*CHILDREN OF THE CAPTIVITY*
The road to Connemara lies white across the memory, white and very
quiet. In that far west of Galway, the silence dwells pure upon the
spacious country, away to where the Twelve Pins make a gallant line
against the northern sky. It comes in the heathery wind, it borrows
peace from the white cottage gables on the hill side, it is accented by
the creeping approach of a turf cart, rocking behind its thin grey pony.
Little else stirs, save the ducks that sail on a wayside pool to the
push of their yellow propellers; away from the road, on a narrow oasis
of arable soil, a couple of women are digging potatoes; their persistent
voices are borne on the breeze that blows warm over the blossoming
boglands and pink heather.
Scarcely to be analysed is that fragrance of Irish air; the pureness of
bleak mountains is in it, the twang of turf smoke is in it, and there is
something more, inseparable from Ireland's green and grey landscapes,
wrought in with her bowed and patient cottages, her ragged walls, and
eager rivers, and intelligible only to the spirit.
Over in England there are clustered cottages half buried in rich
meadows, covered with roses to the edge of their mellow roof tiles,
shaded by venerable and venerated trees, pleasant resting-places for the
memory. From one of them comes forth a mild-faced elderly woman in a
mushroom hat, the embodiment of respectability and hard work. If you
talk to her you will be impressed by her sincerity, her reticence, her
reverence for cleanliness, and further, as the conversation progresses,
by her total lack of humour, and her conscientious recital of details
not essential to the story. You will admire and like her, and she will
bore you; so will her husband, with the serious face and sober blue
eyes, and you will be ashamed of being bored.
[Illustration: IN A LONELY COTTAGE]
Approach one of these lonely cottages on a Connemara road, and you will
find it crooked without quaintness, clumsy, dirty, distressful; yet
there will come forth to you round the manure-heaps in front of the door
a human being, probably barefooted, and better skilled in Irish than in
English, who will converse with you in the true sense of the word, that
is to say, with give and take, with intuition, and with easy and instant
sense of humour. While you talk to her you can observe two elderly
women in red petticoats and black cloaks advancing on the long road from
Galway, carrying heavy baskets from the market: their eyes are quick,
their faces clearly cut and foreign-looking. Were it in your power to
listen to what they are saying, you would be entertained as you have
seldom been, by highly seasoned gossip, narrative, both humorous and
tragic, and wide and exhaustive criticism. A cart lumbers by, loaded
with men and women, their teeth, one would say, loosened in their heads
by the clattering and jolting, but their flow of ideas and language
unshaken. The two women in the cloaks have arrived at a juncture at
which they must stand still in the ecstasy of the story; the narrator
shoots out a spike of a thumb, and digs her auditor in the chest to barb
the point of the jest as it is delivered. The recipient swings backward
from the waist with a yell of appreciation, they hitch their cloaks on
their shoulders, and enter on the Committee stage of the affair as they
move on again.
One might safely say that this bare and still country carries an amount
of good talk, nimble, trenchant, and humorous, to the square mile, that
the fat and comfortable plains of England could never rival. It has
been so for centuries, and all the while the sons and daughters of
Connemara have remained aloof and self-centred, hardly even aware of the
marching life of England, least of all aware that Ireland holds the post
of England's Court Jester. Others of their countrymen, more
sophisticated, more astute, probably less agreeable, have not been slow
to realise it. Perhaps they would have refused the Cap and Bells had
they known the privilege entailed.
"As for our harps," said the Children of the Captivity, "we hanged them
up upon the trees that are therein." That was when the songs of Zion
were required of them in the strange land, and the strong Euphrates saw
their tears. The sympathy of all the centuries has been theirs for that
poignant hour; yet, as far as can be known, they were spared an extremer
pang. It is nowhere recorded that the people of the strange land made
any attempt to sing the songs of Zion to the Children of Israel.
When the Children of Erin hang up their harps in the Babylon of to-day,
the last thing they wish to emulate is that passionate silence of the
Israelites. They hang them up as those do who enter in and possess the
land, and the songs of Zion have not faltered on their lips. A captive
race they may be, but their national desire to "take the floor" has
remained unshaken. They have discovered that an Irish brogue has a
market value, and the songs of Zion have gone through many editions and
held many audiences, since the days when Tom Moore exploited his country
in London drawing-rooms. The moment of bitterness is when the English
become fired with the notion of singing them for themselves.
Perhaps it comes about from English love of a theory, especially an
hereditary theory, that has been handed down to them, well-thumbed by
preceding generations. They have established a theory for the Irish,
and particularly and confidently for Irish humour, and from owning the
theory there is but a step to becoming proprietors also of the humour.
