see that there is
something to be said for the hungry man’s hazy idea that there is
something wrong somewhere.
* * * * *
It is, of course, easy for me, a well-fed hermit, to write with
detachment about hunger. It is always easy for well-fed persons to take
detached views of such things; indeed, sometimes the views of the
well-fed on these matters are so detached from their subject as to have
no relation to it at all. If I were hungry, I should probably write with
a little more passion than I am displaying. Indeed, if I were as hungry
at this moment as many equally good men of Ireland undoubtedly are, it
is probable that I should not be sitting here wielding this pen;
possibly I should be in the streets wielding a paving-stone. I frankly
admit that I am well-fed; but you must not imagine me a sybarite. Being
a hermit, I limit myself to four square meals a day, except on
feast-days when, for the greater glory of God, I allow myself five. If I
were not thus explicit my views on economic questions might be
discounted; I should be described as belonging to the “lowest stratum”
of society, and therefore not in any real sense a member of society, or
indeed of the human race, at all; it would be hinted that I am a
“loafer,” that I frequent “street corners,” that I am a “socialist,” a
“syndicalist,” and other weird things. I once took a modest part in
breaking up a meeting in the Antient Concert Rooms. The next day the
_Independent_ called me an “unwashed youth.” A youth I certainly was,
but I had washed myself with scrupulous care that blessed morning;
indeed, it is my habit to wash myself in the mornings. A distinguished
scholar (now a Professor of the National University) and a distinguished
woman of letters (now prominent in the counsels of the United
Irishwomen) were beside me on that occasion, and they, too, were
described as “unwashed youths”: the words “of both sexes” were added,
lest it might be left open to inference that even the ladies who
disagree with the _Independent_ are so virtuous as to wash themselves.
When, therefore, you differ in opinion from a newspaper it is always
well to let it be known that you wash yourself regularly, that you take
the normal number of meals, that you pay your rent and taxes, that you
go to church or chapel, and that, in short, you conform in all
particulars to the lofty standard of conduct set up by such an eminent
fellow-citizen of yours as Mr. William M. Murphy.
* * * * *
Personally, I am in a position to protest my respectability. I do all
the orthodox things. My wild oats were sown and reaped years ago. I am
nothing so new-fangled as a socialist or a syndicalist. I am
old-fashioned enough to be both a Catholic and a Nationalist. I am not
smarting under any burning personal wrong--except the personal wrong I
endure in being a member of an enslaved nation. I am at peace with all
the men of Ireland. It becomes both my character and my profession to be
at peace with my fellow-slaves, whether capitalist or worker, whether
rich or poor, whether fed or hungry. God knows that we, poor remnant of
a gallant nation, endure enough shame in common to make us brothers. And
yet here is a matter in which I cannot rest neutral. My instinct is with
the landless man against the lord of lands, and with the breadless man
against the master of millions. I may be wrong, but I do hold it a most
terrible sin that there should be landless men in this island of waste
yet fertile valleys, and that there should be breadless men in this city
where great fortunes are made and enjoyed.
* * * * *
I calculate that one-third of the people of Dublin are underfed; that
half the children attending Irish primary schools are ill-nourished.
Inspectors of the National Board will tell you that there is no use in
visiting primary schools in Ireland after one or two in the afternoon:
the children are too weak and drowsy with hunger to be capable of
answering intelligently. I suppose there are twenty thousand families in
Dublin in whose domestic economy milk and butter are all but unknown:
black tea and dry bread are their staple articles of diet. There are
many thousand fireless hearth-places in Dublin on the bitterest days of
winter; there would be many thousand more only for such bodies as the
Society of St. Vincent de Paul. Twenty thousand Dublin families live in
one-room tenements. It is common to find two or three families occupying
the same room; and sometimes one of the families will have a lodger!
There are tenement rooms in Dublin in which over a dozen persons live,
eat, and sleep. High rents are paid for these rooms, rents which in
cities like Birmingham would command neat four-roomed cottages with
gardens. The tenement houses of Dublin are so rotten that they
periodically collapse upon their inhabitants, and if the inhabitants
collect in the streets to discuss matters the police baton them to
death.
* * * * *
These are among the grievances against which men in Dublin are beginning
to protest. Can you wonder that protest is at last made? Can you wonder
that the protest is crude and bloody? I do not know whether the methods
of Mr. James Larkin are wise methods or unwise methods (unwise, I think,
in some respects), but this I know, that here is a most hideous wrong to
be righted, and that the man who attempts honestly to right it is a good
man and a brave man.
* * * * *
Poverty, starvation, social unrest, crime, are incidental to the
civilisation of such states as England and America, where immense masses
of people are herded into great Christless cities and the bodies and
souls of men are exploited in the interests of wealth. But these
conditions do not to any extent exist in Ireland. We have not great
cities; we have not dense industrial populations; we have hardly any
ruthless capitalists exploiting immense masses of men. Yet in Ireland we
have dire and desperate poverty; we have starvation; we have social
unrest. Ireland is capable of feeding twenty million people; we are
barely four million. Why do so many of us starve?
* * * * *
Before God, I believe that the root of the matter lies in foreign
domination. A free Ireland would not, and could not, have hunger in her
fertile vales and squalor in her cities. Ireland has resources to feed
five times her population: a free Ireland would make those resources
available. A free Ireland would drain the bogs, would harness the
rivers, would plant the wastes, would nationalise the railways and
waterways, would improve agriculture, would protect fisheries, would
foster industries, would promote commerce, would diminish extravagant
expenditure (as on needless judges and policemen), would beautify the
cities, would educate the workers (and also the non-workers, who stand
in direr need of it), would, in short, govern herself as no external
power--nay, not even a government of angels and archangels--could govern
her. For freedom is the condition of sane life, and in slavery, if we
have not death, we have the more evil thing which the poet has named
Death-in-Life. The most awful wars are the wars that take place in dead
or quasi-dead bodies when the fearsome things that death breeds go forth
to prey upon one another and upon the body that is their parent.