AN EXAMPLE AND A QUESTION
We all had occasion to rejoice at the return of Sherlock Holmes when
he was supposed to be dead; and I presume we may soon rejoice in his
return even when he is really dead. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in his
widespread new campaign in favour of Spiritualism, ought at least to
delight us with the comedy of Holmes as a control and Watson as a
medium. But I have for the moment a use for the great detective not
concerned with the psychical side of the question. Of that I will only
say, in passing, that in this as in many other cases, I find myself in
agreement with an authority about where the line is drawn between good
and bad, but have the misfortune to think his good bad, and his bad
good. Sir Arthur explains that he would lift Spiritualism to a graver
and more elevated plane of idealism; and that he quite agrees with his
critics that the mere tricks with tables and chairs are grotesque and
vulgar. I think this quite true if turned upside down, like the table.
I do not mind the grotesque and vulgar part of Spiritualism; what I
object to is the grave and elevating part. After all, a miracle is a
miracle and means something; it means that Materialism is nonsense. But
it is not true that a message is always a message; and it sometimes
only means that Spiritualism is also nonsense. If the table at which
I am now writing takes to itself wings and flies out of the window,
perhaps carrying me along with it, the incident will arouse in me a
real intelligent interest, verging on surprise. But if the pen with
which I am writing begins to scrawl, all by itself, the sort of things
I have seen in spirit writing; if it begins to say that all things are
aspects of universal purity and peace, and so on, why, then I shall
not only be annoyed, but also bored. If a great man like the late Sir
William Crookes says a table went walking upstairs, I am impressed by
the news; but not by news from nowhere to the effect that all men are
perpetually walking upstairs, up a spiritual staircase, which seems to
be as mechanical and labour-saving as a moving staircase at Charing
Cross. Moreover, even a benevolent spirit might conceivably throw the
furniture about merely for fun; whereas I doubt if anything but a devil
from hell would say that all things are aspects of purity and peace.
But I am here taking from the Spiritualistic articles a text that has
nothing to do with Spiritualism. In a recent contribution to _Nash’s
Magazine_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remarks very truly that the modern
world is weary and wicked and in need of a religion; and he gives
examples of its more typical and terrible corruptions. It is perhaps
natural that he should revert to the case of the Congo, and talk of it
in the torrid fashion which recalls the days when Morel and Casement
had some credit in English politics. We have since had an opportunity
of judging the real attitude of a man like Morel in the plainest case
of black and white injustice that the world has ever seen. It was at
once a replica and a reversal of the position expressed in the Pious
Editor’s Creed, and might roughly be rendered in similar language.
I do believe in Freedom’s cause
Ez fur away ez tropics are;
But Belgians caught in Prussia’s claws
To me less tempting topics are.
It’s wal agin a foreign king
To rouse the chapel’s rigours;
But Liberty’s a kind of thing
We only owe to niggers.
He had of course a lurid denunciation of the late King Leopold, of
which I will only say that, uttered by a Belgian about the Belgian
king in his own land and lifetime, it would be highly courageous and
largely correct; but that the parallel test is how much truth was told
by British journalists about British kings in their own land and
lifetime; and that until we can pass that test, such denunciations do
us very little good. But what interests me in the matter at the moment
is this. Sir Arthur feels it right to say something about British
corruptions, and passes from the Congo to Putumayo, touching a little
more lightly; for even the most honest Britons have an unconscious
trick of touching more lightly on the case of British capitalists. He
says that our capitalists were not guilty of direct cruelty, but of an
attitude careless and even callous. But what strikes me is that Sir
Arthur, with his taste for such protests and inquiries, need not have
wandered quite so far from his own home as the forests of South America.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is an Irishman; and in his own country, within
my own memory, there occurred a staggering and almost incredible crime,
or series of crimes, which were worthier than anything in the world of
the attention of Sherlock Holmes in fiction, or Conan Doyle in reality.