Myself, when young, was nourished upon a work named "Near Home," and in
the edition current at the time, I remember that the Irish were
indulgently described as "a merry people, and fond of pigs." The
hereditary theory could hardly have been better summarised. The average
Englishman owns an Irish story or two, and is genially certain of his
ability to tell it, with all necessary embellishment of accent and
expression. As often as possible he tells it to an Irishman.
Elusive as running water is the brogue of the Irish peasant; hardly
attained even by those who have known its tune from childhood. They, at
least, know how it ought to be, and with this knowledge in their hearts,
they have to sit in dreary submission while the stage Irishman convulses
the English audience; they must smile, however galvanically, when
friends, otherwise irreproachable, regale them with the Irish story in
all its stale exuberance of Pat and the Pig, or expound for their
benefit that epitome of _vieux jeu_, the Saxon conception of an Irish
Bull.
As to Irish Bulls, it could be explained, were it of any avail, that
they convey a finer shade of meaning than the downright English language
will otherwise admit of.
"If ye were to be killed crossing a fence ye'd be all right!" said a
looker-on to one whose horse had turned head over heels in the middle of
a level pasture, "but if ye were killed on the flat o' the field ye'd
never hold up your head again!"
Here was the effort of the true impressionist to create an effect
regardless of the means.
"Jerry was a grand man. When he'd be idle itself he'd be busy!"
Had the author of this commendation merely said that Jerry's industry
was unceasing, he would have been unassailable as to diction, but he
would have left his audience cold. It is a melancholy fact that the
English mind contrives to miss the artist's intention, and fastens
unalterably on the obvious contradiction of terms.
As in converse, so, and with deeper disaster, is it in literature.
There is scarcely a week in the life of the English comic papers that is
guiltless of some heavy-handed caricature of Irish humour, daubed with
false idiom and preposterous spelling, secure in its consciousness of
being conventional. It is better to accuse a man of having broken a
commandment than to tell him that his sense of humour appears to you
defective, so, leaving that branch of the subject open, I will only
mention that there are alive many excellent people who will never, on
this side of the grave, be convinced that the Irish peasant does not say
"indade" for "indeed," "belave" for "believe," or "swape" for "sweep."
Inborn and ingrained knowledge of such points is essential; if, among
many anomalies, a rule can be found, it seems to be that in an Irish
brogue the diphthong "ea" changes to "a," as in "say" for "sea," while
the double e remains untampered with; thus you might hear a person say
"I was very wake last week."
Writers of fiction have done much that is painful in dealing with Irish
people. Thackeray's Captain Costigan spoke like a stage edition of a
Dublin car-driver, which is not what one would expect in a gentleman
who, according to his own account, "bore his Majesty's Commission in the
foighting Hundtherd and Third," and his introduction of Arthur Pendennis
as "a person of refoined moind, emiable manners, and a sinsare lover of
poethry" is not convincing or even very amusing. It is strange that the
error of making Irish ladies and gentlemen talk like their servants
should to this hour have a fascination for novelists. It is not so very
long since that, in a magazine, I read of a high-born Irish Captain of
Hussars, who, in a moment of emotion, exclaimed: "Howly Mither av
Hiven!"
Dealing with present day writers is treading on delicate ground, and it
is with diffidence that one arraigns one of the most enthralling of
living story-tellers. Few of his works have been more popular than
"Soldiers Three," yet to me and others of my country, it is the
narratives of Private Mulvany that give least pleasure. "Gurl" for
girl, "Thimber" for timber, and "Quane" for Queen, are conventions that
have unfortunately proved irresistible; they are taken from a random
page or two, and there is no page free of such.
But, after all, right or wrong, pronunciation and spelling are small
things in the presentment of any dialect. The vitalising power is in
the rhythm of the sentence, the turn of phrase, the knowledge of idiom,
and of, beyond all, the attitude of mind. A laborious system of
spelling exasperates the reader, jades the eye, and fails to convince
the ear. If, in illustration, I again quote Mr. Kipling, it is because
of the conspicuousness of his figure in literature; he can afford to
occupy the position of target, indifferent alike to miss or bull's-eye.
Stripped of its curious and stifling superfluities of spelling, a
sentence of Mulvaney's runs thus:
"Oh, boys, they were more lovely than the like of any loveliness in
heaven; ay, their little bare feet were better than the white hands of a
Lord's lady, and their mouths were like puckered roses, and their eyes
were bigger and darker than the eyes of any living women I've seen."
[Illustration: CHILDREN OF THE CAPTIVITY]
With the exception of "the like" there is nothing in the wording of this
panegyric that would even suggest it had been uttered by an Irishman.