It always will be a tribute to the author of _Sherlock Holmes_ that
he did, about the same time, do such good work in reality. He made an
admirable plea for Adolf Beck and Oscar Slater; he was also connected,
I remember, with the reversal of a miscarriage of justice in a case
of cattle-mutilation. And all this, while altogether to his credit,
makes it seem all the more strange that his talents could not be used
for, and in, his own home and native country, in a mystery that had
the dimensions of a monstrosity, and which did involve, if I remember
right, a question of cattle-maiming. Anyhow, it was concerned with
moonlighters and the charges made against them, such as the common one
of cutting off the tails of cows. I can imagine Sherlock Holmes on such
a quest, keen-eyed and relentless, finding the cloven hoof of some
sinister and suspected cow. I can imagine Dr Watson, like the cow’s
tail, always behind. I can imagine Sherlock Holmes remarking, in a
light allusive fashion, that he himself had written a little monograph
on the subject of cows’ tails; with diagrams and tables solving the
great traditional problem of how many cows’ tails would reach the moon;
a subject of extraordinary interest to moonlighters. And I can still
more easily imagine him saying afterwards, having resumed the pipe and
dressing-gown of Baker Street, ‘A remarkable little problem, Watson.
In some of its features it was perhaps more singular than any you
have been good enough to report. I do not think that even the Tooting
Trouser-Stretching Mystery, or the singular little affair of the Radium
Toothpick, offered more strange and sensational developments.’ For
if the celebrated pair had really tracked out the Irish crime I have
in mind, they would have found a story which, considered merely as a
detective story, is by far the most dramatic and dreadful of modern
times. Like nearly all such sensational stories, it traced the crime
to somebody far higher in station and responsibility than any of those
suspected. Like many of the most sensational of them, it actually
traced the crime to the detective who was investigating it. For if
they had really crawled about with a magnifying glass, studying the
supposed footprints of the peasants incriminated, they would have
found they were made by the boots of the policeman. And the boots of a
policeman, one feels, are things that even Watson might recognise.
I have told the astounding story of Sergeant Sheridan before; and I
shall often tell it again. Hardly any English people know it; and I
shall go on telling it in the hope that all English people may know
it some day. It ought to be first in every collection of _causes
célèbres_, in every book about criminals, in every book of historical
mysteries; and on its merits it would be. It is not in any of them.
It is not there because there is a motive, in all modern British
plutocracy, against finding the big British miscarriages of justice
where they are really to be found; and that is a great deal nearer
than Putumayo. It is a place far more appropriate to the exploits of
the family of the Doyles. It is called Ireland; and in that place a
powerful British official named Sheridan had been highly successful
in the imperial service by convicting a series of poor Irishmen of
agrarian crimes. It was afterwards discovered that the British official
had carefully committed every one of the crimes himself; and then, with
equal foresight, perjured himself to imprison innocent men. Any one who
does not know the story will naturally ask what punishment was held
adequate for such a Neronian monster; I will tell him. He was bowed out
of the country like a distinguished stranger, his expenses politely
paid, as if he had been delivering a series of instructive lectures;
and he is now probably smoking a cigar in an American hotel, and much
more comfortable than any poor policeman who has done his duty. I defy
anybody to deny him a place in our literature about great criminals.
Charles Peace escaped many times before conviction; Sheridan escaped
altogether after conviction. Jack the Ripper was safe because he was
undiscovered; Sheridan was discovered and was still safe. But I only
repeat the matter here for two reasons. First, we may call our rule in
Ireland what we like; we may call it the union when there is no union;
we may call it Protestant ascendancy when we are no longer Protestants;
or Teutonic lordship when we could only be ashamed of being Teutons.
But this is what it _is_, and everything else is waste of words. And
second, because an Irish investigator of cattle-maiming, so oblivious
of the Irish cow, is in some danger of figuring as an Irish bull.
Anyhow, that is the real and remarkable story of Sergeant Sheridan, and
I put it first because it is the most practical test of the practical
question of whether Ireland is misgoverned. It is strictly a fair
test; for it is a test by the minimum and an argument _a fortiori_.
A British official in Ireland can run a career of crime, punishing
innocent people for his own felonies, and when he is found out, he
is found to be above the law. This may seem like putting things at
the worst, but it is really putting them at the best. This story was
not told us on the word of a wild Irish Fenian, or even a responsible
Irish Nationalist. It was told, word for word as I have told it, by
the Unionist Minister in charge of the matter and reporting it, with
regret and shame, to Parliament. He was not one of the worst Irish
Secretaries, who might be responsible for the worst _régime_; on the
contrary, he was by far the best. If even he could only partially
restrain or reveal such things, there can be no deduction in common
sense except that in the ordinary way such things go on gaily in the
dark, with nobody to reveal and nobody to restrain them. It was not
something done in those dark days of torture and terrorism, which
happened in Ireland a hundred years ago, and which Englishmen talk
of as having happened a million years ago. It was something that
happened quite recently, in my own mature manhood, about the time
that the better things like the Land Acts were already before the
world. I remember writing to the _Westminster Gazette_ to emphasise
it when it occurred; but it seems to have passed out of memory in an
almost half-witted fashion. But that peep-hole into hell has afforded
me ever since a horrible amusement, when I hear the Irish softly
rebuked for remembering old unhappy far-off things and wrongs done in
the Dark Ages. Thus I was especially amused to find the Rev. R. J.
Campbell saying that ‘Ireland has been petted and coddled more than
any other part of the British Isles’; because Mr Campbell was chiefly
famous for a comfortable creed himself, for saying that evil is only
‘a shadow where light should be’; and there is no doubt here of his
throwing a very black shadow where light is very much required. I
will conceive the policeman at the corner of the street in which Mr
Campbell resides as in the habit of killing a crossing-sweeper every
now and then for his private entertainment, burgling the houses of Mr
Campbell’s neighbours, cutting off the tails of their carriage horses,
and otherwise disporting himself by moonlight like a fairy. It is his
custom to visit the consequences of each of these crimes upon the Rev.
R. J. Campbell, whom he arrests at intervals, successfully convicts by
perjury, and proceeds to coddle in penal servitude. But I have another
reason for mentioning Mr Campbell, a gentleman whom I heartily respect
in many other aspects; and the reason is connected with his name, as it
occurs in another connection on another page. It shows how in anything,
but especially in anything coming from Ireland, the old facts of
family and faith outweigh a million modern philosophies. The words in
_Who’s Who_--‘Ulster Protestant of Scottish ancestry’--give the really
Irish and the really honourable reason for Mr Campbell’s extraordinary
remark. A man may preach for years, with radiant universalism, that
many waters cannot quench love; but Boyne Water can. Mr Campbell
appears very promptly with what Kettle called ‘a bucketful of Boyne, to
put the sunrise out.’ I will not take the opportunity of saying, like
the Ulsterman, that there never was treason yet but a Campbell was at
the bottom of it. But I will say that there never was Modernism yet but
a Calvinist was at the bottom of it. The old theology is much livelier
than the New Theology.
Many other such true tales could be told; but what we need here is a
sort of test. This tale is a test; because it is the best that could be
said, about the best that could be done, by the best Englishman ruling
Ireland, in face of the English system established there; and it is
the best, or at any rate the most, that we can know about that system.
Another truth which might also serve as a test, is this; to note among
the responsible English not only their testimony against each other,
but their testimony against themselves. I mean the consideration of
how very rapidly we realise that our own conduct in Ireland has been
infamous, not in the remote past, but in the very recent past. I have
lived just long enough to see the wheel come full circle inside one
generation; when I was a schoolboy, the sort of Kensington middle
class to which I belong was nearly solidly resisting, not only the
first Home Rule Bill, but any suggestion that the Land League had a
leg to stand on, or that the landlords need do anything but get their
rents or kick out their tenants. The whole Unionist Press, which was
three-quarters of the Press, simply supported Clanricarde, and charged
any one who did not do so with supporting the Clan-na-Gael. Mr Balfour
was simply admired for enforcing the system, which it is his real
apologia to have tried to end, or at least to have allowed Wyndham to
end. I am not yet far gone in senile decay; but already I have lived to
hear my countrymen talk about their own blind policy in the time of the
Land League, exactly as they talked before of their blind policy in the
time of the Limerick Treaty. The shadow on our past, shifts forward as
we advance into the future; and always seems to end just behind us. I
was told in my youth that the age-long misgovernment of Ireland lasted
down to about 1870; it is now agreed among all intelligent people that
it lasted at least down to about 1890. A little common sense, after
a hint like the Sheridan case, will lead one to suspect the simple
explanation that it is going on still.
Now I heard scores of such stories as the Sheridan story in Ireland,
many of which I mention elsewhere; but I do not mention them here
because they cannot be publicly tested; and that for a very simple
reason. We must accept all the advantages and disadvantages of a
rule of absolute and iron militarism. We cannot impose silence and
then sift stories; we cannot forbid argument and then ask for proof;
we cannot destroy rights and then discover wrongs. I say this quite
impartially in the matter of militarism itself. I am far from certain
that soldiers are worse rulers than lawyers and merchants; and I am
quite certain that a nation has a right to give abnormal power to its
soldiers in time of war. I only say that a soldier, if he is a sensible
soldier, will know what he is doing and therefore what he cannot do;
that he cannot gag a man and then cross-examine him, any more than
he can blow out his brains and then convince his intelligence. There
may be; humanly speaking, there must be, a mass of injustices in the
militaristic government of Ireland. The militarism itself may be the
least of them; but it must involve the concealment of all the rest.