To stud the page with "ut" and "av" instead of "it" and "of" is of no
avail. Irish people do not say these things; there is a sound that is a
half-tone between the two, not to be captured by English voices, still
less by English vowels. The shortcoming is, of course, trivial to those
who do not suffer because of it, but want of perception of word and
phrase and turn of thought means more than mere artistic failure, it
means want of knowledge of the wayward and shrewd and sensitive minds
that are at the back of the dialect.
The very wind that blows softly over brown acres of bog carries perfumes
and sounds that England does not know: the women digging the potato-land
are talking of things that England does not understand. The question
that remains is whether England will ever understand.
*SLIPPER'S A B C OF
FOX-HUNTING*
[Illustration: A is for Alphabet]
"A is for Alphabet.
Faith! I'm in dhread
It's hardly I'll battle it out up to Z."
[Illustration: B is for Buck]
"B is for Buck.
Your best howlt is the spurs,
And make sure they're dhruv home
When ye're goin' through furze."
[Illustration: C is for Check]
"C is for Check.
If ye go any faster
Ye'll be apt to be dhrawn into chat,
With the Master."
[Illustration: D was the Dhrain]
"D was the Dhrain that the fox got inside in.
Bad luck to the cowardly shkamer for hidin'!"
[Illustration: E came from England]
"E came from England, and wanted no guide.
Now he's larning the lie o' the bogs,
From inside!"
[Illustration: F is Full Cry]
"F is Full Cry.
And it's hard to say which
This lad or the hounds
Lets the powerfullest screech!"
[Illustration: G stands for Geese]
"G stands for Geese.
Look at Gollagher now,
And himself in the thick of a Family Row!"
[Illustration: H is for Horn]
"H is for Horn.
The few that can blow it
Are born to the thrick,
Just the same as a poet!"
[Illustration: I is meself]
"I is meself.
No great shakes, as you see,
But there's more than one gerr'l
Is wishin' for me!"
[Illustration: J is Jog Home]
"J is Jog Home.
A dhry misht from the say
Very often comes on,
Just to soften the way!"
[Illustration: K is the Kick]
"K is the Kick that killed Kinahane dead.
I'd be sorry to mention
The words that he said!"
[Illustration: M is the Master]
"M is the Master,
Blaspheemious of habit;
If you would catch hardship
Cheer hounds to a rabbit!
"And L is the Lep
That he threw in the passion.
Be cripes! But thim dogs
Got their 'nough of a thrashin'!"
[Illustration: N was a Nanny-goat]
"N was a Nanny-goat up on the hill.
Faith! Some o' thim puppies
Is hunting her still!"
[Illustration: O's the Obstackle]
"O's the Obstackle
Tim met in the way.
But the mare being free
He got no great delay."
[Illustration: P was the Price]
"P was the Price of a nate little bin
That the foxes ate over and over agin.
And bedad! if it comes to a Quarrel,
(that's Q)
I'll back Biddy Burke
To out-hucksther a Jew!
[Illustration: R is for River]
"R is for River.
Young Reilly kept cool.
If ye give him fair warning
Young Reilly's no fool.
"And S was the Saxon
That gave him the warning.
I'm thinkin' he'll hardly be dhry
Before morning."
[Illustration: T is a Tenant]
"T is a Tenant
About to vacate
The site once well filled by his
Family Sate.
"And U's the Umbrella
That spilt the poor fella.
What call have owld women
To want an Umbrella?"
[Illustration: V's the Vet]
"V's the Vet.
A nate surgeon, he'll 'knife it and chance it'!
And he'll 'cut out the work'
Without using his lancet!"
[Illustration: Here's the Wrecker]
"Here's the Wrecker, and Earth Stopper,
Bowld Willy Roche.
Sure they say a fried egg's the one thing
He can't poach!"
[Illustration: X is the finish]
"I sthruggled this long time
And couldn't find one
Dacent, sportsmanlike word
That thim letters begun.
"But at all events X is the finish of Fox.
His Y Z ye can't see
He's to ground in the rocks!"
_Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited, London_
* * * * * * * *
_*BY THE SAME AUTHORS*_
SOME EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH R.M.
With 31 Illustrations by E. OE.
SOMERVILLE. Crown 8vo, 6s.
ALL ON THE IRISH SHORE:
Irish Sketches. With 10 Illustrations
by E. OE. SOMERVILLE. Crown 8vo, 6s.
THE REAL CHARLOTTE
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THE SILVER FOX
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AN IRISH COUSIN
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SLIPPER'S A B C OF FOX-HUNTING
By E. OE. SOMERVILLE, M.F.H. With
Illustrations in Colour by the Author.
4to, boards, 10s. 6d. net.