It has been remarked above that establishing militarism is a thing
which a nation had a right to do, and (what is not at all the same
thing) which it may be right in doing. But with that very phrase ‘a
nation,’ we collide of course with the whole real question; the alleged
abstract wrong about which the Irish talk much more than about their
concrete wrongs. I have put first the matters mentioned above, because
I wish to make clear, as a matter of common sense, the impression of
any reasonable outsider that they certainly have concrete wrongs.
But even those who doubt it, and say that the Irish have no concrete
grievance but only a sentiment of Nationalism, fall into a final and
very serious error about the nature of the thing called Nationalism,
and even the meaning of the word ‘concrete.’ For the truth is that, in
dealing with a nation, the grievance which is most abstract of all is
also the one which is most concrete of all.
Not only is patriotism a part of practical politics, but it is
more practical than any politics. To neglect it, and ask only for
grievances, is like counting the clouds and forgetting the climate.
To neglect it, and think only of laws, is like seeing the landmarks
and never seeing the landscape. It will be found that the denial of
nationality is much more of a daily nuisance than the denial of votes
or the denial of juries. Nationality is the most practical thing,
because so many things are national without being political, or without
being legal. A man in a conquered country feels it when he goes to
market or even goes to church, which may be more often than he goes
to law; and the harvest is more general than the General Election.
Altering the flag on the roof is like altering the sun in the sky; the
very chimney-pots and lamp-posts look different. Nay, after a certain
interval of occupation they are different. As a man would know he was
in a land of strangers before he knew it was a land of savages, so he
knows a rule is alien long before he knows it is oppressive. It is not
necessary for it to add injury to insult.
For instance, when I first walked about Dublin, I was disposed to
smile at the names of the streets being inscribed in Irish as well as
English. I will not here discuss the question of what is called the
Irish language, the only arguable case against which is that it is not
the Irish language. But at any rate it is not the English language,
and I have come to appreciate more imaginatively the importance of
that fact. It may be used rather as a weapon than a tool; but it is a
national weapon if it is not a national tool. I see the significance
of having something which the eye commonly encounters, as it does a
chimney-pot or a lamp-post; but which is like a chimney reared above
an Irish hearth or a lamp to light an Irish road. I see the point
of having a solid object in the street to remind an Irishman that
he is in Ireland, as a red pillar-box reminds an Englishman that he
is in England. But there must be a thousand things as practical as
pillar-boxes which remind an Irishman that, if he is in his country, it
is not yet a free country; everything connected with the principal seat
of government reminds him of it perpetually. It may not be easy for an
Englishman to imagine how many of such daily details there are. But
there is, after all, one very simple effort of the fancy, which would
fix the fact for him for ever. He has only to imagine that the Germans
have conquered London.
A brilliant writer who has earned the name of a Pacifist, and even
a Pro-German, once propounded to me his highly personal and even
perverse type of internationalism by saying, as a sort of unanswerable
challenge, ‘Wouldn’t you rather be ruled by Goethe than by Walter
Long?’ I replied that words could not express the wild love and loyalty
I should feel for Mr Walter Long, if the only alternative were Goethe.
I could not have put my own national case in a clearer or more compact
form. I might occasionally feel inclined to kill Mr Long; but under
the approaching shadow of Goethe, I should feel more inclined to kill
myself. That is the deathly element in denationalisation; that it
poisons life itself, the most real of all realities. But perhaps the
best way of putting the point conversationally is to say that Goethe
would certainly put up a monument to Shakespeare. I would sooner die
than walk past it every day of my life. And in the other case of the
street inscriptions, it is well to remember that these things, which
we also walk past every day, are exactly the sort of things that
always have, in a nameless fashion, the national note. If the Germans
conquered London, they would not need to massacre me or even enslave me
in order to annoy me; it would be quite enough that their notices were
in a German style, if not in a German language. Suppose I looked up
in an English railway carriage and saw these words written in English
exactly as I have seen them in a German railway carriage written in
German: ‘The out-leaning of the body from the window of the carriage is
because of the therewith bound up life’s danger strictly prohibited.’
It is not rude. It would certainly be impossible to complain that it is
curt. I should not be annoyed by its brutality and brevity; but on the
contrary by its elaborateness and even its laxity. But if it does not
exactly shine in lucidity, it gives a reason; which after all is a very
reasonable thing to do. By every cosmopolitan test, it is more polite
than the sentence I have read in my childhood: ‘Wait until the train
stops.’ This is curt; this might be called rude; but it never annoyed
me in the least. The nearest I can get to defining my sentiment is to
say that I can sympathise with the Englishman who wrote the English
notice. Having a rude thing to write, he wrote it as quickly as he
could, and went home to his tea; or preferably to his beer. But what is
too much for me, an overpowering vision, is the thought of that German
calmly sitting down to compose that sentence like a sort of essay. It
is the thought of him serenely waving away the one important word till
the very end of the sentence, like the Day of Judgment to the end of
the world. It is perhaps the mere thought that he did not break down in
the middle of it, but endured to the end; or that he could afterwards
calmly review it, and see that sentence go marching by, like the whole
German army. In short, I do not object to it because it is dictatorial
or despotic or bureaucratic or anything of the kind, but simply because
it is German. Because it is German I do not object to it in Germany.
Because it is German I should violently revolt against it in England.
I do not revolt against the command to wait until the train stops,
not because it is less rude, but because it is the kind of rudeness
I can understand. The official may be treating me casually, but at
least he is not treating himself seriously. And so, in return, I can
treat him and his notice not seriously but casually. I can neglect
to wait until the train stops, and fall down on the platform, as I
did on the platform of Wolverhampton, to the permanent damage of that
fine structure. I can, by a stroke of satiric genius, truly national
and traditional, the dexterous elimination of a single letter, alter
the maxim to ‘Wait until the rain stops.’ It is a jest as profoundly
English as the weather to which it refers. Nobody would be tempted to
take such a liberty with the German sentence; not only because he would
be instantly imprisoned in a fortress, but because he would not know at
which end to begin.
Now this is the truth which is expressed, though perhaps very
imperfectly, in things like the Gaelic lettering on streets in Dublin.
It will be wholesome for us who are English to realise that there
is almost certainly an English way of putting things, even the most
harmless things, which appears to an Irishman quite as ungainly,
unnatural, and ludicrous as that German sentence appears to me. As the
famous Frenchman did not know when he was talking prose, the official
Englishman does not know when he is talking English. He unconsciously
assumes that he is talking Esperanto. Imperialism is not an insanity of
patriotism; it is merely an illusion of cosmopolitanism.
For the national note of the Irish language is not peculiar to what
used to be called the Erse language. The whole nation used the tongue
common to both nations with a difference far beyond a dialect. It
is not a difference of accent, but a difference of style; which
is generally a difference of soul. The emphasis, the elision, the
short cuts and sharp endings of speech, show a variety which may be
almost unnoticeable but is none the less untranslatable. It may be
only a little more weight on a word, or an inversion allowable in
English but abounding in Irish; but we can no more copy it than copy
the compactness of the French _on_ or the Latin ablative absolute.
The commonest case of what I mean, for instance, is the locution
that lingers in my mind with an agreeable phrase from one of Mr
Yeats’s stories: ‘Whom I shall yet see upon the hob of hell, and
them screeching.’ It is an idiom that gives the effect of a pointed
postscript, a parting kick or sting in the tail of the sentence, which
is unfathomably national. It is noteworthy and even curious that
quite a crowd of Irishmen, who quoted to me with just admiration the
noble ending of _Kathleen-na-Hulahan_, where the newcomer is asked
if he has seen the old woman who is the tragic type of Ireland going
out, quoted his answer in that form, ‘I did not. But I saw a young
woman, and she walking like a queen.’ I say it is curious, because I
have since been told that in the actual book (which I cannot lay my
hand on at the moment) a more classic English idiom is used. It would
generally be most unwise to alter the diction of such a master of style
as Mr Yeats: though indeed it is possible that he altered it himself,
as he has sometimes done, and not always, I think, for the better.
But whether this form came from himself or from his countrymen, it
was very redolent of his country. And there was something inspiring
in thus seeing, as it were before one’s eyes, literature becoming
legend. But a hundred other examples could be given, even from my own
short experience, of such fine turns of language, nor are the finest
necessarily to be found in literature. It is perfectly true, though
prigs may overwork and snobs underrate the truth, that in a country
like this the peasants can talk like poets. When I was on the wild
coast of Donegal, an old unhappy woman who had starved through the
famines and the evictions, was telling a lady the tales of those times,
and she mentioned quite naturally one that might have come straight
out of times so mystical that we should call them mythical, that some
travellers had met a poor wandering woman with a baby in those great
gray rocky wastes, and asked her who she was. And she answered, ‘I am
the Mother of God, and this is Himself, and He is the boy you will all
be wanting at the last.’
There is more in that story than can be put into any book, even on a
matter in which its meaning plays so deep a part, and it seems almost
profane to analyse it however sympathetically. But if any one wishes
to know what I mean by the untranslatable truth which makes a language
national, it will be worth while to look at the mere diction of that
speech, and note how its whole effect turns on certain phrases and
customs which happen to be peculiar to the nation. It is well known
that in Ireland the husband or head of the house is always called
‘himself’; nor is it peculiar to the peasantry, but adopted, if
partly in jest, by the gentry. A distinguished Dublin publicist, a
landlord and leader among the more national aristocracy, always called
me ‘himself’ when he was talking to my wife. It will be noted how a
sort of shadow of that common meaning mingles with the more shining
significance of its position in a sentence where it is also strictly
logical, in the sense of theological. All literary style, especially
national style, is made up of such coincidences, which are a spiritual
sort of puns. That is why style is untranslatable; because it is
possible to render the meaning, but not the double meaning. There is
even a faint differentiation in the half-humorous possibilities of the
word ‘boy’; another wholly national nuance. Say instead, ‘And He is
the child,’ and it is something perhaps stiffer, and certainly quite
different. Take away, ‘This is Himself’ and simply substitute ‘This
is He,’ and it is a piece of pedantry ten thousand miles from the
original. But above all it has lost its note of something national,
because it has lost its note of something domestic. All roads in
Ireland, of fact or folk-lore, of theology or grammar, lead us back
to that door and hearth of the household, that fortress of the family
which is the key-fortress of the whole strategy of the island. The
Irish Catholics, like other Christians, admit a mystery in the Holy
Trinity, but they may almost be said to admit an experience in the
Holy Family. Their historical experience, alas, has made it seem to
them not unnatural that the Holy Family should be a homeless family.
They also have found that there was no room for them at the inn, or
anywhere but in the jail; they also have dragged their new-born babes
out of their cradles, and trailed in despair along the road to Egypt,
or at least along the road to exile. They also have heard, in the dark
and the distance behind them, the noise of the horsemen of Herod.
Now it is this sensation of stemming a stream, of ten thousand things
all pouring one way, labels, titles, monuments, metaphors, modes of
address, assumptions in controversy, that make an Englishman in Ireland
know that he is in a strange land. Nor is he merely bewildered, as
among a medley of strange things. On the contrary, if he has any sense,
he soon finds them unified and simplified to a single impression, as
if he were talking to a strange person. He cannot define it, because
nobody can define a person, and nobody can define a nation. He can
only see it, smell it, hear it, handle it, bump into it, fall over it,
kill it, be killed for it, or be damned for doing it wrong. He must be
content with these mere hints of its existence; but he cannot define
it, because it is like a person, and no book of logic will undertake to
define Aunt Jane or Uncle William. We can only say, with more or less
mournful conviction, that if Aunt Jane is not a person, there is no
such thing as a person. And I say with equal conviction that if Ireland
is not a nation, there is no such thing as a nation. France is not a
nation, England is not a nation; there is no such thing as patriotism
on this planet. Any Englishman, of any party, with any proposal, may
well clear his mind of cant about that preliminary question. If we
free Ireland, we must free it to be a nation; if we go on repressing
Ireland, we are repressing a nation; if we are right to repress
Ireland, we are right to repress a nation. After that we may consider
what can be done, according to our opinions about the respect due to
patriotism, the reality of cosmopolitan and imperial alternatives,
and so on. I will debate with the man who does not want mankind
divided into nations at all; I can imagine a case for the man who
wants specially to restrain one particular nation, as I would restrain
anti-national Prussia. But I will not argue with a man about whether
Ireland is a nation, or about the yet more awful question of whether
it is an island. I know there is a sceptical philosophy which suggests
that all ultimate ideas are only penultimate ideas, and therefore
perhaps that all islands are really peninsulas. But I will claim to
know what I mean by an island and what I mean by an individual; and
when I think suddenly of my experience in the island in question, the
impression is a single one; the voices mingle in a human voice which I
should know if I heard it again, calling in the distance; the crowds
dwindle into a single figure whom I have seen long ago upon a strange
hill-side, and she walking like a queen.